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BECKYME video taped those last two hours

*****************************************************************
The following is a work of fiction regarding sexual
relationships. If you feel that it is illegal, immoral, or
otherwise improper for you to read this, then DON'T READ IT.
*****************************************************************

Adrienne Brown Est. word count: 11,300
e-mail: adrbrown@aol.com
BECKY & ME
(c) 2001 as told to Adrienne Brown. All rights reserved.

Hi folks. My name is Amy Grant, and I'm telling you this story for Becky Richmond and me. You see, we're small business women
and need to straighten out a blooper that some of you readers
picked up from a story published earlier here on ASSM. I know
it's unusual for such a reply to be posted, but Jim Dawson used
our real names in his story. And it's cut into business at Grant
& Richmond, Personal Services, Ltd.

Maybe we ought to get this all sorted out before you get
confused. I refer to the story Jim Dawson told to Morgan, the
one titled "The Callaways: Jean & Jim." I have no idea how much
total hokum that story contains, but when it comes to the parts
referring to Jim and Jean, on the one hand, and Becky and me, on
the other hand, there's quite a bit of bunkum there.

Now I don't blame Morgan for the bum scoop that you folks have
gotten. In fact, Ms. Brown, Adrienne--the lovely lady who has
edited our story into something that hangs together and makes a
lot more sense than what we started with--knows Morgan and tells
me he wouldn't knowingly diss any human, living or dead. So
don't blame Morgan. It's all Jim Dawson's fault. Him and his
fantastic male fantasies!
First things first, Becky and me want to reassure you all that
after Jim Dawson got done fucking us, we walked away, under our
own power, and we were not physically injured, much less scarred,
even temporarily. Heck, each of us was able to, and did, service
a gentleman friend the very next evening. (Adrienne has asked
that we tone down the swear words; some of you readers might be
touchy on that account. And we certainly don't wish to turn off
any potential customers of ours.)

At Grant & Richmond, Personal Services, Ltd., it has been our
policy not to seek publicity, rather to rely on word of mouth
testimony of satisfied customers. So when "Jean & Jim" was first
published, we planned to ignore it, despite the fact that both of
us were identified by our real names! But events conspired
against that approach. ("Conspired." Now that's a word that
Adrienne suggested. Sounds neat, doesn't it?)

In fact, the next Monday, when Rachel, our book keeper, showed up
for work she asked, "Ms. Grant, Ms. Richmond, do either of you
know Jim Dawson of Callaway Industries?"

Of course, we knew; but since Rachel only keeps our books and
isn't a pro, we both said, "No!"

"He's a VP out there, Chief Information Officer. I was just
wondering. There's a story that I spotted on the Internet over
the weekend and the author linked both your names to Jean and Jim
Dawson. I mean, so many of the details work out, it's spooky."

Becky should have let it lie, but she asked, "Like what details,
Rachel?"

"Well, for one thing, Ms. Richmond, the author, somebody named
Morgan, uses many of the folks at Callaway Industries--you know,
just up the road here in Northbrook--as the characters in his
story. I did a little snooping in the public library yesterday
and found that every one this Morgan fellow named as employees of
Callaway Industries is--or was--on their payroll. More than
that, he knows that Jack Callaway's wife, Kate, was a tv journalist in New York with by-lines under the name of Kate
Cornwall. All that is in the story--"

I interrupted Rachel, "How come you call Mrs. Callaway 'Kate'?"

"Kate won't let anybody call her 'Mrs. Callaway' to her face.
... Afternoons I work for a private money manager who knows
Kate. Last summer, she had me drive her out to the Callaway
estate and introduced me around. Not only to Kate, but also to
Jean Dawson and their girls, Sandy and Susan. All of them are in
this story. All of them! Now that's spooky!"

She paused just a moment. "Another thing. Whoever that Morgan
is who wrote that story seemed to know his way around that place.
I mean, how many three hundred acre estates are there up in
Deerfield? And how many of those have not one, but two nearly
identical sprawling ranch-style homes built around an eight-lane
Olympic size swimming pool? Would you believe it? The
Dawsons--Jean and Jim--live in that second home! And each of
those homes have built-in climate control systems, very unusual.

"So, when I saw you and Ms. Richmond named... I mean, saw your
names in the story, I just wondered."

"Well, it's possible that we may have met Mr. ... What was his
name again?"

"Dawson, Ms. Grant, Jim Dawson."

"Yes, Mr. Dawson. Now as I said, it's just possible that one or
the other of us may have met Mr. Dawson. After all, in personal
services, we meet a large number of people. Who knows? A couple
of them might even work for Callaway Industries."

Rachel gave us the strange look that crosses her face whenever
one of us mentions "personal services." (I'm sure she knows what
we do for a living, but we've never talked about it). I headed
off any more questions. "Rachel, do you think either Becky or me
would like that story? Can you tell us where we can find it?"

Rachel blushed ever so slightly and then plunged ahead and told
us about ASSM, which, of course, we knew about already (_but not
that our dear sweet Rachel read it!_). We thanked her, let her
get to work, and thought no more about the story. Until last
week. That was when Rachel, going over our bookings, informed us
that although business volume and new inquiries were still at the
seasonal rate, conversion of inquiries into personal contracts
had dropped off drastically. We went over the records with her
and found that the drop off began with the posting of "Jean &
Jim." Two in the first week, none since then.

Actually, it was Tara, our receptionist, who made the link. She
told us that oh so often in the past three weeks, when folks
called, they asked, "Misses Grant and Richmond? Are they Amy
Grant and Becky Richmond of 'Jean & Jim'?"

I went back to my office and sent an e-mail message to
Morgan--you know, the fellow who had written up Jim Dawson's
story--and asked him where else the story had been posted. He
very kindly answered and said that it had appeared only on ASSM.

That bit of news just blew me away. I mean, Jim Dawson's story had appeared _once_ on ASSM and then we have a big drop-off in
new contracts! Both Becky and me lurk the news group, but we
never guessed that so many folks here in Northern Illinois who
might want to use our services were faithful readers of ASSM.
Once again, I want to assure all you folks who have steered clear
of Grant & Richmond, Personal Services, Ltd., 'cause of what you
read in "Jean & Jim," we are both physically fit and capable of
any services you may require. And most certainly our bodaciously
shapely bods bear no scars. For those of you who are still
dubious--worried about body make-up and such, we will let you
gentlemen (or ladies) scrub us down for no added charge.

*****************************************************************
Okay, now, the rest of this story is mine. Becky and me disagree
on this. She just wants to let sleeping dogs lie. But me,
especially since Jim featured me in one of his "God's gift to
womankind" episodes ("episode," that's another word that Adrienne
suggested), I want to set the record straight. After all, to
read that story of his, he taught me all I know in bed. Ha!
That's a hoot.

Now he got some of the story straight. For example, I'm only
five-one, built like a brick shithouse, and cute as a button--if
I must say so myself. Charley did card me, 'cause I do look so
much younger than my age (you guys out there, please note that
barkeeps still card me to this day). I'm a farm girl who came
from Southern Illinois, where every week you go to Sunday School,
Church, and Midweek Prayer service. Also, I had a boyfriend,
Fred Wilson, whose father bought a farm just outside of town and
kicked off while I was going to teacher's college, leaving Fred a
well-to-do young farmer. Furthermore, before I met Jim Dawson, I
had been teaching school in a nearby town. And, finally, I was a
pussy virgin when I walked into that singles bar. But boy, did
he ever get all the other details wrong!

Take, for example, my looks. That man, Jim Dawson, has a
king-sized fantasy that just doesn't quit about blue-eyed
blondes. I mean, remember Jim's description of Merrilee Adams?
"She had dark hair, lovely gray eyes and a slim figure." God,
did he sell her short! Merrilee's a babe. Or as Becky says, a
stone fox. Me? I guess I should be flattered since Jim
describes me as a blue-eyed blonde. Actually, I have light brown
hair, reaching half way to my waist, and hazel eyes.

As for my virginity, as I said above, I was a pussy virgin. Some
of you may have heard that farm girls take it up the ass. Well,
I sure did. By eighth grade, I was tired of stirring the honey
pot to get off. I had roaring female hormones and the poop chute
is the safest place to get fucked and not get pregnant. Now
don't get the idea I was the town tramp. That's not true. I
saved my asshole for guys I really liked (or who would really
make it worth my while, if you know what I mean). But by the
time we graduated high school, I had blown nearly every boy in
the class and had eaten a couple of the girls. So much for Jim
teaching me everything I know in bed.

Also, according to Jim, I was dumped by my boyfriend, Fred. It's
true that he married the banker's daughter, but that was strictly
business; the marriage was collateral on the loans he needed for
the farm. Fred and I still saw each other; I sucked his cock and
he stuffed my ass every Saturday night while Mabel thought he was
out "bowling with the boys."

Another thing Jim flubbed was that, besides Sunday School,
Church, and Midweek Prayer, I also sang in the Church Choir. And
that's how, sadly, I came to leave home. One Thursday night
after choir practice, the preacher's wife came into the sanctuary
where the Reverend had me bent over the Communion Table,
cornholing me, shouting, "Glory be to God." It was such a shame
I hadn't been the quietest fuck in town; I sort of liked my cut
of the collection plate.

Now, there are things in that story that are all my fault--my
college record and where I taught. Jim told Morgan that I got my
degree from Greenville College. That's not quite true. What I
told Jim was that after I graduated from Taylorville High School
I went to Greenville to study English. I sort of left out the
fact that I flunked out in the first semester at Greenville. I
actually got my degree from a public university. Which one? I'm
not telling. I actually liked some of my professors and don't
want them to get in trouble.

Since I'm not the brightest bulb in the string of lights, you
must have figured out by now how I got the teacher's credential.
At first, I didn't know which instructors would give me a "C" for
what I had to offer, so it took me five years to get through
school. You see, I had to monkey with my schedule in order to
get all my required courses from helpful professors. A couple of
rim jobs each and I got nice letters of recommendation in my
file. And a few counseling sessions (blow, buttfuck, and rim
job) with the Placement Director and he got me interviews with
the Directors of Personnel for school districts which would be
able to use a teacher with my particular qualifications.

Now, I'm really sorry about the Deerfield High School part of the
story. I told Jim that whopper. I mean, how could a dumb bunny
like me get hired in such a good school district? Where did I
teach? Again, I'm not telling. Some of those folks still look
me up from time to time. In any event, I didn't last beyond the
first year as a high school teacher.

It was just my luck that here in Northern Illinois, parents even
in the poorest schools check to see whether or not the kiddies
are learning anything and many parents do have a clue about what
should be taught. I don't know what I was thinking of, but come
Spring of my first and only (probationary) year, I was desperate
to hold onto my job. And so, I offered to blow the whole darned
School Board. I should have checked first; but coming from
downstate--where men are men, I wasn't aware of the need to be
careful. As it turned out, one of the board members was light in
the loafers, so my offer wasn't exactly what he was looking for.
In fact, he was so pissed, he wanted my scalp then and there.

He turned the District's legal beagle loose and told her to nail
my hide to the wall and those of "any other personnel culpable in
the hiring and retention of such an obviously unsuitable
individual." Lucky for me, those words were slipped into the
revised letter of appointment, 'cause when it turned out that I
had been servicing all the male members of the school faculty and
staff, the Board was persuaded to sweep it under the rug and to
allow me to quietly finish out my contract. Well, as quietly as
the legal beagle would allow as I munched her beaver for the rest
of the year. It was all on the house; I was thankful as heck
that after one interview with me she had the presence of mind to
get that change made in her letter of appointment.
Now as to Jim and the girls at the singles bar, let me correct
that little tale of his. The reason Charley's was jampacked with
good-looking chicks was 'cause a few of the Chicago Bears had
visited the place. And that was 'cause Charley has a rep for
serving very good food at very good prices. As far as I could
tell, Jim had heard all about the chicks and had dropped in to
see if he could pick up some of the leavings. As you know,
chicks attract a lot of bottom feeders.

Me? I was there hunting cock. I was semi-pro at the time and
figured that I could do a guy so much better than all the
amateurs in the place and that any guy making as much as a pro
football player would show his appreciation in a way I could
appreciate.

And that's where I met Becky. She, too, was semi-pro and hunting
cock, just like me. As soon as we saw each other, we knew that
as working girls we were competitors. But, believe it or not,
instead of trying to scratch each other's eyes out, we hit it
off. Right from the start. I think it was something about our
height. You see, Becky is five-two, just an inch taller than me,
and has had many of the same experiences as I have had in this
business. So we had lots to talk about.

Neither of us ever scored with a Bear, but some of the bottom
feeders were well-heeled and grateful for our attentions. In my
case, those old coots could fantasize they were screwing a
teeny-bopper, but without any fear of a charge of statutory rape.
Since they made it worth our while, Becky and me kept on dropping
in at Charley's. And we began to think about going into business
together.

Now, we had noticed "Jim Smith," especially his BMW, did a little
checking, and found out that he was actually Jim Dawson, a senior
V.P. at Callaway Industries. But since he didn't flash a roll,
we weren't interested. That is, until the night that Merrilee
Adams came into the bar. Now there is one fine lady. Smart as a
tack, a stone fox, and focused. Once she sets her mind to a
task, she'll stick with it 'til it's done.

That night Merrilee had set her mind on Jim Dawson. At the time
he was so lovesick over Jean Peters he couldn't keep his mind on
his job and was leaving all hiring to Kelly McGuire. Merrilee
had been getting nowhere with Kelly. It seems that Kelly wanted
some, in fact a lot of muff munching to set up an interview, but
Merrilee wasn't into that scene. So she decided to go to the top
and sleep her way into an interview.

Morgan's story has it all wrong. Merrilee knew her target. She
didn't fall for that "Jim Smith" crap. She's too smart a lady
not to do her homework. She even carried a color photo of Jim.

At the time, Becky and me knew none of this. So we were
surprised to see this babe set her sights on nerdnik Jim Dawson.
As for the story he tells, I must say that, like most any man,
Jim was totally clueless. Merrilee baited her hooks, trolled for
him and allowed him to take the lure. Then she jerked ever so
gently to set the hook, reeled him in, and took him off to bed.

We weren't the only girls who noticed. And we weren't the only
girls who took a second look at Jim. There was a lot of talk
that night about the pay and fringies that a senior V.P. at
Callaway Industries would be pulling down. As a result, over the
next few nights, Jim scored with four more girls. But after
those girls got back, compared notes and spread the word, Jim was
back to wall flower status. Amateurs demand performance and big
bucks can't make up for a bedroom dud.

Anyway, while Jim was moping around the bar, Becky and me were
finishing up our basic plans for getting Grant & Richmond,
Personal Services, Ltd., started. By nine, we had agreed on the
outline of our business and had even chosen a lawyer friend of
ours to draw up the papers. A bottle of Jim Beam to celebrate
and we turned to scope out the other folks at Charley's. Jim was
obviously bummed and working on his liquid pain killer, so we
kept watching him that night. The poor slob just didn't
understand why, after five straight scores, none of the girls would give him the time of day. I don't know what it was,
perhaps the bourbon we were nursing, but 'round about ten we
decided he needed a mercy fuck. So we flipped for it and I lost.

Unlike the pick-up story he fed you in "Jean & Jim," I walked
over to his table, asked him if he had a date, and sat down.
Since I would be giving it away for free, no bargaining was
necessary. So as I pulled up my chair, I reached under the table
and gave him a stroke for good luck. Although he was already
pretty well stewed, he ordered drinks for both of us.

Now that's another thing I should warn you about. You have to
watch Charley. Although he was pouring from a bottle with the
Cardhu label on it, I'd swear it was the bar scotch. Might even
have been some home-brewed rot gut. But Jim was in no condition
to detect that. And as Charley says, "Why waste the good stuff
on a drunk?"

After Jim finished his drink, I asked him if he would like to get
better acquainted at my place and we were off. He almost queered
it for himself on the way over, babbling on about how grateful he
was for my kindness. But I had made a bargain with Becky and I
never welch on my promises. That was particularly on my mind
since we had just agreed on the concept of Grant & Richmond,
Personal Services, Ltd.

Anyway, I took him straight to the bedroom--couldn't see any
reason to prolong my agony with nerdnik Jim. Besides, from the
tent in his pants, it was evident he was ready to go. However,
it soon became apparent that he had never buttfucked a girl and,
it seemed to me, wasn't in any condition to learn how. I don't
know why, maybe I have a charity gene myself, but I decided to
let him take my cherry that night. My pussy wasn't getting any
younger and I was curious about what a man could do to that place
Becky called the G-spot. So, as Jim claims, he did pop my cherry
that night, but you can be sure he got nowhere near my G-spot.
In fact, he got off like a shot, on the same thrust that took my
pussy's virginity, and passed out. I was pissed: he'd gotten my
cherry; I'd gotten blood on the sheets, a mighty sore pussy,
queen-sized frustrations, and a drunk asleep in my bed. So I
finished myself off, fished a C-note out of his wallet for all
the trouble, and got up to make the coffee he'd need to get
himself back home.

Oh yes, I skipped over it, but Jim did fuck Merrilee Adams and
did put her in the hospital. But it didn't quite happen the way
Jim tells it. Sometimes I wonder whether he was even there. I
mean, in his story, Jim says that Merrilee wore a Wonder Bra; but
I know she only buys bras by Olga. So let's get past all the
b.s. Jim gave you of a high class pick-up, small talk, and
foreplay--it should be obvious by now that Jim was not that
suave--and cut straight to her bedroom and the fucking.

Merrilee was determined to get that interview, so she followed
his suggestion and rolled onto her back in the good ol'
missionary position. At the time, Jim thought that foreplay
consisted of telling the girl he wanted her. Besides that, he
knew nothing about a woman's clit or, for that matter, any other
erogenous zone. So after several minutes of having him pump her
pussy, Merrilee was becoming more and more frustrated and not at
all sure he'd even get himself off.

So she told him she had a better idea, smoothly rolled him onto
his back, and took the position on top. Things now were going
AOK, according to Merrilee, and she was nearly there, when Jim
exploded. She wasn't expecting it, and so when he bucked up
underneath her, she went flying, doing a forward somersault over
the side of the bed, cracking her tail bone on the end table
beside her bed. That's how Jim Dawson put Merrilee Adams in the
hospital. Oh yes, you should know that Jim has never been a zero
as a human. He gave her the job and even had the company pay for
her hospital care.

I wish I could tell you about Becky's first time with Jim--it's a
hoot, but she's my business partner and it's her story. If it
will ever be told, she'll have to tell it herself. Let me just
say that it wasn't a one-night stand for either of us with Jim.
In those days, he was so constantly in need of a good fuck that
he preferred to pay for it than do without.
By now, you must wonder why Jim was so desperate. After all,
according to "Jean & Jim," he had been getting it all from Jean
from the day they first met. Okay, okay. You're way ahead of me
on that. It's fairly obvious, isn't it?

Not all of that story is exaggerated. Specifically, Jean had
worked on his social graces. For example, under her influence,
he ditched that baseball cap and the nerd bucket. Good thing,
too. I mean, neither Becky or me would have given him a mercy
fuck if he had showed up at the bar dressed like that. But as
for his physical fitness and sexual prowess, that credit should
go to Grant & Richmond, Personal Services, Ltd. Thank you!

How Jim became one of our first clients is an interesting story.
About a week after he started paying for it, Becky and me had a
serious chat about him. I guess we were getting a soft spot for
the big lug. Possibly 'cause at six-four he was much bigger than
either of us and we could imagine that under all the flab could
be a darned nice bod. In any event, we worried that as out of
shape as he was, Jim might kick off. I mean, at that time, he
usually passed out after banging either of us just once.

Becky and me agreed that since it looked like he was sort of
stuck on us--and paid darned well, it was in our interest to get
him physically fit so the cash flow wouldn't come to a sudden
halt some night. Further, if we could get him healthy enough, he
might be up for some of our more expensive services. Since Becky
had been a P.E. major, we offered Jim a twenty-four week training
program to make him--we hoped--an ace Romeo. We sort of split up
the job--Becky for physical fitness, me for the sex.

Now Jim's training was one of the things that make this job all
worthwhile. Becky got him into shape so quickly that after four
weeks, he didn't pass out after banging either one of us. A
couple of weeks later, he had enough endurance to take fuck
training from one of us and then, after we had restored his
manhood, to learn how to pleasure a woman while she is on top
(the best way to break in a virgin, by the way). By eight weeks,
he could do both of us before he was finished; of course, we had
to bring the dead soldier back to life between fuckings. From
there on, he was beginning to shape up into the Greek god he
claimed to have been from the beginning.

Since he had no stamina when he began, I started Jim out with the
less strenuous, but very necessary foreplay skills--kissing,
feeling, and fingering. Then it was on to munching. For most
any man, it takes some serious, repeated training to make it
second nature for him to ask his woman what pleases her. Once
past that male thing, Jim was a quick study and in short order
could chow down at my "Y" with the best of our clients.

As for fucking, we started with the much dissed missionary
position and pointed out the many things a man usually misses in
doing a woman that way. Then on to all the low-stress mods on
missionary, then spooning, doggie, and so on. About half way
through, once we thought we all could trust each other enough,
Becky and me sat down with Jim and discussed whether or not he
wanted to learn some more non-vanilla things, like light bondage,
how to receive deep throat, and how to buttfuck a girl. (He
did--all three.) And we also turned to the more athletic
positions, like the wheelbarrow and the wall-banger. In another
month we'd just about done everything in _Joy of Sex_ and _More
Joy of Sex_ and I'd special ordered the _Kama Sutra_ from
Amazon.com. (Got a real education there myself.) Jim was a
great sport about that, seeing that Becky and me were learning,
too.

At sixteen weeks, we had another conference. I asked Jim if he
knew what the phrase "faking it" meant. Then I told him that, as
pros, Becky and me had become expert at that and, since we hadn't
wanted to bum him out at the start, had done plenty of it.
Lately, however, he'd been getting much, much better and we were
faking it only when he had done everything we'd asked him to do,
but it hadn't worked out. I guess I said we'd been giving him an
"A" for effort. Now we told him we wanted to change the rules;
in order to make him even more alert to a woman's needs, no more
faking it. He wouldn't be our john any longer, he'd be our
lover--he'd have to please us. After all, that was why he was
taking the course.

Anyway, about twenty weeks into the twenty-four week course of
instruction, I worried that we had run out of positions that were
physically realistic. Then, all of a sudden, Grant & Richmond
received its first inquiry for a "traveling companion" for a
businessman. It was to be a bit more than two weeks in
Europe--the last two weeks of Jim's training, acting as a
personal assistant by day and bedmate at night. Becky encouraged
me to accept; the contract would open a new area of service for
Grant & Richmond. She said she had plenty yet to do to get Jim
in tip-top physical shape and certainly would have no trouble
doing review and refresher work in bed.

Now I had a good two weeks in Europe. Tom, the guy I was
traveling with, was very nice to me and fun both in and out of
bed, but he was happy doing me in just a couple of positions and
didn't have the equipment nor anywhere near the stamina Jim had
developed. Also I had to be easy with him--not tire him
out--'cause of all the meetings on his schedule. Then, the last
Saturday, after all was said and done, we had a very fine dinner
in our hotel suite and relaxed with a fine port wine.

Finally, Tom nodded toward the bedroom as he always did. But
instead of rising, I remarked that all we had to do was fly back
home the next day, the only thing on his schedule was to be out
at Heathrow by ten forty-five. With his nod, I continued, "Tom,
if you don't mind, I'd like to try something."

After a pause, he asked, "And what would that be?"

"Please excuse my French, but I'd like to see if I can fuck your
brains out."

"What???" He couldn't believe what he'd heard.

"I'd like to try to fuck you blind. To put your lights out. ...
I think I can."

He looked doubtful. With a grin, I added, "If you don't let me
try, we'll never know. ... And who knows? You just might have
some fun."

To that, he grinned and answered, "Little Amy wants to fuck my
brains out? Well, we'll just see who puts whose lights out."

To make a long story short, despite his most heroic effort, Tom
was gone almost as soon as I had expected. While he was out, I
blew life into his tool again, then backed up onto it and waited
for him to come around again. It was so comfortable to have a
warm piece of man inside of me that I dozed off, only to wake up
with him giving me the old in-and-out. And so it went, until the
early hours of Sunday morning, when he begged me to stop.

Later that day, I was worried 'cause Tom slept almost all the way
home on the plane, waking up only to eat and piss. I was able to
get him to fuck me once more before we landed, but he was pretty
well done in and managed no better than a "thank you kindly" kiss
as we parted.

Monday morning, I was moping around my pad. Becky had left a
phone message that I wasn't needed in the office 'til afternoon.
Moreover, she said she'd be by about eleven to take me out to
lunch. Regardless, I was bummed. I'd missed the last two weeks
of Jim's training and I'd likely queered the first travelling
companion contract for Grant & Richmond by showing off... rather,
for showing up the client.

Promptly at eleven, Becky knocked on the door. She ignored my
sour puss and was grinning from ear to ear as she announced, "Jim
asked if he could tag along on this hen party."

God! I know I lit up like a Christmas tree. But Becky had more.
"And after lunch, I thought we'd go to the office for a little
graduation ceremony."

That turned my burners on high. I knew immediately what she had
in mind. A couple of months before we had briefly speculated on
a "graduation ceremony" for Jim (some suck, some fuck, some
munch), but we hadn't talked about it since. In fact, I had
forgotten all about it, ... until I was in Europe with Tom.

I must have been standing there with my mouth hanging open,
'cause Becky chided me, "Are you just going to stand there, kid?
Or shall we go?"

I excused myself, dashed to the bathroom, jammed a maxipad into
my panties, did a quick check of my outfit (a skirt caught in a
girl's panties is not exactly high fashion), then joined Becky.
I began to wonder whether a single napkin would be enough to get
me through lunch. I was wet already and hadn't even seen Jim
yet.

I floated all through lunch at Charley's. I couldn't tell you
what food was served if my life depended on it. I just couldn't
keep my eyes off of Jim; Becky had turned him into that Greek god
of "Jean & Jim." It was lucky for us that Jim sat across the
table from me; it would have been embarrassing for all concerned
if I could have gotten my hands on him. Somebody would have
called the cops.

Probably I was drooling when we finally got to the office. I had
Jim in tow and announced that the graduation ceremony would be in
the exercise room. Becky had obviously anticipated my eagerness,
for "the chair" was already set up. Seeing that preparations had
already been made, I slowed up as we all stripped down and
decided to see what Becky had in mind. Her little speech was
actually quite short, but for a girl as horny as I was, it seemed
to stretch on for hours. She said that Jim was our first
student. And said that he had set standards that others would be
hard pressed to meet. (Boy! I could agree with that!) She also
said that from now on his course of training would be known as
"the long course," and that a number of short courses were being
set up on the basis of what we'd learned while training Jim.

Then it was on to what I was waiting for; Becky asked Jim if he
wished to demonstrate any of the skills he had mastered. God, I
was sopping wet as he turned in my direction. He gave me one of
those smiles that melts me to the core, but he picked up Becky
and, in a single motion, placed her in "the chair."

I was both surprised and disappointed ... 'cause he hadn't chosen
me to be first. It wasn't fair! Becky had had Jim all to
herself for the past two weeks. I knew it was a selfish way to
see things, but I couldn't help but think that he hadn't missed
me at all. It also wasn't very businesslike for me to think that
way; Jim was just a client after all.

He worked over Becky like a pro. Ate her out and gave her a
little "o." Sooner than I expected, Jim was helping her out of
"the chair." Then, he turned to me with that
melt-Amy-to-the-core smile of his and it was my turn in "the
chair." I was slightly surprised when Becky and Jim strapped
down my ankles--that hadn't happened to Becky; but then Jim
started kissing me and... Well, I sort of forgot about
everything else.

After the warm up, Frenching me, and a little finger fuck, he
began to go south with the mouth. When he got there, he treated
my tits divinely, but he was stalling. I took his head in my
hands and tried to force him to get with the program. But Becky
intervened; she pulled my hands off his head, held them, and
whispered in my ear, "Mustn't rush things. Let the artist do his
work."

Now I understood. A little torture for little Amy. Teasing,
before the main event.

But I really didn't understand how much teasing. I'd swear Jim
had gotten within an inch of where it counts, when he stopped and
took my right foot in his hand. I bucked up when he started
nibbling on my big toe.

"Patience, Amy!" Becky urged, then fastened the lap belt across
my belly button. As she cinched it down, Becky says I swore like
a sailor. I guess I went wild at that, 'cause the next thing I
knew, they had strapped my arms and thighs down. Spread eagle,
fully exposed to anything that Jim wanted to do to me, and fully
aware of his intentions.

He kissed, licked, nibbled and sucked on both feet, ankles, legs,
knees and thighs, as he oh so slowly proceeded toward the lunch
box. It was pure torture. He was giving me little "o"s now and
then, but never the big one. I was beginning to hate myself for
teaching him how to make a woman wait. Becky says it was a
darned good thing we had sound proofed the exercise room;
otherwise they could have heard me clear to New Orleans.

After Jim got to my "Y," the only thing I remember was that he
did everything but flip the bean. It seemed like hours before he
took pity and flicked it. Kaboom! Everything you've ever heard.
Fireworks, shooting stars, cascading rainbows, a Disney electric
light parade, laser light shows, all the screen savers in the
world going off at once--the works. A thousand amp flow blew all
my hundred amp fuses!

("Cascading rainbows." I really like that one. That's what
Adrienne says it's like for her when she goes over. Becky's been
to Disneyworld, so that's where the electric light parade came
from.)

When I woke up, I was no longer strapped into "the chair," but
flat on my back (as I later found out) on a futon. I was getting
tender caresses from two sets of hands and I think Becky said,
"It looks like she's good for the second course."

I wanted to protest, but Jim's immediate attention to the back of
my right knee changed my mind. This time he quickly brought me
up and I was begging, "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, fuck me."

"Why not?" was his reply. After he sat me up, he grasped me
under the arms, picked me up, and then stood up himself. I could
feel his hot cock poking me in the small of my back as I looked
around to see where he would put me down to fuck my brains out.
But no, he lifted me higher. He slowly ran that cock head of his
down, then back up the crack in my ass--again and again--before
he stopped it at my bung hole. I tensed as he held me there,
wondering whether he would bugger me. Jim had taken me many
times up the poop chute, but this time it would really hurt; he
hadn't lubed my asshole or even loosened me up. Given the size
of Jim's cock, I really needed to be loosened up--four fingers.
However, after several seconds, he slipped it between my legs.
With marvelous muscle control, he put his cock head at the mouth
of my pussy. Much relieved about where he wanted to put that
splendid tool of his, I quickly reached down to hold my pussy lips open as he slowly lowered me on to it. All you gals out
there can imagine the fabulous feeling of having that cock of his
between my thighs and moving up into me, even though I was tight.
Paradise!

At first, however, I was a little scared--not so much that I'd
get hurt if Jim dropped me, but that ninety-five pounds of Amy
Grant would be a sure-fire pecker-wrecker. I shouldn't have
worried; he easily supported my weight as I squirmed and screwed
myself down onto his shaft. It was clear we had trained Jim
quite well about paying attention to and taking care of the woman
he was fucking since he very carefully let me stretch my pussy.
Not that I have anything against Tom, but it had been more than
two weeks... I glanced at the digital clock... sixteen days,
five hours, and thirty-seven minutes since I had been stretched
that much.

At first I paid no mind to what Becky was doing, but then I saw
she'd moved a full-length mirror in front of me. I'd been so
busy with getting myself down onto Jim's cock and enjoying all
those sensations, I hadn't bothered to imagine what it looked
like. I was a bit dreamy already and at times you get the most
fantastically wonderful ideas when you're getting fucked right by
a good man. So at first I saw myself as a squirming little pink
fish, flopping around on the end of Jim's wondrous spear. But
since I had never seen a pink fish and certainly didn't wish to
escape my fate, I then thought of myself as a suckling pig being
skewered on a man-meat spit for roasting. And God! Was I
looking forward to being roasted! From inside out.

Suddenly I noticed why Becky had placed the mirror there. My
usually flat and taut belly had a slight straight-line bulge that
rose as I settled further down on Jim's cock. A little squirming
and the line of the bulge would move from side to side. I
giggled; I could actually see how far Jim was into me! It was
fascinating to watch the bulge rise toward my belly button. Now
I'm somewhat proud of it; it's an "inny" that can, if I suck in
my gut, hold a shot of scotch (or whatever) for the customer to
drink, if he (or she) is into that sort of thing.

Anyway, as I was slowly stretching out my pussy, my belly button
began to change from inny to outy. Maybe I should have worried,
but I was too far into being fucked; so I kept on screwing myself
down on his magnificent cock and merely watched to see whether my
belly button held or if his cock would punch through. A couple
more wiggles and the tip of the bulge was now above the belly
button; no damage had been done. I stared at the mirror. And I
tried to remember those charts of human physiology that I'd
stared at Thursday afternoons at university while my professor
had me bent over his favorite dissecting table in the biology
lab. I was curious: how much further could Jim get his cock into
me? I was pretty sure he couldn't get it into my throat, but
other than that, I wasn't sure. Another weird thought. When his
cock reached my ribs, would it go under or over? That would look
wild, to watch the bulge of his cock run up between or under my
tits. I almost laughed: that would be a real titty fuck. Just
then I noticed his bush, soaked as it was with my juices, was
beginning to tickle my butt and inner thighs. I was almost
bottomed out. My tits were safe--at least for now.

Jim held me there for a few moments as I enjoyed the lip-smacking
good feeling of being crammed completely full of cock. I stared
at the mirror and that straight-line bulge that reached from my
bush almost to my breast bone. A little wiggle and it pointed at
one tit; another wiggle and it was pointing at the other. As I
was wiggling back and forth, I wondered what had been pushed
aside as he had entered me. I giggled again; my tummy was
somewhere in there. I wondered if the action it was about to get
would make me sick. Another giggle; maybe I'd get a chance to
see what it was I'd eaten at Charley's.

In a way, I looked a bit silly. Just waiting to be fucked, I
looked like a rag doll, held by Jim's two big paws and impaled on
his cock, with my feet dangling at least six inches off the
floor. In any case, it was obvious that I would have to take
care of my clit and tits. But as I grabbed my nipples to get the
show on the road, Becky stepped up, quickly slipped a cuff on
each wrist, snapped them together, and fastened them to a hook I
had not seen. As she took the downpull and hoisted my hands
clear of my body, she grinned and said, "No hands, Amy! That'd
be cheating."

Before I had a chance to worry about not being able to touch
myself, Becky was back, getting me into a support bra and
explaining, "We don't want to wreck your boobs, Amy, but you're
in for the ride of your life."

Then Jim began to lift me up, very slowly. In the mirror, I
could see my pussy lips being pulled out by that wonderful cock
of his. Another fantastic thought: would he pull my insides out
if he pulled all the way out? It would be messy trying to stuff
everything back in there. But so what? My pussy didn't want to
let him go. Then it was down again; my pussy lips being pushed
inside, the bulge in my belly rising to and past my belly button.

Slowly at first, but then with gradually increasing speed, he
pistoned me up and down his shaft. I was in heaven; he had it
perfect. He was hitting my G-spot on both the up and down
strokes. I don't know how long that went on; I sort of lost
track of time with all the little "o"s he was giving me. Then,
as he was hitting his stride--a gallop I would say, I began to
get little hiccups, or so it seemed. I couldn't believe it, but
I started giggling again. It was rather funny, not just the
giggling, but the hiccups while getting fucked. Then it came to
me: Jim's balls were slapping my thighs each time I hiccuped.
That meant I hiccuped each time he bottomed me out. My best
guess was that his cock was punching my diaphragm and, thus, the
hiccups. Between all the little "o"s, the giggles, the hiccups
and, when my eyes could focus, watching my tits slamming up and
down (and giving thanks to Becky for the bra she'd put them in),
I wasn't really there.

Then Becky began to tease me with her peacock feather. I don't
know how she did it, shooting at a moving target, so to speak.
Flitting around inside my thighs, the back of my knees, down to
my instep, then back up, nicking my belly button, the underside
of my arms, to each and every erogenous zone she could find.
Made me squirm in ways I wouldn't have volunteered to while being
pumped up and down that steel shaft crammed up my cunt. But it
was never enough to put me over. Then she began to focus on my
"Y," always around, but avoiding my clit. Finally ... finally,
she relented, flipped the bean and put my lights out in another
amazing blaze of glory.

Afterwards, when I came to, it took some time to clear the
cobwebs. What a wild, wonderful ride! The best I'd ever had.
Then I gradually recognized a slow, very familiar rhythm to my
right. There, on another futon, Jim was plowing Becky's furrow,
gently, tenderly. I propped myself up on my elbow to watch. It
was very beautiful: he was truly making love to her. Quietly,
slowly, she tensed, clasping him tightly, as they came together.
After she had relaxed, he gave her several minutes of the sort of
attention a woman needs in coming down.

When they noticed me, I asked and Becky told me she called what
Jim had done to me a "free-standing reverse cowgirl." I urged
Jim to do Becky that way. I mean, all she had gotten was a
quiet, little fuck. But she begged off, saying, "Where do you
think Jim learned to do that, Amy? And how many times to be able
to do you right the very first time? Besides, even though you
wanted a good hard fuck today, Jim just gave me what I really
needed. He's very good at sensing that."

Then she added, softly stroking his manhood, "More than that, we
have to take very good care of this national treasure."

As Jim helped both of us to our feet, Becky said to me, "I'll let
you decide, but I'd say that Jim passed his finals today."

Well, dear readers, that was the end of the graduation ceremony.
And, as you can see, Jim Dawson is living, breathing testimony to
the effectiveness of the long course of training by Grant &
Richmond, Personal Services, Ltd. Thank you! Shorter courses
are available to both guys and gals to assist in various
techniques, both those mentioned and many others. Inquiries are
welcome.
Now, as for Jean, let's be honest. At the time we first met her,
she was Jean Peters and even more sexually naive than Jim had
been. I can't believe that Jim claimed she had spent ten years
on the street as a slut; she was a three-way virgin. Honest!
Now remember, she's not quite human and somebody or another they
call "the source" programs and reprograms her brain for some very
special skills. This is the one part of Jim's story I can assure
you is true. Well, wherever "the source" lives and breathes,
they don't do sex like we do it here, ... if they do it at all.

At first, I couldn't believe Jean's condition could cause any
sort of trouble. I mean, in my own life, I had found it quite
easy to correct the condition when I was similarly afflicted.
However, there was a problem they had found by the time Becky and
me were called in to help. That is, Jean is a very quick study
and, in a few cases, it appears that she imprints, rather than
learns. Whether that extended to sex, nobody knew. And since
sex is a rather important aspect of life, they weren't willing to
take any chances.

Once this was explained to Becky and me, we realized how
important this personal service contract was. First, we were
flattered that Jim had been so satisfied with his course that he
wished to have us teach his fianceť. Second, there was a real
life deadline for getting Jean trained. They had set the wedding
date and everyone agreed it would be best if Jean were fully
ready to take advantage of the honeymoon. Finally, if we pulled
this one off, there were plenty of folks in Jean and Jim's circle
of friends who might be impressed enough with the job we did to
sign up for some of our services. (Can't ever ignore the chance
to gain a greater market share, you know.)

Oh, yes. Jean did imprint. It's sort of cute, too. She says my
mantra (Jean taught me that word) of
"fuck-me-fuck-me-fuck-me-fuck-me" when she's getting drilled and
"eat-me-eat-me-eat-me-eat-me" when somebody's going south with
the mouth. Anyway, 'cause she is such a quick study, she was
fully prepped for the honeymoon. And 'cause she imprinted, she
took the best of Becky and me to Hawaii for Jim to fuck and, as
Jim told me, she quickly improved on us. What a change in that
couple from when we first met them! I guess that's why we were
invited to the wedding.
The wedding ceremony was really beautiful. Got all squishy and
teary-eyed. It sort of tugged on the heartstrings. I wondered
if I'd ever make that long walk down the aisle. And, for a
moment, I felt bummed that Fred and me had not worked out. But
then, when I thought of the bank account I was building, all that
silliness went away. When I have my bank roll, I'll be able to
marry the man I want. With that thought in mind, I sat back and
enjoyed the rest of the wedding.

After the ceremony was over, while the bride and groom were
leaving for the airport, Sandy Dawson pulled Becky and me to the
side and asked whether we could stick around for a party. She
said it would be an all-nighter; with a grin, she said she would
make it worth our while. At that phrase, our faces lit up like
Christmas trees. It looked like we just might be moving up the
social ladder. We quickly checked our PDAs for e-mail to see
that no appointments had been made for us while we were at the
wedding, then blocked out the rest of the afternoon and evening
for "personal time."

After the caterers and all the other guests had left, Sandy
filled us in on the details. It seems that the freshman class at
her high school had been dissed an awful lot for being a bunch of
goody two-shoes. As a result, most of the class had decided to
correct that situation, come up to speed, and have a group grope.
Sandy had volunteered the Dawson home as the site of the orgy.
Some of her classmates had been a bit uncertain, being shy and/or
inexperienced in group sex. We were surprised that she had
promised to provide a pair of sex therapists--Becky and me--to
assist those kids over their inhibitions. We reminded Sandy that
we weren't licensed sex therapists. As close as we came was sex
surrogates.

Sandy grinned, "Sex therapists, sex surrogates. What's the
difference? You're going to teach a bunch of kids how to fuck in
front of other folks and not be embarrassed!"

With that settled, Becky and me went over the preparations Sandy
had made for the party. She was a pretty smart chick, had found
the check-list for swinging on the Net, and had laid things out
pretty well, including the house rules. So, over the next two
hours, we helped her transform a house that had just seen a
wedding reception into a proper orgy pad before any of her
classmates arrived. red lights only in the play rooms; anything
breakable out. Plenty of rubbers, tubes of lube, and a waste
basket wherever it looked like a girl could get herself fucked.

Now as for the party itself, I've tried all sorts of ways to
describe it, and I agree with Adrienne, it gets rather boring
trying to give a suck-by-fuck account of a group grope. So let
me just hit the highlights.

Becky and me had changed into street clothes; after all we
weren't the main attraction, we were both enforcers of house
rules and facilitators for the kids. I was very glad that they
honestly observed the rules. Some were fairly obvious: no booze,
no pills, no Mary Jane; no fuck, no suck without a rubber; no
lunch without a dental dam; one load per rubber; change your
partner, change your rubber; no rubbers on the floor; anything
that's gone in the back door goes nowhere else before it's
cleaned and disinfected. Others were practical, given the level
of inexperience we were dealing with, especially for the girls,
e.g., no restraints, no two- or three-on-one. Nevertheless, they
kept us fairly busy, asking for instruction and helpful hints. I
must say I was a bit surprised by the fact that with a few of the
couples we had to give such basic scoop as the right way to get
Tab A into Slot B without damaging Slot B (other than the one
cherry that got popped). Nevertheless, no matter how basic the
question, it never got boring, seeing how willing our students
were to learn.

Despite their enthusiasm, most of the girls were worn out by one
in the morning. (Becky and me took it upon ourselves to step in
when a girl looked bone tired and needed rest). Sandy Callaway
was the last girl standing, actually last girl on her hands and
knees, taking it one-after-another doggy style, when even she
pooped out. But, true to form, most of the guys were still able
to go. You know what I'm talking about. A guy's sex drive peaks
as a teenager and then goes down hill; a girl's sex drive starts
low and builds until, at least, menopause. Anyway, we had a
group of horny teen-age males there at the Callaway place.

All through the evening, Becky and me had noticed these young studs' endurance and that their enthusiasm hadn't seemed to wane.
Now we have nothing against older men; after all, they're able to
pay for our more exotic services. But all too often, it's one
bang and they're gone. Here, however, it seemed we had the
chance not only to give more lessons, but also to get fucked
right out of our socks. So we took a poll of the girls to see if
they minded that we were changing the rules, stripped down to our
working uniform, and announced we would provide a free workshop
on multiples.

We got the guys to move two mattresses to the middle of the
living room, while the girls gathered up the remaining condoms
and lube and put a few of the waste baskets within easy reach.
After we had gotten everybody comfortably seated where they could
see, we gave a few minutes of practical instruction, basically on
the psychological and physical difficulties of putting together a
sandwich and making a girl watertight and various methods that
were intended to so please her that she'd look forward to doing
it again. And then the guys were into it--actually into Becky
and me.

It was great good fun, even though at times we had to halt the
business at hand and adjust a guy's position or technique. And
they were eager to learn all we could teach them. I don't know
why, but for me a guy's enthusiasm can get me over a lot of
inexperience, as long as he's willing to learn. What really
turns me off is the guy who is God's gift to womankind, knows it
all, and leaves me with sore tits and a chaffed pussy at the end
of the evening. Those guys get nothing for free!

By three in the morning, Becky and me had sore tits, pussies, and
assholes, but were still willing to go. However, there were no
guys left standing, and I mean that quite literally. So as the
party broke up, we helped the girls pour their guys into their
cars for the ride home, all the while wondering what sort of
explanations might have to be given when they got them home.

We had thought that the profuse thanks we received from the girls as they said good-bye was for the hands-on learning early in the
evening and the two hours we had spelled them from the guys towards the end. But while we were showering, Sandy told us that
most likely it was for our gang-bang demo. We hadn't noticed
it--for most of those two hours I had been too busy to notice
anything, but the girls had been intensely interested in the
show. Moreover, Sandy had video taped those last two hours and
almost every girl wanted a copy "for instructional purposes."
Would you believe it?

Not wishing to miss a business opportunity, after we viewed the
video (Sandy is a darned good camera person), we knocked
twenty-five percent off Sandy's bill in exchange for the original
of the tape, agreed to provide a copy for each of the girls at
the party (three copies for Sandy), gained distribution rights
for any additional copies, and agreed to pay five percent
royalties to Sandy for her camera work. We also gave Sandy a
right to an independent audit of our books regarding the
gang-bang tape. (BTW, it's now available on DVD. Inquire at
Grant and Richmond, Personal Services, Ltd.)
Two weeks after that memorable evening, a very well dressed
couple walked into our offices. That in itself was surprising:
at that time most of our inquiries came by phone. (Please note
that today we also have fax and e-mail capability for your
convenience.) Therefore, when Tara informed us of the visitors,
both of us were willing to meet the prospective clients. After
introductions and some small talk, the gentleman, let's call him
Mr. Jones, asked, "I understand you attended the wedding of Jim
and Jean Dawson."

Suddenly I got uncomfortable, but Becky coolly answered, "Yes."

"And I believe you were there for the party that Sandy Dawson
threw that night."

I don't know how Becky did it, it seemed to me that she had ice
water flowing in her veins. Once again, she answered, "Yes."

"My son tells me ..."

I didn't hear the remainder of his statement. I had turned to
Mrs. Jones and blurted out, "The boys looked like they were
eighteen."

That was a big fat lie and--in thinking back on it--it was a
stupid lie. But I was scared about doing time at Dwight for
statutory rape. Mrs. Jones seemed surprised, not immediately
understanding my concern. Then she patted my arm and said, "Oh,
no, my dear. That's not why we're here. You two treated Billy
very well."

Then I heard Mr. Jones' question.

"A group of couples hereabouts have thought about a private
little swinging club. But to be frank, Ms. Richmond, most of us
are self-conscious about it and, even though we have found some
information on the Net, don't know the practical problems of how
to actually organize a party. Even more to the point, I believe
that some of our reluctance is because some of us aren't at all
confident about performing with someone other than our mates.

"Our son said that you and Ms. Grant were very professional and
helpful in giving him and his friends instruction in ... you know
... things like that. So, we decided to ask if you would
consider being our club's advisors."
Now, Adrienne says I owe it to all you folks who have struggled
along this far to clean up the loose ends. So here goes.
Regarding Mr. & Mrs. Jones and the swingers club: we did take a
contract on advising the group and, based on its success, Grant
and Richmond, Personal Services, Ltd., developed a short course
on swinging, primarily to break new club members into the scene.
Moreover, some of the club members have enrolled in other of our
numerous short courses. Regarding Tom of the European trip: no,
I didn't queer it by wearing him out. In fact, he's taken two of
the short courses with us and is currently enrolled in a third.
Further, he has me on long-term contract to be his traveling
companion whenever he has a business trip, provided I have
seventy-two hours notice. As for Billy Jones and his friends,
they've been by and we declined; however, we did agree that when
the last of the boys turns eighteen, we'll have a class reunion
and they can have at us again. And, Fred, ... Oh, yes, Fred.
My downstate boyfriend.

Now, there's a sad story. As long as Fred was stuffing me,
nobody was kissing and telling. But Fred, like me, he's not the
brightest bulb in the string. He didn't understand the prenupt
that Mabel had him sign, so when Jenny Haskell up and tired of
Fred and blabbed all over the county, Mabel went to court, got a
divorce AND the farm. Nice settlement. Oh yes, Mabel sold the
farm to the coal company. Fred's still on the land--as a tenant
farmer--'til the coal company decides to strip it. What Fred
will do then, I haven't the foggiest.

And so, that's it. Just remember my advice: in this land of
plenty, a girl must spread her legs and grab any opportunity that
cums her way!

*****************************************************************
FIRST POSTSCRIPT: Becky just read this over and said that since I
had been so open and honest in telling all you folks my biography
that she would, too. So if you want to hear Becky's story, make
an appointment with her at Grant & Richmond, Personal Services,
Ltd. She'll tell one of three versions of her life as part of
the Little Bo peep DeLuxe package. For those of you who have
lost our menu, tell Tara that you have a lost sheep that needs to
be found. I'm sorry, that's just for the guys. For you gals,
it's part of Becky's Cleopatra, Queen of Egypt, special package
(ask Tara to schedule you for Egyptian research). Thanks. We,
at Grant & Richmond, look forward to serving all your needs.
You'll find us in the Yellow Pages.

****************************************************************
SECOND POSTSCRIPT: Okay, you grammar beagles, you just hold back
from jumping all over our editor, Ms. Adrienne Brown. She and me
have had some disagreements over this text. I agreed that she
could correct my spelling (although some of these words don't
look like the way I learned them). But I put my foot down on
some of my expressions. Ms. Brown tried to tell me about case
for pronouns, parallel construction, agreement in number,
dangling propositions, and other such stuff that flunked me out
of Greenville College. But I held to my guns. If you readers of
ASSM are to believe that this is Amy Grant's story, you need to
read me the way I speak. So I don't want to hear that anybody is
dissing Ms. Brown. Thank you!

Oh, yes. For you students in Ms. Brown's classes--and you know
who you are, this story is certainly no indication of the level
of composition Ms. Brown demands of her students. The only
reason she sweated bullets over this story was as a favor to
Morgan.

When we learned that "Jean & Jim" had cut into our new contracts,
we wanted Morgan to write up our story to set the record
straight, but he declined. Something about professional ethics
and a loyalty to Jim Dawson. We can understand that. So he
suggested that we contact Ms. Brown and she graciously heard us
out and agreed to help us get our story out.

*****************************************************************
THIRD POSTSCRIPT: Jim, ol' fuckbuddy, if you're reading this
while you and Jean are in the Bahamas, I'm sorry for messing up
your "third honeymoon." You have to know that this is nothing
personal, just business. As you told us, a business person
cannot afford to be sentimental and has to cut losses. I know
you'll never speak to me again, but I want to let you know that
I'll miss our Thursday afternoon workouts when you used to come
over to give me the free-standing reverse cowgirl for old times
sake.

*****************************************************************
Comments and constructive criticism are sincerely welcome.
*****************************************************************
"Becky & Me." Copyright (c) 2001 by Adrienne Brown.
<adrbrown@aol.com>
All rights reserved. No part may be reproduced or transmitted in
any form or by any electronic means, including photocopying,
recording or by any information and retrieval system, without the
written permission of the author.
*****************************************************************

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