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Subject: {DirtyDawg}JDR"Brandy A"( MF )[1/2]
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JOHN DARK REPOST
The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic
erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story
codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas
that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author
make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other
matters that you find distasteful. Caveat lector; you read at your own
risk.
The enjoyment of these reposts can be increased by reading the "Coming
Attractions," which includes some of the thinking behind the pattern of the
reposts, as well as the titles to be reposted in the next week.
These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of
those e-mail addresses below the author's byline still work. If you liked
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itself. Posting the comment with a Cc: to the author would be the best way
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well.
=====================
Copyright Notice : This and all of the Dirty Dawg stories are
Copyright (c) 1992 by Dirty Dawg. These stories may be distributed freely,
as long as this and all other copyright notices are included. It is the
responsibility of anyone handling these stories in any format or medium,
including electronic, printed, or otherwise, to ensure that no one under
the age of 18 views, reads, or has access to the materials contained herin.
================================================
==========
Brandy
Dirty Dawg
Section A:
Well, friend and neighbors, this particular story is from the Dawg's
own files. That's right, this one actually happened to the 'ol Dawg, and he
thought that you'd like to know what kind of erotic, perverse situations
the Dawg gets himself into...
It was a Friday night, and the Dawg decided to take in some of the
more interesting night life in Las Vegas. First on the hit parade was, of
course, a local titty bar. Now, Las Vegas has more than its share of titty
bars, but everyone knows that the Insane Stallion Deuce is the best one in
town. The Dawg arrived at just after ten, when things were just starting to
get into swing. As any good connoisseur of female flesh knows, the best
girls work the nine PM to five AM shift at the bar. Arriving any earlier
would just be a waste of good money. And the Dawg, thanks to a generous
employer, had more then enough cash to enjoy the night in the right way.
Almost immediately, a waitress appeared.
Blonde, tall, with sparkling blue eyes that seemed to promise
everything and nothing at the same time. She was not dressed like most of
the girls, and the question I posed to her she probably answered at least
twice every five minutes.
"Do you dance?" I asked her.
As she placed the napkin on the table in front of me, a small, coy
smile played across her face. "Sometimes," is the only answer, albeit
cryptic at that, that I got. I ordered the Dawg's favorite drink (beer,
'natch...) and turned my attention to the half-naked woman writhing on
stage 1.
Like most dancers she had an air of practiced detachment as she moved
to the pounding beat of the music. Large breasts capped with silver-dollar
size aureole and tiny pink little pencil-eraser nipples bounced lightly
with her movement. I was mildly interested in meeting this woman a little
closer up, perhaps with a table dance. Then I started to look around and
see what other talent might grace my vision.
And then I saw her, the woman I knew I would be spending a lot of my
money on. She was diminutive, with long blonde hair and a tiny little body.
She looked just barely old enough to be dancing, and she had this sexy way
of biting her lower lip when she was dancing.
As Raymond Chandler once said, "She was a blonde. A blonde to make a
bishop kick in a stained glass window."
She was walking down the isle between the square-shaped bar and the
individual tables when I caught her eye. She smiled at me, nodded once, and
then the contract was sealed. She raised an eyebrow in silent question and
I nodded at the pile of dead presidents on the table between us. She
reached over and pulled an Andrew Jackson out of the pile and raised the
eyebrow again. My expression conveyed...maybe.
She pulled another Jackson out to join the first one, and I nodded.
She smiled at me, sat down next to me and opened her mouth. "I'm Brandy."
And I'm the pope. I've been to titty bars in almost every state in the
union, and never ever has a dancer given her real name to me. And I always
answer the same.
"Tell me your real name."
She was one of the good ones. Instead of laughing in that you're-so-
silly way that really annoys most men, she looked at me steadily across the
table and said, deadpan, "I'm not allowed to tell you."
I told her my name as we waited for the song to end. "But everyone
calls me the Dawg," I added.
"Why...do you like to do it doggy-style?" she asked.
"Sometimes..." I said.
The next song started, and Brandy began to dance for me. She was
wearing a peach colored bikini, and her first order of business was to
remove the top and place it on the table next to me. I handed it back to
her. "I don't want to see your breasts," I said. "I want to see your eyes."
The eyes widened for a moment as surprise and suspicion flashed across her
face. I reached out and lightly touched one breast while gently cupping her
mound with the other hand. "Sex isn't here," I said, immediately removing
my hands from her breast and vulva, and cupping her face in my hands. My
forefingers tapped her temples. "It's here. Your most erogenous organ is
your brain. Use your brain, not your body."
The suspicion flared again, and I'm sure she was thinking that she had
a weirdo on her hands. "Sit down for this song, and I'll explain it to
you."
She sat down next to me with an expression of frank curiosity on her
face. "If I want to see your body, anyone's body, a stranger's body...I can
buy a magazine or rent a movie. I want to see your body, but only when you
want to show it to me, not when you reach a certain point in whatever
mental meter you're running. Do you understand?"
"You don't do this often, do you?"
"More than you would ever think, Brandy."
"Well, what do you want me to do?"
"I want you to dance for yourself...and let me watch. Don't dance for
me. Pretend you are dancing by yourself...that's what I want."
She smiled shyly at me. "That's different. No one has ever asked me to
do that before."
"Try it," I said. "You might just like it!"
The song ended (I planned it that way....NOT!) and Brandy stood again.
She looked at me looking at her and began to slowly writhe to the new
music. It was a slow song, a ballad by an artist I didn't recognize. What I
did recognize was a new expression on her face.
Brandy slowly traced the length of her legs with her hands, looking
into the mirror above my head as she touched herself. A quick spin, and her
ass was an inch from my face as her fingernails slowly traced the silken
slope of her buttocks. Every pore of my body called out to bury my face
between those cheeks. I was reminded of two things at once. First, in a
popular movie last year, one character refers to another character as
"Three fingers on the finger scale.' When I first heard it, I thought that
it meant she was loose enough to fit three fingers inside. Only later did I
come to understand that what the character actually meant was, "I'd cut
three of my fingers off to fuck her." Brandy was definitely three-fingers
good. Three fingers-lickin' good, as a matter of fact.
The second thing I was reminded of was what a friend of mine and I
called 'Marmalade.' We had been working a job in one of the casinos when an
outrageously stacked and dressed woman strutted past. My partner looked
over at me and whispered, 'Marmalade.' I shot him a quizzical expression
and he elaborated. "I'd like to lick Marmalade from between her sweaty butt
cheeks." I almost broke up, but professional discipline kept me from
showing any outward signs of emotion.
Brandy was definitely Marmalade material. Without a doubt. By the time
these thoughts flittered through my head, Brandy had turned to face me
again. Her nipples were pushing through the material of her bikini top, two
unmistakable signs that she was aroused. She placed one high-heeled foot on
the bench between my legs and put my hands on her ankle.
Now folks, the Dawg has always considered himself an ass man. Nothing
turns my head more than a perfectly-formed rearend packed tightly in
skintight jeans or a short miniskirt. But at that moment in the Dawg's
existence on this wretched planet, a new light shone.
Brandy's ankle was small and well-formed. Her legs were smooth, too
smooth to have been shaved. She had to wax. I looked up into her deep brown
eyes as I ran my hands up her legs and over her knees. She bit her bottom
lip again, and we locked glances.
The music faded into silence and everyone around us disappeared as we
looked into each other's soul. I knew in that moment that I would be seeing
Brandy outside of the club, outside of this existence. It might not happen
tonight, or tomorrow, but I would.
The first song ended and Brandy stopped dancing. Her fingers lightly
traced my face as we continued to gaze at each other. Her hand dropped to
my chest and then around my left side. I felt her stiffen as she detected
the Ruger P85 9mm hanging in a shoulder holster.
"It's OK," I said. "I'm not a cop. I'm a professional bodyguard." That
wasn't the entire truth, but that could wait for another day. I reasoned
with myself that I'd tell her what I really did for a living when she told
me her real name. She relaxed a little and hefted the weight of my
leather-clad piece.
"I like a man who can take care of himself," she said.
The second song began and Brandy stood up. This time, she put her
high- heel clad foot directly on my thigh. As she began to get into the
music and the moment, I could feel the pressure of the heel digging into
the muscle of my thigh.
What happened next was both a test and an experience in erotica. As
she slowly applied more and more pressure to the heel, Brandy checked my
expression to see when I would feel pain instead of pleasure, when I would
ask her to stop...if I would ask her to stop.
Brandy's hands cupped her breasts through her bikini top, slowly
running her thumbs across her nipples, even more slowly increasing the
pressure of her heel into my thigh. I ran my fingernails up the skin of her
right leg, past her knee, and then towards the juncture of her thighs and
the mysteries that lie between them. My hands were far enough away to
satisfy the bouncer, but I knew that she could feel the warmth of my hands
inching slowly towards the center of her sex.
Brandy lowered her head, making as if to kiss me. We both knew the
rules of this dance, and inches before we would have locked lips, we each
turned our heads, our noses lightly brushing. The small smile that played
across her face was mirrored by my own.
The pressure on my thigh was becoming a little much, but I had sworn to
myself that I wouldn't give in, wouldn't let her know that I was feeling
it, that she was getting to me.
Suddenely, Brandy shifted feet, placing her left foot on my right
thigh, and the dance began again. Her breathing was shallow and quick; she
sounded like a panting dog. In the middle of her bottoms, a little low, a
small circle of wetness appeared and began to grow. The music swelled and
surrouned is, covering us in our own little cocoon. I could feel the
beginnings of an erection stirring in my jeans.
Too soon, the song and dance ended. I palmed two business cards from
my jacket pocket and wrapped them around a fifty. I tucked the fifty into
Brandy's bikini and mouthed the words, "Let me know," patting her ass as
she walked away.
The waitress had appeared during my dance and left a beer. I called
her over and asked if she'd gotten paid. She shook her head. "You looked
pretty involved, and policy doesn't allow me to touch your money." I
thanked her for her honesty and paid for the beer, adding a five-dollar tip
while asking her to make sure that I had enough beer for the night. She
smiled and left me alone.
As the night wore on, I watched Brandy dance on the stage twice,
although I didn't ask for another table dance. I wanted to watch how she
danced for the other men in the place, knowing that when she danced for me,
she was really dancing for herself. I was hoping to do two things with
Brandy (Well, actually more than two, but you know what I mean.) I wanted
her to have a feeling of emancipation, a freedom from the bonds that
dancing for money brought with it. By telling her to do what she liked for
me, I was also telling her without words that her happiness was more
important to me than mine. And that, I thought, would get me what I really
wanted, which was to see Brandy outside the confines of the Insane
Stallion.
Two hours later, as I was finishing a shot of Cuervo 1800, I saw
Brandy making her way across the room to me. Her gaze was locked onto me
again, and we traded soft, quiet smiles as she settled into the booth next
to me.
"How can I get a hold of you?" she asked.
"It's on the card. Office, home, portable and pager. All numbers are
answered twenty-four hours a day. My address is on the card. But always,
always call first. I keep strange hours. I never know when a client is
going to feel threatened. More importantly, how can I get a hold of you?"
Again, she gave the expected answer. "I'm not supposed to give any
information out to clients. They watch everything on the cameras." She
pointed to the reflective spheres on the ceiling that were disguised to
blend in. She'd made a horrible mistake, because by pointing she had now
indicated to whomever was watching that she had told a non-employee
something she wasn't supposed to.
"Call me tonight at home," I said under my breath. "Just call me. You
don't have to tell me anything, but just call me."
Slowly she nodded, and I made my way out of the bar. Just as I was
about to step outside, I felt a hand close over my shoulder. I turned and
looked at the owner of the hand. It belonged to a huge gorilla, the kind of
guy that spends most of his time pumped up in front of a mirror, his body
covered in some greasy substance. He was the kind of guy who looked like he
used his size to intimidate and stop problems from happening before they
even got started.
"What did Brandy tell you?" he asked, gruffly.
"To get lost. So I am. I can tell when I'm not wanted." He looked at
me hard, and I felt the hand on my shoulder tighten. "We don't like it when
someone gives the girls trouble," he said, low and I guess what he
considered to be 'with menace.'
I looked pointedly at his hand. He smiled at me, a shark's grin that
seemed to say, 'Try and remove it.' So I did. I reached across with my
right hand and gripped his fingers, pulling and twisting at the same time,
until I had his entire arm and upper body contorted.
"And I don't like being touched by fag bodybuilders. If this is the
way you treat all the customers, perhaps I should have a word with your
boss."
"Leggo!" he pleaded. I applied a fraction more torque to his fingers
and hand. I could feel the tendons and ligaments stretching. Just a
fraction more, and every bone in his wrist would shatter.
"Just stop fucking with the customers, man." I let his hand go and gave
him a shove. He stood slowly, rubbing his hand. I saw his shoulder turn,
and I knew he was going to sucker-punch me.
"If you throw that punch, I'll break your arm." My voice was just low
enough to be heard over the music. The goon considered a moment and finally
decided not to test me. I left the Insane Stallion and drove home, parking
the car in the garage.
The mail was waiting for me, most of it bills or junk mail. No letters
from my parents or siblings, but that was no surprise, since I was an
orphan and an only child.
I undressed for bed while drinking the last beer of the night. The
Ruger came out of my shoulder holster and went into the bedside table to
join its brothers.
I flopped into the bed and turned the TV on. While watching the late
movie (why is it always a damn Western on at two in the morning?) my eyes
caught sight of my thighs. There were two small, perfectly round welts on
either of my thighs, were Brandy had pushed the heels of her shoes into me.
My cock jerked at the rememberence of Brandy's face and the pressure
of her shoes against the skin of my legs. I briefly considered
masturbating, but discarded that notion almost immediately. There was a
chance, a small chance, that Brandy might call, and I didn't want to be
stuck with a gun that wouldn't shoot.
I dropped off into sleep almost immediately. I dreamt of a blonde
goddess named Brandy.
=====================================================================
If you liked this story, tell the SYSOP of the BBS you got it from,
and look for other exciting adult erotic stories from Dirty Dawg. If your
favorite adult BBS doesn't carry Dirty Dawg, ask them WHY?! Dirty Dawg
stories are available from Big Joe's BBS in Las Vegas, Nevada, and from the
MotherBoard BBS in Pelham Manor, NY. Check your local BBS listing for node
numbers and modem speeds supported.
If you have a favorite sexual fantasy that you'd like turned into an
adult erotic fiction story, leave a message for the Dawg on either Big
Joe's BBS or on the MotherBoard BBS. Leave the following information: 1)
Basic story category (ie, straight, bisexual, cheating, group sex, etc.) 2)
Character names, if you want it truly customized. If you do leave character
names, please leave a brief physical description you would like used. 3) A
plot outline, or just a starting point. If you trust the Dawg to take you
places you've never been before, indicate that in your message. And
finally, the most important part: 4) Lewdness Level. There are four basic
levels of Lewdness: a) Clinical and Puritanical, which uses phrases like
"He thrust into her depths, cutting a swath into her core like a hot knife
through butter." Not much 'dirty' language, and it gets the imaginative
juices flowing. b) Slightly Lewd, which uses, using the same example as
above, "He thrust his manhood into her very center, feeling the sugar walls
of her vagina contract around his penis like a vise." Etc. Level C) Medium
Lewd, is more of the Penthouse Forum or Penthouse Letters level of graphic
description. Lots of euphamisms for female and male genetila, like "He
jammed his pink beef stallion into the waiting warmth of her quim." Level
D) Maximum Lewd, is for the hard-core reader that likes words like "Cunt"
and "Cock", like "He thrust his throbbing cock into the welcoming walls of
her overheated cunt, feeling her tighten her muscles around his invading
meat."
Because of other literary (haha) demands made on the Dawg,
personalized stories may take up to a month to be created. There is NO
monetary consideration REQUIRED, but any contributions to the Dawg's Dish
will be appreciated, and just might 'speed things up.' If you wish to make
a contribution to hasten the creation of your story, leave that information
also with the message addressed to the Dawg. NOTE: Any readers giving a
contribution to the Dawg will also be given a diskette (3.5" or 5.25") in
IBM Text file format containing up to 25 other adult erotic stories. Some
of these stories are NOT available on the BBS, and have been written from
the Dawg's own experiences. Again, please understand that monetary
contributions are >>>NOT<<< required to get a personal story written. All I
want to do is hear your ideas for a hot, erotic story, and then turn it
into literary reality.
Copyright Notice : This and all of the Dirty Dawg stories are
Copyright (c) 1992 by Dirty Dawg. These stories may be distributed freely,
as long as this and all other copyright notices are included. It is the
responsibility of anyone handling these stories in any format or medium,
including electronic, printed, or otherwise, to ensure that no one under
the age of 18 views, reads, or has access to the materials contained herin.
Dirty Dawg and the BBSs that carry the Dirty Dawg stories hereby ABSOLVE
themselves of all responsibility as to the suitability of these files for a
particular purpose. Dirty Dawg will retain ALL copyrights to this and any
other materials created under the 'Dirty Dawg' trademark name. Personalized
stories remain the property of Dirty Dawg for distribution as he alone sees
fit. For stories that are personalized, all names will be CHANGED after the
person or persons comissioning said story have recieved their copy. Unless
otherwise noted, this is a work of ficton, and all characters are creations
of the author's imagination, and any similarity to any persons, places or
situations are purely coincidental.
Copyright (c) 1992 Dirty Dawg Productions
All Rights Reserved
"Woof Woof."
==========
Brandy
Dirty Dawg
Section A
-30-
--
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