Message-ID: <4690eli$9710071056@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: mephisto@smtp.ihug.co.nz (Lynx) Subject: "Fluids" and "Cold" (both mf) by Lynx, who is new to a.s.s.m. Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 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: If you're young enough to find what follows to be educational, then you're probably not allowed to read it. Sorry. And the rest of you will doubtless find that it has no redeeming qualities whatsoever. But I do hope that you enjoy it nonetheless. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Fluids The flickering light of candles, the rich glow of coals. We lay together in the sauna, basking in the heat. Sweat beaded and trickled over smooth skin. "Would you like a massage?" I asked thickly, drugged by the heat. You nodded slowly. The heady aroma of ylang-ylang filled the air as I smoothed scented oil over your body with liquid gestures. I pressed in and released the knots with subtle movements. And as I dragged my fingers across your skin, it grew charged and sensitive. You moaned when I reached your secret places. You pulled me towards you. Our lips touched, and you eased your legs apart invitingly. And then there it was, deep within you, filling your wetness. We moved languidly, like waves upon a sea of honey, and with each wave another layer of sensation was laid down. Until at last the storm overwhelmed us, shaking us violently while it lasted, before leaving us washed up somewhere tranquil and remote. You smiled wickedly and whispered in my ear. A dare. And I dared you back. A moment later we were splashing in the lake, laughing like maniacs. The water glittered like diamonds in the moonlight, and snow fell gently around. For a moment we were children again. --------------------------------------------------------------------------- I wrote this short piece just over two years ago as a 'postcard' to someone who I had met on the Net, and for whom I was writing stories. But for reasons still not entirely clear to me we stopped corresponding shortly afterwards. Since I still wanted to write erotica, I decided to post what I had written to the newsgroup rec.arts.erotica in the hope that I would get feedback and inspiration to continue and develop my interest. Sadly, this was not to be: I only ever received two emails back. One of them was in response to the above story, and was a come-on from this guy in Australia. "Hmmm?" I thought to myself. Maybe it doesn't exactly say that the other partner is female, but... So I struggled on a little longer with my last story "Blindfold," but never finished it even though it promised to be the best of the lot. I discovered that I can't write in a void: I can only be excited about writing a story if I know how the story excites my reader. That's intercourse too, although more like the original meaning of the word. And then I recently had another look at the stories newsgroups. rec.arts.erotica seemed moribund. alt.sex.stories was wall-to-wall spam. But there was this new moderated one where all the good stuff seemed to have moved, including some excellent stories by this guy named M1ke Hunt. When I tracked down his Web page, I was quite astounded by the wealth of feedback that he'd gotten, and by his chutzpah at publishing literally hundreds of private emails in flagrant violation of common netiquette. I was quite jealous, I don't mind admitting it. Why, then, did I get so little response to my stories? They can't be that bad: they got quite reasonable 'scores' from the rec.arts.erotica moderators. Were they too short to really make an impression while someone browsed the newsgroup? Or did I simply not write enough to build up a following? Should I have built up a mailing list like M1ke, or tried his humourous approach? Or were my stories just not sexy enough? That's what I most fear. All of my stories have a certain vagueness, because I feel that it's then easier to imagine oneself into the situation. After all, if one is a tall slim brunette and a story keeps going on about a short stacked blonde, then it's a little disorientating isn't it? I notice that M1ke describes himself in only the very vaguest terms: he could be Everyman. Well, I want to write for Everywoman too. I would really appreciate it if you let me know what you think. In the meantime, have a look at the very first story I ever wrote. This one came to me one evening just like magic, in a single fluent burst of prose. Needless to say, this has never happened since! --------------------------------------------------------------------------- Cold The room was very cold. A naked bulb gave harsh illumination to the bare floorboards and spartan furnishings. He looked at her, questioningly; she turned away and shrugged meaninglessly. Her face was set, without life or hope. He sighed. Taking her by the shoulders he drew her back to face him. At first her lips were unresponsive to his kiss, then she softened against him and clung as if drowning. He drew back a little and gently traced a line down her cheek with his fingers. Her eyes were pools of darkness that held the look of fear. Tenderly he kissed her again. As he gently unbuttoned her blouse she stiffened and looked bleakly out of the window. He fumbled with the catch on her bra, and again with her suspenders, but at last she stood nude before him, chilled in the twilight air and with shoulders slumped in resignation. He paused, filling his memory with the sight of her. It had been a long time. As he undressed and slowly sat down on the bed she never moved. At last he motioned her down and, taking her face in his hands, began kissing her more passionately. Her hands whispered across his skin, tracing the powerful muscles of his back. A tattoo stood out in harsh contrast on his shoulder and she gazed, mesmerised. Woman and snake, snake and woman. He cupped her small breasts and kissed them gently. The nipples were small and hard with the cold. With his tongue he ringed first one and then the other, and then slowly teased back and forth. Her hand moved hesitantly down to his thigh and wavered amongst the blond curls. Impatient, he reached down and nudged her hand towards his manhood, now standing hard and erect. As she stroked it timidly, his hand in turn brushed past her dark curls to sink deep into her warm wetness. She moaned plaintatively as he moved his fingers in and out, monotonously, in and out. Turning, he lifted her, and then closed his eyes as she impaled herself on his shaft. Her hands fluttered about his head as she sat in his lap, him deep inside her. As she rocked back and forth her breathing quickened, and she too closed her eyes. Gently rolling her back onto the bed, he raised herself on his forearms and began slowly pumping back and forwards. With each stroke he drove into her, crushing her soft breasts against his smooth hard chest. She whimpered faintly, now gasping for breath and urging him in with her hands. But he breathed deeply and silently as he moved faster and faster. At the moment of release he came with a long sigh, and slowly sank down beside her. As they lay breathing deeply, sheened in sweat despite the chill, he murmered his thanks. She merely stared at the cracked ceiling. -------------------------------------------------------------------------- This story has more detail than any of my others, and yet it is still quite outside of time and set in no particular place. Would the story be any better if you knew, for example, that this scene took place in October 1994 in a small town in southern Italy? And that she was called Alessandra and, although quite young, was already a widow with an infant son; and that he was a New Zealand infantryman called Jim who had fought at the battle of Monte Cassino. And that neither of them considered it to be prostitution because she was only doing it in exchange for food and not money, although both of them feared that it actually was so, and so they would both look back on these memories with guilty pleasure. And that he would return safely in 1947 to his parents' farm in the Bay Of Plenty, where he would live for the rest of his life, and where I visited some years ago to work, talk and listen to his stories, of which this is one. And that all of this is fiction, too? Would you enjoy the story more if I included this kind of background detail? Please tell me, because I'd really like to know! --------------------------------------------------------------------------- How would I fuck thee? My love, How would I fuck thee? Let me count the ways. My love, I would fuck thee in silence; Speaking in tongues And fingertips And lovely little quivers. My love, I would fuck thee with vigor; Thrashing and heaving Like landed fish, Or the mating of serpents. My love, I would fuck thee cruelly; Tickling and teasing, Giving you much But never, ever enough. My love, How woulds't thou fuck me? --------------------------------------------------------------------------- A little extra something just for you. Because you've been so patient and put up with all of my musings. Lynx --------------------------------------------------------------------------- -- +--------------' 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> /