Asstr Girlscout

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Asstr Girlscout
This is an erotic fantasy and, in case you've forgotten the rules, you shouldn't read it if you are:
        1) under legal age.
        2) living where reading this material is forbidden.
        3) in your right mind.
Any similarities to any other "Girl Scout Nookie" events chronicled by the talented writers remain absolutely coincidental. In fact, those are no longer are taped to my computer desk. And pay no attention whatsoever to the link to the Girl Scout Nookie Story Archive on my monitor. You don't need to know that I'm too lazy to type http://www.asstr.org/~denny a dozen times a day.
It was unseasonably warm for a Saturday in January, the kind of warm that makes going out to play Frisbee more enticing than staying in to play pocket pool. Even when the Management of the Universe schedules January weeks to be warm and sunny, it bureaucratically schedules Saturdays to be as cold and blustery as a Baptist preacher gazing at dancers, so this was, indeed, a rare treat. Nevertheless, I was inside and away from the welcome weather, relaxing in my recliner with a gin & tonic in one hand and a dead tree copy of Bill Fitzhugh's Heart Seizure in the other.
Baggins chased dream squirrels in the sunbeam puddle below the living room window. CJ had flown to another weekend Muse Convention. Allie had gone shopping with Nykki Collucci, her new best friend for the past few months. Nykki's father had this particular Saturday off, meaning her mother was unable to slip over here as Nykki's replacement for some horizontal gymnastics. And, best of all, I was sitting in a house that I owned 100% free and clear, having made the last payment of the last mortgage on the last day of December.
Peace and quiet! The only interruption was Baggins's occasional random snore from either end. Days like this were a rare treat, and I was going to enjoy this one to the max. Or at least until the Broncos' playoff game that evening. It was, without question, the best, absolutely perfect day.
Which is why, in blind obedience to Murphy's law, the Management of the Universe had scheduled that very moment for my doorbell to ring.
I know, I know. You're saying, "Just let it ring, you blathering idiot!" Well, I did. And it did. With ever-decreasing intervals between the rings until, after two minutes, whoever it was left his finger on the button, leaned into it for support, and dozed off.
Baggins raised his head and barked twice, once from either end. His mother was a Labrador retriever. His father was half Irish banshee/half farthound, and his snarl said Daddy's genes were about to launch an operatic aria with musical accompaniment. I surrendered with far less grace than Lee at Appomattox and rose from the recliner. I left my book on the chair arm and put the gin & tonic on the bookshelf coaster before lifting the Thesaurus and holding it low in front of me. That was just in case the doorbell drowser lashed out when suddenly awakened.
The distractions had distracted me, and I foolishly opened the door before checking the peep hole. I saw nothing but a few people on the sidewalks along the street and a flash as Mrs. Coldmelon lifted her binoculars in her living room. I looked down.
A Girl Scout Uniform! But only A Girl Scout Uniform, not The Dreaded Four Girl Scout Uniforms. And the friendly face did not belong to an occupant of The Dreaded Four Girl Scout Uniforms. My heart hammered relief for the time it took to open the storm door and then stopped again ere my eager eyes enfolded and encompassed the ethereal enigma.
Okay, so I was unable to think of a different noun beginning with "e." I didn't want to look at the Thesaurus instead of her.
This oval alabaster face, fresh-scrubbed-wholesome and unblemished, had sweetness and sensuality supremely scribed all over its sumptuous surface with subliminal neon magic markers. It was framed in authentic auburn hair as lush and lustrous as cordovan leather polished with lanolin from virgin merino sheep, the ones too fast for Spanish shepherd boys. Her enchanting eyes were the rich Baltic blue that told seagoing sailors the nearest lump of land was three days thither. The sensuous smile was carefully constructed with the sumptuous style of luscious lips that proficient plastic surgeons always advertised to lure hapless housewives into elective surgery.
The utilitarian uniform was clean and unwrinkled, as crisp as unwilted celery but a darker green, sculpting captivating curves at the sides and molding subtle yet provocative topographical terrain transcendencies at both the upper front and lower rear. Her delicately feminine feet were daintily adorned in frilly white ankle socks inside shiny black patent leather shoes so reflective that they revealed my drooling mouth and her absence of panties.
If this vivacious version of virginal vision had claimed she'd been sent by the Management of the Universe, I'd have believed her without question. Instead, she spoke sweetly in a voice that chimed lower than a celesta but higher than a Christmas carillon, "Oh! You have a Thesaurus! That makes you a Grand Prize Winner!"
Clearly this was a moment requiring my most witty-but-reverent repartee. "Huh? I... Really? No shit?" Okay, I wasn't Jonathan Winters, Robin Williams, or cmsix. I wasn't even Kenny Gamera. In my defense, let me say that I was distracted by the need to get my heart going again so that it could pump blood to one head or the other.
"Yes!" she said with a knowing smile and a quick glance to either side. Then she gazed up at me with enrapturing eyes of ephemeral essence that Ted the Taxidermist couldn't buy for a thousand bucks each. "You see, I'm one of those 'special' Girl Scouts." She lifted the front of her skirt to reveal a small, sparse equilateral triangle that couldn't have been more precise if it had been laid out with a craftsman's compass and a steel straightedge. It perched pensively above lickable lips as puffy and inviting as pink Cheez Doodles.
"You're drooling," she giggled without lowering her skirt. Peripheral vision, because you couldn't move my eyes from her with logging chains and a D9 Caterpillar, told me that Mister Coldmelon had just trained his binoculars this way from the end bedroom. I was vaguely aware of the continued streetside stream along the front sidewalk and of Peewee Pete's pickup passing, but I didn't look away from this virginal vision of promising paradise, not wanting to lose one second of peering at perfection personified in perky pre-teen pulchritude.
"Ayyuz..." I garbled before her words penetrated. I wiped my mouth and tried again. "I was picturing that with a couple of boxes of crumbled Thin Mints."
"Ooooh!" she squealed before adding a gleefully girly giggle. "You'll like that. You'd also enjoy it ever so much with our new trans-fat-free Taga...."
The shout rang out from the street end of the sidewalk in a four-note E-minor chord. Mister Happy immediately reversed course and tried to turn himself inside-out in retreat. That, rather than my simultaneous recognition of the voices, told me who was coming up the sidewalk.
The virginal vision dropped her skirt and jumped, spinning like a tiny tornado to face the onrushing hurricane.
Mistress Star's face flushed to a cinnamony-chocolate color as a dusky hand rose to shake her quarrelsome quirt at the walking wet-dream. "We told you he was OURS! "
"But... but I thought he ," she lifted her left arm and pointed next door, "was the one off-limits to the rest of us."
"That's the neighborhood pervert," I effused in a defusing voice.
She glanced up over her supple shoulder and smiled at me. "Yeah!" She looked back to The Dreaded Four Girl Scout Uniforms as their occupants clambered up the steps to the porch. "That's Mister Hoistigon over there."
"Hoisington," I corrected. "And I..."
"This," said Buffy, stabbing a forefinger at me as if she were thrusting Maria's switchblade, "is him."
The delightful dish of diddleable delight frowned at me, then at my tormentors. "Are you sure?"
"Here," said Ming, producing her sheaf of papers from somewhere and riffling through them. She pulled out three pages. "Read what he's written so far."
I never knew heavenly angels could produce such hellish retching.
"Um, what do you think?" I asked when she lowered the papers but kept her head down.
Her face slowly rose past my knees, past Mister Happy's hiding place, past my belt buckle, until she was staring directly at my eager face. She looked as incredulous as a muslim gazing at civilized behavior. "It's erratic and puerile. The alliteration is infantile and inconsistent. The similes and metaphors lack grace, rhythm, and most of all, coherence. You actually wrote 'diddleable delight' and 'lips as puffy and inviting as pink Cheez Doodles'? Good grief, you ARE him! No wonder you can't pay people to read your crap! I'm out of here." She shoved the papers back at Ming, pulled her arms around the order sheet clasped to her budding breasts as if using it as a life preserver, and stormed down the steps. "Maybe my father can transfer to Money Sucking University and I can join Troop 469. I'd much rather put up with Mister Gamera. Now I understand why Mister Four changed his name. He doesn't want people to know that he knows YOU! "
"You might try the house across the street," I said. "I'm sure Mister Coldmelon would like a nice box— YEEOOOOWWWWWW! "
Mistress Star examined her quirt to see if Mister Happy had damaged it when her worrisom wand found his hiding place. "Do I have your attention now, worm?"
"I doubt it," said Ming as she refiled the returned raunchy writing.
"Nope," agreed Buffy. "He's still using awful alliteration."
"Maybe you'd better hit him again," Maria suggested.
"I think he's coming around," said Maria's voice as I sputtered and wiped the stinging liquid from my eyes. Damn. That was the expensive gin in that drink.
I was gazing at the blur that normally was the porch ceiling. It needed painting. There were large greenish and whitish splotches....
No, those weren't splotches. They moved. Splotches don't move. I forced my eyes to focus. The Dreaded Four Girl Scout Uniforms and their curvaceous contents were standing in an arc around my head, peering down at me like the next door pervert's household standing in their front yard and gazing down at Baggins' latest gift to the family.
"Well?" asked Mistress Star. "Now what do you have to say?"
I knew that tone of voice. I had to say something—anything—immediately. "Um...." No clue . "I see you're still not wearing panties?"
"I think he's coming around," said Maria's voice as I sputtered and wiped the warm salty liquid from my eyes.
"Uh, girls, I'm not really into water sports, though I wish I'd been awake to see it."
"He might," added Ming. "He's a pervert."
Mistress Star divided her quirt into the house via the storm door I was blocking open. "Old Swarthy Fartblast is still too fat to make it down the steps, so he looked around for a place to hike his leg. You won."
I gagged and sprang to my feet, barely noticing that across the street a dejected vision of loveliness was moping her way down to the street while Mrs. Coldmelon thumped her husband's head with her binoculars. I threw the Thesaurus at the recliner, ignored its ricochet to the floor that took the novel with it, and raced into the bathroom. I shoved my head under the shower for a minute and then gargled a new one-point-five-liter bottle of Listerine. I threw the empty bottle in the trash and stepped into the bedroom.
The quirt, tapping my nose as gently as a two-year-old with a ball-peen hammer, halted me. Mistress Star looked down at me, which wasn't difficult because she was sitting atop the chest next to the bathroom door. Ming sat on the corner of the bed, shuffling through her papers. Maria had lifted the bedspread and was examining the sheets while her other hand pinched her nose closed. Buffy, squatting in front of Baggins, was patting his head while speaking to him in a low voice.
"Listen, worm, counting your stupid disclaimer, we're now on Page Five and we've just been pissing around. No more stupid alliteration, no more pathetic similes, and no more avoiding the fact that you told everyone this would be "Girl Scout Spookies" but instead gave it a different title. Clear? Say, 'Yes,' because we don't have time for you to wake up to Maria's voice again."
"Yes!" I had a suddenly-lucid moment and blurted the appelation, "Mistress Star."
She smiled, reminding me of a pit bull gazing at a pot roast, and jumped down, causing the skirt of her studded leather Dreaded Girl Scout Uniform to rise. She looked up at me and then smiled like a pack of pit bulls gazing at only one pot roast. "What are you looking at, worm?"
"Your... uh, I mean, you... uh, well... I see you've been busy with a razor."
Group eyerolling ensued, and then the others went back to their respective tasks. "I couldn't very well wear a bikini the way it was, could I?" she scoffed.
"I was our troop's entry in the Miss Girl Scout Contest. Don't you remember?"
Miss Girl Scout Contest? I was as clueless as an aborigine looking at a ferris wheel. "No."
Buffy looked up from Baggins, who appeared very pleased with the way she was scratching behind his ears as she talked to him. "Have you forgotten, Star? The Boss said he wasn't to know about it because he's a pervert."
I'd have stamped my right foot, but this was the wrong story. "The pervert lives NEXT DOOR! "
They ignored me. Mistress Star slapped her forehead. "You're right! She did say that. And we didn't tell that neighbor, either."
Ming's jade green eyes lifted from her papers. "I'm starting to worry, Star. We've gotta quit hanging around with this bozo so much. He's beginning to rub off on you."
"Can I?" I asked in eager anticipation. Okay, so the wrong head was doing my thinking, as usual. " YEEOOOOWWWWWW! "
"That should stop it from thinking for you," Mistress Star smirked, pleased that once again she'd found Mister Happy's hideaway.
Buffy rose to her feet. "Okay, Baggins agrees. He won't be a problem."
I blinked at her and then at Baggins. "You can communicate with dogs?"
Buffy rolled her ice-blue eyes and scoffed. "I can talk to you , can't I?"
"You talk," scoffed Maria to Buffy, "but he never listens."
Mistress Star placed her quirt none-too-gently against my face and pulled it around to hers. "Now we're at the end of page five. Here's the deal. Your delivery arrives in two weeks."
So much for enjoying being mortgage free. "I'm getting another truckload of cookies," I gulped.
"We're going to grant your wish," smirked Maria as she dropped the bedspread and wiped her hand on her skirt.
"A whole truckload," smirked Buffy.
"All the pussy you can handle," smirked Mistress Star.
I gulped again. I was going to need a bigger house! I couldn't put that many girls in here. I wondered if I could afford to buy Camp Lotta Sticky Nookie. It had plenty of room for girls.
Ming's almond eyes sparkled as she offered me a paper. "Sign here, please," she smirked as Buffy hiked her skirt and produced the pen. I eagerly scribbled my signature on the mortgage, visions of pink, and other variously colored, Cheez Doodles dancing before my eyes, blotting out everything else.
Everything except one word. I gulped yet again.
Synchronized nodding accompanied the synchronized smirking. "Black cats," they said in synchronized chorusing.
Mistress Star rolled her eyes. "'Synchronized chorusing'?"
I shrugged. "I was too stunned. I couldn't come up with anything better."
Buffy shook her head as she hiked her skirt and put away the pen. "Duh!"
Mistress Star shook her head. "Sheeeit!"
"Black cats?" I asked in an attempt to get the story going again.
Buffy rolled her eyes. "It's your own fault."
Maria nodded emphatically in emphasis. "You told everybody you were going to write 'Girl Scout Spookies.' Well, we can always use some extra cash, so the Boss cornered the market on black cats. You get to keep them until Halloween, when you can write that other stupid story which nobody will read."
My mind raced, trying to think of what to do with a truckload of cats.
The quirt flicked to within a millimeter of my nose. It made a nice breeze on a warm day. "You aren't thinking of drowning them, are you, worm?" she snarled, like a pit bull gazing at a burglar rifling the family silverware chest.
I gulped once more yet again. "Not anymore."
Her dark hand waved the quirt to emphasize her words. "Good. If anything happens to them, I'll personally lead the NAACP Enforcement Committee here."
I gulped still once more yet again. "The NAACP Enforcement Committee?"
"Yes. The 'Never Attempt to Assassinate Cute Pets Enforcement Committee'." With a snarl she thumped a fist between the leather blouse's hidden baseballs. "I'm the Committee's head."
I thought about inserting a 'head' joke here, but she had said we didn't have time for me to wake up. I was afraid they'd leave me unconscious, and as you know, Baggins couldn't make it down the steps. "What about the cookies?"
Ming extracted a paper and waved it. "We found a new volunteer to store those this year."
"Besides," said Buffy as Ming re-filed the paper, "Baggins needs to lose weight. Maybe you should order some of our new trans-fat-free Tagalongs for him." She eyed my waistline. "And for you." She lifted her skirt and produced the pen as Ming extracted yet another paper. "How many cases should we put you down for?"
My throat was beginning to hurt from all the gulping. "One?"
"Right!" said Ming as she scribbled on the paper. "One pallet of cases."
Maria waited until she had finished writing. "Ming, from the looks of those sheets, I think I've found the missing case of Thin Mints. He ate them out of the fat bitch. Add that at last week's price."
"One case of Thin Mints at twelve hundred dollars a box. Got it." Ming produced her calculator, punched numbers, whistled, and punched them again to verify that it wasn't too low. She wrote it on the mortgage form and held the paper and pen to me. "Sign here, please."
I handed the signed paper back to her, and she put the sheaf wherever she carries it. I wasn't sure where that was because I was watching Buffy put away the pen.
"Finally!" sighed Mistress Star in relief. "Let's get out of here."
I followed them down the hall. "Just who did you get to 'volunteer' to store the cookies this year?"
Maria rolled her umber eyes up at me. "Do you have enough brain cells not soaked in gin so that they can remember the military term, 'Need to know'?"
" YOU DON'T! " they chorused in E-minor, Mistress Star's quirt emphasizing the exclamation point.
In the living room they rolled their eyes down to the Thesaurus in the middle of the floor, next to the scattered Rocky Mountain News and my book. Which had landed in the empty popcorn bowl. Atop the wadded tortilla chips bag. At least it hadn't landed in the gooey residue of the salsa bowl or the mostly empty sour cream dip container beside it. "What a pig sty," they said in synchronized chorusing.
Okay, so I still hadn't come up with any better phrase. I'd been busy.
They halted and waited for me to open the storm door for them with all the patience of four nudists in a swarm of malnourished mosquitoes at dinnertime. Through the glass of the storm door I saw Mister Collucci, Nykki's dad, lumbering up the sidewalk like a redwood on tranquilizers.
When The Dreaded Four Girl Scout Uniforms and their occupants emerged onto the porch, he saw them, screamed, and ran down the street at a three-minute-mile pace.
I wondered if Nykki's bedroom would be too full of cookies for her to live in it. I could always make room for her between Allie and me.

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