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From: <mrspraycan.an@edtec.com>
Subject: STORY: "Seductions 11"/MrSpraycan



      Standard Disclaimer: Adults only. This item is of fictional nature.
All persons and most places in it are imaginary; no resemblance to real or
historic characters is intended. No illicit behavior is endorsed or
condoned. Art and/or Entertainment is the idea.

      Copyright (c) is claimed 1997 by Baton Rouge Thoughtscapes and its
author, MrSpraycan who chooses to be 'anon'. No commercial use is
warranted. For personal or entertainment purposes only. Do not retransmit
or store in public archives.


SEDUCTIONS 11
by MrSpraycan

The next morning, the two sluts are up and about before me. I wake up with
an impressive early morning boner, and neither is to be found. Treason! But
the bathroom is free, breakfast is cooking and some pleasant domesticity is
evident. Keep women happy and all sorts of good things happen. Sophia is
making coffee, Maria is tidying up, taking out the garbage, changing
towels, stacking newspapers for the recycle. Both look lustfully at my
erection as I walk by naked, but neither acts on it. Right, I get it.
They're practising for funeral mode.

      It's not going to be a pleasant experience. But it can't take long:
this is a budget cremation at a local grilling place, with a 30-minute
turnaround, max. Neither Wayne nor Gregory has drawn much of a crowd. There
are a half-dozen feeble old drunks with that 'vet victim' look, a ratbag
sister with dishmop hair. Two dressed-at-the-garage-sale neighbors. A
couple of Wayne's school friends, whose parole must have coincided with
his. Us, the odd trio. And several cops, scowling, sports-talking, watching
everybody else. Hoping to find Wayne's partners? How difficult could that
be? After the lackluster ceremony, I see a black Porsche Carrera hovering
at the end of the driveway. The windows are very tinted, but I see three or
four large black guys in reversed baseball caps and ultrabaggy clothes. His
connection, making sure he's gone. Oh, he's gone alright, to his own little
ozone hole. The cops pay no attention, as I'd half-suspected they would.
Why mess with it?

      When we get home, the hunger to prove we're among the living takes
over, real fast. Clothes are coming off, drinks are poured, some Bessie
Smith finds its way on the player. Sophia is skittish, but when Maria and I
sandwich her for a serious hug, she soon starts to move in a sensuous
fashion. My cock is prodding at her backside, and Maria is massaging her
mother's tits with good intent. There's no conversation -- rare for us --
as we instinctively do what we want, what the others are expecting. By
mid-afternoon, we're all snoozing peacefully.

      The phone wakes me. Often it doesn't: that's what voice mail is
for. It's Sally, my friend from the salon. Should she still come by, did I
still need her? Jesus, I'd forgotten. Sure, I say. She says she has a
friend visiting from California -- someone who's "into your kind of stuff"
-- and asks if it would be okay if she joined us. Yes, I tell Sally: she
should invite her buddy too.

      Around 7pm, the new duo shows up. Maria and Sophia are watching
CNN, blowing smoke out of the kitchen window. It was the only way I could
get them to stick around the apartment. Keeps the smell down, somewhat.
Sally is a thin, hyperactive Italian woman in her early 30s, with long
straight black hair. Her 'friend' is of the same age, I'd guess, maybe a
little older. A lithe, tall black woman with that Nile valley, East African
exotic look too her. Nefertiti. Shaved head, very dikey and Grace Jones.
Her name, which seems ridiculous to me, is Alice.

      Sally is never shy or circumspect. She'll do the craziest things
for a dare: I've discovered that the hard way, and betting against her has
cost me money. So I'm not surprised to see her grab Maria and begin to
frenchkiss her hungrily. Sophia is gazing hungrily at them and isn't ready
when Alice seizes her and begin to do the same. I pour myself a fresh
coffee and watch. With my usual romantic eye, I'm thinking it's time for
some new (larger, stronger) furniture if we're going to have orgies like
this with any regularity. This IKEA stuff is going to disintegrate with
four or five asses pounding up and down on it.

      So who does what to who? The simple answer is that Maria and Sophia
are the twin vortices of the hurricane. I fuck them both, but I'm only a
bit player in Sally and Alice's onslaught with fingers, tongues and fists.
We pause around 9.30pm to get the last call on Chinese takeout: yes, a
monotonous, unimaginative choice, but a veggie stand-by, and rich with
yummy sauces for everyone to wallow in. Just a few of the inspirations from
these filthy-minded trollops include 'hunt the steamed dumpling,' 'noodle
wrapped nipples,' and novel ways to snap open fortune cookies.

      It's midnight before we're through, and frankly, I think it's only
the prospect of work tomorrow that has Sally and Maria eyeing the clock and
yawning. I'm not bothered when Alice and Maria pair off in my bed and
Sophia and Sally make themselves comfortable on my pulldown couch. I pull
some clothes on, say I'll be back in an hour, and walk out for some fresh
air. All that cigarette smoke, yeuk! I walk around the block, taking my
time. My balls are aching, and I resolve that I'll ignore the next three
invitations to fuck that I get.  I have my car keys, and decide to climb in
the Merc. Somewhere in the glove compartment, Maria's spare pack of
Marlboro. I take one, look at it for a minute, push in the virgin cigarette
lighter. Pop. Time to say no. Filthy habit. But I don't. I light up. Choke.

      But after a few puffs, the old familiar sensations return. Mostly
disgust. How many long nights had I killed with these dried leaves and
others like them? Out of the corner of my eye, a movement. I turn to find a
skinny black kid lounging against the next car, lighting up too. He has a
cadaverous face, a weakling's ugly smile, the look of the speed or coke
user about him. Eyes a little glazed, a shake to his hands. From the gloom,
three or four more appear. All in dark clothes, baggy to the point of
caricature. Baseball caps on backwards, or at goofy angles. I motor down
the driver side window, push open the car door, step out.

      "Help you?" I say, drawing heavily on the Marlboro. It crackles.

      A long silence. Then skullface speaks. "Yo, we's lookin' fo
somethin' we lost. Personal property. Loaned to a Mister Wayne dude. Honky
sucker you knew, gramps."

      Gramps, eh? Well, I'd led dozens of guys old enough to be their
grandfathers from the nearby ghetto to a place on a long black wall with
58,000 other names.

      "Wayne?"

      "Greek guy. Don't shit wit' me, motherfucker. We seen you wit' him.
Seen you at the funeral."

      "Then," I said calmly, "You know he's dead, right?"

      "He be dayd, yo. But where his stash at? What you know bout dat?"

      "If I understand you correctly, you mean, his ... uh, merchandise?"

      "Dat shit, yeh. It's ours."

      "I believe the police made a search . . ."

      "Dey won' touch our shit, dey know better," another low-rent tonton
macoute growls. "Les' fuck him up, see what he know . . ."

      The group starts to move my way. They are a menacing, but basically
uncoordinated team. The car door is half open. It goes the rest of the way
in a fraction of a second, propelled by my foot, catching the leading
menace firmly in the crotch. My right hand has scooped up that ever-handy
Club anti-theft device. A heavy, modern-day mace. I swing it like an axe
into the shoulder of the next nearest thug, prodding a satisfying snap of
shattering bone. The next swing separates a small automatic pistol from the
hand of a third, sending it skittering along the ground and under a parked
car. The fourth is waving what looks like a meat cleaver. Is a meat
cleaver. Rings musically as I block its swing with the Club. Rings again as
it flies out of its owner's hand. I deck him with  a sideways kick to the
midriff.

      "Shall we start again?" I ask the first thug, who is on his knees,
clutching his crotch. The blade of the meat cleaver on the side of his
throat gets his attention.

      "No shit from any of you, or I'll chop this fucker's stupid
turniphead off." I try to keep it calm and informative. Emotion is so bad
in interpersonal relationships.

      There's a lot of angry protest, but no one makes a move in my
direction. "Now, tell me about Wayne's 'stash'."

      "Sucker was holding it fo us. No one look in dis part a town, no
one think a poor-ass honky ratfucker redneck got nuttin'."

      "And he didn't, really. So, how much stuff are we talking about, guys?"

      "Two hunnerd, at least."

      "Am I guessing $200,000 is the lucky number?"

      "200 gees, yeah. An', tell ya what, we cut you in fo 25 if you can
finger it."

      "Uh, why wouldn't I keep it all?"

      "No distribution channel, dat's why."

      "Okay, let's see if we can figure out a plan. And, may I suggest?
-- all of you! -- keep your hands in sight or I may have to make me a new
hood ornament out of old chemohead here."

      "So, scope it out. 25K do ya, Mr.Charlie?"

      "Don Carlos was some other dude. Let's go to fifty."

      "Thirty."

      We agree at 36K. In kind.

      "You wants crack? You crazy? You ain't got no way a sellin' it, man."

      "No, I'll take a Volvo 850 Turbo. White would be nice. Figure you
can do that? Register it in my girlfriend's name. I'll give the dealer
details when you've paid him."

      There are scowls. "Yeah. Deal."

      "So where is it?"

      "Backpack, in the Taurus over there. Don't damage it too much,
belongs to a nice old lady. Call me at the office tomorrow, huh? I'm in the
book. DG Smith."

      I walk away, pocketing the cleaver. At the apartment, the smell of
sex is powerful. I notice I am getting stiff again. Oh well. Which of these
delicious tarts should I wake up and give a boning? It's difficult. I sneak
in between Sophia and Sally, but respect Sally's need for rest. A slow
grind with Sophia is paced by some excited grunting from the distant
bedroom. Oh, Maria is really motoring tonight.


      A day or so later, I hear about an interesting automobile
acquisition. Won't Sophia be pleased? The vile old Taurus clunker is going
to be traded in, she just heard how much insurance money she stands to get.
Let's just say, several houses' worth. I had helped her by introducing her
to my lawyer, Cohen the Barbarian, and he'd cut right to the chase in his
usual way, unearthing all kinds of little insurance fragments, liabilities
to exploit. It'll be a while, but she's going to be in good shape. Forget
the freelance and the shit jobs I had lined up for her.

      So let's wrap things up here. Maria interviewed with my buddies and
got herself a job as a stripper, and headed for San Francisco, a little
tearfully. We'll meet again, often. She's close to Mummy, and me. But she's
also enjoying a hot, hot relationship with Alice. Isn't that cute?

      My autopurchasing benefactors? Well, two died in a little
disagreement with rivals the next week. Another was self-defensed by the
police one afternoon. And the one with the broken arm? I see him around,
but he's got the message, and he's saying nothing. Am I a remorseful drug
dealer's accomplice? Nah. We did much worse things in the Phoenix program,
and I washed that off my soul.

      Sophia stuck around. She got to be quite beautiful, with some work,
a new wardrobe, a personal trainer (me!). Money does that to some people.
We're kinda close. I wouldn't call it love, 'cos who the fuck knows what
that is, really? Just a second hand emotion, like they say. But we keep
each other company, she gets my jokes, she even likes Wagner and Donizetti.
But above all, she loves "the king of bomp diddle diddle," Wolfie Baby,
Mister Mozart. And his swaggering big-willy hero, Don Giovanni. Bitch has
got excellent taste, what can I say?


      Copyright (c) 1997, Mr.Spraycan

[Part of "Just Like Don Giovanni's Blues." Visit MrSpraycan's homepage at
<http://www.sinewave.com/spraycan> for listings, reviews of other stories.



[ Via EDTec Anon Remail Service: <infos.an@edtec.com> ]

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