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From: Thinking Horndog <im_a_thinker@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Mack's Mamas 01/08 [Thinking Horndog](MF Mf MMF M+F oral anal rough 1st ir)
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Date: Sat, 26 Jul 2008 05:10:04 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Macks Mamas_1.txt" begin>

Author: Thinking Horndog
Title: Mack's Mamas
Part: 1 of 8
Universe: Mack's Mamas
Summary: Pete stumbles upon Mack in a bar and discovers a serious gravy train

Keywords: MF Mf MMF M+F oral anal rough 1st ir

Mack's Mamas

Copyright (C) 2008 The Thinking Horndog

Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyrighted with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. Reproduction for profit is
forbidden.  Any distribution must include this note and the author's email
address. Don't be caught attempting to make a buck off me!

Warnings and disclaimers:

This is adult entertainment!  Be warned!  If you're not into graphic
depictions of sex, this is the wrong story for you!  If you're too young to be
legally reading this, move along!

This is a work of fiction.  It is not intended to reflect any particular
person or persons, and the incidents portrayed exist in their current form
solely in the writer's imagination.  You get the idea.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Chapter 1

	I met Mack in a bar -- not a pickup place, but one with pool tables, a
juke box and mostly seats at the bar -- the kind of place where men sit and
drink.  I'd just been laid off and it suited my mood better than most places,
although it wouldn't have been my usual thing.  I was watching the silent TV
display a golf match -- just for something to do -- when Mack walked in and
hit the stool two down.

	That wasn't an opening for instant conversation; we probably spent two
hours parked like that, me pretending to be a beer drinker and him knocking
back scotch and soda, before any conversation started.  During that interim,
he must have taken a half-dozen calls on his cell phone, obviously making
executive decisions.  When he needed to, he opened a steno pad and scratched
figures on it or doodled; he seemed to have problems with math; he would
grunt, "Hang on a minute," into the phone, then erase a chunk of what he was
doing and redo it, then grunt, "What are the taxes again?" and scratch some
more before coming up with a number and barking it into the phone, then
closing the call.

	Finally, curiosity got the better of me and I ventured, "They won't
let you alone, huh?"

	Mack eyed me a moment, then grinned; he had one of those craggy faces
that could go from neutral to jovial to downright mean in two-tenths of a
second.  "Well, this IS my office," he related.

	I had nothing to lose, so I looked around.  "Nice.  Should I have had
an appointment?"

	That tickled him and he let out a guffaw -- probably due to the
scotch.  "Well, maybe, but I let Mike, here, load the place so he can pay his
rent."  Mike was the bartender; he nodded, amused, and continued wiping a
highball glass.

	"Where's your secretary?" I asked, looking around.

	"She don't drink," Mack related.  "I don't think she thinks, either,
from the phone calls I get.  All she does is pop chewing gum like a cow
chewing a cud."

	"Not much help," I opined.

	"Well, it's nepotism," Mack grunted.  "She's my brother's wife's
sister.  I think that means we're related.  I keep her on the payroll so she
can feed her half-wit kids."  He chuckled.  "Besides, she's got a halfway
decent rack.  I wouldn't touch her with your dick -- she gets pregnant if you
breathe on her twice in succession -- but I can rest my eyes."

	I laughed.  "You were doing some heavy math, it looked like."

	"Shit, I can barely add -- and I CAN'T subtract -- but I'm the math
guy.  I'm trying to keep shit inside the budget -- close, anyway."

	"What's it all about?"

	"Renovating a building.  Contractors only know `more' -- more time,
more money.  I think my current guy uses certain supplier because they're slow
as molasses and he can blame delays on them while I pay his boys for sitting
on their asses," Mack complained.

	"You're in construction?"

	"Not really."  He chuckled and swished the ice cubes in his glass.
"I'm a real estate mogul."  He chuckled again.

	"I've been thinking about looking into that," I said.  "It seems
popular."

	"Flipping houses?" He eyed me.  "Now's the time to buy, but you can go
broke holding `em waiting to sell after you poured your money into `em."  He
knocked back a swallow.  "I prefer to hold places to rent -- shitty as that
is.  Just bought a duplex on a short sale -- they took all the copper out, so
I'm putting in plastic."

	I was awash.  "Short sale?  Copper?"

	He eyed me for a minute.  "Don't spend your money until you learn the
lingo.  A short sale is where you talk the bank into selling you a piece of
property they're foreclosing on for less than what's owed.  Right now, there's
a glut because the greedy assholes lent to anybody they thought they could
suck money out of, so they're takin' it in the shorts.  Thieves go in the
houses while they're vacant and steal all of the copper pipe because it's
pricey right now, so you have to replace the plumbing -- with plastic, which
is a LOT cheaper."

	"Oh, okay," I said, somewhat vacuously.  "So what's the big math gig?"

	"It's harder to find buyers or renters after a flip," Mack related.
"I've got rules of thumb for six months, but with everyone broke, it runs to
nine, so it's stubby pencil time."

	"Gotcha."

	The phone rang again and Mack got out his pad.  "That much?  Are you
sure?"  He turned to me.  "What the Hell is one and a half times thirteen
thousand?"

	"Nineteen five," I replied.

	"Thanks!"  He went back to the phone.  "Not a nickel over nineteen
five, understand?  I don't care if your sister-in-law doesn't eat because her
no-good spick husband ain't working -- he ain't sitting on his ass on MY dime!
Understand?  I've got other contractors, you know!"  He listened for a moment.
"Look, Julio, I know you have to keep the crew working, but that means you go
out and fix your supply problems, not come running to me.  Now get on the
phone with the yard and tell them to get up off their asses or you'll go
elsewhere!"  He hung up.  "Who the fuck knows where else he's dicked me
because I can't add..."

	"Get something that adds for you," I advised.  "Simplest would be a
calculator -- but I bet you have all this stuff in your head, right?"

	"Damned straight!"

	"Okay, then -- it's probably mildly complex, but you just need to plug
in new numbers and it all works out, right?"  I reached down to my left and
hoisted my laptop case onto the bar.  "I can whip up something you can just
plug numbers into and it will spit out your answers for you..."

	"No shit?" Mack grunted.  "You some kind of bookkeeper?"

	"Computer geek, more likely," I grunted.  "We're a little more
flexible."

	"I hope you don't cost as fucking much," Mack grunted.

	"Well, I just started a forced sabbatical, but I'll give you this for
free -- how's that?" I replied.  "I can look for regular work tomorrow when I
don't smell like a beer."  I fired up the laptop and for the next forty
minutes we collaborated on a spreadsheet for holding costs on a home that was
to be purchased, upgraded and refurbished, and turned around for profit in a
reasonably short time.  Mack's big problems were things like `vacancy
insurance' -- a policy for defraying the cost of vandalism to a vacant house
-- that had a six month policy premium.  Costs for that were double, not one
and a half times his six month window.  Additional utilities and property
taxes and such drove up his overhead.  We'd just finished when he got another
call.  "They want HOW much?  What's the new delivery date if we cough it up?"
The house he was talking about was the one we'd used to proof the spreadsheet,
so he covered the mouthpiece of his cell.  "Four-seventy to deliver in three
days.  That gets everyone off their ass six days early, but..."

	I increased the materials cost and reduced the labor at the daily rate
we were using.  "That's seventeen days for the crew size you have programmed,
and puts you a week and a half ahead of schedule.  What if you drop a guy?"

	"Do it."

	I ran the numbers with one less carpenter.  "You save both ways. There
might be something else out there, too."

	"What's that do to my window?"

	"It leaves you four days for emergencies."

	"Do it, Julio -- but drop somebody.  You'll have more time, so you can
use fewer bodies.  Is there anybody you haven't called in?"  Mack listened.
"Don't, then."  There were a couple of minutes of wrangling, but Mack hung up
grinning.  "You just saved me a couple of grand, I figure."

	"Eighteen hundred and change," I agreed.

	"Can you put that on something I can carry around that isn't so
bulky?" Mack asked.

	"Probably," I agreed.

	Mack eyed me.  "The numbers aren't enough -- I need someone who can
see the holes like you just did.  My bookkeeper knows tax law, but he can't
seem to find a way to make me a buck outside of that."  He pursed his lips.
"Got any folding money?"

	"Like, how much?"

	"Fifty grand, say."

	"If I didn't have to eat for the next few weeks, maybe."

	"Eat doughnuts at my place.  I'll give you a chunk of the business to
run the numbers.  You can bring me into the twenty-first century.  I need
email and shit.  Marketing, flyers, spam -- all that crap the competition has
that hurts my head.  In return, I'll make sure you don't fuck up and you'll be
collecting a couple of thousand in rent each month and a cut of whatever I'm
doing that you're contributing to.  What do you think?"

	I rubbed my jaw.  "I can probably handle the job description, but I'm
not a people person..."

	"I've got that.  I need a numbers person.  Sales jockeys are a dime a
dozen."

	"Well, okay.  I hear horror stories about being a landlord," I
muttered.

	"It's all in how you pick your tenants and making shit clear up
front," Mack chuckled.   "I have places I'd rather not go -- and places where
the first of the month is recreational."

	"Sounds like a deal."  I stuck out my hand and we shook on it.

	"Keep track of what you're saving me," Mack warned.  "Sometimes I get
bitchy."  We went back to drinking -- but I slacked off even more, since I was
now on the payroll and needed to stay sharp.  We got a half-dozen more calls
and I refined the spreadsheet and set up calculations for a couple of other
scenarios and when I staggered home I had his business card and a lot of good
will.

	The next morning, I hit the address of his REAL office and met Noreen,
the secretary with the nice rack.  It was, but she wasn't - she was an oxygen
thief.  Still, she knew I was coming and set me up with a desk and a telephone
and we went from there.  Automation was nonexistent in Mack's office; when he
came in, I had eight different proposals for improvements that were
theoretically at least within the limits of his small sales staff.  "One at a
time!" he grunted, but by afternoon I was buying computers and routers and
switches and printers.

	I owned automation in that office -- from email to antivirus to the
website to marketing to the books -- at least as far as getting the bookkeeper
on electronic record keeping.  In the first two weeks, I spent twenty thousand
dollars -- and Mack was prone to complain, so I kept my numbers with me -- and
I'd saved him twice that much.

	At the end of that period, however, things were getting tight; I'd
forked over the fifty thousand that first day, purchasing five percent of
Mack's company, and I didn't have that much more in the way of resources.  The
bookkeeper rather jealously informed me that everyone else was an employee,
which was a surprise, but that only carried me so far...  So when the end of
the month came, I turned to him, beer in hand (we `worked' half a day every
day in that bar or another one up the street -- I was drinking non-alcoholic
beer, mostly), and said, "Mack?  When do I see some money from this deal?  Not
to bitch or anything, but this IS my day job and I have rent to pay..."

	"Rent?  You don't pay no fucking rent!  You COLLECT rent!  Hang on a
minute."  He punched the phone and barked.  "Noreen!  When were you gonna give
Pete his apartment keys?  Did you set up his drawing account like I told you
to?  What the fuck you mean you don't know how?  Papers?  Oh.  Shit.  Where
are they?  Shit.  When did the lawyer send them?  Awright."  He hung up and
sighed.  "Come on, we need to go back to the rat hole."  We went out and got
in his car -- but he turned to me and said, "You're drinking that non-
alcoholic shit, aren't you?  You'd better drive..."

	It had more or less become a ritual; I got out and took the keys to
his Caddy and away we went.  At the office, both of the sales guys were out;
the two interns were taking calls and interviewing callers with houses to buy
or sell and the sales boys were on appointment sweet-talking buyers and
sellers to get our piece.  The third sales guy was gone; one of my early
discoveries was the fact that he was just taking up space.  I really felt bad
when I pointed that out to Mack -- but he had no problem doing the dirty and
putting the guy on the street -- which made me feel even worse.  Mack just
grunted.  "It's a cost of doing business.  He'll sell for his next boss or
he'll find a new line of work -- we've done him a favor with the wake-up
call."

	Anyway, we went into his office and Mack dug around on his desk and
surfaced some contracts and in a few minutes I was LEGALLY a partner -- and a
limited signatory on a drawing account.  "Don't abuse it," Mack grunted, then
chuckled.  "Not that I think you'd know how."  Next I was issued a shiny gold
AMEX -- with the same injunction -- and we headed out to the bookkeeper's
office, where Mack talked to the poor man like he was a three year old.  "Got
the P & L?  Show me."  Mack looked it over and grunted, then handed it to me.
The number said we were doing okay, I figured.  "This includes all that
computer crap Pete ordered?" Mack asked.  The bookkeeper nodded.  "Figure out
what five percent is -- minus the tax man's cut -- and open an account for
Pete at the bank and deposit it.  Put the tax money in the escrow account for
the quarterly.  Give Pete his checkbook tomorrow.  Got me?"

	"Yes, Mack."

	"Pete sees every fucking thing -- he's a partner.  You fix it.  He
sees YOUR shit in particular, since he does numbers, and I don't.  Get me?"

	"Yes, Mack."

	"Get moving.  Hold it.  Make sure Pete is on the health plan and all
that shit, too.  401k, the works.  Can you ballpark what he's gonna get?"

	"Yes."  The guy -- Fred -- poked his calculator and scratched a number
down on paper and handed it to me -- and it was about half again what I'd been
doing in salary.

	"Jeezus!" I grunted.

	Mack chuckled.  "We're up five percent AFTER you bought all that shit.
That makes you worth it.  Next month will probably be more.  Some months are
shit, but I have a funny feeling that there are gonna be fewer of those. Let's
go for a ride."

	I followed him out of the bookkeeper's office and to Noreen.  Mack
barked, "Keys!" and Noreen surfaced a set.  Mack snatched them and swept out.
I got the feeling that everyone was up in arms because he came back after one
p.m.  I got to drive again; Mack gave directions.  In fifteen minutes we
pulled up in front of a condo building.  "Come on."  Mack waved and I followed
him in.  He went to the elevator and we rode to the third floor and he turned
right and opened a door.  "Take a look."

	It was three bedrooms with an open kitchen and a hot tub and a balcony
overlooking a pool.  "Nice!"

	"I own the building," Mack grunted.  "These are your digs -- get your
junk out of your place.  Whatever you need to break the lease, take it out of
the drawing account, along with the mover's money."  He eyed me.  "That cool
with you?"

	"Shit, yeah!"

	"Good.  Tomorrow, being it's the first, we'll go around and collect
some rent on a couple of my pet projects.  You'll enjoy it."

	We were headed back down the stairs.  "Well..."

	"Yeah, I know," Mack chuckled.  "You're not a people person.  Well,
it's like I told you -- it's all about who your tenants are.  I don't collect
rent for all of my places -- just a few.  And I do those more for recreation
than anything else -- you'll see what I mean."

	Twenty minutes later, we were in the bar again.

                        -----------------------

	The next morning, I came in driving my little Saturn.  I was late --
ten-thirty or so -- because I needed to arrange for a dozen things related to
my move.  Had Noreen been worth her salt as an assistant, I'd have handed it
off to her -- but she wasn't.  Some things WERE in the new place -- I had
cable TV up the wazoo, and telephone, but no internet.  My old landlord wasn't
thrilled, but keeping the last and the security deposit mellowed him somewhat.
I would be another day or two getting out, but, hey...  Mack eyed the Saturn
and grunted, "When are you gonna sell that shitbox?"

	"Probably never," I retorted.  "That shitbox gets thirty-two miles to
the gallon and has a hundred thousand miles on it."

	"Get something to attract women with," Mack retorted.  "You can keep
that one to collect rent in.  We'll take it this afternoon."

	"Okay."  `What?  No Caddy?' I wondered.  But it wasn't important; I
followed him to the bar at the usual time and we were relaxing at about two
o'clock when Mack said, "So, Pete.  You don't have a little woman -- is there
a main squeeze?"

	I sighed.  "Nope.  I don't attract `em."

	"You will," Mack advised.  "Some of `em smell money.  You start
looking prosperous and you'll have that flavor all over you."

	I laughed.  "No doubt.  Trouble is an easy buy."

	Mack nodded, laughing.  "Yeah, that's why I handle things
differently."  He looked kind of proud of himself; I didn't know why -- and
was afraid to ask.  Was he gay or something?  "Come on," he added, "Let's go
collect some rent."

                        -----------------------

	Twenty minutes later, Mack directed me, "Pull into the next driveway."
We were in a neighborhood where old two- and three-story houses crowded one
another to the point that driveways were tight to get into and out of.  A few
blocks over was an area I NEVER wanted to try to collect rent from -- but
these houses were in fairly good repair and none were boarded up or vacant and
there weren't a lot of loiterers on the street.  "I -- WE own about half of
the houses on this block," Mack related, "and the city is thrilled to death
with me for helping clean up the neighborhood."  I pulled the Saturn in and
through to the back of the house, which didn't seem to have a yard -- it was
basically all pavement.  I shut down the car and made to get out, but Mack
forestalled me with a hand on my arm.  "This is my special project," he
related, "one of a couple I have.  Follow my lead and you'll see why I collect
here personally."

	I nodded and we got out of the car.  As we headed up the walk, Mack
said, "Pete, I trust you, or I wouldn't be showing you this.  You might take
this all wrong; if you do, we'll probably have to part company -- which sucks,
because you're incredibly valuable to me.  But I'll understand if you can't
hang with this..."

	Now I was worried.  "Is it illegal?"

	Mack grimaced.  "Some people would say that it's exploitation, to say
the least.  But my tenants all understand what they're getting into when they
sign the lease -- I make it VERY clear.  Maybe it IS illegal -- but they sign
up for it, so I don't feel too bad."  By then we'd circled around to the front
steps.  "This is a multi-family -- four apartments."  He popped open a lockbox
built into the wall beside the door and shuffled around inside, drawing out
two envelopes.  "Two of `em have paid the rent, it looks like."  I stood there
while he opened the envelopes and checked the amounts on the checks.  "Yeah.
Okay.  We'll be visiting the other two.  Follow my lead."  We headed up the
staircase.  "So, Pete," Mack said genially, "are you familiar with the term
`trailer trash?'  Well, there aren't any trailers this far in-town, you know,
but people have to have a place to live.  I have two houses like this -- and I
rent to a special clientele.  Any idea what they might be?"

	"Nooo..."  `Here it comes,' I thought.

	"Single mothers."  Mack grinned.  "The city social services agencies
all think I'm a saint -- but I reap the benefits -- you'll see."  He knocked
on the door marked 2A.

	"Just a minute!" sounded from inside.  In a couple of minutes, the
door sprang open to display a hefty number with light-brown hair bleached
blonde, blue eyes, a snub-nosed, dimple-cheeked face, a pair of fat, round
hooters in a peasant blouse with weird lumps where her nipples should be, a
short, tight jean skirt, nylons, and high-heeled sandals.  The legs were beefy
but smooth and not bad looking; I hauled my eyeballs back up to her upper half
to discover that she was burdened with a baby.  "Oh, hi, Mack," she said,
furtively.

	"Hi, Cindy.  Going out?" Mack asked.

	"Um, no -- just hanging out..."  I found myself thinking that it was
interesting that she chose to dress up like that to clean toilets or whatever.

	"I'll say!" Mack leered.  "So, Cindy, where's the rent?"

	"It's coming, Mack."

	"When?"

	"On the fifth."

	"That's not the first, Honey," Mack noted.  "If it's not the first..."

	"I know."  Cindy looked odd -- troubled, but excited.

	"Pete needs to be filled in on the rules, Honey," Mack said quietly.
"Why don't you brief him."

	"Yes, Mack."  Cindy stepped back inside the apartment; we followed,
Mack closing the door behind us.

	"Put the baby down, Honey -- we all know you're a mother."

	"Yes, Mack."  Mack waved and I followed Cindy into her nursery.
Matter-of-factly, while she put the baby down and tucked it in, Cindy related,
"Mack's rules are that the first month you're late, he gets to fuck you until
you pay.  The second month, you fuck Mack's friends until you can pay."

	"And the third month?" Mack asked.

	"The third month you earn the rent on your back," Cindy related
quietly.  She stood and headed back toward the living room; I thought that her
face was strangely placid for someone talking about sex slavery and
prostitution.

	"Pete's new, so he's kind of surprised, Honey," Mack related.  "Was
this all a surprise at all?"

	"No," Cindy looked at me with strange eyes.  "Mack explained it all
when I signed the lease.  I agreed to it."

	"Obviously, the lease doesn't SAY that," Mack related.  "What it DOES
say is that I can kick them out for breathing crooked.  There's a clause in it
for performance that's pretty strict that says that I can make demands as I
see fit if they're not in compliance.  This is how I see fit."  He turned to
Cindy.  "This is the second month in a row Cindy's been late -- I think she
enjoyed the first one too much.  It took her until almost the fifteenth to pay
me last month, even though I gave her a little leeway."  He eyed me.  "Fuck
her, Pete.  Do whatever you want.  Treat her like you're gonna put a gun to
her head and shoot her when you're done -- rip her ass up!"

	Cindy looked startled.  I blinked.  "What's this all about?"

	"It's about betrayal," Mack said harshly.  "It's about breach of
contract -- breach of trust.  It's about punishment."  He eyed Cindy.  "It's
about preparing her for next month."  Stepping forward, he punched her in the
stomach; I watched her collapse, unable to breathe, her eyes shocked.  Mack
eyed me.  "I can do this, or you can.  Obviously, I'm a little pissed."

	"Ummm, okay..."  I stepped forward gingerly.  Mack circled behind and
grabbed Cindy by the neck and dragged her up onto her knees.  "You don't need
to breathe to get Pete out of his pants, bitch.  Move!"

	Cindy managed to get her hands to my zipper and start tugging.  Mack
closed up on me and muttered in my ear, "This isn't as serious as it looks --
Cindy likes it rough.  She's also way out of line..."  Aloud, he added, "So
you figure being ol' Mack's twat is probably a good deal, huh?  Maybe I'd get
all sweet on you and give you trinkets and shit?  Honey, I have a half-dozen
twats at any given moment -- you got no shot at being Numero Uno!  Besides,
this month you get loaned out to my friends -- that's a step DOWN the totem
pole!  Get outta that blouse and get your lips on Pete's dick, NOW!"  He
swatted her on the back of the head -- nothing that was going to give her
permanent injury -- while she tugged the cap sleeves of her blouse over her
arms and poked her torso right through the elastic neck of the thing.  The
weird lumps went flying -- they were pads of some kind, obviously there to
keep her breasts from dripping milk all over, since that's what started
happening more or less instantly.

	Okay, maybe I'm a bad guy -- but there seemed to be some justification
for what Mack was doing.  Women had dicked me over since elementary school,
for Christ's sake...  I stuck my dick in her mouth -- it was hard, too.

	At Mack's urging, I grabbed a handful of Cindy's hair at the back of
her head and drove her onto my cock.  She put her hands on my hips, but didn't
fight me, despite the gagging noises.  Behind her, Mack rolled his eyes and
mouthed, "She loves this shit!"  Caught up in the whole thing, I took her head
in both hands and really put it to her.  She was going "Gluk!  Gluk!  Gluk!
Gluk!  Gluk!"  I could have been choking her to death, but she still wasn't
fighting.  "You probably don't want to cum in her slut mouth," Mack opined.
"Why don't you stick her head in the toilet or something and fuck her ass? Use
your imagination..."

	I thought about it.  "No, I'm enjoying this..."  I kept humping her
face.  Milk from her swollen breasts dripped on my pants and my shoes and I
didn't give a fuck.

	"Suit yourself."

	Like I said -- maybe I'm a bad guy.  But Mack had a couple of points
-- and I owed the `fair sex' -- because they'd never treated ME fairly.  Pussy
was something I paid for -- or didn't get.  Period.  I'm not ugly or anything
-- but I'm not handsome, either.  Intellectuals lose out to bad asses all the
time.  Cindy took the heat for about a half-million snubs -- sorry about that.
Her eyes watered and her chubby face turned pink and she drooled and her make-
up ran and made her look like a raccoon and she drooled and choked and puked
on the floor once -- and I shoved my dick in her throat and held her there
while I blew the biggest nut...  Then I pushed her away, gasping and choking
-- and I figured I'd done her a favor, because her head wasn't in the
toilet...

	Stupid me.  Mack had her up and off to the bathroom before her ass hit
the floor good, hauling her by one arm.  Then he DID stick her face in the
toilet and he DID rip her skirt down and he DID jam his dick in her ass --
unlubed -- and pound the shit out of it.  He let her up here and there -- but
he flushed twice.  When he got done, her shoes were off, her nylons were
laddered -- did I mention that they were real nylons, not pantyhose?  Garter
belt and all...  She was soaking wet from the neck up and milk was
EVERYWHERE-- partly because when he blew his nut in Cindy's ass, he hauled her
up and waved me up to her.  "Cover her mouth -- we don't want her waking the
baby," he told me, so I covered her mouth with my hands -- and pinched her
nose shut, because she managed to find the breath for a pretty good squawk
when Mack started squeezing the shit out of her left tit!  He had her spraying
pretty good, all over the bathroom floor, from both nipples; she flopped
around a bit for this, which seemed to make it more fun.  Mack waved me off
and let go of her and she flopped to the floor and he said, "You might want to
try to get something to me before the fifth, Honey," and walked out of the
room.

	I kind of stood there, aghast at what I'd been party to.  Cindy looked
like someone had tied one leg to a ski rope and hauled her, fully clothed,
around a lake behind a boat.  She surged up and grabbed my pant leg, and I
expected some kind of an appeal to my better nature -- "Help me!" or something
-- but instead she said, "Come back any time, okay?"

	"S--sure!" I stammered, and got out of there.

	Mack met me at the front door, holding a bath towel he'd collected
from somewhere.  "Here," he said, pushing it at me, "Wipe off the milk.  What
did she say?"

	"She invited me back," I replied, dazed.

	"She's a sick little bitch.  I told you she loved that shit."  Mack
chuckled and waved me out the door.

	"I didn't believe you."

	"I know.  I noticed that you didn't let it stop you," he observed.

	"I guess I had some pent-up aggression," I muttered.

	"No shit?" Mack pretended surprise.  "I'd have never guessed!"  He
turned for the stairs.  "Can you go again?"

	"Like that?"

	"Naw, we'll go a little easier on this one."

	"Yeah, probably."

	"Cindy fucks the regular way," Mack related, "and she's pretty good at
it.  Just come on up and get you some, any time before she finally pays up.
She's a glutton for punishment; after that, she'll probably wait until the
thirtieth."

	"She looked surprised when you punched her."

	"She was.  I went about as far as I could think to go with her -- but
I knew she liked it rough from LAST month, so I wasn't any too concerned,"
Mack replied.  "She's gonna be a problem, I think.  That kid is by a junior-
grade drug lord who got his head blown off; he used to slap the shit out of
her and leave her with lumps and bruises and a couple of broken bones here and
there.  Some chicks just get off on having the shit kicked out of them -- bad
asses make their pussies wet.  I think it goes back to when you went courting
with a club -- they figure if you don't take no shit and slap them around, you
must be the head motherfucker in charge."  He shrugged

	"So what's up with this one?" I asked.

	"Charlene?" Mack replied.  "She's at Stage Three.  She's got three
kids of various ages and needs to watch a couple of them.  It cuts down her
working hours.  She's gonna want to pay on her back."

	"How does that work?" I asked.

	"Well, I'm not a pimp," Mack replied.  "But I know people who know
people who like to party.  So I get a call and I throw a couple of women at a
bachelor party or a gang bang or whatever.  It's not retail -- if I put one of
them out, it's for enough to pay the rent in one pass, minimum -- and I give
them the rest, if there is any.  But they get the shit fucked out of them,
usually -- it isn't an easy night's work.  But it's safer that way than
putting them out on the street at twenty bucks a blowjob or whatever.  I've
never had one busted while she lived here.  If they want to hook, though,
they're gone -- can't have them ruining the place's rep."

	"Aren't you pushing them that way?" I asked.

	"Well, they CAN pay the rent," Mack replied.  "I get three types.  The
first type pays the fucking rent.  If a woman does that for a year, I
generally move them out of here to another rental.  The second type is the
`Yeah, right' group -- they don't believe me when they hear the rules, and
then we have a problem when they don't make the rent the first time.  That
goes one of two ways -- they get the idea or they get out.  The third group is
gonna miss occasionally -- and are willing to pay the price.  They come in a
couple of flavors, too -- you get the ones who just fall on hard luck, and the
ones who WANT a dick -- and will fuck up to get it -- like Cindy."

	"Which group is Charlene in?" I asked.

	"I'm not absolutely sure," Mack replied.  "She's got a job, but...
Shit, I dunno."  He rapped on the door.


<1st attachment end>


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