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From: The Bear <thebear@NOSPAM.io.com>
Subject: Story - Spam Title - Bear's 2nd Entry (All This for Only 79 Cents?)
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Malinov wrote:  
> Story Contest - Just for Fun  or  If They're Going to Annoy Us, They
> Might As Well Inspire Us  
>   
> Write a story and post it to ASS or ASSM, 1000 words or less, which
> has  its title stolen from a real piece of SPAM.  



“All This for Only 79 Cents?” (spam title from post dated 9/20/97)

Fred Durkin looked furtively up and down the street before sidling
into the doorway of Slinky Sindy’s Adult Books and Novelties. He
quickly opened the door and stepped inside, then stopped to look
around in wide-eyed wonderment.

He had expected a dark den of iniquity, from which he would emerge
clutching illicit goods in a plain brown package, and perhaps wiping
his feet as he returned to the security of the sidewalk.

What he saw was something different: a shop as brightly lit as any
record-store or bookstore, and in fact lined with racks similar to
those that might be found in those other types of shops. Colorful
signs hung from the ceiling indicating sections for books, magazines,
CD-ROMs, videotapes, adult toys, and exotic clothing. The only jarring
note was the substance of the posters hung on the walls - most
depicted women in various stages of undress, gesturing lasciviously as
they sought to entice him to purchase their assorted products.

Fred could have spent all day just looking at the covers of the
magazines and videotapes - they actually showed people having sex,
right on the covers! - but he only had an hour or so to get back home,
or his wife would be suspicious about where he had been. He vowed,
however, to come this way on his evening walk everyday from now on -
surely this paradise of exotica was as much stimulation for his heart
as a simple walk around the boring streets of the town?
Nevertheless, he decided that it was time to make his purchase and be
on his way, so he headed back toward the magazine section, reasoning
that he could look at a magazine anywhere (such as his toolshed,
perhaps) needing only his own eyes, whereas to look at the videos or
CD-ROMs he would need other equipment that could only be used when his
wife was away from the house (a rare condition).

Clutching the five-dollar bill that he had managed to secrete from the
family cashbox before his wife had counted it, he searched in vain for
any magazine that he could afford to buy. He had somehow expected such
goods to be cheap, so that his fiver would cover perhaps three or four
with change to spare, but the cheapest that he saw were a full eight
dollars.

He went to the counter to see if anything in his price range was
available there.   The salesman was busy talking to another customer,
and then picked up a red phone and talked to someone briefly, ending
with “Come on down to the counter and get him.”

The other customer stepped away, looking at a magazine display while
he awaited whoever was coming down for him.

Fred stepped up to the salesman and pointed out a 75 cent postcard
that he had chosen, with a picture of a naked girl reclining on a
couch. “I’ll take that,” he muttered under his breath, his throat
suddenly tight with fear and totally dry of all moisture.

“What?” asked the salesman, loudly. “Which one d’ya want?”

Fred cleared his throat and pointed again. “THAT ONE,” he surprised
himself by almost shouting.

The salesman rang it up and handed it to Fred. “That will be 79
cents, with the tax.”

Fred handed the man his five-dollar bill, and received his change.
“Can’t I have a sack or something to take it home in?”

“Aw geez,” sneered the salesman. “A whole sack for a big-spender
such as yourself? Just stick it in your pocket, old man.”

It was right about then that the other customer, the one perusing the
magazines, started to cough uncontrollably. His cough got louder and
louder, until it seemed that he was about to burst his lungs, and
still the man could not manage to stop the cycle - cough, wheeze for
breath, cough, wheeze, cough, wheeze, cough.   The salesman came
around to see what was the matter, just as the man turned blue and
dropped to the floor.

“Aw shit,” yelled the salesman, grabbing the man under the armpits
and dragging him toward the door. “Quick, call 911 and tell them they
have a choking victim at Lynch Furniture, 301 Elm Street.” That was
the shop next door.  “And hurry!”

Fred stood frozen, wondering what to do, wondering where the phone
was, wondering why the salesman had dragged the man to the shop next
door, and wondering whether he dared to grab an armful of the
forbidden (and expensive) magazines and take off sprinting down the
sidewalk.

Fred’s further pondering was put to a stop by a voice from the rear
of the shop, a voice that was obviously trying (and failing) to drip
with honey. It was, nevertheless, a female voice, and its tones were
definitely intended to sound seductive. “Hey, fella, why don’t ya
come up here and see me?” A bad Mae West impersonation? Fred turned
to look.

There was a flight of stairs up the back wall of the shop, apparently
leading to some second floor office space. Leaning out the door at the
top of the stairs was a woman dressed in a blue silk robe, showing
quite a bit of cleavage.

Fred’s hesitation overextended the woman’s patience, and her next
words lacked any attempt at honey-dripping, or even seduction. “Hey,
bud, ya think I got all day? Come on up here, NOW!”

Fred obediently scurried to the stairs and up, and followed the woman
down a short hallway to a dimly-lit room with a shaded window and a
bed. The bed bore a fresh-looking sheet, neatly tucked in with
hospital corners; there was a stack of similar sheets on the vanity,
along with a bowl of little foil packages.  A hamper in the corner
held a large pile of rumpled sheets, none too fresh-looking (or -
smelling).

Fred looked around the room in dismay, not sure what to do next,
beginning to worry that the woman might chase him out when she learned
that he had only four dollars and twenty-one cents.

The woman dropped her robe on the bed, revealing tired-looking breasts
that sagged nearly to her navel, fat hips encased in some sort of
support garment, and thigh-high black stockings that held in the
woman’s plump legs like sausage skins.

“OK,” she said, stepping toward him. “Joey said ya paid for a
blowjob.  Now you can see what you’re gettin’, ya sure ya don’t
wanna change yer mind and get some real pussy? Only an extra ten bucks
if ya keep it between me and you and don’t mention it to Joey.”

Fred felt revolted at the thought - pay money to have sex with this
woman? Why, he’d be willing to pay to avoid having sex with her! He
thought longingly of his sweet wife, and wished he were home. But wait
- had she mentioned a blowjob?   Prepaid?

Fred shook his head and stood his ground, not sure (as usual) what to
do next.

“OK,” sighed the woman. “Blowjob it is. Ya wanna sit or stand up?”

Fred didn’t trust the bed, even with apparently clean sheets, and so
elected to stand.

The woman did all the work - she knelt in front of Fred, pulled down
his zipper, and fished around inside his boxers for his flaccid cock.
Once she pulled it out into the open, though, she gave a low whistle.
“Ow, pretty well equipped you are, stud. Ya sure ya don’t wanna go
for a quick fuck? Only five bucks if ya don’t tell Joey.”

Fred noticed that the price had decreased, but attributed it more to
her desire for cash than to her awe of his prick, whcih was slowly
coming erect as she expertly stroked it. Since the price of a fuck
still had not gotten to the level where she would be paying him, he
declined once again, and the woman sighed and leaned forward to take
his now-erect penis into her mouth.

She sucked hard on the head of his dick for a few moments, then took
it in deep to coat it liberally with saliva. What followed was
basically a quick and very professional hand-job, with only the head
of Fred’s cock remaining in the woman’s mouth. He came quickly,
spurting his jism and almost collapsing from the relief, and the woman
turned her head and spat the whole globbet of come three feet into the
trashcan. Then she tucked his prick away, zipped his fly, and got
wearily to her feet.

“That’s it, then,” she told him. Go on out of here and let me get
some rest. Ya got a tip for me?”

He thought for a moment, then stepped to the door before answering.

“Yeah,” he told her. “Don’t tell Joey about this.” He went down
the hall to the stairs, then out and home.



Copyright 1997 by The Bear

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