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From: "Bradley Stoke" <bradley_stoke@hushmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Degrees of Intimacy (7/8) {Bradley Stoke} (MF)
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Date: Sat, 24 Sep 2005 18:10:02 -0400
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Title: {ASSM} Degrees of Intimacy (7/8) {Bradley Stoke} (MF)
Author: Bradley Stoke
Part: Chapter 7 of 8
Keywords: (MF)
Short Summary: New York: Business and cultural capital of the
United States.

Degrees of Intimacy
===================

Resume of whole novel
=====================

Eight characters, eight places, eight degrees of separation, and
eight degrees of intimacy. This novella is inspired by the film
La Ronde that similarly follows a circular trail of lovers, but
this time in the twenty-first century and much more explicit in
content. All eight chapters can be read in isolation, but the
whole is greater than the sum of its parts.


For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

[This story has been previously published on Ruthie's Club
(www.ruthiesclub.com) where it was edited by the much
missed Ruthie and illustrated by Tzratzk.]



Story Description
=================

New York: Business and cultural capital of the United States.
Gareth has taken an unofficial day off work to rendezvous with
Marianne. The last thing he wants is for Marianne's husband,
Simon, to be involved in their lovemaking, but in an unexpected
and tragic way he is.


Chapter Seven - New York
========================

Marianne wasn't the slimmest woman Gareth had ever
made love with. In fact, as she unclasped her bra to let her
heavy bosom fall loose, Gareth studied her full stomach
with some hesitation. She wasn't fat exactly, not even
plump, but by no measurement could she be described as
slim.

It wasn't as if Gareth could complain. Despite those few
hours a week he found to attend the gym, he had definitely
lost the slim figure he still sometimes imagined was just a
temporary loss. He pulled down his boxers. His penis, not
yet fully erect, never would be unless he lost his self-
consciousness about the stomach that had forced him to
accept a fifty inch waist-size on his discarded suit trousers.

Outside the window, Gareth could hear the roar of the
Manhattan traffic some twenty or so stories below. He
fancied he could hear more sirens than usual, but this
caused him no concern. New York was a busy city. There
was always something happening somewhere or other. It
was best never to worry too much about it.

After the last month or so since touching down at JFK, he
had only gradually got back into stride. The long meetings,
the overflowing mailbox, the documents he had to prepare
only now seemed the natural routine of his working life.
Besides the projects whose looming deadlines justified his
handsome salary, and generous annual bonus, there was at
least one project that he had at last brought to closure. And
this was, of course, his pursuit of Marianne.

Finally, those evenings in the bar after work, sitting with
her and other colleagues, and those sometimes not
especially subtle hints, had come to this. Something he was
sure justified making up the excuse of having to take one of
his estranged wife's daughters to the clinic and thereby take
the Tuesday morning off. But, of course, instead of driving
across the Brooklyn Bridge, he steered his BMW over to
the Upper East Side to fulfil his rendezvous with Marianne.

Marianne lay down on her back on the huge bed she
normally shared with her husband. She supported her back
on her shoulders. Her breasts flopped down onto her belly.
Her dyed-blonde hair was immaculate as always. Her round
face was the only part of her in any sense dressed with light
purple lipstick, subtly applied highlighter, and the equally
subtle application of mascara around her wide blue eyes.

Those eyes were so fucking sexy Gareth reflected, his penis
stirring in joyful anticipation, especially now that Marianne
was so obviously looking forward to unrestrained sex.

Gareth had a routine he followed with any new conquest.
He would start at the feet and work his way, inch by inch,
kiss by kiss, up the length of the leg. Although this progress
was slow and steady, he knew that by the time he reached
Marianne's vagina, it would be moist and welcoming.

As his puckering mouth ascended the calves, gently sucked
and licked the round knees, and then slobbered along the
expanse of thigh, he could hear that familiar chorus of
gasps as Marianne became increasingly aroused. He gazed
up at her face, his nose now only inches away from the full,
untrimmed mass of her light brown pubic hair. She arched
her head back, her hair falling back onto the pillow, while
from the corner of his eye he could see a picture of
Marianne and her husband smiling contentedly from a
photograph by the bedside table lamp.

This was the first time Gareth had ever seen an image of
Simon. There really wasn't the time to study it properly. Far
more urgent business was on hand. Just as Gareth normally
would, Simon was at this moment almost certainly wearing
an expensive suit in keeping with the luxury of his
apartment and his status in the Lower Manhattan brokerage
where he worked. In the photograph he was wearing a polo
shirt and slacks, his confident assured smile matching that
of his wife around whose waist he wrapped a bare arm.

One thing Gareth was certain of, although he was spared
the embarrassment of actually seeing it in the photograph,
was that unlike him, Simon would have a circumcised
penis. That much was obvious from the surname he shared
with his wife.

Marianne's vagina had a rich, welcoming smell when
Gareth buried his nose into it, his hands supporting his
weight on her outstretched thighs. The taste was equally
arousing as his tongue guided itself around the folds and
creases of her vulva. His tongue discovered her clitoris
before his eyes did, a hard knob of arousal buried under the
most complicated of all her complex contours. His
forefinger pushed into the vagina, easily engulfed by its
moistness. One by one, two, three and then four fingers,
thrust backwards and forwards, and orchestrated a series of
gasps from Marianne above.

The progress of Gareth's mouth from the vagina, over the
navel, around the crenulations of her nipples and finally to
her mouth and its expertly capped teeth was just as
leisurely and steady as his earlier progress from the ankle.
All the while, he kept a finger or two inside the warm
cavern of her vagina, twitching her clitoris and pushing his
fingers back and forth. Marianne gasped and panted with
growing passion, her polished fingernails digging into
Gareth's broad back. And just as Marianne was clearly
ready for action, so too was Gareth, his penis throbbing and
pulsing and ready for the plunge.

At last, he was inside, and the two of them thrust their
crotches up against each other in a steadily growing curve
of passion, one that after many partners and many similar
encounters, Gareth knew he could delay from the final
moment of release for many minutes more.

And then the phone rang.

"Shit!" Marianne cried. "Who the fuck can that be?"

"Ignore it!" hissed Gareth.

Whatever it was, there was more urgent business to attend
to.

The phone rang all six times and then Gareth heard
Marianne's voice crackle from the answer-phone explaining
that she and Simon were not able to take the call at the
moment, but if the caller left a number...

And then her voice stopped abruptly as the respondent
hung up.

Despite the interruption, Gareth was too expert to let this
deflate his prowess and within a minute, he and Marianne
were fucking again, more energetically than ever. Gareth
now learnt something about Marianne he would never have
suspected and that was the extent of her vocal passion. Her
gasps became shrieks that ascended in volume and pitch
with each of Gareth's thrusts.

She was a screamer.

It was a good thing, after all, that they had arranged to meet
in Marianne's apartment rather than retreat back to the
office after a glass or two of wine, as Gareth once
contemplated.

Then Gareth heard another sound, quite piercing but
definitely melodic. It wasn't from outside, though he was
conscious of the echoes of sirens and automobile horns
rising from the streets below. Rather noisier than below his
own apartment, that was for sure. And it was too high-
pitched to be the sound of a stereo blasting from an
adjoining apartment.

"Fuck!" Marianne gasped, stretching her arm over to the
bedside table, Gareth's penis still deep inside her. "Now it's
the cell phone. I should've just turned it off!"

"Just ignore it!" Gareth snarled.

He was just about losing patience with these interruptions.

"Shit! Shit! Shit!" Marianne cried agitatedly. "Get your
dick out of me! It's fucking Simon!"

Gareth hated doing that. It was almost physically painful to
snatch his penis out from where it was so fully embedded,
his erection as stiff as it could ever be. Clearly, it wasn't
that pleasant for Marianne either, who gasped with a
painful grimace, snatched the cell phone from the table, and
pressed it to her ear.

Gareth sat back on the mattress, cross-legged, his penis
twitching in attendance, while Marianne sat on the side of
the bed nodding her head and occasionally shaking it,
making occasional monosyllabic utterances.

"So, you'll be back early then!" she confirmed, just before
turning off the cell phone and replacing it on the table.

"Your husband's coming home, is he?" Gareth asked,
wondering whether he should now just leave. He had, after
all, achieved almost everything he'd intended to do. Not
absolutely everything, of course, but almost.

"He doesn't know," said Marianne, looking startled. "He
doesn't really know what's happening. There's been a kind
of explosion in the other tower. Not the one he works in,
but the North Tower. No one knows what's happened.
Apparently there's smoke coming out of it. He's been told
to stay at his desk. They think it's the best place to stay.
Apparently, it's safer than outside if there's something like
that explosion they had a few years ago in the underground
car park."

"So, he'll be staying at work then?" wondered Gareth
hopefully.

"Who knows," Marianne remarked. "No one knows what to
do. Simon's been phoning emergency services for advice,
but they're always engaged. The management advise
staying at their desks. After all, what's happened in the
other tower can't be happening in both of them, can it?"

"I guess not!"

Marianne put the cell phone down and bit her lip. She
looked up at Gareth and noticed his erect penis protruding
almost incongruously between his crossed knees.

She giggled.

"Well, he won't be back for an hour or so, even if they do
evacuate the building," she remarked. "What can we do
while we're waiting?"

"I know exactly what I want to do!" said Gareth
determinedly, with a wicked smile on his face.

Re-entry was not as smooth as had been the original entry.
Marianne was obviously quite tense, though there was
enough residual moistness for the feat to be achieved with
no pain to either of them. He thrust back and forth, only
gradually building up the rhythm, mindful of what it was
sometimes like when the fucking was interrupted in mid-
stroke and remembering too well the times it had killed all
the passion.

Then Marianne said, whilst not responding at all with her
body as Gareth had hoped, "It'll be on the box, won't it?"

"What?" Gareth answered, barely able to disguise his
annoyance.

"Something like that, an explosion in the World Trade
Center, it'll be on television, won't it?"

"Yeah, I guess so!"

"Then let's turn on the TV," Marianne said.

Gareth pretended not to hear her. His rhythm was
beginning to take precedence over anything else.

"Look! Fucking get off me, will you!" said Marianne with
annoyance. "We're putting on the fucking box whatever
you fucking think!"

"Oh! Okay," said Gareth reluctantly, his penis popping out
with a slight eructation, just about audible over the distant
traffic noise.

The two of them then sat naked on the side of the bed.
Marianne located the remote control and aimed it at the
television.

For a moment, they looked with disbelief at the picture on
the screen which was of a huge tower with smoke billowing
out just two-thirds the way from the bottom.

"It's not a science fiction movie, is it?" asked Marianne in
an urgent whisper. "It's the real fucking deal, isn't it?"

Gareth nodded. This couldn't be happening! And not now!
This was America in the fucking twenty-first century. This
was the real world. Whatever was happening and being
televised couldn't be real, could it?

But, of course, it was.

"Shit! This is serious!" said Gareth, as the unsteady lens of
the television cameras were intercut with images of
newsreaders and a stream of data tickertaped under the
screen. Flight 11. 8:48 a.m. Details still awaiting. The
North Tower.

"This isn't real!" Marianne exclaimed. "Those poor people.
And what's that? What is that?"

Gareth felt a sudden very sick feeling grip his stomach as
the image replayed itself in his mind. It was someone
falling out of the window. Or if not a person, exactly what a
person would look like if it plummeted from the window of
a 110-storey building.

"I need a piss," Gareth announced.

He stood up and strode across the pinewood floor towards
the en-suite bathroom, his head turning back with horror,
half-hoping and half-fearing that he might see more of that
horrific scene. He stood in front of the bathroom mirror, not
really sure if he wanted to pee at all, but certain that he
needed some space to himself. Did he feel like puking?
There was a very real sickness in his gut, but it wasn't
translating into anything more material.

He gazed at his reflection.  He was a good-looking guy. He
knew that. His success rate was evidence enough of that.
The girls he'd picked up and fucked. Even that dyke chick
in the South London pub. Not the first dyke he'd notched
up, but one worth the effort. But what should he do now?
What he wanted to do was find a decent excuse and split.
He'd done what he'd come to do, after all. Now, he could
jump back into the BMW and drive back across town. He
felt sorry for Marianne, of course, but her husband would
be back soon. And Gareth almost envied him the story he
had to tell his wife.

And then he heard a shriek from the adjacent room. A
shriek that chilled him in a way he'd never imagined one
could. Something that all those horror movies he'd watched
had never really prepared him for. It burst out suddenly and
violently, rose high and then choked on itself before
returning with gulps. In Gareth's imagination, it was as if
Marianne had just been attacked by a figure in an almost
comical mask, but he knew it was something quite different
and something almost certainly associated with whatever it
was that was happening downtown.

He dashed out of the bathroom, his pretence of needing a
piss totally forgotten, to see Marianne choking on her tears
as she watched the television, its volume raised to an
entirely unnatural volume.

"The cunts! The fucking cunts! The motherfuckers!"
Marianne gasped.

"What? What?"

"The South... The South Tower... Another..."

Gareth had never known an experience like this before. At
the back of his mind, he'd assumed that a plane hitting a
sky-scraper in Manhattan could only be an unfortunate
accident. Horrible. Unfortunate. But understandable.
Things like that could happen. It had happened to the
Empire State Building, after all. But two planes! Whatever
it was, it couldn't be an accident!

There was no pretence at concern that drove Gareth to put
his arm around the naked, sobbing, huddled Marianne as he
watched the screen with horror that was so great he
wondered if it was humanly possible for Marianne to feel
any worse. The newsreaders and tickertape told the same
story. Another plane. This time filmed. Again and again, he
saw the image replayed by the television studio of a huge
Boeing 747, Flight 175 as he later discovered, fly straight
into the North Tower, the very one where the cuckolded
Simon was working, but fortunately not on the 90th floor.

"I've got to phone Simon!" said Marianne, suddenly
sobering up. "Check that he's all right!"

Gareth nodded. This clearly took precedence over anything
else. He felt suddenly conscious of his nakedness and that
of Marianne, but he was unable to do anything quite as
trivial as put clothes back on. He sat on the bed, his
knuckles pushed against his teeth, while the billowing
clouds of black smoke emerged from the recently hit
building, mingling with those of the North Tower.

"Shit! Shit! Shit" he murmured again and again. Was there
nothing more profound you could say when things like this
happened?

"It's engaged!" shrieked Marianne, throwing her cell phone
violently onto the mattress. "It's fucking engaged! Fuck!
Fuck!"

And then she once again shrieked out loud, a piercing cry
that added to Gareth's misery and also to his
embarrassment. His clothes? Should he?

And then the cell phone rang again. Marianne snatched it
up and held it to her ear. Gareth had enough presence of
mind, and this somehow steadied his own shattered nerves,
to lower the volume of the television, while Marianne
nodded her head and gasped "Yes! Yes! Of course!" at
regular intervals.

"I love you!" she said suddenly.

What?

"I do! I love you, Simon! Please please please... just get
home..."

And then Marianne sat there, reluctant to put the cell phone
down, although Gareth sensed the call had finished. She
lowered it slowly towards her lap and gazed at it as if
hypnotised, her face a crumpled mess of misery, her
mascara just a smudge of tears.

"He's on the 105th floor. They don't know what to do.
There's smoke everywhere. They're heading to the roof. It's
the only place to go."

"Surely a helicopter will pick them up."

"It must do! It must!"

What do you do in times like this? Gareth knew how to
play women when it came to seduction, but comforting
them? What do you do? He put a reassuring arm around
Marianne's bare shoulders. Instinctively she nuzzled close
to him, her eyes focused on the television and its images of
firefighters and billowing black smoke.

And then she abruptly pushed him off with enough
violence that it bruised his chest.

"Just keep your fucking hands off me, you bastard!" she
shrieked before exploding into another torrent of tears.

Oh shit! Now what?

Marianne punched furiously at the cell phone buttons.

"What's happening? Are you all right?" she yelled
hysterically into the mouthpiece.

Marianne returned to a conversation that Gareth
desperately pretended not to hear while his attention was
split between the relative comfort of newsreaders and the
gasps of disjointed interjections from Marianne. She put the
cell phone down.

"It's not easy getting up the stairs. It's real crowded.
Simon's had to get off the phone to help someone from a
lower floor who's burnt. He says it's horrible. Her skin's
boiling or something. It's a fucking nightmare. Oh! Ohh! I
so want to talk to Simon!"

It was no use. Gareth had to return to the bathroom. He
staggered across the room, hesitated by the pile of clothes
and slipped on his boxers, before taking them off again in
the bathroom where he stood in front of the latrine. From
the bedroom he could hear Marianne's agonised cries while
he stood, wobbling, above the sight of a latrine into which
his penis was stubbornly refusing to relieve itself.

And then he remembered that image of the falling body. In
his mind's eye he imagined it tumbling, rolling and flailing
as it bounced against the unforgiving vertical hardness of
the tower to eventually land on the ground below.

He choked and a small stream of spew ejected itself from
his chest and drooled down his chin.

He choked a bit more, kneeling on the ground in front of
the toilet bowl, coughing up, with no result, as the vivid
image in his mind recurred of a splattered human body,
perhaps like a fly on his car windscreen, hitting the ground
surrounded by fire engines.

At last he staggered back, carefully tugging his boxers back
on. The task of dressing himself when he returned
distracted his eyes from looking at Marianne. When clothed
he finally did so, to see her sitting in her dressing gown, the
cell phone against her ear, and the clear evidence on the
white towelling that she too had relieved herself of the
contents of her stomach.

"I love you! I love you!" she repeated over and over again
while her eyes focused on the billowing smoke on the
television screen.

And then, suddenly, it happened.

Marianne and Gareth looked at the television with the same
horror as, in what seemed like slow motion, the North
Tower crumbled and collapsed, like a man punched in the
chest. It was more like those controlled explosions that
provided so much entertainment when a city block needed
clearing, but this time not controlled at all. This time, the
explosion took with it the lives of so many innocent men
and women and so many brave firefighters whose
dedication and courage had beamed out reassurance in
these last few minutes.

Marianne lowered the cell phone. It had gone dead.

And then, as the South Tower collapsed, floor after floor
falling on the floor below, Marianne herself followed the
same gradual descent, her body losing all its meaning and
purpose.

Then Gareth was alone. Marianne sprawled unconscious
next to him, the shock of her sudden loss too much for her
to bear.

Shit!




For More : http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Bradley_Stoke/www

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