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voyeur Tips

Welcome to our "smut" library. Here you will find various information articles and exciting stories dedicated to voyeurism. We welcome erotic fiction from our visitors. Notice that we add points to authors for every story we publish.

Angel of Change (21 June 2005)

They didn't have much time. He was interested. She could tell he was interested, though she suspected he didn't know what it was she was offering. Probably he just wanted to grab her and kiss her. That was something men usually wanted to do. She had no idea why. But she loved the look on their faces afterwards, loved knowing she was sending them back to their wives permanently altered.
She loved that moment of anticipation just before her fingertips brushed against his straining cock, through his pants, grasped the zipper, pulled it down, a moment that came in the middle of the kiss. He kissed good. Damn good. She pushed up into him, on her toes, helped by his big hands on her tight round ass, growled a little growl into his mouth, wondered how much not much time really was, the chairs stacked around them in the dark an unwelcome reminder of what they were supposed to be doing, what they had been sent to do.
His hands were up under her blouse, on her bare back, down her pants, on her bare ass, stroking, squeezing, making her forget, forget what she was supposed to be doing, forget what she wanted to be doing. There was nothing but the kiss, and his hands, and the chairs. Damn chairs, but then if it had not been for a shortage of chairs at the potluck they would have no excuse to be in here, and he would not be kissing her, holding her, enveloping her, her, her, her, not his wife, her! Damn wife.

America (19 June 2005)

I ask you to bear with me please because my English is perhaps not so good, but it is probably better than your Spanish, yes? And I think this story I am about to tell you, the story about the woman I met parking cars today in America is worth reading in any language.
I have been parking cars at this hotel for a few years now. It is boring, lonely work, but it pays much better than any work I could find in Bolivia, and it allows me to support my family back home. Well, usually it is lonely boring work. Certainly I was bored and lonely three afternoons ago when the lady of whom I speak pulled her van into the hotel driveway. She was beautiful. She had dark tan skin, long dark hair, and a proud face. I knew she was American but if you had told me she was from Bolivia I would not have thought you were lying to me. She was not just beautiful. She was exciting. And she made me feel at ease, like I was at home with her, like I was fucking her just by looking into her brown eyes.
When I got to the van to let her out I was already hard. I started to open the door for her but she said she didn't want to park at the hotel because it was too expensive, and could I please tell her where the public garage was. My heart fell for me because I had been looking forward to serving her, and it fell for her because the public garage is closed on Sundays. I told her this. But then I saw that there was an open space on the street in the next block. I know this is not part of my job but I wanted desperately for her to like me so I told her I would park it for her on the street. She looked at me like I was crazy, and I felt crazy, so that was not such a strange reaction, and told me she would pay me $2 and since I was feeling crazy already I told her I did not want the $2, but I would park her van for a kiss.

Always Touching (17 June 2005)

I've been sitting in a training session for two days. Eight hours yesterday and another seven today so far, all in the same classroom, talking about use cases and requirement specifications. Fun fun fun. At least there're five good looking women in the room to keep me visually entertained.
Yesterday even they weren't enough to keep me awake. I was up until 3 am night before last and then the training started at the ungodly hour of 9 (Who the hell gets to work that early?) But anyway I knew I was in no shape to sit up straight for eight hours so I sat in the back row nearest the door and unobtrusively rested my arms on the desk and my chin on my arms and pretended to be awake as much as possible
Resting in that position I drifted in and out of reality, enough in to both keep up with the instructor and fantasize about the tall, lean, spectacular redhead in front of me, enough out that I was only dimly aware of Ryla leaving the room behind me and even more confused than usual when I felt her hand rubbing my back a few minutes later as she returned to her seat.

Aftermath (15 June 2005)

Her hand is on her clit. My cock is deep inside her. My hands are on her hips bouncing her up and down as her hand goes round and round, round and round.
I watch her above me, and from the side in the mirror. I love mirrors. I've probably mentioned this before, but mirrors satisfy the voyeur in me even as I'm fucking, or this case, being fucked, being ridden, watching her ride me, watching her masturbate. Too fucking much.
My cell phone is ringing. Her cell phone is ringing. Spouses, work, who knows? who cares? The maid's knocking on the door, the wild woman on top of me is shouting "we're busy" as she flies up and down the length of my cock, red in the face, can't catch her breath, fingers never stopping, rubbing her clit harder and faster than I would ever dare, pinching her nipples, long dark hair falling over her face, eyes half shut, grimacing with exertion.
Wonder what the maid would say if she could see us like this, wonder if she's outside the door still, straining to hear the gasping and the moaning, imagining two people completely locked in sensory overload, in the heat of the moment, in the heat of the afternoon?

Accidental Shirt (13 June 2005)

It happened as she was getting into the van. I don't know how it happened. I'm sure it was an accident. Something caught, something snagged, and she didn't notice.
But as she got in, her shirt, my favorite shirt, as it has these very easy to undo snaps from top to bottom, pulled open. She didn't realize and I was too wonderfully horrified to say anything as she heard a sound behind her and turned around to look.
My coworker, coming up behind her, had the best view of all.
I've seen her naked many times, in many compromising positions, but I envy him that view, of her, standing proud, tall, and tan in the doorway of her dark green van, in her flipflops, and her tight denim skirt, with her shirt, her accidental shirt, blowing in the breeze like her long dark hair and her breasts, her magnificent breasts with the long hard nipples begging to be sucked, bared to the world for all, all but me, to see.
Even as I sucked them, those tasty nipples, later that lunch after she'd climbed back into the van, smiled me a rueful smile and buttoned herself up, even then I pictured what she must have looked like to him, the connoisseur of all things women, the office ladies' man, him as he stood there with his jaw half dropped in the office parking lot.

Academic Exercise (11 June 2005)

She sits down next to me on the couch looking tired, but happy to see me. The party, which I had been observing closely, continues to whirl about us, but for now my focus is only on her. Which is why she is happy to see me, why she sits so close, her leg pressed against mine, to tell me about her problems.
Why do men with gorgeous wives ignore them? Do they forget how beautiful and compelling they are? Did they ever really see them in the first place?
As her husband pontificates to a small eager crowd on the other side of the room I listen to her, and look at her. She thrives on both. She hasn't said it yet, but doesn't have to. I can see the twinkle in her eye as my eyes rove over her long body and linger on her smiling face. Certainly she is not popularly gorgeous. She is too lanky, too gawky, too brainy, too vaguely Eastern European both in accent and squared off line, but in an academic crowd, and to me especially, she is stunning. She touches herself as she talks, pushing her straight, shoulder-length, light brown hair back behind her ears, pointing out the spots where she is sore from too much exercise, drawing my gaze hither and yon. When she is not complaining about her ailments she is complaining about her husband (or does he qualify as an ailment?) and perhaps the pressure of her leg against mine increases as she speaks of him.

Booth Bimbos in Love (09 June 2005)

Finally Stacey snapped.
They'd been teasing each other for hours. It was subtle teasing, but teasing none the less, and even the most experienced seductress has her limits.
Carefully Stacey saved her work, put the computer on the hotel bed, and stood.
Katelin looked up at her from the other bed, saw the look in Stacey's eye, and wondered what the hell she'd gotten herself into now, because Stacey looked completely crazed. Perhaps this idea of seducing a straight married coworker had not been as wonderful as it first seemed. Perhaps the straight married coworker was now angry at herself or the world for having feelings she could not control. Perhaps the straight married coworker was about to attack her. Perhaps that was why Stacey was pulling her blouse off over her head as she approached the bed where Katelin lay in fear and lust and trembling. Perhaps that was why Stacey was dropping her skirt to the floor as she bent over Katelin and kissed her very, very forcefully.
Or perhaps not, Katelin thought, as she raised her ass off the bed and helped Stacey slide her shorts down her legs. Perhaps not indeed, as Stacey's hand stroked its way back up Katelin's legs to her wet and rapidly wetter cunt, to her clit, and then, with two, three, four fingers, inside her, deep inside her, tickled her G-spot. For a supposedly straight married coworker she was damn good at finger-fucking. She had done this before, thought Katelin with rapidly increasing incoherence, or had spent a great deal of time frigging herself mercilessly.

Family Outing (07 June 2005)

Riding her bike along the river path, her daughter in front of her, her husband behind her, she watches the lone oarsman in his single man scull glide silently through the water beside them, keeping pace, his long strong muscular arms rippling in an endless succession of steady strokes. She admires his lean craggy 50ish face as he looks up, staring back at her, never breaking concentration, admires his tenacity, his persistence, his resolve, his consistency, imagines him naked, sweat glistening off of him, pumping into her, guiding her hips as he guides the oars, remembers her husband's coworker, the former Olympic rower, whose sister had been in her class in high school, remembers ringing his doorbell on a Saturday afternoon when his wife was out of town, remembers sinking to her knees just inside the front door, remembers taking his cock in her mouth, remembers his instant hardness, remembers stripping for him, remembers him fucking her with strong steady strokes on the front hall floor, on the living room couch, on the kitchen counter, in his bed, and finally on his roof deck as the sun began to set over the city skyline, remembers and treasures every orgasm with a tiny shudder of pleasure, waves at the rower, caring only a little whether her husband sees, and speeds down the path on her bicycle.

Left My Heart (05 June 2005)

A still small voice calls my name.
I turn from the elevator, my finger still on the button, staring across the lobby. She is there, in an armchair, curled and tiny, barely visible, quite delectable, very wanted.
I call her name back, watch the rest of her head appear around the edge of the chair, her face looking happy and slightly nervous at the same time. I'm not sure nervous about what, though admittedly the situation is a little odd.
I'd called her after the conference got out, as she'd requested, to arrange for dinner. Her boyfriend, sounding annoyed, had answered the phone, promised to tell her, clearly hadn't, as I'd eaten alone. Ah the days before cell phones.
She gestures at me to come over, and I gesture for her to join me instead. There is an awkward silence before she smiles, stands, and walks toward me, arriving in front of me just as the elevator opens behind me.
Another awkward silence ensues. Do I get on, and if I get on, does she follow?
I do. She does. We still have the elevator ride, the elevator departure, the walk down the hall, and the unlocking of the room door to get through.

Disturbance (03 June 2005)

Nobody ever goes into her dining room. I think it's just there for decoration. That and making out with me.
We're pressed against the wall, next to the door, as close to being part of the wallpaper as possible, with people on the other side of the wall, family people. Our faces are very, very close. I can devour her, I can meld with her. I can be her. This could be my house in the woods.
Slowly I slide my hands up from her hips, along her ribs, under her t-shirt, up to her rock-hard, always-excited nipples.
She loves the naughtiness, is out of control with our boldness, is moving her hips ever so subtly from me to the wall and back again in a slow-motion pantomime of fucking.
I fuck with her and against her, swinging my hips back as she goes back, forward as she comes forward. We are humping, and beneath my shorts I am hard, and beneath her shorts I am sure she is wet.

Calliope (29 May 2005)

Your man Bobby was a good man, and you had trusted him. "He's completely devoted," you'd say to your girlfriends when the subject of infidelity came up. And it did, frequently, for they were a wicked bunch. "I'm the one who would cheat," you'd say. "But I wouldn't." And you hadn't, and so they'd sigh and twirl the straws around in their drinks, clinking the ice cubes together, making sex eyes across the bar at the Wall Street types.

He had been devoted, just not completely, just not only to you, and you find this out not from a nagging hunch or whispered phone conversation but at his funeral when a woman bursts into the church wild-eyed, swollen, weeping, screaming his name. "Bobby!" she cries, "Bob-eeeeeeeeeee!" His name sounds foreign from her mouth, primal, as though you had never heard it before, as though you yourself had never screamed it before, and you stare in disbelief as the woman runs down the aisle to fall before his casket, tearing at her breast and wailing. You have never been to a funeral before but see from the slack-jawed priest that this behavior is atypical. Perhaps, you think, she is at the wrong funeral. Maybe she has gotten her Bobbys confused.

The Woman was not at the viewing last night. You did not receive her in the line of hand-clasped I'm so sorry's and He was wonderful's, and you don't recall having seen her before in passing. But she is here just the same and suddenly she is the checkout clerk from Gristedes, the woman who cut his hair, his dental hygienist, and the waitress from the coffee shop. All at once she is everyone and you curse your memory.

Polaroid Family Portraiture (19 May 2005)

The silvery gray cloud of emulsion misted in and out of focus, as lines formed and the story of a chalky white garden statue slowly came into frame, hemmed in by the thin white lines of the Polaroid at the edges, and the leafy green layers of foliage in the picture. My mother only ever bought the broken ones. This is a fact that I recently discovered while on a joint venture to the local nursery. You see, I pay attention to the details: I believe this to be the locus of fascination. In the details, the story is constantly being told.

It could be said that this tiny version of a photograph is a kind of detail. In a Polaroid, the information is limited in scale to around three inches square. For as small an area as this is, in most cases, that is all one needs to get an idea of the story being told. My mother doesn't know that I know about the broken statues. Or if she does know, at least we never talk about it.

She rifled through the little piles of gray animals on the ground, shaded by the ferns overhead and the gridded mesh pattern of the screen on the patio at the nursery. They looked sad, sitting there: frozen in time, tiny victims of an invisible Medusa, only not really anxious to escape their stillness. Just calm. She never paid attention to the nice ones. The doggy with the broken tail looks better to her: I could tell she was eyeing it. She scooped it up, much like a person would scoop up a real puppy, tenderly. That was the one that she would buy.

A March Without February (17 May 2005)

A March without February. I feel caught off guard, ready to dispute the chronological facts when I suddenly remember. I took sleeping pills all month to push the days through. Twenty-eight of them. The only true 4-week month. A lunar month. The only month loyal to the menstrual cycle. If you mark all the days with little red x's and circle the three days in the middle of the month using a red felt-tipped pen you can safely have unsafe sex. An even 28 days. You can't get pregnant if you mark the days.

When I went out that night, half-asleep, the least obvious star of the ball, it seemed like a good idea. I stuck to a friendly spot on the futon in a little smoking room. I sacrificed my vision to keep off of my feet. It was a revolving strobe that passed through four colors that reminded me of Tibetan prayer wheels I saw in a movie. At least two different men in the span of 30 minutes sat down next to me and had something interesting to say about the history of this light or names of famous artists who wrote plays while hypnotized in its trance. I went home with one of them.

It had been nearly two years without any coal in the furnace.

Previously, coal kept me warm, burning brightly, efficiently, yet filthy, in a black hole, connected to my body by an ash-laden tube. Black itself, dug up from God knows where, and male. Dave, Christoph, Gabriel, Joshua, Angus, Johnny, Sharif, Francis.

Grace (15 May 2005)

Paul Fenstermaker had no idea why he now remembered that nauseating, feral pink pig who hand-built he and his family such a gorgeous in-ground pool a few years back. His non-labile wife (what wife?) wanted the best possible in-ground pool for their new home so he called his friend Solipsistic Straight Haired Female Friend From College and asked her to recommend the best in-ground pool builder in the world. She said: 'My hip sister keeps on raving about this crass pig she read about in the Utne who has earned an 'underground' reputation as the world's most incredibly brilliant, erudite underground, oops I mean in-ground, pool builder. Except he is a complete asshole and he will insult your family by using such words as 'Fuck' and 'Shit'; remember he is literally a pig, in the literal sense, he has four legs and rolls around in his own crap – but, alas – he's the best damn in-ground pool builder on the planet.'

So the pig went to their house to build Fenstermaker and his wife a pool. Sure enough, Solipsistic Straight Haired Female Friend From College was right, he was a pig. He was pink, walked on four legs, and he smelled like: Poo. Sure enough he insulted Paul's wife a whole lot. During the nine days it took him to build the Fenstermaker's a truly magnificent pool, he called Paul's wife the following:

1) A Stupid Bitch
2) An Abortion
3) The C-Word
4) The Progenitor of All That Is Evil

But whenever Paul's wife would get super emotionally upset at the vile-literal-pig/brilliant-in-ground-pool-builder, Paul would simply place his left hand on her right shoulder and point to the beautiful pool he was building. When given the chance, he opened his mouth to tell her the following: 'That crazy pig sure is building us a wonderful, isn't he?'

He would then continue to say: 'I thought this is what you always wanted.'

The City (11 May 2005)

A businessman walks into a bank in San Francisco and asks for the loan officer. He says he is going to Europe on business for two weeks and needs to borrow $5,000. The bank officer says the bank will need some kind of security for such a loan. So the businessman hands over the keys to a Rolls Royce parked on the street in front of the bank. Everything checks out, and the bank agrees to accept the car as collateral for the loan. An employee drives the Rolls into the bank's underground garage and parks it there.
Two weeks later, the businessman returns, repays the $5,000 and the interest, which comes to $15.41.
The loan officer says, "We are very happy to have had your business, and this transaction has worked out very nicely, but we are a little puzzled.
While you were away, we checked you out and found that you are a multimillionaire. What puzzles us is why would you bother to borrow $5,000?"
The businessman replied, "Where else in San Francisco can I park my car for two weeks for $15 bucks?"

It Took Me Over 50 Years To Learn (09 May 2005)

Never, under any circumstances, take a sleeping pill and a laxative on the same night.
If you had to identify, in one word, the reason why the human race has not achieved, and never will achieve, its full potential, that word would be "meetings."
There is a very fine line between "hobby" and "mental illness."
People who want to share their religious views with you almost never want you to share yours with them.
You should not confuse your career with your life.
Nobody cares if you can't dance well. Just get up and dance.
Never lick a steak knife.
The most destructive force in the universe is gossip.

Geese Facts (07 May 2005)

Next fall when you see geese heading south for the winter... flying along in V formation...you might consider what science has discovered as to why they fly that way:
As each bird flaps its wings, it creates an uplift for the bird immediately following. By flying in V formation the whole flock adds at least 71% greater flying range, than if each bird flew on its own.
People who share a common direction and sense of community can get where they are going more quickly and easily because they are traveling on the thrust of one another.
When a goose falls out of formation, it suddenly feels the drag and resistance of trying to go it alone... and quickly gets back into formation to take advantage of the lifting power of the bird in front. If we have as much sense as a goose, we will stay in formation with those who are headed the same way we are.
When the head goose gets tired it rotates back in the wing and another goose flies point. It is sensible to take turns doing demanding jobs...with people or with geese flying south.
Geese honk from behind to encourage those up front to keep up their speed. What do we say when we honk from behind?
Finally...and this is important...when a goose gets sick or is wounded by gunshots, and falls out of formation, two other geese fall out with that goose and follow it down to lend help and protection. They stay with the fallen goose until it is able to fly or until it dies, and only then do they launch out on their own, or with another formation to catch up with their group.
If we have the sense of a goose, we will stand by each other like that.

Having a Bad Day (27 April 2005)

Fire authorities in California found a corpse in a burned out section of forest while assessing the damage done by a forest fire. The deceased male was dressed in a full wet suit, complete with scuba tanks on his back, flippers, and face mask. A post-mortem revealed that the person died not from burns, but from massive internal injuries. Dental records provided a positive identification.
Investigators set about to determine how a fully clad diver ended up in the middle of a forest fire. It was revealed that on the day of the fire, the person went for a diving trip off the coast some 20 miles from the forest. The fire-fighters, seeking to control the fire as quickly as possible, called in a fleet of helicopters with very large dip buckets. Water was dipped from the ocean and then flown to the forest fire and emptied. You guessed it. One minute our diver was making like Flipper in the Pacific, the next he was doing the breast stroke in a fire dip bucket 300 feet in the air.
Apparently he extinguished exactly 5'10" of the fire. Some days it just doesn't pay to get out of bed - This article was taken from the California Examiner, March 20, 1998

A Fascinating Story! (23 April 2005)

A lady in a faded gingham dress and her husband,dressed in a homespun threadbare suit, stepped off the train in Boston, and walked timidly without an appointment into the president of Harvard's outer office. The secretary could tell in a moment that such backwoods, country hicks had no business at Harvard and probably didn't even deserve to be in Cambridge.
She frowned. "We want to see the president," the man said softly. "He'll be busy all day," the secretary snapped. "We'll wait," the lady replied. For hours, the secretary ignored them, hoping that the couple would finally become discouraged and go away.
They didn't. And the secretary grew frustrated and finally decided to disturb the president, even though it was a chore she always regretted to do. "Maybe if they just see you for a few minutes, they'll leave," she told him.
And he sighed in exasperation and nodded. Someone of his importance obviously didn't have the time to spend with them, but he detested gingham dresses and homespun suits cluttering up his outer office. The president, stern-faced with dignity, strutted toward the couple. The lady told him, "We had a son that attended Harvard for one year. He loved Harvard. He was happy here. But about a year ago, he was accidentally killed. And my husband and I would like to erect a memorial to him, somewhere on campus."
The president wasn't touched, he was shocked. "Madam," he said gruffly. "We can't put up a statue for every person who attended Harvard and died. If we did, this place would look like a cemetery". "Oh, no," the lady explained quickly. "We don't want to erect a statue.
We thought we would like to give a building to Harvard." The president rolled his eyes. He glanced at the gingham dress and homespun suit, then exclaimed, "A building! Do you have any earthly idea how much a building costs? We have over seven and a half million dollars in the physical plant at Harvard." For a moment the lady was silent. The president was pleased. He could get rid of them now. And the lady turned to her husband and said quietly, "Is that all it costs to start a University? Why don't we just start our own?" Her husband nodded. The president's face wilted in confusion and bewilderment. And Mr. and Mrs. Leland Stanford walked away, traveling to Palo Alto, California where they established the University that bears their name, a memorial to a son that Harvard no longer cared about.
"You can easily judge the character of others by how they treat those who can do nothing for them or to them." Malcolm Forbes

If Putters could talk.... (golf related) (19 April 2005)

If a peek into the sordid life of my neglected putters interests you then you need serious counseling....but, please read on anyway!! :-)
If Putters Could Talk
We must be in hell. The silence is deafening, only to be broken like clockwork twice a day by some mysterious metallic gear sound. This is a dark, damp, hard place. You know, the kind of place where you need to watch your back. There is little hope here. Sure we've heard stories of one of us getting out, breaking free, joining the outside world once again. But these are just stories.
Our home is here in this cockroach infested haven known as eudaman's garage.
We are eudaman's discarded putters. Our population is at 12 after my long time pal, Ray Cook, was run over last week. His bloodied shaft left untended on the floor for days.
My name is Tad Moore and I used to be the number one putter. I used to travel. I stayed in the finest hotels. Life was good. I am the same putter that drained a treacherous, winding 12-foot birdie at Pebble Beach #9. I am the putter that brought home the cabbage versus JK time and time again.
But because I missed a few four footers, all my past glories were forgotten. I should have ran when after the round we stopped at Roger Dunn's golf shop. If only I had more than just one heel and toe. I should have seen it coming. I felt the life drain from my shaft when I saw eudaman carrying out a brand new Scotty Cameron Coronado 2 oilcan putter. All that practice, all those memories.
Thought I'd be in the bag forever. I shoulda listened to Hogan, the 7 iron, he told me long ago to watch my flange.
So now we sit here, like dogs in an animal shelter, begging for another chance.

How I first Became Eudaman (17 April 2005)

There I was at rock bottom, 104 degrees in my Dallas red light motel. Awakened by the wail of sirens, hookers, and the night, I look around at my sullen landscape. An empty bottle of Jack Daniels, dozens of discarded ciggy butts overflowing from an undersized ashtray, a cracked picture frame on the wall with a faded picture of Roger Staubach.
I arise from the bed, still damp from the incredible humidity and lack of AC, and head to the bathroom. With bloodshot eyes and the breath of 1,000 camels I stare at the mirror, surveying the damage from the previous evenings bout with addiction. After many bodily noises I head for the shower...then it happened.
As I step into the shower I realize that this is no ordinary shower. No, this is a Rod Serlingish Shower indeed. Suddenly surrounded by a bright purple glow the shower begins shaking and then just as quickly darts off through the walls and into the clouds. I am flying through the heavens, naked in my own personal Space Shower machine. I'm loving it though as the water is real hot and this never worked too well before. There's nothing quite like getting a full lather at 50,000 feet to cure a hangover.

Chimpanzeectomy ... (15 April 2005)

The doctor peered over his lensless half moon spectacles.
"You're sure you want to go through with this?" he said.
Larry nodded.
"Absolutely," enthused he (enthusiastically).
"You do realise what's involved, then?"
Larry shrugged.
"Kind of," he said (unconvincingly).

The Mysterious Range Stranger (13 April 2005)

After tiring of hitting inaccurate iron after inaccurate iron, I finally pulled out the Ping TiSi Driver for some badly needed self-image help. Their was a 20 yr old kid in the station next to me that had just busted out a taped up Ping from the pro shop to demo and he prepared to hit his first ping shot.
Before the kid could tee up this first ball, I began building my ego by crushing the big stick. I hit about 5 balls when I heard a barely audible voice behind me saying, "Put the driver away and grab your 7 iron."
Without thinking I oblige and grab the 7, and turn around to see an older fellow of about 70 or so with a bag of 40 yr old Forged Walter Hagens.
Quickly, with an almost annoyed sound to him, the man barks out directions. "Tighten your left grip in bottom two fingers and loosen your right hand grip...and keep your damn left foot on the ground"

POPCORN (11 April 2005)

The end was in sight. Sixteen weeks of sixteen hour days seven days a week was nearly over.
Steve's brain was numb.
He had survived the last two weeks on adrenalin, coffee and nicotine. He knew before he started this building it would be like this, it always was.
The challenge had been laid down five months ago "Do you think we could build a six theater multiplex cinema in sixteen weeks? Old man Bennett had said.
"No problems" Steve had said.
He would have liked to of added all the buts and maybes that should have gone with that answer, like, "If the drawings are complete", "If the sub contractors turn up on time", "If it doesn’t rain" or "No one makes a cock-up", but he knew that wasn’t what Bennett wanted to hear.
Times were hard and Bennett was harder, he knew if he showed any signs of weak character Bennett would give someone else the job and he would be without one again.
He also knew from experience that if he could manage to carry it off and open the doors on the right day the success would be the old man's. If he failed, he could keep that all to himself.

IBM Data Processing Division Date: June 25, 1985 (07 April 2005)

Program Product Announcement
Virtual Universe Operating
System (OS/VU)
5799-ZAP
Highlights for OS/VU:
Because so many users have asked for an operating system of even greater capability than VM, IBM announces the Virtual Universe Operating System - OS/VU.

Running under OS/VU, the individual user appears to have not merely a machine of his own, but and entire universe of his own, in which he can set up and take down his own programs, data sets, systems networks, personnel, and planetary systems. He need only specify the universe he desires, and the OS/VU system generation program (IEHGOD) does the rest. This program will reside in SYS1.GODLIB. The minimum time for this function is 6 days of activity and 1 day of review.
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