Message-ID: <20919asstr$942228600@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Message-ID: <3.0.1.32.19991030005256.006c7198@pop3.demon.co.uk> X-Sender: nick+cassandra@pop3.demon.co.uk X-Post-Date: Sat, 30 Oct 1999 00:52:56 +0100 From: Nick Subject: {ASSM} {GALAGO} Replacement (Nick) (M/F) Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="us-ascii" Date: Wed, 10 Nov 1999 05:10:00 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: assm-admin Replacement ----------- Copyright Oct 1999 nick@cassandra.demon.co.uk Note that this story is provided free for entertainment. You may copy it and distribute to friends but you may not make money from it or any part of it without my agreement, nor must you claim it as your own. This story is copyrighted to me (Nick) and I ask you to observe that. This story is of an adult nature, containing some sexually explicit scenes. I do not intend either for me or the reader to break the law in any country where it may be read, and so if for any reason the law of your country forbids you from reading adult literature, do not read any further. **** There was an orange glow in the sky above the glare of the streetlamps. "Looks like a fire," I said. "Our part of town, too," said Helen curiously. "Our street!" I turned the corner and the glow was brighter. "Oh, shit..." An evening of drinking and dancing ended with us helplessly clinging to each other, restrained by police and comforted by neighbours, as we watched the angry flames take possession of everything we had lived for and turn it all to ash. The water jets from the fire hoses had seemed almost to dance playfully with the fire, having given up the elemental battle for our house, now concerned only with containment. The insurance company paid for the site to be cleared and for a brand new house to be erected in its place according to our plans and the limitations of the policy. In the meantime, we lived a hand-to-mouth existence, staying with compassionate parents and moving to seedy bed-sits when blood-ties became strained to breaking point. It took them nine months for officials, beaurocrats and builders to give us back our home. We stood together outside the house, breathing in the fresh Spring air. All traces of the acrid fumes that seemed to have hung over the site for so long, serving as a reminder of that terrible night, were gone. Everything, from the singing of freshly arrived migrant birds to the laughter of children through the clear air, seemed to tell us to forget the past and look to the future. Even Helen, who had been so tired and drawn these last months, seemed to glow with childlike anticipation. She brushed away a wisp of blonde hair blowing across her face as I gave her the shiny new keys, and she grinned at me, hunching her shoulders with girlish excitement as she opened the front door and stepped inside. A brief break in the story to make an authors note: S to r y c o p y right belongs to N i c k at c a s s a n d r a dot d e m on dot c o dot u k as should be stated at the top. Sorry for the interruption. Please carry on reading. Everything, from the echo of our footsteps on the bare, dusty floorboards to the smell of sawn wood and new plaster, excited us with its sense of newness. The raw pinkness of the plaster had a virginal quality which seemed to ache for a first caress from a loving paintbrush. It was as if the house were a nervous young girl presenting herself for initiation at the hands of experienced lovers. "I know just the wallpaper for this," said Helen, surveying the hallway and stairwell. She had a clear vision of how she wanted the place to look. "That maroon, with the 'Fleur de Lys' pattern we saw at 'Homebase' the other day, and a pink carpet. What do you think?" I nodded, trying to picture it in my mind, and smiled. I consider myself to be a creative person, yet leave me alone in a house like this and I will guarantee you that I'd learn to love pink plaster, the floor would be carpeted with old beer cans, and the glare of the morning sun would be kept from my face with blankets, either over my head or, if I got organised, over the windows. Don't get me wrong; I love decorating. It's just that my activities in this area need to be guided by a higher hand -- the hand of a woman like Helen. I glanced up at the ceiling to where the bare lighting wires dangled. I wondered what she had in mind for that. "A chandelier there, I think," she said, reading my thoughts. Her excitement was almost tangible as she took my hand, leading me onwards into the world she was creating. That excitement fascinated me, and I found myself watching how it affected her. "Oh, yes!" she breathed, as we entered the living room. "I know just the curtains. Tape measure... " She held out her hand expectantly, keeping her eyes fixed on the window while I retrieved it from among the debris of my jacket pocket. "Thanks. Now hold this." She gave me the end while she extended it along the length of the large bay window, concentrating hard on the numbers and noting them down before suddenly turning to me with a smile. Had she seen me watching her? I couldn't help it. I seemed to notice everything: the lightness of step, the way her eyes flickered from point to point as she took in and analysed every detail, completely absorbed in her task. It almost seemed as if I were observing the early stages of a birth. There had been a sense of brooding preoccupation about her ever since the fire, and whatever we did or tried together, it never seemed to vanish completely. Now, for the first time, there was no trace of it as she worked on bringing into existence her vision of the future. If nothing else, I was at least thankful for that. Once again she was busy, placing an imaginary armchair in an alcove and pacing the room for angles while walking around an invisible coffee table. She emitted satisfied little squeaks as yet another virtual piece of furniture slotted into place. Occasionally she would ask my opinion on something, but I knew her well enough to know that whatever I said would have precious little influence. I was like a cork bobbing in her wake, but I was happy with that. At least she now had a wake for me to bob in. So instead of making constructive suggestions, I found myself watching her once more, like a voyeur. Standing back from the damage that anxiety and enforced proximity had done to us since the fire, I saw once more how ravishingly beautiful she was. I remembered for the first time in ages why my heart had all but stopped the first time I'd seen her. I could not believe that I had been the first person to offer her the world, regardless of ability to deliver. I could not believe that she was surprised by this, and nor could I believe it when she agreed to marry... well, me. "What do you think?" She turned to me quickly, catching me off-guard. "What...? Why are you looking at me like that?" I smiled back at her. "Oh, nothing," I said, "just memories." Her face clouded for a moment. "Come on," she said quickly, "let's go upstairs." With that, she swept from the room while I simply slipstreamed. The master bedroom seemed bigger than I had figured. She walked over to the far wall. "I want a big walk-in wardrobe here," she said briskly. "What are you going to do with that?" I asked. "You haven't got anything to put in it. The insurance money won't go on forever!" She turned, putting her hands on her hips. "Have you never heard of forward planning?" I shrugged. "Mirrored doors, I think," she mused. I like the idea of mirrors in a bedroom. Apart from making the room look bigger, it allows one an additional perspective on one's beautiful wife when in congress. One's imagination can always block out the hideous ape who might be groping her, providing he doesn't get in the way too much. "Hmm..." I felt it was my turn to make a contribution. "While we're buying mirrors, we could always put one on the ceiling." Helen ignored me, once again fantasising about curtain fittings, while my own fantasies headed off in quite a different direction. "And I've always wanted black satin sheets..." My own enthusiasm began to mount, "and a water bed - hey Hel' we must have a water bed - it must have securing points for the ropes, though. I wonder if they make them that way..." I paused, pondering, then went on, "and one of those shag-pile carpets we can roll around in, and, well..." Sometimes I go on a bit. She was standing beside me, no longer frenetically reinventing the room. She took my hand and squeezed it gently before pulling me towards her. I felt her full moist lips pressing against mine with a sudden passion I had missed for a long while. As I responded, her tongue insinuated itself into my mouth, telling me in no uncertain terms that this was a lot more than an affectionate peck. I ran my hands down her back and pulled her hips against me, feeling the delicious softness of her rump and deftly hitching up her skirt as I did so. We sank to the hard dusty floorboards, dimly aware of the discomfort that told us there was no waterbed here yet. I was all but overwhelmed by her passion as she began pulling at the buttons of my shirt, unconcerned as to whether or not they remained attached to the garment; a few did not. Her breathing was ragged and her face flushed, her hair teasing my face as she showered my face with urgent little kisses. She drifted downwards, her hands stroking and clawing at my naked chest before fumbling with the belt of my jeans. I groaned and my eyes opened wide with shocked pleasure as I felt her mouth and her flickering tongue working at my manhood. For a moment I wondered if this really was my Helen and not the ghost of some long dead whore who had taken possession of her body. My self-control started slipping away and I tried desperately to think of insurance policies; this was far too good to blow with a bout of premature ejaculation. In the nick of time, she turned to tug my open jeans from my legs. As she did so, I was treated to the sight of her buttocks flexing deliciously under silk panties. I lunged, twisting so that I could drive my head between her thighs and roll her onto her back. I forced her legs apart and pulled the crotch of her panties aside with my teeth so that I could give her a taste of her own medicine -- and taste some of it myself. She arched her back and cried out -- I hadn't lost my touch -- and then she swept an uncomfortable looking lump of dry plaster from behind her back and it skittered unheeded across the floor. I kicked the jeans from my legs and worked her shoulders, then her breasts, free from her dress. She moaned, this time with pleasure, as I tended those wonderful breasts. Within that quivering whiteness I could discern the tracery of faint blue veins, pulsing with her lifeblood, and I marvelled at the mechanism which gave such a beautiful creature life and pleasure. That lifeblood engorged her pink nipples, which my tongue now circled as my teeth gently nipped at them. She jerked and pulled me closer into her, wrapping her thighs around me, drawing me into her, until it seemed I could get no closer... I lay with my head against her breast, listening to her heartbeat slowly return to normal. It had not been like this since the night of the fire, when, fearful of the dark future that lay before us, we had ravished each other's bodies in a desperate search for whatever comfort we could find within ourselves. Since then, sex had been all but non-existent and unremarkable when it occurred. If at first I'd thought that she was turned on by my musings on the erotic potential of our new bedroom, the intensity of her reaction told even me that there was much more to it. It was as if she was being driven by something far deeper, more primitive -- maybe a ritual need to mark her territory. It was understandable since we had been essentially homeless for the last nine months. A woman needs roots. "Come on!" She sat up suddenly and then apologised as my head thumped noisily on the floorboards. "We have one more room to do." She stood up and transformed the dress, which had become a dusty waistband, back into a dress. Her face was still flushed and her hair was tousled. Our clothes were covered in plaster dust, and I wondered vaguely what people would make of us when we eventually came to leave the house. I also wondered what the decorators would make of the patch of congealed plaster dust we left behind. I pulled on my jeans and secured my shirt with its remaining buttons before following her into the second bedroom. This room was full of sunshine, full of life, and even I could see what it would become. "We should paint it bright yellow," she said, "and we'll stick animal pictures all over the walls with matching 'Winnie-the Pooh' curtains. We'll get one of those mobiles to hang from the ceiling -- you remember..." She stood with her back to me. "Oh, yes," she breathed, "can you see it, Andy? We'll have one of those beautiful cots. Like before..." She turned to face me. She was smiling, but her eyes brimmed with tears. The insurance company could not, after all, replace everything. Please comment. This story is otherwise offered to you for your entertainment for free. My mailbox is always open so don't be scared! E-mail Nick~@cassandra.demon.co.uk For more stories by Nick visit the website: www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Nick/www -- If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the author. Your comments are their only payment. 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