Message-ID: <3060eli$9708172022@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: lysander@bitsmart.com (Lysander) Subject: {ASSM, ASS} RP: Summer Dreams (mf, rom) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <33f713b5.1964972@news.mindspring.com> This story and the whole damn group are intended for people over 18 who are not offended by sexually explicit material. Everyone else is invited to look elsewhere. Author's note: no author's note Summer Dreams by Lysander (lysander@bitsmart.com) I close my eyes and I see you in July. You're wearing that dress you like so much. The white sundress that falls from your shoulders to your waist, where you always belt it. Then it falls again from your hips to your calves. I always loved to see you in that dress. In the summer, with the sun catching the highlights of your chestnut hair and your skin all golden, and the tiny freckles across the bridge of your nose. And that dress in the warm July sunshine, your figure just visible through the material. We've just finished a picnic. We've always just finished a picnic. And you want to go pick wildflowers in the meadow. You always want to go pick wildflowers in the meadow. And you want to decorate my head with a crown of daisies. And I laugh and say no. And then I laugh and say yes. Then you look at me with that look in your eyes. The look that says there'll never be anyone else but me, that there never was anyone else but me. Other lovers, certainly. But never anyone who touched your soul like I can. I know that look. And I know that I have the same look in my eyes. But we talk, instead. About building a house near here. Just on the other side of that copse of trees perhaps. But not in this meadow. This meadow is just for picnics and gathering wildflowers. I'll quit my job teaching the classics to spoiled rich kids who only like Macbeth for the wrong reasons. I'll become a writer full time, and you'll take that job teaching art at the summer camp and run a little gallery the rest of the year. We say that every summer. And every fall, I go back to school and you go back to the office and we put our true lives on hold for another ten months. Our true life is here, in this meadow, having picnics and picking wildflowers. You stand and pull me up and for a while we dance. I'll hum Gershwin and you'll hum Glen Miller, and we dance. Then your dress begins to slip from your shoulders, and I help it. You're embarrassed at first and giggle into my shoulder. Making love outside always does that to you at first, because of your Baptist upbringing, but it's one of the reasons, one of the many reasons I love you so much. I tell you that. I tell you I love you, that I will always love you, until our bodies are so much cosmic dust and our souls reside in some other plane for eternity. You call me silly and slip your dress the rest of the way off. We continue to dance, you beautiful and naked and me still fully clothed. This has always warmed me. Like you are placing complete trust in me, and I am protecting you. It's probably because I have never been comfortable with my own nakedness, of the vulnerability I feel myself. But I prefer the first reason, and you indulge me. We hold each other tightly and dance our way through the Thirties and Forties. I lift my hands to unbutton my shirt. ** My hands. Two useless stumps now. My eyes are opened and I see the truth. Fingers that do not work the way I want them to, that no longer fly over the keyboard to record my words as fast as they spill from my brain. Damn you, Walter Kyle. Damn your drunken soul for taking my hands from me. ** You take my hands away and unbutton my shirt for me, allowing me to caress your warm flesh. I can feel your muscles beneath your skin. Swimmer's muscles, long and powerful, and yet you look so frail from a distance. My shirt falls to the grass and you caress my bare chest, sending tingles all through my body. I am pale all over, a contrast to your glowing skin, tanned from long hours in the sun painting or reading romance novels. I spend all day indoors, promising to come out as soon as I finish this paragraph, or maybe this page, or maybe this chapter. I never do, except on picnic days, but you forgive me. We hold each other and caress and kiss and we dance, to Sinatra now, though neither of us can do him justice. Your voice is husky, made for passioned whispers in my ear, not for the rising and falling scales of beautiful music. I love your voice. I say so and you laugh and blush. You say you wish you could say the same for me. I laugh with you and our embrace tightens, our caresses and kisses become more impassioned. We fall to our knees. ** My hands fall to my knees. My pencil has fallen and I cannot peck on the keyboard. I can't reach the pencil on the floor a foot and a half below me. I try. I try but I cannot. I try typing without the pencil, but without something to grasp, my fingers shake uncontrollably. Ashamed, I call for your help. You come in from the kitchen, tomato sauce on your apron, and pick up the pencil for me, along with the other half-dozen I have dropped. I thank you, my words garbled and slow. But you let me get them out before you say, "You're welcome." I love you for that, but I don't tell you, because I know you have to get back to he kitchen. Instead, I type it, slowly, with many corrected mistakes, then print it out. Seven minutes for five words on a stark white sheet of paper -- "I love you for listening." I am satisfied. ** Again I tell you I love you, and you say the same. We are both naked now, lying among the forgotten wildflowers in the warm summer grass. I say that I hope a birdwatcher doesn't wander by. You laugh and say you don't care. We lay side by side, staring into each other's eyes, letting the tension build. ** Dinner was delicious as usual. I made a mess, as usual. You cleaned me up, then the kitchen. You make small talk, about how Doctor Swenson and the therapists all say I am doing much better. I grunt in response. I know you are talking to make me feel better, and so that you can hear more than the labored tapping of my keyboard. But I enjoy hearing your voice. My grunts are only my way of saying, "Please go on." ** We love each other with our mouths. A flick of the tongue over a nipple. A slobbery lick at the bellybutton that makes one of us laugh. It doesn't matter who is licking and who is laughing. We are one at times like this. You roll me onto my back and climb on top of me. You settle your moist, warm sex against my mouth. I eagerly begin to lick you, exploring all the favorite places, seeking any new erogenous zones you may have developed since the last time we made love. Sometimes I am lucky and find one; usually I don't, but no matter. I lie back and enjoy your sweetness on my tongue and in my nostrils. I savor every drop you produce, and I try to draw out more. You take me into your mouth. I hold your waist, enjoying the sun on my arms and your own sun-warmed, love-warmed flesh. You are a miracle worker with your tongue. It is very mobile. I like to watch your tongue when you paint. On those occasions when the paint does not fall exactly right on the canvas, your tongue becomes an acrobat. Like now. It leaps across my hardening flesh. It twists about the head. It dives down to my swollen balls and jumps back up to the tiny opening. As your tongue works on my cock, I try to do the same to your pussy. I want you to feel what I am feeling, though I know that women and men are built differently, and that I am not nearly as talented as you. I write the poems in the family but you read them. The words that fall from my brain to my hands without stopping at my mouth seem to go to yours for the holidays, just to have a good time. I want to tell you I love you for this, but I am enjoying the flavor of you too much. I force myself to remember to tell you later. ** Later, you have cleaned me. I sit on the toilet drying myself. There is little I can do for myself now, but I insist on doing that much. I see your figure through the smoked glass as you luxuriate in the warm shower. It is exhausting, I know, trying to care for a man who is like a baby in ways except mentally and emotionally. Who frustrates easily because of the things he can no longer do. The doctors say my brain does not work as fast as it used to. I wouldn't know the difference. But if they are right, at least I can enjoy you in my mind longer now. ** I cannot last much longer, and I stop my kisses and licks to tell you. "I don't want you to last," you say. "I want you to come in my mouth." You know just what to say to push me over the edge, for no sooner do you engulf me again, than I do erupt. You drink most of it down. And lick up the small amount that dribbles down my balls. You continue sucking long after I have come, to keep me hard. You succeed. I continue licking and nibbling at your clitoris, trying to bring you to orgasm. I fail, as I always have. You tell me you have never been able to come from someone licking your pussy. No lover has given you an orgasm that way, not even during your one lesbian experiment during college. But I keep trying. Someday. You turn around so you are sitting across my hips. You ball my shirt and your dress together to make a pillow for my head. ** My head hits the pillow. You leave the light on so you can read, but the television is still on. Some bad European sex film is playing on cable. I can't help it. It's been so long, and with the memories running through my head today... Something catches the corner of your eye and you put the book down. You see my erection and you smile. I have always loved your smile. I hope you will give me relief. Your hands are so soft and now mine are so useless. You fondle me through my pajamas. Please, take it out. As though hearing my thoughts, you pull my pajamas off. I know they are off because, even though the muscles don't work below mid- thigh, I have begun to feel tingles again. Perhaps with braces, I can someday walk again. But now I have more important concerns. You stare at my rigid cock, fascinated. Had you forgotten I am still a functioning man, more or less? You take me between your delicate fingers and stroke once, twice. I cannot help myself. My come shoots from the end of my cock and falls in streaks across my chest. You scoop some up with your fingertips and taste it. The rest you smear on my chest. I am still hard. Do you notice that? Are you going to leave me like this, a half-man with a hard-on? A freak you let share your bed but not your love? No, thank God. You pull the conservative nightgown up and off. Your body is beautiful. Little is left of your summer tan, and the swimmer's muscles have lost some of their tone over the past year. You climb upon me, watching for some sign that you are hurting me. If you were, I would not show it, for I want you so badly. ** "I want you," I whisper, before you cover my mouth with yours. You have taken me into yourself. Not just physically but emotionally and spiritually as well. You have swallowed me whole and I rejoice in it. Over and over we merge and separate as the sun begins to lower itself behind the pines. You cannot come when someone licks you, but something must build up inside you, because you climax almost immediately. Faster and faster you move upon me, until you stop in mid-stroke, overcome by your orgasm. We hold that position for an eternity, then you begin to move more slowly, because you are so sensitive. But you cannot help yourself. ** You start slowly, but gradually you begin to move faster. It has been a long time for you as well. You did not have enough time to take a lover, but if you did, I do not care. Just never tell me. The bed, which for so long has only been used for sleeping, begins to creak. It is the only sound in the room save my own labored breathing. Even on the bottom, this is hard. But it is certainly more enjoyable therapy than I get in the pool. I watch you rise and fall above me, your breasts bouncing and your hair flowing, your head thrown back and your eyes closed in pleasure. ** Your head is thrown back and your eyes are closed in pleasure as you approach orgasm. I am there with you, my love. I reach up to caress your soft breasts with my hands as our climaxes build together. ** I reach up with my hands. But I have hands no longer. They are more like claws, completely out of my control more often than not. But I cannot stop myself. I put my hands against your wonderful breasts and do my best to caress them. I feel your body shudder and you freeze. Is it revulsion, I wonder fearfully, or is it love? Your sure hands reach up to my fumbling ones and hold them tighter against your breasts as I erupt inside you. It is love, I decide. I no longer need the summer, and I let it fade to just another special memory. Copyright 1993-1997 by Lysander (lysander@bitsmart.com) This story may not be archived at any site that would charge for access to it. This story may not be sold as part of any collection that charges more than a nominal copying fee. Otherwise, this story may be distributed freely by electronic means as long as the title, my pseudonym and this copyright statement are not changed or removed. -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ .../assm/faq.html> /