Message-ID: <4337eli$9709241010@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/Year97/4337.txt>
From: zanna@whoever.com (Joyce Melton & Morgan Preece)
Subject: NEW STORY: Girl-Next-Door: The Rooster by Morgan Preece
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <3437d6ae.15142328@mail.iname.com>


If you like this story --or any story on the net-- tell the author.

This story is intended for the entertainment of adults only. 
If you are under 18 or if reading this would involve anyone in an
illegal act, please stop reading immediately. If you are offended by
strong adult-oriented themes, explicit sex, erotic fantasy or vulgar
language, what are you doing here?

Copyright (C) 1997 by Morgan Preece. All rights reserved. Permission
is hereby granted for non-commercial use of this complete and
unaltered text (including disclaimer paragraph above and this
paragraph and the next two) in electronic form such as posting to
EBBS's or Newsgroups or free access Electronic Archives. Electronic
storage of unaltered copies for personal use is also permitted. Any
other use of this text is a violation of copyright. No permission is
given hereby for any sort of distribution to minors or other persons
to whom such distribution would be illegal in the jurisdiction of
distributor, recipient or intermediary. No hardcopies may be made
without written permission from the author. 

If you want to put this story in a CD-ROM archive for distribution at
nominal cost, E-Mail the author at the address below for a copy with a
different copyright notice. Inquiries about other commercial use
should also be E-mailed. Do not come to my house, you don't know where
I live and you will get lost. 

Comments are welcome, fanmail being the only feedback a newsgroup
author gets. Email may be addressed to the author at
ZANNA@WHOEVER.COM. Enjoy.

===========================================================
Girl-Next-Door #1: The Rooster


by Morgan Preece


Richie Gallo caressed the pale thighs of his girlfriend with one hand
while he ran the thumb of the other along her soft rounded chin. Her
blondeness spilled across his wrist, her slim body pressed against
him. The blonde breathed in his ear, cooing, "Oh, Richie." Her Nordic
face contrasted with his olive-skinned hand, her soft body with his
hard muscularity.

The scarred knuckles and black hair on the back of his hand also
seemed at odds with his soft gray business suit. The gleam in his deep
brown eyes, the twist of the smile on his full Mediterranean lips
contradicted the carefully shined shoes and precisely combed hair.
Richie Gallo projected a barely controlled violence even in the tender
movements of what he might have thought of as foreplay if he had ever
heard of foreplay.

The hotel room was clean if not luxurious. The air, almost cool
inside, still hinted at the lingering heat of a long Midwestern summer
outside. Heat from the windows seemed to press against exposed skin,
all the warmer for the erratic drafts from the air conditioning. The
cheap perfume he had given her added to the heat, he liked her to wear
a lot. His male-animal scent reminded her of other quick assignations,
making love in the back seat of limos, in the offices of liquor
warehouses, in a storeroom in Comiskey Park.

The blonde shuddered in frustrated anticipation. When her lover had
asked for a downtown rendezvous in a State Street hotel she had
naturally assumed there would be more in it for her this time.
"Ain't'cha got time for more than a blowjob, honey?" The pout in her
voice made the delectably carmine lips tremble. Her blue eyes swam
with unshed tears. She felt his one hand lifting the hem of her simple
white sundress while the other tilted her head up for a surprisingly
savage kiss. Sometimes he bruised her mouth that way but he never
apologized unless you thought of Ulysses S Grant as a sort of apology.

"Nah," He grunted after the kiss. "Got to leave for a meeting with a
fixer in ten minutes. No time to get naked." His accent proclaimed his
origins in Chicago's slums, his education in the back alleys and
warehouses of the Southside. Richie smiled, pulling her dress to her
waist with both hands now. "No time for me to get naked." 

"Oooh!" She squealed, stepping back as he snatched the white dress off
over her head. She felt a little relieved, last time he had ripped it
off her. She wore no bra, he didn't like her to wear a bra. He said
she didn't have enough up there to need a bra. Her B-cup boobies
bounced from the sudden movement. Her nipples crinkled in the cool of
the sudden draft and her face flushed in the heat of embarrassment.
Staggering slightly from the violence of her disrobing, she could not
resist as he pushed her into a kneeling position. Her long, smooth,
white stockinged legs folded under her and her lacy, nude, bikini
panties rested on her high heels.

"Get busy, doll," he ordered. His strong blunt fingers tangled in her
stylishly tousled blond locks and pulled her head close to his crotch,
forcefully enough that her teeth made a small clicking noise when he
stopped her head at the desired distance.

She had learned not to protest. Besides, Richie paid for torn dresses
and generously compensated her for bruises as well. She had quit her
job on his orders and over her mother's protests. She still lived at
home, though, and spent most of the money he gave her on clothing and
jewelry and beauty shops.

She shook back the bracelets she wore on each arm, jingle-jangle. Then
Zzzp! as her French manicured nails lowered his zipper and deftly
freed his cock from the pale blue boxers. She brought his already
stiffening manhood out to the big round O she had made with her mouth.
She moistened her True Red lips and then worked her tongue to lick his
prick as she took him all the way back into her throat. She hummed as
she worked. She used her swallowing muscles to pull him into her,
suppressing the urge to gag. She held her breath, she pumped her face,
six, seven, a dozen times. He came into her hugely, salty and tasting
of bleach. She swallowed again, hating this part, certain that Richie
insisted on her swallowing because he knew that she hated it.

"That's good," he murmured. "So good." He handed her a tissue from the
box on the hotel dresser. "Wipe me off, doll," he ordered. A bit of
cum escaped the corner of her mouth but she did not use the tissue to
dab at it. A pink tongue made the cum disappear then she shrugged and
cleaned him off, finishing by zipping him back up. He smiled at her
pouting face as she retrieved her dress. "You mad at me, baby?"

"Whadda you think?" She tried not to whimper but her frustration at
being treated so crunched her vocal cards, squeezing out into her
voice. This was part of the routine also, the frustration, the
humiliation then the taunts, the threats, the tease. Even knowing what
was coming she could not stop herself. When Richie did hold her and
make love to her, with his cock inside her and his mouth on her
breasts, her lips.... When he took the time to do it right and again
and again, holding off his own orgasm until she screamed for him to
cum into her.... When he wanted to be, Richie Gallo was the best lover
she had ever had.

"Hey! -- Hey!" he snarled suddenly. "You mad at me?" His hands
gestured, expressively, explosively. "Are you mad at me!?"

Flinching, she backpedaled, "No, Richie! No, honey!" The flimsy white
cotton held in front of her made her nakedness more revealing. "You
know I ain't mad at'cha." She spoke in the careless accent of the high
school dropout, Richie liked her voice, the way she talked. Usually.

"Yeah? I know that?" He might have been mollified, she couldn't tell.
Pulling a pair of fifties from his pocket, he tossed them carelessly
toward the floor. Her eyes followed the fluttering paper involuntarily
and Richie smiled, knowingly. "Give me the dress," he ordered.

"What, baby?" she started.  But he had already acted to snatch the
scrap of fabric from her hands. Taking a white trash bag up from the
trash can beside the hotel room desk, he stuffed the dress inside.
"What'cha gonna do with the dress, honey?" She wanted to cover herself
suddenly, somehow realizing that her nakedness had taken another
quantum jump. The nude panties, white stockings, white high-heeled
sandals, the bracelets, the rings and the hoops in her ears and the
cultured pearl necklace might as well have been gone also.

"Shaddap." He turned to the door, gesturing with the bag in his left
hand. "You stay here till I come back -- understand?"

"You don't gotta take my dress, Richie. I'll stay, you know I'll stay.
I'll wait for you." She bit her lip, hoping to avoid this new
humiliation but hoping she would not provoke him to something more
physically threatening.

"Yeah, you'll wait. You'll wait for me here and I'll know that you're
here, waiting, naked." He smiled, white teeth and twinkling eyes
showing a flash of the charm that had first attracted him to her. Her
heart leaped. Oh, it was a game, a lovers' charade! He would be back,
having thought of her all the time he was gone, thought of her waiting
for him, thought of her nakedness. Her nipples crinkled again and she
smiled back at him, open, whole-hearted, vulnerable as a virgin.

"Gimme your panties, too," he ordered. She complied, eagerly, her
upset forgotten, her mood turned willing. Her blonde twat had been
depilated to a small heart-shaped patch of bush above her clit. He
stuffed the panties in the bag then took her purse also, placing it on
top. "Get on the bed and stay there." She did, waving the roundness of
her pink ass at him deliberately. He was obviously enjoying setting up
the second half of their tryst and she wanted him to know that she was
too. "Don't use the telephone, they charge for even local calls here,
I'll know. And if that damn TV is on when I get back, I won't come in.
You'd better be laying right there, your legs spread." He still smiled
but his eyes no longer twinkled.

She maintained the illusion of a complicated love game as long as she
could, while he strained it to shattering. "Don't touch the money,
bitch. It better still be laying there when I get back. You ain't
earned it yet. And no room service, you just ate and I want you hungry
later." He left, taking the bag with him. She lay on the bed, naked
and afraid to start crying. 

Thinking about her nakedness waiting for his return gave him a swagger
in his step and a chuckle in the back of his throat. Unfinished
business, he'd come back in an hour or so and nail her to the
mattress. She'd be so grateful she'd forget again that she was nothing
but his whore. Or maybe he'd sell the bag to the black fixer his
"Uncle" Carmine had asked him to see. Or just throw it in one of the
Mayor Daley's slogan-covered trash cans.



Half an hour later, Richard Gallo sat in the deliberately dimmed
office of August Maxim, Attorney at Law. "You know my appetites," said
Richie. His dark features, sharpened in the light from the desk lamp,
made his smile seem more than wolflike. "I wouldn't want to get --
lonely."  He placed the knuckles of his right hand on the polished oak
of the attorney's nine-foot monument to status in a gesture not so
much aggressive as proprietary.

"I assure you, Mr. Gallo. My clients have no intention of causing you
any sort of distress. Your comfort and satisfaction are part of the
bargain." He eyed the invading appendage with some offense but took no
counter-action. A slender, Afro-American man in his middle fifties,
August Maxim did not pick fights with thugs twenty years younger than
himself. Inwardly sighing, he looked not at the hairy knuckles but at
the wide-set brown eyes in the darkly handsome face. A face marred
slightly by a nose just a trifle too hooked and a jawline that showed
signs of incipient jowls. He smiled, being careful to keep any hint of
patronization from touching his own lips or eyes.

"Ah, but prison," Gallo went on. "You know, there aren't any women in
prison and I ain't bent the other way." He rapped the deeply polished
desk top once, sharply. The sound seemed louder than it might have in
another room. The quiet taste of the woods and natural fibers, the
authentic African textiles and carvings, seemed to demand reasoned
discussion without pathos or comedy.

His suit is off the rack, thought Maxim. He drinks mass-produced
American beer. He smokes cheap, generic cigarettes and sleeps with
prostitutes. Maxim kept such an imaginary running catalog on everyone
he disliked to remind him of how deserving they were of his disdain.
But the inward mantra only strengthened the steely gentility of his
voice and manner. "Really, Mr. Gallo, no one said anything about
prison."

"Yeah, well, no one said anything about gambling, fencing,
loan-sharking, prostitution or drugs either but I think we both know
just what we're talking about, here." Gallo waved a florid hand and
lifted the trespassing knuckles to spread them as further punctuation.
He knew he looked like a Joe Pesci character when he did that but it's
only because we're both Italian, he told himself. Richie Gallo had
used the cheap hood act as disarming camaraderie and subtle threat for
so long now that he wasn't sure if he had invented it or borrowed it
from some Quentin Tarantino movie. But Richard Gallo needed to upgrade
his act. That is, if he decided to sign on to the deal August Maxim
was offering.

"I would prefer that we kept the discussion centered on the items
actually under consideration," Maxim steepled his fingers in front of
him, symbolically reclaiming his desk. The smile that accompanied this
gesture and the mild rebuke could have offended no one. Diplomacy
Augie Maxim had learned as a skinny black kid in an otherwise
all-white Catholic school nearly forty years ago. His skill he had
refined through law school, the public defender's office, the district
attorney's office and as a one-term appointee to the state assembly.
Now he had a lucrative private practice, crossing legal t's and
dotting regulatory i's for wealthy, if sometimes unsavory, citizens.
His contacts, going back to that private religious school in the
Indianapolis suburbs included many whom August Maxim regarded as his
social inferiors. His private conceit did not prevent him from
maintaining valuable relationships with goons, bigots and hypocrites
with a precisely titrated respect for their own self-perceived worth. 

When Mr. Daniel Lord had asked for a stalking horse and had specified
that he would prefer an Italian one, Augie knew which schoolground
chum to call. Personally, Maxim thought the ethnic touch the
inspiration of a bigot who believes that everyone is just as bigoted
as himself. But he said his mantra, Mr. Lord is forty pounds
overweight and half-a-foot undertall. He has varicose veins and liver
spots. He voted against FDR twice and for him once. He has three bored
mistresses, two rich ex-wives and the current Mrs. Lord sleeps
undisturbed all night long. Then he called Carmine Sciaparelli and
Richie Gallo arrived gift-wrapped.

"A full partnership in Lord's rackets," Gallo worked his jaw back and
forth on that one.

"A managing partnership in Lord Enterprises and Entertainments," Maxim
corrected and amplified.

"For nothing," said Gallo.

"For one dollar and other valuable considerations," said Maxim.

"It's got to be he wants someone to go to jail for him. The feds're
after him for racketeering. Right?" Richie eyed Maxim to gauge his
reaction. Gallo admired the black man's imperturbable finesse but felt
compelled to try to rattle the smaller man with his own bluntness.
Richie's concept of manliness demanded that he rise to the challenge.
It had to be the sweetest deal he had ever hoped to be offered though,
from soldier to gangboss in one move, like the promotion of a chess or
checker piece. "How long we talking about here, five years, ten?" 

Maxim managed to look baffled by the question while conceding the
relevance and importance of his answer. "The district attorney would
certainly seek a longer term if any indictments were to arise out of
Mr. Lord's activities. However, we believe that a -- pre-arrangement
-- with well-placed friends of business will result in lesser charges
and lighter punishments. For one thing, we will choose when to bring
things to a head and we will keep proceedings in the state courts. If
someone were willing to accept full responsibility, Mr. Lord would use
everything in his considerable legal armory to protect his friends
from undue and overlong confinement."

Richie spent a moment untangling that. He nodded, it smelled legit, a
straight offer from a man with a rep for straight dealing. Lord had
been smart to make the offer through a guy like Maxim. "Uncle" Carmine
had assured Richie that Maxim could be trusted. Still, no one
respected someone who simply rolled over and did as he was told. Gallo
felt like being terse, he pretended to an anger he did not feel,
"Money? I take a fall and come out to find my partnership is
worthless, hah?" He bristled convincingly.

It did not matter to the lawyer if Richie's anger were real or faked.
"I assure you that were Mr. Lord contemplating such treachery I would
know and would not be a party to it." Maxim projected cool, mild
offense. "Carmine can enforce my guarantee for you."

Impressed all over again, Richie could almost admire the black
attorney's macho, volunteering to face Carmine for any failure. Richie
needed to counter with his own claim to extreme masculinity. "What
about my needs, there still ain't no women in prison and I can't wait
for no conjugal visits, once a month or whatever? I need a woman when
I need her, sometimes two, three times. An hour," Gallo smiled,
enjoying the bragging.

"A suitable substitute can be found..." Maxim began.

Richie interrupted. "I told you I don't bend that way. You talking
about some fairy thinks he's a woman, right? I don't fuck fruits. If
it has a dick and balls it's a man."

August shuddered invisibly at the vulgarity, but he recognized a
bargaining opening when he heard one. "No, Mr. Gallo, we wouldn't
expect you to. But what would you say to a lovely young lady with only
a very small phallus, enough to qualify her for incarceration in a
men's prison in the eyes of a well-paid doctor and no testes at all,
but a functioning vagina between her legs?"

"Hanh? Pussy and a dick?" Richie felt intrigued in spite of the mild
revulsion he the idea inspired. He'd had a woman with an enormous
clit, once in New Mexico, it had been a memorable experience because
she went absolutely wild in bed.

Maxim moved in for the close. "What else do you want in a womanly
companion? Blonde, brunette, redhead?" August felt real distaste for
his own skill in making that offer but he knew Richie's tastes, a
profile that had come from Carmine with the package.

"Blonde," said Richie, "natural blonde." He licked his lips.

"Of course," agreed August. "How tall? What sort of build? Slender?
Buxom?"

Richie looked at him curiously, the dark little man seemed positively
clerkish. "Which one are you, Sears or Roebuck?"

"Hardly. This is custom far beyond their ability to supply," Maxim
replied dryly. Not unaware of the savage incongruity of a black man
dealing in human flesh, he also knew how commonplace the irony had
become in most big cities.

"Cute. You can take a joke," Richie smiled, appreciatively. He licked
his lips again, his mouth seemed dry. Somehow, he knew that he had
already decided to do this thing, to go to jail for the fat, aging,
gang boss and spend his nights fucking some ersatz woman. On one level
he disgusted himself, on another he felt charged. The heaviness in his
pants did not surprise him, he had not exaggerated his sexual appetite
much, just talking or thinking about sexual encounters made him horny.
But how to get out of this with his self-respect? 

"What would your ideal woman look like, Mr. Gallo?" Maxim asked again.

Richie sighed. He considered the woman waiting nakedly in the hotel
room for his return. He numbered her shortcomings, too tall when
wearing the heels he liked to see on women, too flat-chested, too
whiney. He really would nail anything in skirts but one particular
look satisfied him most. "Three, four inches  shorter than me when
she's wearing heels, slender waist but she's got to have tits and an
ass." He outlined a coke-bottle shape with his hands. "I mean, built
like one of them exotic dancers at Lord's Ladies, y'know?" He gestured
again, holding imaginary milk jugs in front of him. "But not fake
looking, no scars on the titties and soft ones, not hard like plastic.
Long blonde hair past her waist, a real blonde, blue or green eyes,
fair skin." He decided to be overly complete in his description,
describing a fantasy woman that it might be impossible to deliver.
"Full lips, big eyes, a turned-up nose and a soft chin. Young, a
teen-ager if you got one, with a high, sweet, little-girl voice." He
smiled.

August nodded. He had known all that but he had to get it right from
Richie, himself. Maxim felt appalled at how parallel their tastes were
and how common. August felt ashamed that his own fantasies involved
busty white women but blamed it on the over-developed young Polish
girl who had initiated him into the mystery back in their senior year
in high school. Little Augie's Slavic Madonna had forever set his
erotic preferences, with his ambitions, on the same road as many of
his white classmates when she had cornered him in the hallway between
the music room and the gymnasium. She had wanted to satisfy her
curiosity about him, about black men and the differences she had heard
about.

In the quiet of the unused music room, on a piano bench,
seventeen-year-old Augie had lost his virginity to the eager twat of
the bad girl from Bloomington. His hands still remembered the vanilla
sweetness of her lips, the imagined milk filling the softball-sized
white globes on the chest of his first lust. The excited, guilty,
hurry, hurry, hurry lovemaking. The fumbling on his part and the
practiced, deft, assurance on her part. They had come together in
darkness and in youth, where color should not have made a difference.
But it did, it still did, it always did.

Augie, now past fifty, brought himself back to the present problem. "I
think we can meet your requirements," he said, blandly. His wife,
Cuban-born, a shade lighter than himself and more slender than most
models, had no idea what fantasies he indulged in on those nights when
he sensed the need to rouse a passion he did not always feel for his
delicate, cinnamon-skinned, dark-eyed, Afro-Latin spouse.

"Another thing," Richie added, warming to his own fantasy. "She's got
to be a virgin, she can't ever have had a man before, okay? I'll be
her first." He smiled, "I'll make a woman out of her myself."

Maxim smiled, "Difficult but not impossible." When the client asked
for more and received it, the deal had been set. He pushed papers at
Mr. Gallo, "If you'll just sign here."

"One more thing," asked Richie, before signing. He knew he had to push
it, somehow. He had to get more, not out of greed but out of pride,
pride that sprang from his street origins and the fear a young boy
could feel, the fear of those more powerful than he. Signing now left
him on the weak end of the deal. What "one more thing" could he ask
for, he had spoken before he had thought. "Can I have two? Two women?"
Women? The question in the single word reverberated in his mind.

"Almost certainly, Mr. Gallo," responded August, still smiling. "I
think that can be arranged, also."

"Yeah?" Richie signed quickly then sat back, wondering. "How you going
to do this?" He gestured, an open-handed self-parody.

"We have a source," said Maxim, inspecting the paperwork. The hoodlum
had surprisingly beautiful penmanship whereas Mr. Lord's signatures
were illegible scrawls.

"What about access, I mean, when I want a fuck, I want it now. I heard
about prison, they keep the flamers locked up separate. These girls
ain't going to do me no good I can't get at them." Richie's hands drew
bars and grasped them and shook them.

Maxim nodded benignly. "You'll be in high security lock-up, yourself.
The girls will be right next door."

"Yeah? Um. When can I expect delivery on my partnership-- and the
charges?" Gallo asked, fidgeting. Richie felt threatened, wondering if
he had made a bad deal. Something, he had to do something to prove to
himself that he still had more balls than anyone even though he had
just made a deal to sleep with fairies for five or ten years. He
spread his fingers in front of his own indecisive frown in unconscious
imitation of Marlon Brando.

"You become Vice President of L.E.E. when you leave this room. The
other, one day soon, perhaps within the year...." Maxim gestured
vaguely himself.

"Oh," said Richie. Then inspiration striking, "That second girl, could
you make her black? I mean, one blonde, one black. For variety."
Richie smiled, a cunning winner's smile, as the civilized black man
before him stared. "A guy in prison might get bored."

Maxim felt himself struggling not to stare, let alone glare. He felt a
wave of unexpected loathing rise up in his soul. Hatred poured over
him, not just for Richie Gallo but for the sordidness of the deal, for
Richie's lifestyle, Lord's history, and his own connivance in making
their mutual satisfaction possible. Richie's request was not the act
of an unthinking bigot but a deliberate attempt to use Maxim's color
to wound him.

In an instant, Little Augie Maxim remembered his childhood on the
streets of Indianapolis before the nuns took him in. His intellect had
won for him a reward his skin color would have denied him in that time
and place. He remembered his mother speaking of how white men had
treated her, used her. She had confessed before she died that his
father had been a white man, one who had first beaten her, then paid
her and used her. Not that his mother had been a prostitute, just a
poor black woman who did what she must.

Suddenly seething, his teeth on edge, Maxim hated Richie Gallo and
Daniel Lord and hated himself for being the sort of black man who
hated white men because he served their interests above his own. Lord
would preserve the comfort of his old age, Gallo would spend a few
pleasant years behind bars to emerge the heir apparent to Lord's gang
holdings. Maxim would be paid money, enough money to buy a fancy car
or put a down payment on a big home. He had fancy cars and nice homes,
more than enough of each already.

He calmed himself with his mantra. Daniel Lord is an impotent old man
who will die soon, his comfort will not extend his life and may
shorten it. His women, his money, his power are useless to him. He has
no children, no family and no one who loves him for being a parasitic
toad. Richie Gallo is a cheap thug who will never be able to hold on
to Lord's empire. After discovering a taste for fairies, he will never
again regard himself with the same macho he once had. Maxim, on the
other hand, had a loving wife and two children in college. He had the
respect of both the legitimate and illegitimate rulers of three
states. All bastards on both sides of the law, true, but he had the
respect of powerful men.

Slowly, he nodded. Gallo was providing deliberate offense for the
purpose of scoring points in some inane schoolyard bully's game.
"Black? Yes, I believe we could make the second girl black," he
managed to say with his usual urbanity. Richie could have done nothing
to deepen Maxim's contempt for the two-bit criminal's lifestyle or
mores but August had surprised himself by taking this last request
personally. Still, he would never give a thug like Gallo the
satisfaction of seeing him snarl.

Richie smiled, knowing that on some level he had won. He nodded once,
turning the corner's of his mouth down like Sylvester Stallone. "Then
we've got a deal." He stuck out his hand to the smaller, older man. If
Maxim hesitated a fraction of an instant, Gallo showed no awareness of
it. Both smiling, their business concluded, they shook hands.



Outside, Richie retrieved his car from the valet parking and took
Lakeshore Drive north. Driving helped him think and he had a lot to
think about. Midnight found him near Madison, Wisconsin before he
remembered the naked girl waiting for him in the hotel room. He
laughed. Rolling down the window electrically, he tossed the white
plastic bag out into the night. Then he turned back toward Chicago,
his stiffening dick still proving his manhood.



-- 
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |
| Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
\ <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/>    .../assm/faq.html> /