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Archive-name: Fantasy/sim-036.txt

Archive-author: Edited by Spencer Ashbee

Archive-title: Unpublished Cimarron

   The time is the near future. Low-cost simulation devices -- like the 

   Star Trek holodeck -- are readily available and widely used in private 

   homes. These devices create utterly realistic environments and simulated 

   people, with whom real people can interact.

   CIMARRON is a monthly publication, distributed on holographic video chips,

   featuring home-made simulation fantasies contributed by subscribers.

   These chips can be plugged into any simulator for private use at home.

   As an editor of CIMARRON, I've collected some of the simulation fantasies 

   we thought it prudent not to publish, and edited them into this series of

   stories. Many describe sex with software-created figures that appear to be 

   quite young.


   ***************************************** Scroll down to continue ********

   Simulation 36/ Author's Prologue:


   I created this one long ago, when a friend gave me my first simulator 

   for my birthday. It's very special to me. He was my last real boyfriend.

   I save this simulation for special occasions -- like my birthday, last 

   week. It'd been a long time since I indulged in it, and I'd almost

   forgotten just how delicious this one is.

   I'd just gotten home, shucked off my clothes, was alone for the first

   time all day...

   "Lights off," I called from the bedroom. The living room lights 

   winked out. Only starlight and the glow of the skyline illuminated the 

   room. Naked, I stepped into the living room and sauntered toward the 

   window wall, legs and hips rolling with the sensual grace that drove men 

   crazy. I savored the soft breath of the room's air circulation system on 

   my skin, the plush of the rich carpet between my toes, the gentle rhythm 

   of the remaining brandy in a snifter held with casual fingers.


   I stood, my feet shoulder-width apart, and stared out over lower 

   Manhattan. I could see a repair crew working on the promenade atop the 

   remaining World Trade Center tower. Farther south, far below, 

   unrelenting floodlights glared on the wire-topped walls around the 

   Governor's Island Maximum Security Facility. Choppers and hovercraft 

   still encircled the Statue of Liberty, so I knew the Secessionist 

   Party's takeover hadn't ended yet. 


   My gaze followed the lights of an aircraft vectoring in over the 

   ocean toward JFK. I knew from its approach that it was a Hypersonic, and 

   not a conventional craft.


   And abruptly I found myself staring at my own reflection. I watched 

   my face change, saw the mocking smirk take control. I raised the 

   snifter. "Congratulations. You've really made it to the big time -- 

   asshole." I emptied the snifter into my mouth and lowered it. 


   I examined myself the way men did, had, in the pictures, the chips 

   -- in person, if they were wealthy and smooth enough. Thirty-two years 

   old and I could still pass for 22. The only changes were for the better. 

   I gave myself a mental pat on the back for wisdom in choosing parents. 

   The high Mandarin genes were going to keep me virtually ageless for 

   another decade, at least, and after that I could always avail myself of 

   the Wonders of Medical Science. My face might have been my fortune, 

   because it was a beautiful face, if I say so myself. The high cheekbones 

   and slanted eyes gave me a patrician look. The full lips and long lashes 

   made me look like I was always ready for bed. My hair was almost waist-

   length, thick and lustrous and black. 


   But my body was the money-maker. Slender and lithe, with firm, 

   rounded breasts, a handful on each side. My hips were as narrow as a 

   boy's and my tummy was as flat and firm as any athlete's. My ass was 

   pert and hard, and my legs were long and well-shaped. I'd been born with 

   good genes and worked hard at making the most of the body they gave me. 

   It showed. 


   And there, between my legs, was the Prize, the Grail for which men 

   would pay outrageously: my pussy. Oh, I knew what it was worth to the 

   second decimal. The penthouse, the view, the maid, the furnishings -- 

   everything I had in the Big Time had been bought with that opening. I 

   took prime care of my prime asset. 


   My reflection in the unlit room was too dark to see the details, 

   but I didn't have to see them to know them. One small, pink slit, 

   surrounded by thin lips, topped by a sensitive nodule of nerves, all 

   beneath a small tuft of slightly manicured and always soft black down. 

   What made my pussy worth so much to so many men?


   "Packaging, asshole," I told the empty room, and turned from the 

   window, mooning the Harbor as I ambled toward the liquor cabinet.


   It was a fortunate mystery that men were willing to pay so much for 

   my pussy. The only thing that made it different from others was the 

   packaging. For some reason, a lot of men are fascinated by Chinese 

   pussy. And if it's packaged in a firm, tight-bodied, sexy faced Chinese 

   girl with waist length black hair, so much the more valued. And if she's 

   been in some feature films and a careful magazine layout or two and done 

   some fashion modeling --


   "Well, the price just keeps on a-climbing." And I poured another 

   splash of the brandy into the snifter.


   So every few weeks I went on a little vacation. A business 

   conference in Riyadh with the corporate counsel from Exxon Holdings. Four 

   days in Vancouver with the Cuban ambassador. New Orleans for Mardi Gras 

   with the real estate developer and his wife.


   My dates were always classy and always generous. The maintenance on 

   the penthouse, for instance. That was from the wife; the penthouse was 

   from the developer. 


   And they were usually fun, too. I didn't have to fake enjoyment, 

   most of the time. I liked sex, took pleasure in fucking. Always did. 


   "Always did." Somehow, the snifter was empty again. "Always did," I 

   told the dark room, "but just didn't want to admit it soon enough." I 

   put the snifter on the cabinet top and stepped into my special room. I'd 

   managed to stay out of it for almost a month, but this was my birthday 

   and I was in my birthday funk.


   "Lights on lowest."


   I settled into the couch and put the LexSpun mask over my nose and 

   mouth, then let my fingers trigger the sequencer. I closed my eyes as 

   Sensor Wrap engulfed me and molded itself to my high-priced body. 


            "Computer: initiate simulation number 36. Birthday special."

            << Acknowledged. Stand by... >>

            << Program ready. >>

           "Thanks. Engage..."



   The scene snaps into focus. A familiar scene -- a familiar face -- 

   I remember so well...

   "You finish homework?"


   I look up, blinking, and smile. "Yes, Grandmother. Time to close up?"


   "Yes, we hurry now."

   I'd let my thoughts wander and now I can't even remember -- 


   A flash of movement in the brightly lit window across the dark 

   street from the Chinese Hand Laundry my grandparent's run. Yes, there he 

   is, cleaning up the coin-op laundry. How can he *be* so hot and not know 

   it? I suppress a groan of frustration and want as I watch his muscles 

   ripple under the sweat-soaked tee-shirt, his butt flex, so cute and hard 

   in old denim cutoff shorts. I feel the itch between my legs, the 

   throbbing of my no-boob nipples.


   "Come on, missy, we hurry up now." 


   "Yes, Grandmother."


   I gather my books, reluctant to leave the view of him, but not 

   resenting my grandparents. They have taken me in and raised me kindly 

   and generously since I was 11 months old and smuggled out of China. 

   Besides, they could not suspect a 12-year-old girl -- who looks three 

   years younger -- of having such desires and feelings.


   I step outside, books under my arm. Tomorrow is Saturday, but to 

   Grandmother, that is no reason to put off doing my homework. For now, 

   though, I savor the smell of the clean night air, inhaling the fragrance 

   of the breeze. There's almost no traffic on this stretch of Seventh 

   Avenue South tonight, so the noise level is bearable. The unseasonably 

   early heat wave has apparently tired the revelers who will crowd the 

   Greenwich Village streets on the summer nights this one presages. 


   Grandmother shuffles outside behind me, carrying her shopping bag 

   of fresh fruits and vegetables. Grandfather, behind her, turns off the 

   lights in our little storefront, turns on the alarm system, rattles the 

   locks into place.


   I risk watching him again, finishing his work in the coin-op across 

   the street. His thighs look so solid! He turns and spots me staring, but 

   I can't stop; my eyes are on the faded denim crotch, seeing the fullness 

   there, imagining...


   He's waving! I wave back, too energetically in my confusion and 

   eagerness and why do I have to be such a gawky shrimp?


   He steps outside, lighting one of his cigarettes. "Good night!" he 

   calls to us. "Good night! Good night!" we chorus back at him. 


   "You go sleep, rest!" my Grandmother instructs him sternly. She is 

   convinced he does not get enough sleep or eat properly. She has 

   appointed herself his grandmother, too. He accepts it in good nature, 

   clearly appreciating the concern. He smiles, and my heart beats a little 

   faster, my knees tremble a little more -- 




   A woman's voice. She's crossing Charles Street toward him as she 

   waves to us. 

   Damn it! ANOTHER girlfriend? What's this, number five? She steps 

   into the pool of light from inside the coin-op and I see her face 

   clearly. The bitch is Oriental! Damn him!


   "So much for rest," mutters Grandfather in Cantonese. Grandfather 

   speaks little, but wisely. He doesn't miss much.


   "Good night!" Grandmother calls and we head off toward home. As we 

   turn the corner and start walking down Seventh, I glance back. Sure 

   enough: They've got their arms wrapped around each other and they're 

   sucking face. I'm seething inside and quiet during the walk home. Since 

   he moved into the building across the street and took over as janitor a 

   year ago, I've seen him with several different women regularly. There's 

   the shapely little one with the reddish brown hair, the perky blonde 

   with the round glasses, the voluptuous Puerto Rican and...and...and -- 

   oh, yeah -- the short brunette with the round face and the enormous 

   tits. And now this Oriental bitch!


   As we cross Christopher Street, I try to tell myself not to be 

   stupid about it, not be angry or jealous. I have no right to it. I am 

   12, look to be nine, just a gawky little Chink kid with no visible tits 

   and the sex appeal of a laundry bag. Besides, I tell myself, what would 

   I want from him, anyhow?


   And as I crawl into bed, only my lonely fingers for lovers, I tell 

   myself the truth. I know what I want from him.





   It's going to be another scorcher. Second Saturday in May, and 

   already the temperature is near 80 at ten o'clock in the morning. I'm 

   roller skating on the sidewalk across the street from his building. I've 

   overheard Grandmother telling Grandfather that she saw the Oriental 

   bitch leaving his building through his private door at eight-thirty, 

   though Grandmother doesn't call her an "Oriental bitch," of course.


   Off and on since nine o'clock, I've heard the high-pitched whines 

   of various power tools from his basement workshop, so I know he's 

   building something. Checking for traffic on Waverly, I skate across to 

   his side of the street. He glances up through the single, small window, 

   sun catching all the coppery highlights in his beard. He sees me and 

   waves. I wave back and, of course, almost lose my balance. He laughs, 

   puts his goggles and ear protectors back on and resumes sanding some 

   wood. I can't see what he's making, but I want nothing more at that 

   awkward, embarrassing moment than to be in a hole deep underground.


   For the next 45 minutes, I practice furiously. I am determined to 

   be graceful, dammit. Then I notice him, standing outside his workshop 

   door, smoking. Sweat is pouring off his face and neck and arms, making 

   river tracks in the sawdust coating him. 


   He's watching me skate, just watching...and I feel funny. He smiles 

   warmly and waves again and -- and I skate across the street to him. 


   "Hi, Judy!"


   His voice gives me shivers when he says my name.


   "Hi. What are you making?"


   "Another bookcase. Outgrew the others already. I can't pass up a 



   "Are you going to paint it?" Why am I asking him that? To prolong 

   the dialogue.


   He shakes his head, exhaling smoke. "Clear finish. I love seeing 

   the grain in wood."


   "I guess you have a lot of books."


   "Couple of hundred, anyhow. I think they breed when I'm not 

   watching them."


   I giggle at that word: "Breed."


   "I wish I could give more of them away. I just hate to throw books 

   out, but I like giving them away."


   "What are they about?"


   "All different kinds. Lots of novels, reference books, even 

   textbooks. Come over and take a look; maybe you'll find some you like."


   "Sure! When?" On impulse.


   "Say, around one? That'll give me time to finish and get clean."


   "Okay. See you then."


   He waves, crushes out his cigarette and steps back into his 

   workshop. A minute later, I hear the sander whining again.



   It's half-past one. I'm standing by the private entrance to his 

   basement apartment. Suddenly, I'm scared to death. Of what? I don't 

   know. Yes, I do. Of making a complete idiot of myself. Of not being able 

   to control myself. I don't know.


   I've brushed my hair four times. Washed my face twice. Put on a 

   fresh blouse and shorts -- having a hand laundry in the family does have 

   its advantages. Suddenly, I'm convinced I look stupid, or that he can 

   tell how confused and scared and nervous and desperate for him that I 

   am. I shouldn't do this. I have to do this.


   I knock. A moment later, the door opens and he beckons me inside. I 

   step in front of him and suddenly am overwhelmed by the size and force 

   and presence of him. It's all I can do to keep from shaking. The room is 

   well-lit, but cooled by the big air conditioner in the window.


   "Welcome to my home," he says gently and moves to close the door. I 

   want to tell him I can't stay, that I just came by to thank him for the 

   offer but I have to do some chore for Grandmother. I am terrified. I am 

   excited. I am confused.



            << Interrupt choice point: Replay, or alternate? >>



   I take a deep breath. "It's nice and cool in here."


   He smiles. "One of the nice things about being the super -- the 

   landlord pays for the electricity." He gestures toward the row of 

   ceiling-high bookcases that separate a desk from a doorway that leads 

   back toward his workshop. "Go ahead and start gleaning. Want some juice 

   or something?"


   "Please, anything." I watch him enter the kitchen -- separated from 

   the living room by a low brick wall -- and open the refrigerator. His 

   hair is still wet from his shower and he's wearing a clean yellow polo 

   shirt and new jeans. I step up to the bookshelves just before he turns 

   from the refrigerator.


   I look at the little desk he has set up and the small computer on 

   it. I notice the ashtray and the empty coffee mug. On the wall adjoining 

   the bookcases are three rows of mirrored tiles. My reflection is flushed 

   and I realize that I can just barely make out the little bumps of my 

   tiny tits, topped by my stiff nipples, within the white blouse. Then I 

   see him coming up behind me and am again struck by how much bigger he is 

   than I am. 


   My fear heightens -- and then evaporates. There is something about 

   him that inspires trust. I am safe with him. He will not hurt me. It is 

   not something I know -- it is something I feel, deep inside. 


   "Here you go," he says, handing me the tall glass of grapefruit 

   juice. Two ice cubes clink inside. 


   "Thanks." My fingers brush his as I take the glass.


   "Found anything yet?"


   I sip, then shake my head. "Didn't really start looking yet."


   "Just go ahead and browse." I begin examining titles as he sits on 

   the couch across the room. 


   "My skating isn't very good, is it?" I say, my back to him.


   "It's not bad. I was watching you practice your spins."


   "Seems like no matter how much I practice, I still fall down."


   He laughed. "Hey, I've been through it, too."


   My gaze fastens on a title: The Illustrated Alice. I take it from 

   the shelf. "I get embarrassed when someone sees me slip."


   "Understandably. You get used to it, though. Found one you like?"


   I turn and put my glass on the desk next to his coffee mug. "Yes." 

   I hold it up for him. 


   He smiles broadly. "Oh, yeah, wonderful. You like 'Alice'?"


   "Very much."


   "Somewhere over there is a book about the author and the real 

   Alice. Even has some pictures he took."


   I turn and scan the titles again. I glance in the mirror and see 

   him watching me.


   "You're watching me just like you did when I was skating."


   "I'm sorry. You're very pretty and I like to watch pretty girls."


   Something lurches in my stomach. He thinks I'm pretty? Me? A 

   skinny, clumsy, gawky, no-tits, worthless Chinese laundry kid?


   And for the first time in my life, I have been told I'm pretty by 

   someone not in my family.


   I feel myself reddening. 


   "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stare or say anything. I'm going to 

   get some more juice..." He quickly walks out of the room and I realize 

   that he means it -- he really means it. He doesn't want to make me 

   uncomfortable in any way and he's just made it easy for me to deal with 

   the potential embarrassment of having to ask him not to look at me in 

   that way. 


   I can trust him. I feel it. And I want him desperately. But nothing 

   can ever come of it because I'm a little kid no matter what I feel like 

   and he's a grownup man, more than double my age and I don't care because 

   I just want him so bad I can almost cry.


   "Want some more juice?"


   "Uh, oh -- no, thanks." And I spot the book he described. It's on 

   the top shelf. I stretch on tiptoes toward it, but at 140 centimeters, 

   it's just beyond my fingertips.


   "Here, I'll get that." He steps up behind me and reaches over me to 

   grab the book. I automatically settle back flatfooted and turning and my 

   hips brushes his thigh. I shiver at the contact.


   He hands me the book. "Are you alright?"


   "Oh, sure," I lie. "Just a little cold."


   "I noticed," he says quickly and then blushes. "Sorry," he mutters 

   and moves away from me. 


   I glimpse my reflection in the mirrored tiles again and see how 

   prominent my nipples are against my blouse. A strange calm settles 

   through me. With it comes a strong tension that emanates from somewhere 

   inside me...between my hips.


   "You're pretty observant today," I say quietly.


   He sitting on the couch again, looking toward the kitchen. Slowly, 

   he turns his face toward me. He's looking at me quite differently, 

   almost speculatively. "I told you -- I pay close attention to pretty 



   I slowly pan my vision down over his torso, to the clearly visible 

   lump in his jeans, then look into his eyes again. "I can be observant, 

   too. Are *you* cold?"


   He chuckles easily. "Okay, okay -- you got me. Even?"


   I smile back. "Not quite. You owe me one." I put the book down and 

   slowly zig-zag toward him, hands clasped behind my back. "I want to ask 

   you something."


   His expression becomes wary. "O-kay..."


   "Do you think --" I take a deep breath, then nervously thrust my 

   hands into the hip-pockets of my shorts. "Do you think I'm as pretty as 

   the girls in your harem?"


   He bursts out laughing. "My what???"


   "Your harem...Oh, never mind!" Face hot, I turn and stalk toward 

   the door, then realize I can't go outside all flushed. I hesitate and 

   turn just as he is suddenly *there* and towering over me, looming like 

   some elemental force.


   "Judy, I wasn't laughing at you." His hands lightly brush my 



   "Then what was so funny?"


   "That word -- 'harem'! What ever gave you the idea that I have a 



   "You have five girlfriends, sometimes on five straight nights!"


   "Have you been keeping a scorecard on my friends? I never thought 

   you'd even notice!"


   "I see them come here at night and leave in the morning -- or did 

   you think I'm too dumb to know what's going on?"


   "Oh, Judy..." He takes a deep breath. "Judy, they're friends and 

   lovers. They all have other friends and lovers. I'm not the first choice 

   for any of them!" He takes another deep breath, then smiles and looks me 

   right in the eyes. I have the feeling he can see what's going on in my 

   head...and lower. "Judy, I think you are absolutely beautiful."


   "Don't try to flatter me -- "


   He expression changed and hardened. "I do not 'flatter' anyone. I 

   think you're beautiful. I think you are going to grow up into one of the 

   most stunningly gorgeous females ever to walk the Earth. If it wasn't 

   for the difference in our ages, I'd be all over you."


   I look at him skeptically. 


   "Alright." He turns me around and marches toward the mirror tiles. 

   "Look. See for yourself. Pretend you're looking at someone else standing 

   here with me. Wouldn't you say that's a pretty girl in the mirror?"


   I am momentarily shocked by what I see: This big, strong, hot hunk 

   of man for whom I have hungered for so long, so quietly, standing half-

   behind and half-beside a very petite Chinese girl...who isn't really 

   bad-looking at all. In fact, she could be cute. Even pretty.


   "See?" he says. "Lovely."


   I watch my face become uncertain in the mirror. "But why don't any 

   boys tell me that? No one has ever so much as asked me out on a date."


   "They will," he says quietly. "I would." 


   "You really think I'm pretty?"


   I watched his face in the mirror. He's nodding, but he seems 

   uncertain of whether to say something.




   "Oh, Judy, you're -- What? Twelve? -- and I have a hard time 

   keeping my hands off you even now. I can't tell you how much I'd like--" 

   He stops and shakes his head.




   "I -- I just wish I could put my arms around you and hold you?"


   I question him with my gaze in the reflection.


   "Yes, really."


   I shift to the side, standing fully in front of him. The top of my 

   head barely reaches his chest. I reach back and take his hands in mine 

   and pull his arms around me.


   "So would I."


   I see his reflection's eyes close tightly, feel the tightness in 

   him as he turns his head to one side and rests his cheek against the top 

   of my head -- and feel him shudder, expelling a long-held breath. The 

   tension changes in him and becomes something much more palpable as his 

   arms tighten around me. I hunch my shoulders and press back and up 

   against him, trembling with delight. I feel all his strength and 

   yearning and warmth against me and enveloping me. My eyes close in 

   pleasure and long, delicious seconds later, I feel his head move and 

   then his lips are pressing the top of my head. I pull his hand to my 

   face and press my lips into the work-toughened palm.


   A gentle pressure urges me and I turn within his arms. Suddenly, I 

   am all lithe and graceful. I am desired and beautiful. He takes my face 

   in his hands and kisses my forehead, my eyes, my chin, my cheeks. His 

   beard is scratchy and I don't care. Dozens of small, urgent kisses, 

   everywhere on my face but my lips. I ache inside and yearn to feel his 

   mouth on mine. 


   His hands leave my face and I turn my mouth toward him, waiting -- 

   for a moment. Now he is kissing me sweetly, lightly, as if my lips were 

   a delicate morsel to be savored carefully. I throw my arms around his 

   neck, pulling myself up against him, pulling him down to me. I mash my 

   mouth against his hungrily and a moment later feel his tongue lightly 

   dancing across my lips. I part my lips slightly and he coaxes me to meet 

   his touch there as his arms wrap around the small of my back and he 

   crushes my torso against his wonderful, strong musculature. 


   For years, it seems, we are locked in this embrace. His hands are 

   beginning to wander over my back and sides, then one slides down to 

   cover half of my butt, gently squeezing -- and suddenly he stops. 


   He pulls his mouth of mine and carefully releases me. We are both 

   panting and aroused. He steps back a pace and takes my shoulders in his 

   hands. Lightly.


   "Judy, I want you very, very much. If we keep doing this, I won't 

   be able to stop. Maybe you should leave and think about this -- "


   "I-I--" I hear the tremor in my voice. I breathe deeply. "I have 

   been thinking about this for a very, very long time." I think carefully, 

   assembling just the right words. "I want you to be my first lover and 

   teach me -- everything."


   "Are you sure you're ready for this? Do you know what it means?"


   "I'm not sure I'm ready, but I want it and I know what it means -- 

   in theory."


   "You can stop now -- "

   "If I stop now, I'll never forgive myself. I want you."


   He nods. "Oh, good." He smiles and points past the kitchen, to a 

   closed door. "It's in there."


   "Yes." I hold my arms up to him, smiling and closing my eyes. A 

   moment later, he sweeps me into his embrace. I wrap my legs around his 

   hips and he carries me, kissing my face and neck and throat, past the 

   kitchen. He pauses, shifting and then the door is opening and I sense 

   more humidity, more heat. The air conditioner has not been running in 

   the bedroom. It's is steamy, by contrast.


   I open my eyes as he bends, laying me back on the bed. My legs fall 

   away from his waist as he kisses my throat. His mouth covers mine again 

   and this time, there is a wonderful passion and hunger in him -- for me! 

   For me! He runs one big, gentle hand from my calf to my knee, then over 

   the outside of my thigh and my hip, finally over my waist and up to my 

   chest. He lightly palms my nipple through the white blouse and I shake 

   uncontrollably with anticipation and pleasure and arousal and fear.


   I am afraid, now. What if I do something wrong? Will I embarrass 

   myself and offend him with some childish stupidity?


   I run my fingers through his hair -- it's so soft! -- and then over 

   his shoulders. I can feel the power in those shoulders, barely 

   controlled might. I put my hands against his chest and push slightly and 

   instantly, his mouth is off mine and his eyes, concerned, search mine. 

   "Are you okay?"


   "I -- Please? I don't know exactly what I should be doing?"


   "Whatever you want to do -- that's the right thing to do. Trust 

   yourself to the moment."


   I feel my lips quiver. "More!" His mouth descends upon mine again. 

   His hand caresses my face, my hair, my arm, my breast, my hip, my 

   abdomen. I feel his chest through his shirt and pull his hand back to my 

   breast, wishing it were larger so more of me could feel him touching it.  

   I tug at the waist of his shirt and pulls away for a moment. I open my 

   eyes and watch him peel it off. His face reappears and he tosses the 

   damp yellow cloth over his shoulder and smiles at me.


   "You're so beautiful!" I gasp and he blushes deep red at the 

   compliment. But it's true. His chest is strong and broad, yet not 

   bulging. There is a sparse scattering of little copper-colored hairs and 

   I run my fingertips over it. How strange to feel hair there! How 



   He is still kneeling. I sit up smoothly on impulse and kiss his 

   chest. I taste the salt of his perspiration and inhale his musk. It 

   sends a surge of moisture through my pussy -- a surge that redoubles 

   when his hands begin undoing the buttons on my blouse.


   "No -- wait." I stand and he turns, sitting, watching me. I 

   carefully undo the buttons and -- suddenly shy -- turn toward the 

   closet, my back to him. I take a hanger and put the blouse on it, then 

   turn back to him, afraid I'll catch him concealing laughter at my almost 

   nonexistent breasts.


   What I see, instead, is soft-eyed rapture. His mouth hangs open for 

   a moment. Then he says, "Judy, you are perfection." He holds his hand 

   out to me. I take it and he pulls me to the bed, settles me on my back. 

   My hands cup his face and pull his lips to my yearning nipples and he 

   feasts upon them. As he mouths and sucks one, his hand caresses the 

   other. My legs part of their own accord and my hips begin moving. I drop 

   one hand to my waist and unsnap my shorts, then unzip them. I pull his 

   hand down there and thrust it inside. He cups my cunt lightly through 

   the panties and raises his mouth from my left breastlet long enough to 

   say, "You're getting very wet down there."


   Yes, I understand and quickly wiggle shorts and panties down past 

   my knees, then kick them off. 


   I pull his face back to my breasts. He is oh! just ever so gently 

   nipping at my nipples with his teeth, then caressing them with his 

   tongue. And his hand has returned to my thighs and finally, to my naked 

   cunt. I almost cum at that first touch by another's flesh there. I trap 

   his hand between my thighs and hunch my pussy against it, desperate. 


   His mouth returns to mine and he has wrapped his arm around me, 

   holding me so powerfully, so strongly! His desire is tangible; I can 

   feel it throbbing through the denim at his crotch. I run my hand down to 

   the lump and press it. It feels like some raging beast, throbbing within 

   its confinement. And it feels -- immense!


   But then he is pulling away from me, his lips leaving mine -- only 

   to descend again to my shoulders, my breasts. His lips move lower, over 

   the hard, muscle-taut plane of my abdomen. I feel his beard against my 

   thighs, and his tongue, his ever-moving tongue, trailing fire up over 

   the inner flesh of my legs. Higher and higher, until I can feel his 

   breath on the crease of my thighs and then the longest, slowest, 

   softest, feathering thrill of just his tongue tip barely grazing over 

   the length of my tight little labia.


   "AHHHH!" I gasp, cumming. "AHHHH!" Cumming again as his tongue 

   worries the lips open. "AHHHHHHH!" And again as that hot, wet tongue 

   circles my magic button. My legs fly apart and I arch up at him. My 

   hands grab his head and press him closer as I grind my cunt against his 

   bewhiskered chin and shudder through seemingly endless orgasms from his 

   tongue on my clitoris.


   His hands are beneath me, covering and squeezing my convulsing 

   buttocks, feeding my pussy to him as if it were a rice bowl. Now one 

   hand shifts and I feel a fingertip at the entrance. I need that inside 

   me and he knows it! It prods its way past the opening, slowly delves 

   deeper, deeper until I feel the pressure against my hymen. There's a 

   moment's tense discomfort -- and then his tongue redoubles its movement, 

   the tip barely touching my swollen clitoris. I hump madly at his face, 

   his tongue -- and then drive my hips down, impaling myself on that 

   finger as I cum.

   To my astonished delight, the pain is fleeting and quickly washed 

   away by the pleasure. In seconds, I am cumming again and again.


   But I want more. I want -- 


   I want -- 


   "I want to see it!" I growl at him, pulling his face up from 

   between my legs. "I want to see it now!"


   His face is covered with my juices and slack with lust.


   For me.


   He climbs to his knees, then rolls to his feet on the floor beside 

   the bed. He unfastens his belt, unsnaps the waist fastening, unzips, 

   pushes the denim down...


   His prick is terrifying. It is beautiful. It is frightening. It is 

   magnificent. It is rock-hard and purplish and has veins and bumps on it 

   and it is pointing at me, throbbing as if about to explode. It is huge, 

   it seems -- though academically, I know it is no more than 15 or 20 

   centimeters long, and not at all the dangling monsters some men are 

   reputed to have. I glance down at myself, at my torso, and wonder if it 

   is possible to get something so huge into my body.


   It will be possible, I tell myself, because nothing less will 

   satisfy me.


   He mounts the bed, kneeling, and shuffles over to me. I turn to my 

   side and examine his cock and balls. I put my hand tentatively on his 

   prick. I feel his pulse in it and am astonished at the heat. It is quite 

   thick; I can not encircle it with my fingers. Beneath it, between his 

   legs, is the strange, wrinkled sack holding his balls. They do seem 

   quite large, and certainly very tight. I squeeze his cock and he moans. 

   A small drop of clear fluid forms at the tip.


   "I -- I don't know what to -- what to do -- " I breathe, fascinated 

   by this wonderful appendage in my fingers.


   "Whatever you want to do or nothing at all."


   On impulse, I lean forward and kiss the tip of his cock. He groans 

   and his prick jerks. I have an overwhelming desire to take him in my 

   mouth -- and I do.


   I have to stretch my lips to their widest, but I manage to pull his 

   glans into my mouth. He tastes strong and musky and -- male. So very 

   male! I suck on his cock hard and he groans loudly. 


   I pull my mouth off his prick, worried. "Did I hurt you? Did I suck 

   too hard?"


   He shakes his head jerkily. "No such thing as sucking it too hard. 

   Only your teeth could hurt it."


   I lean forward again and suck him hard this time, as hard as I can. 

   I feel his prick swelling in my mouth. His fingers are light as feathers 

   on my hair, brushing it from my face, caressing my jaw, my ears, my 

   head, now guiding me back and then down, slowly. I understand and take 

   up the movement and he moans, his cock pulsing madly in my mouth. It 

   feels strangely perfect to have his cock in my mouth, to be sucking his 

   prick -- not "cocksucking" but sucking his cock. I feel absurdly freed 

   to take liberties now, to indulge myself of the moment. My hand rises of 

   its own accord, gliding over his taut abdomen, to the strange, thick mat 

   of coppery curls around the base of his penis. I wend my fingers through 

   them and grip his prick's root. I squeeze. It feels like the hose I use 

   to rinse the sidewalk in front of the store, heavy with back-pressure, 

   ready to burst or spurt.


   My hand slides lower and to his side. His hips are so strong and 

   tense! I did that, I know, and knowing it makes me feel powerful and 

   free and grownup. I squeeze his ass cheek, then the back of his thigh. 

   My hand comes around to cup his testicles, so full and large in their 

   tight, wrinkled sack, heavy with semen for -- me? 


   Yes, for me!


   His hands, trembling, are pulling my face gently off his cock. It 

   looks even larger and more insistent now, and his face is so filled with 

   lust for me that I nearly have an orgasm. 


   "Stop?" I croak, unsure.


   "Too good, too sweet -- you'll have me cumming in your mouth," he 

   rasps, laying me back on the bed. "Unless that's what you prefer this 



   I take his meaning as he hesitates above me. I shake my head. 

   "Inside me, please! I ache for you!"


   Gently, with one powerful hand, he raises my hips and slides the 

   pillow beneath -- then pauses and leans down to kiss my lips. No tongue 

   this time, no pressure; just the sweetest, most loving of lavings that 

   somehow leaves me more aroused and breathless and certain this is right 

   than ever before.


   His hand pulls my legs up as he kneels between my thighs. I see the 

   spear of his penis throbbing above my abdomen. Can this be possible? It 

   will fit in there? I look at his face and find him watching mine. Has he 

   read my mind? "This way, you will be more open and it will go easier at 

   the beginning." He smiles, sharing an adult-sex-together thought: "And 

   you're certainly slippery enough!"


   I nod and smile and whisper, "Oh, please..?" And I pull my legs up 

   and back, back, back. If he says open and wider is important, I will 

   show him how limber I am, how the dance classes and aerobics have 

   prepared me. I take my ankles in my hands and pull them close to my 


   He disengages my grip and pulls my legs down some. "No -- like 

   this. The other way will make you too small inside. Trust --"


   "Oh, yes!"


   And I watch him take his cock in his hands, shifting to rub it up 

   and down against my little-girl-soon-to-be-grownup slit. I feel his heat 

   against my own and watch the bulbous head glisten with my juices as I 

   feel the velvety glans brush my labia and clitoris. His other hand comes 

   forward and cups my face in a caress. I turn my head on impulse and kiss 

   his palm, tasting my own juices there. The hand slides lower and his 

   damp palm lightly brushes over my nipple. I writhe with the sensations: 

   his cock against my pussy and clit, his callused palm silk-soft against 

   my nipple. My hips are hunching toward him, hungry for the food with 

   which he tantalizes.


   Without warning, his shifts his angle and I feel him wedging me 

   open. There is an immense pressure, building, forcing, burrowing, 

   driving, mining into me. It is implacable and almost terrifying. I 

   squeeze my eyes tightly shut, certain I will split open and -- 


   -- it is inside me. Lodged no more than glans-deep, he is inside 

   me. I can feel his throbbing there, testing and challenging my capacity. 

   I open my eyes and look into his face. His eyes are screwed shut, as if 

   he were in excruciating pain. I can see him hyperventilating. I hear the 

   snap as his hands become fists, knuckles cracking and whitening. I reach 

   up and brush his chest. "Are you alright?"


   He nods, manages a whisper: "I've wanted you so much, and now it is 

   so good -- " He gasps. "I'm trying to restrain myself, to make it last."


   Hearing this confession -- of his desire for me, the pleasure I 

   give him -- my hips tighten and I feel the throbbing need inside. But 

   his expression becomes a grimace as I pulse upon him. 


   "So good!" he moans.


   I let my legs curl around the small of his back, my calves tense 

   and feeling his powerful muscles. His eyes pop wide, his gaze fixed on 



   "I want all of you," I say, the huskiness of my voice surprising 

   me. "I want to sheath you in me." From where have these words come? No 

   matter; they have their effect on him. He shudders as I pull myself 

   farther onto him.


   I can feel him inside my all-but-virgin cunt, every detail and 

   feature of his prick: the fat glans, like a mole digging into me; the 

   little ridge and the depression behind it, so smooth and giving in its 

   featheriness; the steely swell of his iron-hard shaft, with its bulging 

   veins conveying his heartbeat to me.


   The sensations are overwhelming me. I feel incredibly full, yet 

   yearning for more. The pleasure is not even sexual, but something more. 

   His face and breathing and tautness tell me I am showing him my desire 

   to give him pleasure and love. The throbbing of the cock inside me 

   reverberates through me. His pulse gives movement to my cunt, my hips, 

   my torso, my being. 


   I look down between us, certain he is almost completely inside me. 

   Far from it. And then he hunches forward and drives deep into me, 

   filling me completely.


   I arch, pulling myself up till only the back of my head, my 

   shoulders and hands touch the bed, My legs are locked around his back. I 

   can not catch my breath for a moment. I feel so incredibly FULL!


   His hands go to my hips, gripping them. His fingers completely cup 

   my buttocks, his thumbs within centimeters of touching each other just 

   beneath my navel. He pulls me back and slightly off him, then rams me 

   down again. 


   "Ahhhh!" It explodes from me, as if I am a bellows and he is 

   pumping me with a rod. Which he is. 


   Again, he pulls me back. I hear and feel my cunt sucking off him. 

   Again, he rams me down. 


   "Ahh!" Again. "Ah!" Again, "Ah!" Faster. "Ah! Ah! Ah!"


   Now there is sexual pleasure, intense and incredible, boiling 

   inside me. It is too much to bear, as if there is a second, more 

   sensitive clitoris inside me and he is touching it with each stroke.


   "Ah! Ah! Ah!"


   I am all but limp, now, unable to control myself and unwilling to 

   try. He is pumping me on his wonderful, hard, filling cock; he is making 

   my hips flail and causing them to revel in it; he is pounding into me 

   with all of our need.


   I shriek with pleasure and then, terrified at my own volume, sink 

   my teeth into my own wrist to stifle myself. I can not control it. The 

   pleasure seizes me, turns everything to glorious, golden mist as I feel 

   my self leave my body and meld with his self in ultimate, rapturous 

   satisfaction -- and it intensifies from there!


   "Can't hold it!" he gasps. "Don't worry -- I'll pull out!"




   "Yes -- pregnant -- " Gritting his teeth, clenching his jaw, 

   perspiration wet and hot and lovely dripping to my convulsing, bulging 

   abdomen from his forehead. I can trust him -- but the waste! I can't let 

   him waste his precious fluids on the sheets! I have earned them, craved 



   He pulls me off him with a groan of frustration and a growl of 

   determination. He moans. I feel the heat and force of his ejaculation 

   spilled and cooling on my belly, my breasts. His grip loosens on my 

   hips. I twist free and scramble and pull his cock into my mouth as the 

   next spurt exits.


   "AAAAwwwww..." he moans as I suck his semen into my mouth. It's 

   salty and -- lovely. It is his, the product of his body and his lust for 

   me and I deserve it. I suck all the harder and he collapses back, 

   sitting on his heels as the third eruption flows into my mouth. I 

   swallow and suck, wanting more and not knowing how much there is but 

   determined to have it all. Twice more he spurts in my mouth and then he 

   is oozing onto my tongue.


   "Oh, Judy, Judy..." he murmurs, his hand gentle and trembling on my 

   face and head. I suck till I am certain there's no more for now, then 

   suck the residue off his cock and he pulls me into his arms, rolling to 

   his back on the bed, and kisses me, deeply and sweetly. 


   "I love you," I murmur and for the first time feel the gravity in 

   the words. 


   "I love you," he confirms. "Truly, deeply, I have and always will."


   "If only I were older..." I say, fighting the frustration and 

   tightness in my throat. Why did he have to be born so soon and me so 

   late? Why could we not have never met?


   But: "I don't care," he is saying. "I'll wait for you. I've waited 

   this long, I can wait longer. I can be very patient -- for you. I'll 

   always wait."


   And I trust him, knowing the vow for true, and melt into his arms, 

   on an unseasonably hot Saturday morning in early May of my twelfth 





   Sometime later, I surrendered to reality -- something I'm very 

   practiced at -- and stirred. 


   The damned machine was prompting me.

            << Another simulation? >>

            "No. Terminate."

            << Acknowledged. Program terminated. >>


   A moment of disorientation, to reorient me, and then the Sensor 

   Wrap unpeeled itself. I removed the LexSpun mask. My face was damp.


   I ached when I moved. Standing was a chore. I walked to the door of 

   my special room. "Lights out." The living room was still dark. How long? 

   The clock said it had been less than an hour. I poured another splash of 

   the brandy, gulped it, felt the heat of it in my belly, then poured 


   Why had I indulged the Alternate? I shook my head, a bit foggy. I'd 

   taken the replay a few times, savoring the kittenish little-girl 

   uncertainty and fear. Of course, I'd tried several of the Cimarron chips 

   -- liked a few of them a bit too much, if you know what I mean -- but 

   only used my own four times. And this was the first time I'd chosen the 



   "Well, it happens," I told the windows. 


   "No, it didn't happen," my reflection replied.


   "If only..."


   What would have changed? For the next two years, I'd been uneasy 

   and shy near him, resolved to prove myself to someone. Him? Me? Both? A 

   year later, I'd enrolled in Performing Arts High School. By then, of 

   course, I'd really started to fill out, to become -- What had he said in 

   the Alternate? Yes, what he had once said in reality, in another 

   context...the day he moved. 


   Of course, there were people at that school who'd flattered me. Pursued 

   me. Ultimately, seduced me. And then there was the big chance to do a 

   layout. At fifteen. Me -- a layout. Lingerie. And soon it was with less 



   NYU Theater School didn't give me a scholarship and Grandmother and 

   Grandfather didn't have the money. I knew and didn't embarrass them by 

   raising the question. I told them I'd gotten a scholarship. More 

   layouts, a few in Vogue. Then, one with even less lingerie. And then 

   some outtakes got bids. Almost a semester's tuition. Well, who was going 

   to recognize me?


   I drained the snifter and reached to pour another, then decided not 

   to waste time. I took the bottle and headed for the big sectional. Happy 



   Finally I'd dropped out. I'd been promised a speaking part in a 

   feature production; that meant getting into S.A.G., the breakthrough. It 

   wasn't a breakthrough. But there was an investor friend of the producer 

   who had this thing for young Chinese girls, and after a few limousine 

   trips to the theater and ballet and dinners at Lutece, a week in Cancun 

   sounded nice. The fur coat delivered on the day of return was "just a 

   gift."  And would I like to meet a friend of his? 


   Et cetera.


   And the carpenter never really vanished. He stayed in touch, never 

   pushing, just asking how I was doing. Sometimes we talked, sometimes I 

   brushed him off. When I entered NYU, he and I talked a bit more. He 

   listened well. He began publishing his stories and novels. None of them 

   made the big time, and I sure didn't -- not with my stated career. We 

   had dinner every six months or so, but I felt he could see through me, 

   know what I was really doing. I couldn't stand it.


   Still, every year, he always sent me a copy of a book or short 

   story he's published. Always a little note, hoping I'm well, etc. And 

   he'd always remembered my birthday.


   I flopped on the sectional, then spotted the discreet little light 

   signaling a VMail message. At this hour? Twenty years later? He's 

   remembered? I wanted to recall the message, see the face -- now, almost 

   50 years old -- wishing me a happy birthday and hoping I'm well and 

   inviting me to give him a call. I knew he'd never married and wonder -- 


   But I wouldn't check that message. If it wasn't him, I'd be unable 

   to stand it. And if it was, I'd want to call him and I wouldn't be able 

   to speak.


   So I tilted the bottle and tried not to think.


   "Here's to the road not taken," I said aloud, pleased to hear the 

   slurring in my voice, knowing sleep would come easy on this birthday 

   night, too. With any luck, the imitation oblivion would get me through 

   to the next day and maybe a new vacation date. Hey -- Big Time.


      ------~0E About the authors ~30--------------------------------------

     |                                                               |

     |      The authors of these stories -- two of whom are          |

     |      professional writers -- have never met one another or    |

     |      me, except via email. I assist in this collaboration     |

     |      only by editing and uploading stories sent to me.        |

     |                                                               |

     |      The authors wish to remain anonymous, but would very     |

     |      much appreciate hearing from you. Please let us know     |

     |      your response, whether it's good, bad or indifferent.    |

     |                                                               |

     |      If you respond, we'll upload more stories (there are     |

     |      many more). If there's no response, we won't.            |

     |                                                               |

     |      Please send comments to me, Spencer Ashbee, at Nix Pix   |

     |      Windy City (708-564-1069). I'll forward them to the      |

     |      authors, and promptly send their replies back to you. If |

     |      you prefer to remain anonymous, send a private message   |

     |      and I'll keep your identity strictly confidential.       |

     |                                                               |

     |      -Spencer Ashbee                                          |

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