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From: MrM1KE@aol.com
Subject: Wet T-Shirt Contest - by MIKE HUNT
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* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

     SPECIAL ANNOUNCEMENT:

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I've set up a little web page with all of my stories. I wanted to have the
address be M1KE HUNT, but that name made the server get wet and it became
unstable. You understand. So I've had to open up yet a THIRD address. It's
MrM1KE@aol.com. I asked one of the tech support people at AOL why it wouldn't
work at the M1KE HUNT name, and while she was eating lunch she told me
"Gruumpg xopplwv tuupixxt flmp HTML." And then she said "Wiomghfflup htwelng
asdfghjkl ersmpo AOL." So now I understand.

The website is <http://members.aol.com/mrm1ke>. Actually it's not a website
because it's not on the web. Jeez, I'm already lying and I haven't even
started the story yet! No "www" in the address, notice? AOL must be trying to
save on electrons.

Anyway, MrM1KE is the address, and it's my new e-mail address, too. I need to
get some of the old addresses back, especially since I bought that new
"Nationwide Pizza by E-mail" franchise. Only $2500! Maybe you've heard of
them? I hadn't until I got their e-mail. At first I thought it was just spam,
but I read it and it sure looks like a winner to me. Hey! Spam pizzas! I just
thought of it! Anyhow, the company has a special deal with FedEx to get 'em
to you quick. And they'll let me buy a special oven from them for only
another $2000. The program is actually quite involved. And they're very big
on hygiene. I have to wash my hands every time I leave the bathroom! Sheesh.

I'll keep the other addresses open for a while, but if you're going to write,
use the MrM1KE address, would you? Yes, the 2nd character in "M1KE" is still
a "one" (1) not an "eye" (I). Thanks. I guess the "Mister" part sounds a
little formal, but a successful businessman, like I am about to be, needs to
present a certain dignity to the community, don't you think?

Oh, and check out the website, or whatever you call it when it's not on the
web. I'm trying to get the pizzas to dance, but they're not cooperating yet.
It has something to do with "rehmmilmpf gualomit frempling sahtpoxl Java" or
something. At least that's what she told me.

* * * *


People under age 7 can't read this. Can't read anything, actually.
People under age 12 shouldn't read this; they won't understand it.
People under age 18 mustn't read this; it's illegal.

If you're 18 or over, put your dick in your hand and LET'S GO!
(Ladies are encouraged to substitute a clitoris for the aforementioned dick.)


The Wet T-Shirt Contest - by MIKE HUNT


I didn't belong on stage, at least not on this one. I was on Spring Break
along with about four jillion other college kids and was just farting
around at one of two hundred beaches in Florida when I won a contest.

It wasn't exactly a competition to be proud of, not one I'd tell my grandkids
about probably. I chugged a liter of beer faster than ten other guys and won.
And I didn't even puke afterwards.

Luckily I was comfortable in front of people. I'd been in the Drama Club in
high school, and had even had a couple of small parts in some of the college
plays. So being in front of an audience was no big deal. I mean, how hard
could this assignment be? I didn't have to act. I was supposed to pour water
on about 20 girls in a wet T-shirt contest. I figured I could handle it.

Little did I know.

First, there's a technique I had to master, as the guy actually running
the show told me.

"Listen," he said. "You think you're just going to splash water on them, but
there's more to it than that. You have to make sure to pour just at the top
of their tits. Watch out for their hair, don't get it wet, cause they'll go
nuts. Make sure you try to keep the water in the tub, I don't want somebody
slipping and falling off the stage. After you're done with each girl, get a
new pitcher for the next one; I don't want you wandering around when it's
time to get the next girl started. Be careful. The pitchers are glass..."
He kept droning. Like if I'd known it was this complicated, I would have
applied for my union card. Tit-Waterers of America, Team 304, you know?

I went backstage to the dressing room. There were more than 20 girls in
various stages of undress. Some instinctively clasped their arms in front of
themselves as I poked my head through the door. "Weird," I thought. "They're
about to prance around in front of 300 guys in a wet, low cut muscle shirt."

"Ten minutes," I called out. The action in the room became frantic. Men's
cotton undershirts started flying everywhere. Bathing suit bottoms were
donned; a few of the girls were already dressed for the event and spent their
remaining minutes touching up their eye makeup or their hair. I couldn't
really see any of them. I felt like a Gulf War fighter pilot on the road to
Kuwait: Too many targets of opportunity. I couldn't single out any of them.

The crowd was getting restless. Of course. 300 guys in a bar, waiting
for women to come out and take off their clothes. This was not exactly
a refined Symphony Hall audience. They hooted and jeered. A few whistled.

The emcee stepped on stage. I took my position next to a kids' plastic
swim tub. I picked up a pitcher and held it over my head. The crowd went
wild. The emcee grinned. I guess I did good.

He waved his arms to hush the crowd. When the noise had quieted a little
he began his spiel.

"Hey Guys, Welcome to the Happy Lizard Lounge!" A big cheer. He waved
his arms again. "And welcome to the Friday night wet T-shirt contest!"
A bigger cheer. He quieted the crowd again.

"Tonight we have 24 beautiful girls in the back just waiting to come out and
let you see what you shouldn't see!" Another cheer. "Here are the rules:" A
few boos. Guys are so juvenile, you know? "First, no booing." More boos.
"Anyone booing will be thrown off the premises, face first." Silence. "These
girls are working hard up here..." A few snickers ..."and we don't want
ANYONE
embarrassed. Understood?" A few hands clapped. "Second, we'll judge by your
applause. General noise, whistles, hands clapping, whatever. It all counts.
So
make yourselves heard if you like the girl. Third, we'll narrow the field
to a final five, then have a run-off competition. Fourth, I'm the final
judge.
Period. OK, that's it."

He paused. He looked over the crowd, now milling about in anticipation.
"OK, let's PARTY!" he screamed. The crowd erupted. Music blared from the
huge speakers on both sides of the stage. The noise lasted at least a full
minute, maybe two. He made no effort to quiet the audience.

When the decibels began to decline, he pulled the microphone back to his
mouth and said, "Let's welcome Sissy!" The crowd roared. Sissy stepped
forward, and he held her hand as though they were doing a minuet. She walked
in a circle around him. He led her to me.

I motioned for her to step into the plastic tub. I picked up a pitcher
of water. It was cold, I knew. The beaker actually had a few ice cubes
floating in the top, I guessed to bring the girls nipples up quickly. I
threw the pitcher of water at her front and it splashed wildly. It soaked her
shirt, of course, but much of the water flew outside the tub onto the stage.
I guess the emcee was right; I'd have to be more careful. He glared at me.
I shrugged my shoulders.

Sissy stepped forward on to the stage. She had a nice figure, with medium
sized breasts, topped by pointy nipples that showed easily through the man's
thin cotton work shirt that was the girls' approved uniform. She danced and
bounced through a three minute song and the guys loved it. When the music
faded, the emcee pointed to the crowd and said "Let's hear it for Sissy."
A big cheer went up. He was judging.

"OK guys," he said. "Let's welcome our next contestant for tonight's big
$500 prize. Here comes Michelle." Michelle walked out from the wings and
paraded across the stage. The emcee waved her over to me, and I got ready.
She stepped into my tub, and stuck her chest way out. I poured the water
carefully across her chest, watching as the cloth soaked it up, then clung
to her every contour. The emcee looked at me and smiled. I was learning.

Michelle stepped out of the tub and walked to the apron of the stage. The
music started, a heavy percussion number that lent itself to a violent dance.
Michelle didn't disappoint. She bumped and bounced, her heavy tits bobbling
under the wet undershirt. About half way through the number she crossed her
arms in front of herself, picked up the bottom of the shirt and began to take
it off. As it reached the level of her breasts the crowd went wild, and
she paused before she continued. She had a big smile on her face. She was
having a good time. Michelle got a great round of applause when it was
over, and the emcee charged straight ahead.

"Time for contestant #3. From Phoenix, Arizona, welcome Francis!" I expected
an 80 year old. Instead a cute blonde girl came forward. She was only about
5'2", but had an amazing hourglass figure. She wore a hip-cut bathing suit
bottom and the standard issue man's white cotton undershirt. On her it was
huge, but nobody seemed to mind.

I did my duty. I wasn't tired of this job yet; maybe by the year 2525
I would be, you know? As I raised the pitcher, she leaned over but pulled
the top of the neck forward. She wanted me to pour the water on the inside
of the shirt. As she stretched the material forward, I had a splendid
view of her magnificent real estate. She bent over to give me a better
look. I looked, and looked, and looked, until I heard the emcee on the
PA system saying "Let's get Mike going, or the rest of us won't ever see
Francis." A roar from the crowd snapped my reverie, and I poured. I grabbed
a second pitcher. She didn't really need it, but if she was going to stand
there and pull her shirt open for me, I was going to take advantage of it.

Francis leapt out of the tub and began her dance. Instead of lifting the
bottom of her shirt, however, she tugged down at the neckline and bent
forward, allowing the audience first a flash of one breast, then another.
She yanked at the neckline harder, and the cloth began to give way. It
ripped about halfway down her chest, which apparently satisfied her for the
moment. She put her hands on each side of the tear and began to tug it apart.
She had just finished completely ripping the shirt as the music ended, and
the crowd went nuts. Francis had perfect tits. She'd be a finalist, for sure.

The emcee announced Sheryl. She came over to me and said "Just pour the
water down the sides of my breasts. Leave the middle part dry."

I had completed my apprenticeship in tit-watering, I guess, and was moving
on to the more complicated aspects of the job. I did as she asked. The
undershirt clung to the sides of her breasts, and the nipples were clearly
outlined, but the center section wasn't wet at all. It was a different
effect, and like all displays involving tits and water, a nice one.

She danced to the center of the stage, where she jiggled and bounced for the
audience. But their enthusiasm was restrained, especially after seeing
Francis. With about a minute to go in her song, Sheryl ran back to my area,
grabbed a pitcher of water, and ran back to the front of the stage. She let
it
fly against herself in one huge motion, the giant "Splat" of water
ricocheting
off her chest and breasts and dousing the first two rows of the audience. The
emcee looked at me. I shrugged as if to say "Not my fault, mon."

Sheryl's finish got a good reaction from the crowd but I didn't know if she'd
make the finals or not.

Next came Lucy (cute), then Roberta (tasty), then Leigh (hard). The emcee
made
a joke out of her name. "Is it pronounced 'Lee' or 'Lay'", he leered. Like
she'd never heard it before.

She grabbed the microphone and said "It's 'Lee', like in 'Is it ree-LEE
all the way in, yet?'

Even the emcee was flustered. The crowd erupted. She could have been wearing
a rubber raincoat; I knew she'd make the finals. She did a good dance,
cementing her position. The crowd loved her. So did I. And I don't usually
like 'hard.' Leigh was a good horse, 'well-rode' as they say.

We went through another half-dozen in quick succession. All lovely. All
curvaceous. All ended up with the shirt on the stage instead of on their
body.

Then came Maxine. She knew what to do without coaxing. She walked the
length of the stage, approached me, and stuck out her tits. I watered her
as I had the others. I was getting good at this. Her music started. She
ripped off her shirt within the first 30 seconds. I couldn't wait to see
what she was going to do next. She walked to the front of the stage, turned
around and bent over. She wiggled her ass at the audience, and the guys
hooted and hollered. She stayed bent over, with her hands on her ankles.
She slowly slid them up her legs until she reached the bottom of her suit.

Then in one quick motion, she grabbed the edge of the triangle of cloth and
yanked it to the side, revealing her cunt to the entire audience. The screams
were incredible, and drowned out the emcee who was bellowing on the PA system
trying to restore order. He waved at the DJ to cut the audio, but the music
guy was as entranced as I was in the performance on stage and didn't see the
signal. The emcee fairly ran to the sound booth and killed the CD. The song
stopped, leaving only the noise from the cheering crowd. A few boos were
heard.

"Sorry guys. Sorry. Can't do that. Don't want to lose our liquor license."
Maxine remained bent over for the audience's viewing pleasure. "Maxine,"
he called. "MAXINE," he called again. She bent her neck to look up at him.
"I'm sorry, you're disqualified." More boos from the audience. "No, ah, below
the belt shots. Didn't they explain that to you in the dressing room?" She
nodded; she knew but didn't care. The crowd ate it up.

"Sorry. You're disqualified," he repeated. "Try again another night, OK?" She
finally straightened up. The crowd cheered her off the stage with one of the
loudest ovations of the evening.

We went through another series of girls. Tall and short, blonde and brunette,
big chested and small. Some with fabulous legs, some with terrific tits, all
with a great attitude. Every girl had something to commend herself, and I was
just happy to play my little part in helping. It's the kind of guy I am.

By the time the last contestant came on stage, I was a pro. Perfectly pouring
my water first across their nipples, then higher up on the slopes of the
breasts, finally all the way across their chest. Unless they had special
instructions for me, which they rarely did.

I knew who the winners were. Everybody did. Oh maybe there could have
been six or seven finalists instead of five, but it was clear who belonged
on stage for the second and final round. The emcee brought his five favorites
all back at the same time and had them dance to a song. I was surprised.
I thought they'd all do an individual number again.  I guess he was tired or
something. Or maybe it was 1:00 in the morning and the bar wasn't doing its
earlier business. Anyway, the five girls danced, and then he held his hand
over each of their heads and asked for applause.

It came down to two, Francis and Leigh, two of the early contestants of the
night. I thought they had a little unfair advantage, because once the first
10 girls or so had danced it was really hard to break out of the pack. The
award could have gone either way, from the crowd noise. But the emcee picked
Leigh as the $500 winner, and gave Francis the $100 runner-up prize. It was
a popular choice, judging from the crowd reaction. I'd've flipped 'em,
myself.

My moment in the spotlight had ended. I didn't care. I'd had an erection
for two hours and I needed some relief. Any relief. I'd've even happily
used Lefty, if you know what I mean.

Which, of course, is exactly how my evening ended. You're surprised? It could
happen, even in a dirty story. Lefty's helped me a lot. We're pals.

The next day I hit the beach, refreshed and relaxed. Actually it was about
2PM before I got any part of my body into truly functional mode, but I
was on vacation and I thought that was pretty good, considering.

After watching the girls in their bikinis on the beach and the good looking
guys and smooth talkers work their magic on them, I looked at Lefty and said,
"Probably you and me again tonight, kid." That's the trouble with Spring
Break:
Lots of promise, not enough delivery, at least for me. I suppose everybody
thinks that. Except for Jerry Valentine, of course. Quarterback on the
football
team. Handsome as the day is long. Smooth around girls. Maybe I'll write a
torture story about him someday.

I had just finished dinner, chili and a beer, and was headed back up to the
room to change. The hotel was severely elevator challenged, to use the
popular
vernacular. Three lifts for 10 floors, probably 40 rooms to a floor. At
dinnertime it was a madhouse. Somebody told me it was the same at breakfast.
I wouldn't know.

About 15 of us crowded into the car that arrived after a wait of several
minutes. Which was pretty good, because the capacity of the car was 12,
I think. So we weren't seriously overloaded. Thank goodness! I was one
of the first ones aboard; I ended up against the back wall.

We were on our way up, albeit slowly, when I realized that one of my T-shirt
contestants was standing directly in front of me in the elevator. I
remembered
her because she was one of the final two, the one who had lost. I scanned my
somewhat disabled memory banks and pulled up her name.

"Francis," I said. "I thought you should have won."

She twisted her head and looked up into my face. It took her a few moments to
recognize me. At least I think that's what that blinking of her eyes meant.

"M1KE HUNT," I said. "I was the water pourer. You should have won. Could have
gone either way, I guess, but I thought you were better." I was speaking in a
lower than average voice and with the gibberish of the other conversations in
the elevator, nobody heard except her. People may be quiet in most elevators,
but not at Spring Break, not at this hotel, and especially not when people
are getting ready to go out and party.

She smiled a killer smile. "Thanks," she said without a trace of
embarrassment. "I would have liked to. Not only for the ego. The 500-bucks
would have been nice, too."

"Yeah, well, I didn't get a vote. But you were terrific. You LOOK fabulous."

"Thanks," she said, as the elevator reached the fourth floor. Somebody
had punched "6"; we were about to stop for a departure. It might even have
been her.

I was just about to ask if she wanted to go out for a drink when suddenly the
elevator lurched. We heard the sound of metal rubbing against metal, and the
box holding us stopped dead. The overhead fluorescent went out, and an
emergency battery light came on dimly. The battery was on its last legs.

Silence. Then sudden pandemonium. Voices were screaming, people were shouting
instructions to others who weren't listening. After 30 seconds of madness
the noise began to subside. Somebody told the people up by the front to
search
for an emergency phone. The elevator quieted as someone went about the task.

"Got it!" a voice said.

"Pick it up," another voice called out.

"Duh," the first voice replied.

Suddenly there was a loud thud, and a scream.

"Oh shit," said one voice.

"Oh shit," said another.

"What? What happened?" a chorus of voices from the back including mine
wanted to know.

"Somebody fainted," came the reply. "Get back. Give her air."

We were already nose to nipple. But everybody pushed back to give the faintee
some room. Which had the effect of pushing Francis directly into me. Her back
pressed firmly into my chest, my groin made a pointed statement at her rear.

"Sorry," I whispered. "This is not the best impression I could be making..."

"I like the impression just fine," she said, twisting her head slightly
and looking me in the eye. She wiggled her fanny.

Well.

In the Boy Scouts they had taught us to be prepared. They never said for
what.
Now I knew. I was prepared to take advantage of this magnificent opportunity
that fate had presented me. I leaned down to whisper in her ear, but that had
the effect of hunching me over and stopping the contact between my boner and
her butt. I talked quickly. "How about dinner, later?" I said.

"Can't," she said. "I have a date."

"How about tomorrow?" I countered.

"Leaving on a 10AM flight. Sorry."

I clearly had a crisis to deal with. What to do, what to do... I stood
back up straight and pushed my hardening dick into her rear. She wiggled.
I took one of her hands and brought it around back and placed it on top
of my bathing suit. She squeezed. I used my other hand to free my cock
from the webbing that held it inside the suit, and let it escape down one
of the pant legs. She grasped it.

I couldn't believe it. Skin to skin contact. Epidermal ecstasy. In a crowded
elevator. With a gorgeous girl, who I had only been introduced to, sort of,
the night before. Her hand kept a tight hold on me, as she squeezed and
massaged my engorged penis. Now it was time for my hands to go to work.

I slipped a hand up under her windbreaker, and my fingers fluttered across
her bare stomach. I made contact with the lower edge of her bikini top
and continued my march upwards. I cupped her breast through the suit. In
spite of its small size the material was heavy; there was some kind of
backing inside to provide support and I could barely feel the breast flesh
that I longed to touch. I grappled with the bottom edge of the suit, and
she tried to help. She shimmied her torso as I slipped the top up and over
her breast. It must have scraped as it released, but I couldn't help it.

Then I held her naked tit in my hand and was rewarded with the feel of
a hard nipple dancing against my fingertips. She continued her massage
on my dick as I pumped her jug with my hand; we stayed like that for a
minute, possibly more.

I felt guilty. Here were people in the front of the elevator dealing with
an emergency, one person down, someone else trying to get medical help,
others banging on the electrical panel trying to get the car restarted.
Perhaps I should join in and try to help? NAAAAHHHHH!

I brought my other hand around Francis, and let it dive into her bathing suit
bottom. The emergency battery light got dimmer still. I shoved my hand down
her pants, tickling her pubic hair, now finding her clitoris, finally her
cunt lips. I twiddled my fingers; I felt her clit against the butt of my
hand.
She flexed her knees as best she could in the cramped space.

I wanted to fuck her. I wanted a blow job. I knew it was impossible. There
was no way, no room, no how to make it happen. I resigned myself to the
current situation. The sacrifices I make sometimes...

I played with her pussy, and felt her lubrication on my fingers. I diddled
her clit as I squeezed her tit, and she played with my dick with the arm
she had twisted behind her. It couldn't have been more than another minute
when I felt myself getting ready to explode. I was on the power glide of
passion; I was peaking; I was climbing the upswing of orgasm when...

The lights came on and the elevator started moving. A cheer arose from
the crowd. A noise gurgled from my throat. I came, drizzling my spunk on
her hand and down my leg and hers. One spasm, then another, then another.
I had barely finished when the car lurched to a halt and the doors opened.

I took my hands out of her clothes and leaned down, whispering in her
ear, "Thank you. Dear God, thank you." She turned to me and smiled.

She said "I wish you had been the judge. I would have liked to win."

"Absolutely," I said. It was all I could think of. She walked off the
car, wiping her hands together, undoubtedly looking for someplace to wash
them. I watched the back of her head through the crowd, and she turned and
gave me a "bye-bye" wave with her wet hand. The elevator doors closed.

The rest of the week was uneventful. No more hand jobs in elevators. None
anyplace, really, except the privacy of my room. And Lefty won't tell.
We have a deal.

The next few days back at school were uneventful as well. Such was the life
of a dork (me) during college. About a week later I was feeling especially
aroused. There wasn't anything in particular that caused the condition, it
was
also just part of the normal everyday life of a dork during that period.
Happened a lot, now that I think about it. Still does, actually.

I picked up the phone and dialed the area code down south to call
information.
"The number for the Happy Lizard Lounge, please." She mumbled the number.
This
was back in the days when actual humans worked at the phone company.
Computers
took over about ten years ago, I think. Haven't talked to an operator since.
Now it costs $3.99 a minute to get a woman on the phone! Hey, I wonder if
they're the same ladies? They must be doing something to make a living!

I dialed the number for the Happy Lizard Lounge. An obviously bored guy
answered. "This is Manuel."

"Can I talk to the manager, please?" I said.

"Hold on," he said. Another voice appeared.

"Yeah?" he said.

"Hi," I began. "I'm MIKE HUNT. I was at your place a week ago Friday for
the wet T-shirt contest. Actually I helped. I poured the water."

"Yeah?" he said again. Big vocabulary on this brute, I thought.

"Well, I'm trying to track down one of the girls who was in the contest.
I wonder if you have their addresses and phone numbers?"

"Yes we do. But you can't have them." His voice was firm.

"Well, uh, one of the girls took a ring off her finger and gave it to me when
I watered her. She said it was too big and she didn't want to lose it..."

Silence.

"And I slipped it in my pocket, you know, to hold for her, and then in
all the excitement I guess we both just forgot about it. Anyway, I found
it yesterday when I was doing my laundry and took it to a jewelry store
and they said it's quite valuable. I thought I should send it to her."

More silence. He was thinking. "Well, the girls do have to sign a release,
so we could track her down. Why don't you send it to us, and we'll send
it to her."

"I don't think so," I said. "You're busy, you're likely to forget. It'll sit
around for weeks, maybe." 'Maybe you'll steal it,' I thought to myself. Then
I remembered: there was no ring anyway. This was just a bunch of bullshit I
was spinning to get her number. "She probably hasn't called because she
doesn't even remember the name of the club. It was wild, you know? Her name
was Francis," I continued. "She was from Arizona. Phoenix, I think." I
paused.
"I'm calling from Boston. I'm not likely to go visit her, you know?"

He thought another moment. "Hold on," he said as he put the handset down
roughly.

He came back on the line a couple minutes later. "Yeah, Francis Walton
on Perkmire Road. There's no phone number."

"Thanks," I said. "I'm sure she'll be grateful."

I called Phoenix information and got a phone number. I dialed it with
trembling fingers.

I heard a voice. "Hello?" It was her, no doubt.

"Hello, is this Francis Walton?"

"Yes, who is this?"

"This is MIKE HUNT." Silence. No apparent recognition. "I'm with the wet
T-shirt division of the Attorney General's office." Absolute silence.
"We're investigating a rigged contest that apparently you should have won,
but didn't..."

She got it. She laughed out loud. "Oh, it's you! How did you get my number?"

"I told you. I work for the government. We know everything." She giggled.
"Actually, I'm at school up in Boston, and I was thinking of you, and I did
something crazy, and, uh, well, here I am."

"So here you are," she said. "Now what?"

"I dunno," I said. "I just wanted to hear your voice."

"Well, it's me, in the flesh." She giggled again. "Perhaps I should rephrase
that."

"Oh no, I like your flesh. A lot. All of it. And I've had a fair amount
of it to judge, you know?"

"Thanks, sailor," she replied. "But you really shouldn't call me. I live
with my boyfriend, and I don't think he'd appreciate the calls, you know?"

"Oh, sorry. Should I hang up?" I asked.

"It's OK this time," she said. "He's out playing basketball with some
friends tonight. But you really can't call back."

"OK," I said. "I promise."

There was a moment of silence on the line. A lull, I think. "So what should
we talk about?" she asked.

"Well, we have a lot in common," I said. "You're a girl. I'm a guy."

"That's not in common," she interjected.

"I know. I was just getting to the point." I answered.

"I remember the point," she said, a smile evident in her tone.

"Yes, that's the point. I mean, I saw you practically naked up on the
stage, you know, with the water all over you, and everything..."

She interrupted. "Did you like my dance? Bouncing around in that big
undershirt?"

I saw Lefty's silent appearance at the end of my arm. Why hadn't I noticed
him
before? He quietly asked if I wanted some help. I nodded. Lefty went to work.

"I especially liked the fact that you pulled it down from the top, instead
of up from the bottom like most of the girls."

"Really? Why?" she asked. She seemed genuinely curious.

"Because it's more fun to look down a girl's blouse. It's a tease. And you
were pulling it open so far that the whole audience could see, practically."

"Well, I gave you a special little show when you were pouring the water,
do you remember?" she asked.

"Do I remember? Shit. I could hardly stand up straight for the rest of
the night. I mean, I was standing up straight for the rest of the night,
aw, shit, you know what I mean..."

She laughed out loud. "Yes, I know what you mean," she said. "It's too
bad you're so far away right now. I would like to borrow your fingers for
a few minutes."

"Sorry, they're currently occupied. Righty is holding the phone. And Lefty
is, uh, holding the bone."

"Oh," she said. "You're ahead of me. Hold on." I did, for dear life. "Ah,
that's better. I took off my shorts. I'm much more comfortable now."

"What're you doing?" I asked.

"Touching myself," she said. "Rubbing and playing. It feels nice. Speaking
of nice, you have a nice voice."

"So do you." I lobbed the compliment back over the net. "And a nice lot
of other things, too."

"Well thank you, Mr. Wouldja-pour-some-water-on-my-tits."

"I'd be glad to, if I were close enough. Wish I were," I told her.

"So do I," she said. "This feels nice. Talking to you, hearing your voice.
Touching myself. This is great." I think she really meant it.

"Still playing with yourself?" I asked.

"You bet," she said. "I'm thinking of the elevator." She chuckled. "I'll
bet I really shocked you, huh?"

"I'll say," I said. "Say, just out of curiosity, which hand did you, uh,
use, you know, to, uh, hold me?"

"I'm right handed," she answered. "Why?"

"Just curious," I replied. "I could remember the feeling of your hand around
me, but I didn't have a good mental picture. Now I do." Mr. Lefty, meet
Miss Righty.

"I remember having my hand around you, too. And I remember your hands
slipping up inside my jacket, grabbing at my tits. That felt so wicked,
so naughty. It was great. Then you stuck your hand down into my suit bottom,
and I thought I'd lose it right there."

"Well, I did lose it right there, if you remember," I said.

"I more than remember," she said. "I was wiping my hands for five minutes.
You dribbled all down my leg and some even went in my sneakers in between
my toes. Gross!"

"Sorry," I apologized. "You won't have to worry about that tonight."

"Too bad," she said. "I wouldn't mind a lick." She paused. "Speaking of
which, I wouldn't mind a lick."

"Wish I could," I said. Lefty was working furiously. "Nothing better I'd
like than to be on the floor in between your legs with my tongue working.
You don't know me well enough, but I'm All American. Tongue, I mean. Made
the team on the first try."

She giggled. "Oh how I wish I could help you practice." Then she said,
"But I don't think it'll be necessary, tonight. I'm getting there just
fine on my own." I heard a series of little "oh - oh - ohs" from her
lips and I sensed she was getting ready.

Lefty was working hard to get me ready as well. I spoke softly into the
handset. "I'm gonna cum. I'm thinking of you and I'm gonna cum. I'm
remembering putting your hand on my dick. I'm remembering looking down your
shirt at your perfect tits. I'm remembering sticking my hand into your pants.
I'm remembering the smell of your pussy on my fingers.."

"Oh, Oh," I said. I was on the way.

"Go, go," I heard her say. "I'm with you." I heard a series of grunts on the
phone that told me she had hit her climax just as I hit mine. My jizz erupted
from the tiny hole at the end of my penis and spurted out, first a little,
then more, then even more. I stupidly hadn't prepared and didn't have a towel
or anything handy. I came all over the rug and made a mess. I wasn't going to
interrupt to get a napkin. I let my spunk lie in puddles on the carpet.

"Oh that was so nice," I said. "Thank you. Twice. I owe you one."

"I enjoyed it too," she said. "I've never done this before. It was, well,
different."

"Yeah. For me too," I said.

"Too bad we can't do it again," she said.

"Why not?" I asked.

"I told you. I'm living with my boyfriend. You can't call back." She could
hear the disappointment on my end of the line.

We made some small talk for a few minutes and then said our goodbyes and
ended the call.

I tried calling her the next week. When she answered the phone she
immediately
recognized my voice. "No, I'm sorry, you must have a wrong number," she
said. I heard a male voice say "Who was tha..." as she clicked the receiver.
I tried a week later. Again she shut me off. "I'm sorry, I don't take phone
solicitations. I'm sure you're a very nice person, but I just can't talk
to you," she said. I didn't know if her boyfriend was in the room or not.

It was just one of those things. She was in Phoenix. I was in Boston.
She had a boyfriend. I had Lefty.

We're a good team, Lefty and me. We just need a little practice now and then.

Like, right NOW would be good.


* * *


I've always wanted to write a story about the lowly hand job. After all, it's
probably the most common sexual act on earth. At least it is in my house.
*Why-o-why* am I telling you this? I'm sure you couldn't possibly care about
the intimate personal details of my life. Incidentally, I use the "stroke and
twist" method, rather than the straight stroke. It seems to work better
with the Premium Massage Creme (unscented!) I get at my local dirty book
store. Oop. There I go again!

OK, I'll stop talking about beating off. Even though I do it twice a day like
clockwork. Of course I missed one when I was sick on April 24, but I made it
up last Tuesday.

In the interest of full disclosure, I should let you know that at my place
it's actually Righty, not Lefty who does the heavy lifting. But somehow
the story worked better using Lefty.

This wasn't intended to be a jerk-off story. I wanted to fuck at least four
of the girls but the characters just got away from me and I couldn't make
them do what I wanted them to. I think maybe Lefty had a hand in it.

This piece was supposed to be called "Spring Break" but somebody told me
there's a guy over in the picture part of the newsgroups flooding that title
with thousands of SPAMS to try to get guys to come to his site. And he
doesn't
even include any free samples or anything. What an asshole! Everybody would
see
my "Spring Break" and think it was him and think I'm an asshole and I'm not
an
asshole. Well not a really big asshole anyway. OK, sometimes I'm a really
big asshole, but not always. In a way I suppose I should thank him. I
didn't even know these newsgroups *had* a picture department! Wow! Naked
girls and everything, I hear. Whew! What if somebody finds out? I better
get over there before they close it down. I'll be back in a couple months.

If you'd like to read more Almost All True Stories from MIKE HUNT, (usually
involving more than one person) send me an e-mail. Or send your very own
personal messages to MrM1KE@aol.com. Please note the 2nd character
in M1KE is a "one" (1) not an "eye" (I). THANK5. Please note the 6th
character
in THANK5 is a "five" (5) not an "ess" (S). OK, sometimes I'm a stupid
asshole.

Not so stupid that I can't set up a little home page, tho. If you'd like to
get some of my past stories, although I really can't imagine why, visit 
<http://members.aol.com/m1kehunt/>. Please note there's no "www". This
tiny tale is Copyright 1997 M1KE HUNT. You can give it away for free if
you want. Wash your hands first.

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