***************************************************************** 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 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 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 Jim Dawson told to Morgan, the one titled "The Callaways: Jean & Jim." I have no idea how much total hokum that 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 of his, he taught me all I know in bed. Ha! That's a hoot.
Now he got some of the 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 out there, please note that barkeeps still card me to this day). I'm a 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 bought a just outside of town and kicked off while I was going to teacher's college, leaving Fred a well-to-do 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 virgin. Some of you may have heard that 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 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 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 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 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 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 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, even in the poorest schools check to see whether or not the kiddies are learning anything and many 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 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 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 at the singles bar, let me correct that little 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 wasn't getting any younger and I was curious about what a 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 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 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 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 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 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 inside of me that I dozed off, only to wake up with him giving me the 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 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 as horny as I was, it seemed to 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 didn't want to let him go. Then it was down again; my 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 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 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 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 fianceé. 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 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. lights only in the play rooms; anything breakable out. Plenty of rubbers, tubes of lube, and a waste basket wherever it looked like a 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 were worn out by one in the morning. (Becky and me took it upon ourselves to step in when a looked bone tired and needed rest). Sandy Callaway was the last standing, actually last on her hands and knees, taking it one-after-another doggy style, when even she pooped out. But, true to form, most of the 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 studs' endurance and that their enthusiasm hadn't seemed to wane. Now we have nothing against 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 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 to move two mattresses to the middle of the living room, while the 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 watertight and various methods that were intended to so please her that she'd look forward to doing it again. And then the 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 and a chaffed at the end of the evening. Those 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 pour their 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 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 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 had been intensely interested in the show. Moreover, Sandy had taped those last two hours and almost every 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 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 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 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 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 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 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 DeLuxe package. For those of you who have lost our menu, tell Tara that you have a lost 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 is certainly no indication of the level of composition Ms. Brown demands of her students. The only reason she sweated bullets over this 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 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 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 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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