Message-ID: <7393eli$9801181707@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: MyFrThAl Subject: REPOST: Mark Aster: Slinky Red Thing (MF) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d 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: <5336b938.34c02408@aol.com> I'm way behind in my repostings; here's the next one due out. Originally aired back in August 1996. Feedback welcome, as always! .. Mark My Friends the Allens -- Slinky Red Thing by Mark Aster = = = Note: this story contains graphic accounts of sexual relations between consenting adults. If you are a minor, a U.S. Senator, or anyone else whose brain implodes when exposed to such things, stop reading now, and go take a cold shower. = = = Five A.M. Friday morning Thursday night Far from sleep... 11pm, actually, Saturday night. Pat Allen and I sat at a tiny table in a crowded little uptown bar, Tori Amos breathing sex and innocence into the smoky air. We weren't talking; just sipping at our drinks, admiring each other, holding hands, twining fingers. Sometimes she would take my hand and run it over her face, my fingers on her lips. We had been lovers for one week. I don't know what she was thinking, but in my mind she was naked again, on her back on her couch, gasping and laughing and coming. Yes I wore A slinky red thing Does that mean I should spread For you Your friends Your father Mister Ed... "Haw!" A thin ruddy man laughed across a table to his round pale companion. "Big surprise! Dress the wrong way in the wrong place, things happen. s'why they wear 'em in the first place, ya know? Element o' danger!" And he laughed again. And the place got a little quiet, and a circle formed around the two men, nothing obvious, just a little drawing away, and some eyes turned in new directions. And the thin man looked around at nothing, and got a little quieter. It may be a dirty little bar on the wrong side of the tracks, but it's also right next door to the Women's Shelter. "So?" I said to Pat, taking her hand in both of mine and counting her fingers. "So?" "So I didn't notice you in the glaring committee, there. Asshole, eh?" Pat was wearing a slinky red thing herself that night, tight and shiny and short and cut low in front. "Depends," she said, and she took my hands and nestled them under her neck, against the strong whiteness of her throat. I wanted to cup her breasts, feel their heavy softness in my fingers. "Depends?" "Well, if he meant it as a sort of theoretical observation, it's probably true. Part of the high, for me, of wearing something hot is knowing that I'm HOT, that people want me, that I'm wearing something that'd be stupid to wear in some places. Sex is dark and deep and dangerous. Have you read Paglia?" I hadn't. "On the other hand," she raised my hand to her lips and ran her tongue over my palm, "if he was implying that that's an EXCUSE, and that the rapist shouldn't have his balls ripped off and shoved down his throat," and she released my hands and sat back in her chair, "then I'd have to disagree." The waitress, weaving between the tables, refilled our drinks and mazed away again. These things go through your head When there's a man on your back And you're pushed flat on your stomach It's not a classic Cadillac... "God," breathed Pat, "how can a song about something so horrible be so sexy?" "I think it's her voice." "Her voice," and she closed her eyes and licked her lips, and they glistened in the light, and I wanted to run my own tongue over them. "You must feel hot tonight," I said. She opened her eyes, and pursed her lips and leaned over the table toward me again and took my hands. "Do you think so? Do you think I'm wet?" "Are you wet?" I asked. She reached one finger out and knocked a spoon off the table. "Find out for yourself," she whispered, and kissed the back of my hand. Under the table it was dark and grungy, curls of cigarette smoke moving lazily around a roomful of legs. Pat's knees were apart, and up her long smooth thighs the triangle of her panty looked dark and damp. I reached one hand between her knees, but she clamped her legs together on it, smothering my fingers in her flesh. Her thighs released me, and I sat up. "Am I wet?" she asked. "Want to do something dangerous?" I said. My cock was throbbing in my pants. She touched my calf with one foot. "Are you hard?" she asked. She knew I was hard. My mouth was dry. She took my forefinger between her lips, and sucked lightly on it, looking into my eyes. She smiled. "Two minutes," she said, "the door just to the left of the ladies' room." She got up quickly and wove through the tables to the smoky back of the room. From the speakers, Tori's voice swayed with the swaying of Pat's marvelous ass. I watched the second hand crawl lazily around my watch dial. The door to the left of the ladies' room was unmarked, stiff. It opened onto a closet-sized room, dusty and cluttered, with another door on the other side. I opened it, stepped out into the cold alley, the night. I heard a noise beside me, turned, and Pat was in my arms, her body pressed against me, her mouth hot and demanding on mine. I took her by the arms and pulled her tighter against me, and my tongue probed her mouth. She groaned, and fumbled at my pants. My cock sprang out into the close still air, the drop of a tear glistening wetly at the tip. Pat took my staff in her hand and squeezed as her mouth fastened on my neck. My hands kneaded her breasts through her dress. She squeezed and stroked my cock with one hand, and with the other she guided my fingers down her body, up under her skirt, and between her legs. Through the soaked cloth of her panty I felt her cunt, soft and full. She spread her legs and purred as I pressed my fingers against her. Then I slid her panties down her thighs, and she rubbed my cock against herself, against the soft skin of her stomach, cock-tears rubbing off onto the underside of her skirt. I gasped and closed my eyes, my hands on her ass. She turned in my arms, slipping my penis along her skin, over her hip, into the crack between her buttocks. She bent over and rested her arms on something in the darkness, and pressed herself back against me. I moved forward and entered her, my hard hungry cock sliding easily into her vagina, penetrating her, opening her, and she cried out. "If you're loud," I hissed, sliding my cock out of her and back in, moving her body forward and back with my hands on her hips, "if you're loud, someone might hear." She gasped and groaned louder. I reached between her legs with one hand, along the pumping shaft of my cock, and stroked her clit with my fingers as I fucked her. The night made sounds, creaks and squeals, cars thrumming by on the road. "I think someone's coming!" I said, "Be quiet!" and I drove myself into her, and I rubbed her juices over her clit and stroked her harder. "Uhhhhnnnnn. Uhhhhnnnnn! AHHH!" she came quickly and deeply in the dimness, and as I thrust faster in and out of the sweet wetness of her cunt I marvelled again at the incredible heat of this woman, her head back, lost in orgasm from the pressure of my body on her, in her, my hands on her skin, my flesh buried in hers, and she came and came for a long time as I groaned and grunted. Our hips moved in exquisite rhythm, and just as I lost all control, my body merging into hers, my breath timed to the thrust of her hips, my cock pulsed and throbbed, and the thick white semen exploded out of me, into her, and as I came I squeezed her and bucked against her, and she nearly fell, bracing herself with her arms and legs against my last spurting thrusts, and moaning as I filled her. Back in the bar, at our table, we sat and touched each other's faces and I thought about taking her home and fucking her again, opening her and tasting her and making her wet and filling her with cum. Joni Mitchell sang about love from the speakers. "So," I said, "if someone had come up and taken advantage of the darkness while you were waiting for me there in the alley, you would have...?" She leaned far forward over the table, her breasts lovely and round, and kissed my mouth and put her lips by my ear. "Ripped off his balls," she whispered, "and shoved them down his throat." My Friends the Allens -- Slinky Red Thing by Mark Aster The End -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |