Message-ID: <21536asstr$943765802@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: NewsWatcher!user From: themrlee@hotmail.com (The Mr. Lee) Subject: {ASSM} (Corrected)So Typical My Desires 1/2 (MF, Voy) the The Mysterious Mr. Lee Organization Lines: 114 X-Original-Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Date: 28 Nov 1999 03:45:11 GMT Date: Sun, 28 Nov 1999 00:10:02 -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: Lambchop, Vulpine We were very pleased to see that Celeste had given us coveted ³10²s in the Venus and Celeste category, but greatly dismayed to discover our ³piss poor² editing had resulted in a ³7² for the Athena category. Alas alack, our dismay was nothing compared to The Mysterious Mr. Lee¹s. He summoned our advisors, Greater Messrs. Lee, both, and explained in his delicate way that our slipshod editing will greatly hinder the progress of the Organization when it comes time for us to make our presence known. It was only due to a severe shortage of milk here at Penguin Base that we were not subjected to a collective bath in cold pudding as a corrective measure. Instead, we are on our way to Pakistan and the Russian hinterlands to take care of particularly unpleasant Organization business, all in the name of ³corrective measures.² So we now present you with an updated version of ³So Typical My Desires,² hopefully deserving of a triple ³10² from the esteemed Ms. Celeste. Please enjoy this improved version. Your friends at the The Mysterious Mr. Lee Organization, now in the hinterlands. So Typical My Desires, Part 1 A story by the The Mysterious Mr. Lee Organization My college girlfriend, Deborah, didn't run with the same people I did. I thought they were pretentious art geeks, they thought I was a jock out of my league. She had thrown a big party, and they were everywhere. Somehow, my friends didn't get many invitations. So I stood around feeling stupid and thinking about anything that might amuse me. Mainly, I thought I wanted to get Deborah naked as quickly as possible. She was flirting with a six-pack of fags, who hung on her words like half burnt cigarettes to a chronic smoker's lip, all giggles and awe. She was a better fag than all of them, when it comes down to it--she walked the exaggerated walk of the flamers, and talked with an out-of-control girlishness that the gay Adonises could only idolize. More than that, though, she was going to end up in bed with a big muscle boy--me-- at the end of the night. Now that I'm thinking it over, I guess what I really wanted was to show those fags I was a man, no--The Man--by fucking Deborah right there, in her room, the one with the paper-thin walls and a door that didn't quite close right. I wanted an audience. At the time, all I could think about is how good Deborah looked in her dress, a jazz-age floozy number, cut low enough to show off her cleavage, slit high enough to show off the top of her stockings. Deborah was sculpted for loving, every curve seemingly designed to enhance my pleasure, and she topped off her lush flesh with a shock of auburn, cut into a very sexy, very smart bob. I stood off with my beer and sipped it slowly, while thinking about all the ways I was going to touch her. I imagined my tongue tracing the line of her artery up her neck before my teeth scraped against her fleshy, soft, and ever-so sensitive earlobes. I pictured her turning towards me, pushing her body hard against my erect dick, her breath short and hot on my shoulder, a moan slipping from her lips. My mouth would move down her neck again, while my hand slipped up from her tiny waist to cup her breast. I bit my lip in anticipation and shifted my stance to try to gain some comfort for my growing erection. I watched Deborah laugh as one of her friends said something about Monet and Manet, which is the kind of humor they possessed. Her head tilted back and the laugh came out like music, a Bach concerto in soprano. Her lips glittered as the faint light of the room found them. She turned her head to me and smiled. I put my half-finished beer down and walked over to her. I came up on her back and put my hands on her hips, slipping my hands suggestively down, pulling her back on my erection. They all kept chatting away. One of the boys felt my muscle. "My isn't he hard." Lots of laughs at the double entendre, but it wasn't mocking. I pressed my hardness into Deborah's ass, and rocked against her slowly. I tried to make conversation with them, but they were talking about an exhibit they had seen at MOMA, and with my aroused state, my ignorant comments came out as if I were Deborah's stupid love-toy. I decided to fuck it and let all my words serve only to caress Deborah's neck. She knew I was there on an academic scholarship. There was no reason to impress these boys, who we would laugh about while making love. I should say, the next time we made love, because at that point, we were making love. My hands had slipped down to where I was caressing her through her dress and she had put a hand on my ass to guide my thrusts into her delectable posterior. I had stopped making the pretense of talking and was kissing her neck. It was more exciting than anything we had ever done. I knew they were all watching us go at it, watching as my fingers pushed her dress into her slit, as my hand explored her breasts. They were watching, trying to maintain their conversation as if nothing were going on, as Deborah moaned and moved up and down against my erection. Their conversation became ripe with sexual overtones. Mapplethorpe's nudes, the rise of Greco-Roman themes in Renascence art as means of portraying overtly sexual images. Our pace intensified. I had successfully pulled her dress up high enough that I could slip a finger under it, into her. She was running with honey. She leaned against me, her collapse prevented by my entangled limbs. I looked around and realized we had an audience larger than just her gay friends. The boys one of Deborah's friends had been charming in the kitchen were not going to miss out on our show. They were chanting, I think, while Deborah's art friends continued the pretense of normal conversation. I pulled my finger out of Deborah and took it into my mouth. It was truly the nectar of the gods. She turned towards me, kissed me, and shoved me backwards, towards her bedroom. I tripped over an ottoman, and fell into her door. It hurt, but not enough to stop the erotic trance. I scooted up onto the bed as well as possible, and Deborah gave the door a kick. It shut most of the way, but I could see most of the faces through the inch or two crack. I didn't care. -- This story is copyright 1999 the The Mysterious Mr. Lee Organization. Reposting is expressly forbidden, except with permission. We at the The Mysterious Mr. Lee Organization adore feedback. Tell us what you liked, tell us what you hated, or just tell us you read the story. e-mail us at: TheMrLee@hotmail.com Visit our wonderful Website at -- If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the author. Your comments are their only payment. 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