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From: mouthbrthr@aol.com (MouthBrthr)
Subject: Mint Green Part 1 (FFm, light B&D, Intro)
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  What does it say about a story (or the author, for that matter),
when the disclaimer is written first?

  This is not an adult story.  Sure, it's an "Adult" story, and for
those readers whose parents still think they're children-shame on you!
Log off, and zip your pants back up; don't you realize they could come
home at any minute?   Quick, do something that our society has deemed
wholesome by allowing it into the marketplace-like playing Duke Nukem.

  Where was I?  The sexual fantasy soon to pour out of my head borders
on the sophistication of the pre-pubescent.  The story is not
degrading, at least not obviously, but the author needs a good long
lie-down with a true psychoanalyst, since his libido is permanently
stuck at age thirteen.  But it's a particularly good puerile fantasy,
one that needs to be shared, even if anonymously. So-- 

  Here goes… *****

MINT GREEN DODGE DART by Mouth Breather


Alright, so posing for "Hugely Hung!" magazine was a bad idea.  I
really needed the money, though, and it was time for my uncommon
anatomy to be an asset rather than a setback.  So I took the $300, and
they took their pictures.  And no one was the wiser, right?

When the request for the private photo-shoot arrived in my mailbox, I
should have been worried.  I had never given the magazine my real
name, but there it was, right next to a $2000 advance!  My secondary
thinking organ took over-my wallet, I mean-and the next thing I new, I
was in my car, lost in upstate New York.

The address for the shoot was a large, private estate in the middle of
nowhere.  I parked my mint green Dodge Dart (did I mention I could
really use some more money?) in the gravel driveway, and looked
around:  a huge house of stucco on a manicured lawn, with high
hedgerows to hide from the neighbors, if there were any; a custom Ford
Bronco with monster truck wheels and tinted windows; an uninviting set
of double-doors, of blue beveled glass.

Porno-producer heaven, I naively thought.

I wormed out of the Dart and headed for the door, in an unflattering
swagger that only 2% of the male population can sympathize with.  With
my full payment, I knew, I could get that reduction surgery I had
always wanted.

I rang the doorbell, and a hulking shadow lurched into view, obscured
by the beveled glass.  I flinched as the door burst outward.  My mind
had ordered up a "Sorry, wrong address; obviously you have plenty of
Watchtower issues already," but when the figure in the doorway came
into full view, I think my mouth managed a clever, "Duh-whuh?"

A titan of a woman filled the entire doorframe like a Jane Mansfield
clone gone horribly awry.  At my modest height, my chin came up just
to the bottom swell of her chest, which was wrapped in a blue, velvety
material that pinched and puckered at every curve.  "Kevin?" she
asked, in a voice that could melt a monk.

Said I, "Uh.  Yeah."

Her lips, fuller than any airbrushed dream-girl's, crooked into a
knowing smile.  "C'mon in."

She stepped back, and I was drawn into the foyer by her wake.

Like everything outside, the inside of the house was gaudily big, in
old Vegas style.  I must admit I was not paying much attention as she
gestured down a hallway in a liquid motion that could have slam-dunked
a basketball for a three point shot.

I lead the way, in body at least.  I felt the radiant heat of her
closeness behind me, the occasional brush of a hand, and a velvet
softness that gently bumped my neck.  The susurrus of her incredible
dress was the only sound as we padded across the shag carpet into a
room dominated by a huge sofa and a coffee table that could qualify as
a dining table in my apartment.

On the couch, curled around an double-sized cappuccino mug, sat the
most beautiful woman I had ever seen.  Her skin as dusky as her
coffee, her hair in corn-rows lazily framing a glorious heart-shaped
face.  Looking to us, to the pair of eyes behind and above my head,
she gave a now-familiar, crooked smile, and placed her mug on the
table.

And stood up.

I was in trouble.

Two large hands swallowed my shoulders, reassuring but firm, as the
dark, lovely, inhuman creature unfurled out of the plush couch.  She
wore a pair of purple silk pajamas that could have comfortably housed
an Olympic shot-putter, but strained to contain her impossible harmony
of tight musculature, voluptuous flesh, and massive bone.  She walked
closer, and closer, never taking her eyes away from the woman behind
me.  I started back when I realized she was not going to stop until
she arrived deep inside my personal-space zone, but those hands on my
shoulders grew into arms that snaked down to my belly.  I felt the
delicious softness of the body behind me, from my enveloped neck to my
pressed-forward knees, and a forest of platinum blonde hair tumbled
down to obscure my view.  The dark women reach out both hands to be,
around me, past me, and leaned forward to plant a kiss somewhere far
above my head.   I was lost in a world of blonde curls, baby powder,
breasts, and the bombastic beats of their hearts.

They broke their deep kiss, and the dark woman stepped back, looking
at me for the first time.

"You can run away now, if you like," she said.

"No."  I said softly, regaining my composure.  Then, "No way.  Not
ever."

She laughed.  "It's just a job, Kevin.  The oldest profession."

I had to smile, but then stooped as the seductive fog cleared and
delayed pain signals entered my brain from a 16 inch curse in a pair
of custom jeans designed to dress it, concealed, to the left.

The dark woman looked down, raised an eyebrow.  "Well, maybe two or
three jobs."

Some hidden signal past between the two women, and I was released from
my incredible prison, and physically encouraged to turn around.  I had
to hop to do so.

"Mother of God," the blond woman said.  "The best find yet."

That brought the worry back, and I tensed.

The dark woman must have noticed, and she quickly said.  "Kevin, you
can leave at any time-up to a certain point.  And you will be paid in
full by tonight, I promise."

I moved away from them, and sank into the couch, to ease the pressure
and readjust myself.

"I'm Kyle," said the dark woman, regaining that Mona Lisa smile.

"I'm Gwen," said the other, pushing the river of long ringlets out of
her face.

A pause, and I said, "I'm Kevin."

Idiot. I tried again.  "What is going on?"

Taking that as a cue, Gwen glided down beside me.  Right beside me.
Her weight on the couch formed a gravity well of white leather, and I
was plopped into her side.  Again, she was incredibly warm, a furnace
wrapped in velour.  She bent down to look me in the eyes, but at my
height it did not work so well, so I wound up listening to a pair of
painted, cupie-doll lips, breasts bigger than my head, and a frame of
crazy blond curls.

"Kyle and I have a fantasy, Kevin, and we're willing to pay you to
help us fulfill it."

Kyle joined us on the sofa, dangerously close.  "We are very happy
together," Kyle explained, "but there's one thing we've always wanted
to try." She laughed, "Something my brother said that if I tried just
once, I'd come to my senses."

Gwen bristled at that.  I could feel her whole body tense.  "It's
*our* fantasy," she said in a frightening tone.

I felt I was to blame, suddenly ashamed.  "I don't understand. I'm
sorry.   Maybe I should just--"

Gwen relaxed, put her arms around me, and I experienced the most sexy
bear-hug in the world.

"It's okay," she said.  "That's part of it."

She looked at Kyle.  "It's really okay. It's just going to be done my
way."

Kyle eyes glittered with mischief, as if to say that doing things
Kyle's way was dandy with her.

"These are the rules," Kyle said, palming her coffee mug.  "You can't
ask questions.  You can't speak.  We won't speak to you.  Before we
enter the bedroom, you can say 'No, thanks' at any time, and you can
go home and deposit your cash advance.  Once we enter the bedroom,
though, a 'No, thanks' will not only get us very upset, but the check
will be cancelled, with possibly other repercussions."

I followed her gaze to the coffee table.  There, with a wet cappuccino
ring actually improving the layout, was a mint copy of "Hugely Hung!",
my issue.  I nodded.

Kyle continued.  "Afterwards, we'll pay you the balance of $8,000.  If
you want to say something, go ahead now.  It's your last chance to say
anything except 'No, thanks.'  But no questions."

I though for a good while.  "I understand," I said.  Then I blushed,
"and I'm incredibly turned on.  But I feel very strange about
accepting money…"

Gwen put a long finger up against my lips.  "It's part of it, for
detachment."

I didn't understand, but I nodded.

Kyle stood up and moved quickly out of the room, excitement in her
step.   "Then it's begun.  No more talking."

Gwen stood, and I lost my hand in hers as she lead me down the
hallway, up a flight of stairs.  I had to extend my stride across the
tall stairs just to keep up with her.  With Kyle nowhere in sight, she
lead me past a large, ornate door to a smaller plain white door, and
ushered me in without a sound.

I found myself in a circular, walk-in closet bigger than my studio
apartment.   Garments and apparel of every description filled the
shelf-and-rack lined walls.  About half of the clothing was smartly
placed, the rest folded with less concern.  The room was dominated by
a large, mirrored vanity table.

Gwen smiled, turned her back to me, and tugged at the zipper of her
dress.

I took the clue, but several thumping heart beats passed before I
worked up the courage, stepped up on tippy-toes, and slowly pulled the
zipper down, revealing an widening triangle of golden-white skin.

I knew I was not the center of attention, so I helped her out of her
dress as matter-of-factly as I could with trembling hands.  The heat I
felt when I was close to her-did it come from her, or me?-reached
solar flare intensity I help to remove her bra and garters at her
mimed request.

She stepped away from me, wearing nothing but that crescent smile.

I wanted to say something poetic, but I remembered the rules, and I
was sure I could have only managed a "wow," anyway.    Part
Ruebenesque, part poster girl, even the curve of her bare shoulder
made me weak at the knees.

She walked without any sense of modesty to the vanity table, plucked
out a few hair combs, and wrestled for control over her locks.  The
very act of reaching up to put the combs in made her breasts-large but
perfect for her gargantuan ribcage-strain and sway, her brown nipples
easily encompassing the span of my hand, if I dared but touch.

As she silently prettied up, she gestured to my pants, my shirt.  I
stripped down as fast as I could.  I even hopped about the room
pulling of my socks.   The bodily feature whose name was more well
known than my own swung into the air.  (Some time back in early
freshman year of college, I was caught darting out of the bathroom.
No towel could hide my particular problem, especially after being
awoke by a healthy soaping.  Rumors flew, and the next thing I knew,
the campus BBS servers had crowned me-or rather, it--"Maglight.")

She lost her composer for a second when she caught me in the corner of
her eye, and my heart sunk.  But she did not avert her eyes, and then
she made eye contact, pursed her bottom lip and nodded curtly, as if
saying, "that'll do.   Maybe."

I then realized what women of Gwen's and Kyle's stature might want of
me, and it was my time to smirk.

Kyle bounded into the room just then, from another set of doors,
wearing nothing but a peculiar, wide black belt.  Her toned, coffee
colored skin absorbed all the colors in the room-even the most flashy
pantsuit looked drab, washed out, compared to her.  I simply stared,
rudely, taking in the triangular muscles of her legs, the inviting
flair of her hips, that ship-launching face…

I had not noticed, but Gwen had reached into a drawer in the vanity
and drew something out-something with buckles that jingled.

Now, before I posed for that greasy magazine I had very little
experience with anything kinky, especially bondage.  During that trip
through the heart of darkness, though, I saw my fair share of leather
goods: hoods, gags, lashes, straps, corsets, ball-busters.  Nothing in
my repertoire helped me identity the tangle of leather, gleaming
buckles, and bungee straps that Gwen had produced

As Gwen hastened to untwist the mass, I though I recognized a binder-a
corset for men-at the heart of the tentacular creation, but with a
growing sense of apprehension I realized that, while I had no idea
what it was or what it did, it was meant for me.

Gwen shot me a searching look.  This was it, then.  The 'No thanks'
moment.   Adventure or mediocrity.  A story for Penthouse Forum or
another jar of hand-lotion.

I looked to Kyle.  She was gazing at Gwen, her face flush with passion
and aggression.

I was opening my mouth, and taking in a breath to speak, when it
suddenly struck me that these two were crazy in love for each other.
Kinky, sure, but love-crazy.

I exhaled, starting with a "N-" but ending in a whooshing sigh.

Gwen stood, walk close passed me, gave Kyle a tender kiss on the
cheek, and went through the doors to the bedroom beyond, taking the
contraption with her.

Kyle followed, never looking at me once, but left the door open.

I guess I don't find out what that thing is for until the point of no
return, I thought.

With only a slight hesitation, I entered the bedroom, closing the door
behind me.

******

Wow.  That just poured out of my head all at once.  Much better than I
thought it would be, but still, who knows (except Celeste).  It's way
past my bed-time, though, so I can't finish it now.  I'm starved for
critical attention, however, so with apologies, I'll just post it as
Part I.

I promise to finish it, however, and to upload the final version in
it's entirety.  If I get feedback (positive or negative), I'll
probably post it sooner.

Hope you like it,

Mouth Breather


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