Message-ID: <13286eli$9807221222@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year98/13286.txt>
From: Gwydion McCarthy <sir_gwydion@rocketmail.com>
Subject: Story: Masks of Masks - 1 of 2 (m/f, multiple personality disorder)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Reply-To: gwydion@writeme.com
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <19980722133733.26484.rocketmail@web4.rocketmail.com>

"Masks of Masks"

It wasn't much of a place, just a façade really, but
carefully constructed, and it was John's own office.
He had promised himself that once he graduated he
would have a desk in Manhattan with a great view, and
he had fulfilled that promise in a way. His desk was
particleboard, his shoes bought at a sample sale in
the Empire State Building, his business card said,
"Advertising Executive," and he had a great view.
Just not of Manhattan.

When he had interviewed for the job, he thought he
was getting in on the ground floor of a new "Silicon
Alley" multimedia start-up. That the President of the
company who interviewed him was a luscious blonde
whose appearance said, "This cleavage has a price
tag" didn't exactly clue him in to the real nature of
the company.  And the name of the company "X-Height,"
he thought had to do with some strange old
typeface-geeking term. 

It really wasn't until his first day of work that he
realized what business he was getting into. He was
excited about the fact that his new job had to do
with selling ad space on the Web, and that the
company was getting into Web-based electronic media.
When he came into work and saw half-naked models
wondering from suite to suite, however, he realized
that the name "X-Height" was actually pronounced,
"Excite."

It was an adult porn web site. And he was responsible
for selling ad space on it.  The whole company was
based in an office/warehouse combo. He wasn't given
an office with an outside view, however the office he
did receive was a "Foreman's" office - it looked out
into the warehouse, which in this case was being used
as a photography studio.

It was amazing to him what this fly-by-night company
could get away with: the girls were paid only $100 a
night, no tips or anything. No bonuses to speak of.
They were expected to dance on camera and have their
images beamed to hundreds of horny netizens pounding
their meat and trying to avoid spewing semen on their
keyboards. 

The place was hardly sanitary and very uncomfortable.
The girls were expected to buy dildos at the New York
adult toystores and bring them in to fuck themselves
- but not all the girls wanted to do that. In fact,
most of them hated it - nine times out of time they
got absolutely no enjoyment from it as well. 

Still, for John, it was a job. And in Manhattan, you
took what work you could get. He was ideologically
opposed to the way Stan, the supervisor, treated the
models, but for the most part there was absolutely
nothing he could do about it. He was told to keep his
pen out of the company well, too - that meant no
dating the women he saw nude and partially-nude for 8
hours a day. 

Except for the stringers. The stringers would get
sent in by modeling agencies to fill short term
vacancies - whenever a girl came down with a disease,
or got pregnant by accident, or started her period
early, or any other of the myriad of excuses (that
Stan had begun tabulating with a graph on his wall in
black magic marker) that would make a model unable to
work.

Since the stringers were extremely temporary
employees, they were fair game *once they were no
longer working there.*

John spent most of the time with the blinds to the
warehouse down, calling around, sending off email
like mad and carrying his laptop to other porn houses
in Manhattan, making proposals and presentations,
trying to get the valuable ad revenue that would in
turn pay his salary. He didn't feel any different
from the women, really - he was a commodity, a body
that Dominique (the busty blonde who ran the place)
built her trade on.

He knew he had gotten the job in part on looks, too.
His blond hair was nearly unheard of in the city, his
cool steel eyes pierced through your heart and made
you want to trust him. He was tall, broad-shouldered,
trim and hard but not from the gym. The city made you
hard if you let it - it walked you hard and the
stress you ate for breakfast would consume anything
else you ate. 

Dominique had indicated via some vicious double
entendre at their first meeting that she might put
him to the sexual test at some point, but she was
mindful of his need to stay focused. She thought it
very amusing that he was clearly hungry and horny all
the time - she liked it that way. "The hornier you
are, John, the more you go out and work. Because you
know you're not getting any high-class Manhattan
pussy on base salary. You'll need a nice fat
commission to take out the premium babes." Her
gravelly laugh punctuated his dreams. Most of them
were erotic - even if they were nightmares.

John dealt with the situation by closing down and
focusing hard on the job at hand. Still, he couldn't
totally sublimate a perfectly normal sex drive. The
company shared a suite with a phone sex company next
door and he heard women panting and crying out all
day long.  He saw women of every description, all of
them nearly perfect to look at, wondering through the
hallway half-naked, mostly naked, or downright nude.
They would tease him because they knew his position
and knew Domi would fire him if he fucked any of
them. They talked about his cute ass openly to each
other in front of him, treating him like a piece of
meat. Like they were regularly treated, each night.

John would relieve his pent-up sexual tension by a
trip to the place around the corner which had no name
other than LIVE FUCK SEX SHOW CUM SEE in neon,
flashing continuously over and over. There were video
porn booths that he frequented here, and occasionally
visited the peep booths where women awaited behind
plastic barriers that would lower when money was fed
into the machine. That was an expensive proposition
for John because they demanded 5 and 10 dollars to
show anything, but the video porn booths gave him
discreet amounts of time and he could change "video
channels" as often as he wanted to find the stuff he
really wanted to see.

One particular afternoon he rushed into a booth, his
cock stiffening in his pants, excited like a dog that
knows you are going out to hunt with him. He started
feeding it dollar bills until he had built up about
15 minutes worth of time. Then he saw that it was one
of the "Buddy booths" in the place - a video booth
set up with a glass partition between the two booths.
The partition has a curtain inside of it that raises
or lowers depending on if both parties in both booths
agree that they should.

John didn't notice it but as soon as he got into the
booth, the red light on the side of the booth came
on, indicating that the booth occupant next to him
wanted him to agree to lower the blind. Curiosity
overcame his homophobia and he hit the button, to see
a young Hispanic guy jacking off - a very thick but
not too long cock he was threading through his closed
fingers, rolling back the foreskin with each stroke
and watching some Asian woman getting fucked by
fourteen guys on a soundstage. His eyes drifted from
the guy's cock to the screen he was watching, and he
switched his screen over to the same channel. He
leaned back and let the man see his own penis, which
was circumcised, thinner, but with a bulbous head
that was angry red. 

For a moment he looked into the man's eyes. There was
nothing directly alluring there - in fact it was more
the kind of look men gave each other while pissing in
public restrooms - but there was a kind of acceptance
in his eyes that somehow magnified the experience to
John. Clearly this guy understood what it was like to
be unrelentingly horny, and have no place to go.

He found his normally jaded libido totally overcome
with the sight of another man like this - he watched
out of the corner of his eye as the man turned toward
the glass and began to send spurts of white ejaculate
splattering against it. Call it a purely sympathetic
response: but immediately after John felt the glands
in the base of his cock boiling, churning, and then
made his own mess in the booth, depositing his DNA on
the floor.

Then it was over - the stranger vanished into the
rainy night, and John found himself in the Penn
Station subway headed for home. Thinking about it on
the train ride, John decided that there was
definitely something to the buddy-booth concept, but
the deeper implications worried him. Still, each time
after that he visited the porno palace, he would make
a beeline straight for the booths with the glass
partition.

Weeks churned by. In New York, you can look up and
five minutes later the seasons will have changed.
That's how it seemed to John. He came into work one
November morning, printed a spreadsheet report and
realized that he had managed to make a fairly decent
commission. Doing the numbers reassured him instead
of frightened him: he realized that his efforts had
started to pay off, and that the little porn start-up
just might well survive due in small part to his
marketing talents and Dominique's technique of
handling the "girls."

He stopped arguing with her about how much they
should be paid: Domi knew the going rate in the
Manhattan porn industry, knew how to sell the concept
to girls who were tired of being fingered in peep
booths or who were through with the drugs and
mismanagement that a model dealt with in the strip
clubs.  Domi knew that getting girls to strip for a
camera was ten times easier in many ways than getting
them to strip in public.

Relaxing a little after his initial success, John
decided one day that he could handle keeping the
window blinds open, so he could see the studio. After
a while, the sight of naked women continuously
parading past his office window, performing various
sex acts with themselves and others, didn't even
catch his attention.  It wasn't until he looked up
one day and saw Sarah that he actually found himself
interested again.

He thought Sarah was some kind of techie at first,
one of the HTML programmers the company hired.  She
was dressed in plain everyday clothes, kind of loose
and baggy, and she didn't seem to hold herself like a
model.  But that was what made her that much more
attractive. She had fiery red hair that was held by a
simple hairband in a ponytail, and medium skin. There
was this very French-looking nose and face, eyebrows
that were thumb-tip caresses from the eyebrow artist.
She was tiny, as delicate-looking as a doll. Then the
supervisor waved for her to come over, and she
paused, shrugged, and stripped off her t-shirt. John
was actually surprised for a change. He saw her
standing in the studio light and thought he saw some
kind of halo coming off her hair. She had a
tough-looking, scrappy, well-shaped body that was
toned like a gymnast or a dancer. Walking with her
was a matter of all the parts of her body working in
concert without effort, but beautifully choreographed.

Her hair was lovely, red, her eyes were glowing green
in the light. Her skin was perfectly pale, with a
scattering of freckles she didn't bother to hide.

John didn't know whether he wanted to take her right
there on the floor of the warehouse (not even caring
about the flood lights, or the thousands of net-heads
who were watching) or if he wanted to simply take her
into his arms, hold her, and savor her sweet form for
the rest of his natural life. If given the choice,
John would choose both. On camera, her face actually
morphed into that of a sexy, slutty woman, taking on
the guise just like a mask, looking at the camera
like a streetwalker on a Friday night looks at a
Lexus' tail-lights.  John had never seen a woman do
that before. He instantly accessed the web-site,
learning her name as soon as the camera screen came
up. "Precious" was her screen name. He checked the
roster and saw her real name was Sarah.

He watched her set. He was masturbating under his
desk, with his door locked, not caring that he was
possibly sullying his thinking about her already. It
wasn't something he thought consciously about. He
just knew he wanted her.

As soon as she stepped off camera, John saw her
change again. No longer slutty, she moved with a
quiet, almost studied humility. She was very aware of
her surroundings. So aware, in fact, that she saw him
watching - her eyes lingering for the split second
which told John that he had been spotted.

There was no choice as far as John was concerned - he
didn't care - employee or no, he would talk to this
woman. Domi owed him at least a conversation with
this woman who seemed to be able to chameleon-like
change from Virgin to Whore in only a moment.

He kept at his phone calls, his spreadsheets, his
checking the Web stats, until the day shift of girls
got off work, calling in favors and working his
contact database like a man driven. Deals would start
blossoming in several days, deals that he would bring
to fruition and land, accounts that he would close
and make more money on. This was becoming rote-work
to him, it was like shooting fish in a barrel.

Finally it was 6:00 p.m., and the day shift all
trolloped out of the warehouse, scooping themselves
into whatever clothes were handy just to get the hell
out of there. John stood at the door, waiting Sarah
to leave the "studio." 

But she had taken the back route out, and John had to
embarrass himself by moving through the studio,
asking for her, wondering where he had went. He
opened the fire escape door to see her turning the
corner in the alleyway, gone, just the tip of her
ponytail visible.

He pulled up the master schedule back on his PC, saw
she would be dancing again tomorrow but not listed at
all for the rest of the future.

"Hey, Stan - what's the story about this Precious
chick? She a new hire?" John asked, trying to sound
nonchalant.

Stan grinned at him. "You just want to know if you
can nail her."

"Something like that...." John said.

Stan patted John on the cheek. "You want me to tell
her you gotta big dick?"

"Fuck you Stan - and how would you know?" John said,
though he was grinning.

Stan shrugged. "People talk, word gets around. Look,
John - she's cool. She's clear. Clean. She's a
stringer. Got sent over by the Pink Pony agency."

John grinned. "Thanks ya bum. I owe you one."

"You owe me several!" Stan called after him.

But the next day was one of those Manhattan mornings
where your life is made or broken by the first 15
minutes of the day. It didn't take long before John
absolutely forgot about his dick, and anything
related to sex or romance. He was fighting for his
life: several accounts wanted to pull out, he had by
accident faxed them the numbers for the month of June
rather than July. It was hell. 

In fact, he had forgotten about anything but saving
his butt when there was a silk-covered sound in his
ear (the ear that was not to the phone) and a woman
was standing in his office, looking at the Mardi Gras
masks which were the only decoration on his wall - he
had got them in New Orleans on a college trip.

"Your masks are perfect." She said.

He looked up - and then looked again. It was Sarah.

She was lovely, truly lovely even in a t-shirt for
the MOMA and a pair of tight, old jeans that looked
like they had to have been bought in the Junior
Misses department. She had obviously done her hair
for the camera -it was a riot of red curls, falling
down her back and making ringlets that framed her
pretty, valentine-shaped face. At this distance, John
noticed that her front teeth had a little part in it,
which was just that much sexier to him. Then he
realized the phone was talking to him.

"Hey Frank, you got the new figures? Look, let me
call you back...OK? Talk to you..." John said. He
hung up the phone.
"They were bought at a street vendor. You like them?"
John said.

Sarah nodded. "Masks are very telling things. We all
wear them, don't we? Even when we don't think about
it."

John nodded. "At Halloween."

"Not just then. Me, I am always wearing masks. That's
what Abutu says." Sarah said.

"Abutu?" John raised his eyebrows.

"He's my acting coach. I'm learning the tribal
shamanic acting method."

John didn't know what to say about that - it was a
little spooky. "What sort of things do you do in the
class?"

"So far nothing. We arrive, we dance like maniacs for
hours, then we leave. I think he wants to fuck me."
Sarah shrugged.

"What makes you say that?"

"He asks me when I'm going to go back to his
apartment with him."

"Oh." John said, not liking the idea.

She smiled at him. "You're not exactly with it, are
you?"

John grinned. "Not exactly. Not this morning. My
brain has drained out my ears."

Sarah looked on the floor. "No gray matter. But I
guess I should get used to that around you."

John looked up at her. "What do you mean?"

Sarah grinned. "We caught you looking, John..."

John felt his face burning. He was actually blushing.

Sarah smiled at his blush. "I want to eat. Are you
hungry?"

He looked at his watch. "I guess I am - it's noon."

Sarah nodded.

John looked up at her again, realization dawning
finally. "Um, would you go to lunch with me? Um, can
you?"

Sarah nodded again. "Yes, I'm fired as of now. They
did my set already this morning."

John stood and said, "Let's go to the Manhattan Chili
Company - they have great fajitas."

Their conversation over lunch improved as Sarah
realized that underneath the muddle that John was
under, was an intellect and softness that she found
attractive. She let her fingertips graze his arm for
a moment while they talked. She felt her nipples
spontaneously stiffen under her t-shirt - something
that only happened when she knew she wanted someone.
His eyes were doing things to her.

"There's a...project that we're supposed to do. And
I'm dreading it." Sarah said.

"What's that?" John asked.

"We have to do something adventurous. That's the
quick explanation. He keeps talking about shamanic
thresholds and stuff, but basically what we have to
do is to confront our inner fears. Like I've been
doing on this job. But Abutu says it's not
adventurous enough - no risk."

"You were afraid to strip for hundreds of unseen
men?" John asked incredulously. Not after what she
had done - how she had slid into her role perfectly.

"I guess I was. Now I'm not." Sarah said, shrugging.

John thought for a moment. "What if I could offer
something a little more risky than that?"

Sarah narrowed her thin eyebrows. "Does it involve
something illegal?"

John shook his head 'no.' "Meet me after work at Penn
Station?"

Sarah grinned. "Geez. OK."

John looked at his watch. "I gotta run back to work,
probably got a full voice mailbox by now.."

Outside, on the street, Sarah said, "John. Thanks for
taking me to lunch. I really appreciate it. They
don't call us starving actresses for nothing." Sarah
said softly, looking at him, with a slight smile on
her face that belied the deeper sexual tension
between them.

John bent forward and kissed her with passion - but
with just a soft brushing of her lips. She smiled at
his innocent kiss, and they wordlessly turned away
from each other and let the city carry them off.

It was not until about three hours later that John
saw her again. He was descending the escalator into
Penn Station, in the Amtrak section, and saw her
watching the destinations spinning, clicking.

"I love the names...'The Liberty Express,' 'The
Daytimer' - they're beautiful." Sarah said, pointing
at them. 

John saw she had changed from before - was wearing a
way-too-short soft cotton mini-dress with yellow
flowers all over it that seemed to cling to her like
a lover. Her legs were bare and she was wearing
sandals that made her feet look tiny, which they
were. Her hair had calmed down considerably, pulled
back with a black scrunchie. He, on the other hand,
still looked like a rumpled version of his lunch
attire, but Sarah thought his eyes were beautiful
enough on their own.

They held hands silently as they stepped through the
busy rush-hour streets, walking down the block to 8th
Ave, where waves of neon porn signs greeted them in
amongst cheap consumer electronics marquees. Sarah
felt a wave of darkness wash over her like a palpable
force, and she looked up at John, who was questioning
her with those piercing eyes. Was she ready to pass
over this threshold?

She nodded and took his hand again, and they walked
to a place, standing around outside of it. 

John leaned closer to her. "Here is what is going to
happen. You are going inside with me, to the very
back. I will get in one booth, you will get in the
booth next to mine, there should be another booth on
the others side, empty."

She nodded, her eyes fixing on his, drawing strength
from his comforting voice.

"When you're in the booth, put some money in the
slot, here - here's $5. Turn it to whatever video
interests you. Then you're going to lower the blind
between you and me, and you're going to expose
yourself to me."

Sarah nodded. "But you've seen me naked before."

John grinned. "The guy in the other booth, on the
other side - he hasn't."

"Hmmm....do you know him?"

"Not from Adam."

"I see."

John nodded. "Still brave?"

Sarah looked inside, a chill ran up her spine. John
was already holding her in his arms, kissing her,
nearly lifting her off the ground. The kiss spread
warm magic throughout her body.

Sarah grinned at him. "We'd do anything if you keep
kissing me like that."

John smiled, and just turned, and led her back into
the back of the porn palace. It smelled like diluted
bleach, for that is what they used to kill the germs
in the sperm left behind by men who would've rather
put it someplace else.

She felt alone in the booth at first, but then John
showed her how to lower the partition between the two
booths, and suddenly he was there, incongruous in his
business suit and his cock, now purple-headed and
thick, poking out of his grey flannel pants and silk
boxers.

John saw the strangeness wash over her face, and then
suddenly that mask she had worn back in the studio
was there, a bright smile across her face that
implied years of sexual experience and incredible
prowess. He didn't have to ask her to lower the other
partition - the red light was already on from the guy
in the other booth wanting her to lower it, and she
just pushed the button to let it go down.

He was an older man, old enough probably to be her
father, with a wilting penis that suddenly sprang to
life when he saw John's cock as well as Sarah
stripping off the one-piece dress and carefully
hanging it on a hook on the door. She was perfectly
naked underneath, and this was as close as John had
ever seen her. He shuddered in pure delight. She had
shaved her pussy the night before (something he
hadn't expected) and she was fingering herself while
the old man's eyes got bigger and bigger. The old man
groaned like an elephant dying and spewed his semen
all over the window, to beat a hasty retreat. By then
other men had caught on to what was going on in the
booth and they started to line up outside. A young
black man came into the booth, having brashly
unzipped his pants outside of it, taking his cock
into his hands almost immediately. She posed for him,
looking him in the eye, backing up against the far
wall and spreading her labia for him. She knew he
wouldn't last long. She slid a finger into herself
and licked it.
Then she turned and saw John shooting his sperm
against the glass. She almost could feel the heat
from it. He looked at her, and back at the black guy,
who threw back his head and spilled out a stream of
semen that conformed to his cockhead and dripped off
the end of it and onto the floor.

But the partitions were already dropping - the money
had run out - and John told Sarah to come out with
him. He got dressed quickly, wiping his fingers on
his shirt-tail and was the first one out of the
booth. He looked fiercely at the other men standing
there, letting them know that they shouldn't bother
trying to come on to Sarah. Then he knocked on the
door, and lead Sarah out.

She had a far-away look in her eye - her mask of lust
and desire still in place. "You didn't let me cum."
She said, pouting. "There were other guys waiting."

John grinned at her, shaking his head. "Let's see
what we can do about that. Get a hotel room with me?"

She looked at him, the mask washed away. "And have
sex?"

John nodded. 

"Um, I dunno. I have to think about it. Um." She said
softly.

John looked at her softly, his eyes piercing her heart.

She looked up at him. "Oh John, I'm so scared, I...."

He held her in the street, drawing around them both
the cloak of privacy that you had to learn how to
create for yourself in Manhattan. Nobody watched or
cared what happened between them. He just held her.
Soon, she was sobbing into his chest, and it was only
then that he noticed that she'd put her dress back on
the wrong way, the tag in the front.

He helped her find her way home, paying for a cab the
whole way and back. He felt like he had crossed onto
some very shaky ground with her. He held her in the
back seat the entire time, trying to ignore the
cabbie who was looking at her rather lustfully the
entire time - perhaps hoping she'd give him a blowjob.

He didn't ask to come in, he didn't press his luck.
He just held her softly in the cab - paying for the
time (you always had to pay for time in Manhattan)
until she finally told him she'd be OK, and that she
would call him later. He left his business card with
her and kissed her once, very chastely, good night.

She held on to him like a little girl who didn't want
her daddy to leave. "John - I ...."

"What?" He asked softly.

"I think I love you." She said, guilelessly, her eyes
certain and steady.

John nodded, he just looked back at her. Words
couldn't come out of his mouth. It seemed so
incongruent - her love, what they had done. He didn't
understand her. But he knew that inside, he had
already loved her, had already felt this beautiful
feeling for her.

"I think I love you too, Sarah."

Sarah nodded, then looked down.

"What?" He touched her chin.

"You love my mask."

"No - not just that. The woman behind it."

She nodded and put her finger to his lips. "Shush."
She said quietly, and smiled, but he saw a tear
forming in her eye. She quietly went inside her
apartment and closed the door.

On the ride home, he thought about her. Her eyes
melting into sadness had also melted his ardor, but
he couldn't help but think later about the pure
eroticism of the booth - of how she had done what he
had asked, trusted him so completely, implicitly. How
she had been very sexy to the strangers there, how
she had seemed to just know what her body was capable
of bringing out in men. They were unearthly, those
memories. He wished he had had a camera and the skill
to use it.  

That night he fell asleep still thinking about her,
after one last desperate ejaculation into a white
t-shirt that he wadded up and threw across the room
into his dirty clothes hamper.

The next day was nothing - Friday in New York was
rarely busy - especially now that the weather was
getting better. He was surprised to see email from a
person named "Charly" in his inbox in the early
morning. 

It went like this:

Dear John,

You don't know me. I'm a friend of Sarah's. We have
to talk about her, and we have to do it today. I
won't take 'no' for an answer. I expect you to beep
me as soon as you get this and I will call you. If
you ever want to have anything to do with Sarah
again, you'll do as I ask. It's for her own good.

I'm waiting.

Charly

For some reason, she had attached her picture file to
the email. She was a beautiful, tan, blonde woman,
with bright silver eyes that seemed to hold depth.

Shrugging, and figuring he would find out what this
was all about, John dialed the beeper number and
punched in his own extension, his direct line.  It
wasn't long before the phone rang. A voice, soft and
silky and kittenish, asked if it were him.

"Yeah, this is John."

Her voice was now insistent, urgent. "Look, John - we
have to meet today. I've got to tell you a few things
about Sarah. We have to talk about her. Things have
gone farther than I thought they would."

"Who are you - Sarah's fairy godmother?"

"Look - you can laugh at me if you want. I just think
there are some things you need to know. If you don't
want to know them, then fine, I won't bother. I am a
very good friend of Sarah's. I love her deeply. I
would hate to see her hurt by a clueless person such
as yourself, running roughshod over her feelings."

"Are you her lover?" John said quizzically.

"What? No. No, John - geez. I figured you would
assume that. No. I'm not. She's not a lesbian, nor is
she bisexual. I am just a good friend. That's all.
Sarah just needs some explaining, that's all."

"You sound like her therapist." John said defensively.

"Hell, no. Her therapist would kill me for trying to
explain her. But I love her, I want this to work for
her. You've shown me you're not an asshole, John.
Don't prove me wrong."

"Fuck. OK. Fine, fuck it. Where do you want to meet?"

"I thought you would agree - let's meet behind the
Met at the Needle."

"OK. Should I come alone and unarmed?" He sounded
insolent and didn't care.

"Come however you want. Just bring your brain, okay?"
Her voice turned harsh for a moment, like she had had
too many cigarettes, and she coughed.

"OK." John said, hanging up the phone.
_________________________________________________________
DO YOU YAHOO!?
Get your free @yahoo.com address at http://mail.yahoo.com


-- 
+----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+
| <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> | <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> |
| Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/>----<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>