Message-ID: <22406asstr$948636600@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: Grumbles Lines: 202 X-Original-Message-ID: <86e8i6$3e7$1@nnrp1.deja.com> X-Article-Creation-Date: Sun Jan 23 06:54:02 2000 GMT Subject: {ASSM} Poem: First, Last {grum}{MF Rom} Date: Sun, 23 Jan 2000 09:10:00 -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: dennyw, kelly This is copyright grumbles@juno.com, don't steal it or I'll beat you up. "First, Last" Watching, from afar, night sky: the pale moon casts midnight hued shades over the gravel lane. A picnic, caught by nightfall, no lights or houses for miles, heavy, warm, summer air. Black leaves, the damp smell of earth and faint perfume wafts to a hiding place. A pair of young lovers. Quiet voices, carried on the wind, muffled from distance their words, no consequence. Alone in their world, drowning in each other, they lay unaware of their silent companion. Emotions they pour over, into each other, trust and adulation, feeding their open hearts. Trembling hands, bated breath, lost in forever they comfort the cries of each other's souls. Broken and grasping, blind hearts cling to threads of hope, escape, all the future memories. They lie together on a purloined sheet; they lie to each other, hearts that fool the mind. The cicadas sing, sweetly to the pair sharing a final night under the heavens. The stars' soft crystal light shines down over coupled forms, fearful touches daring to explore. Clothing removed slowly, ritual robes, the newest priests of the oldest rite. Trembling hands worship young cool flesh, virgin to all but this moment. Enraptured faces. The moon-cast blue tint on radiant skin reveals in the darkness white skin, black hair. Her hair on the blanket frames her pale breasts and the triangle between her open, silken thighs. On his side, his form arcs with lithe muscles, manhood jutting from between his thick legs. Reaching out, a caress travels her being, he revels in the touch of her close body. Her breath catches in her throat, warm hands whisper across her skin exploring her glory. His hand delves into her unfolding flower, the motion young, hasty, she stops him, guides him. Her hand on his, moves softly hidden from view, the arc of her back tells all: her pleasure. Again, she stops him, she reaches, stops, reaches again, enfolding his shaft with cool hands. She strokes, new textures shared pleasure, too much. He arches, shudders, her thigh drips with him. He speaks, but his words don't carry, but the tone speaks of chagrin, regret, he steps back, away. She follows, stays with him, her arm finds his shoulder, once, twice, and it stays, she holds him, murmurs. Minutes pass, time given without expectation. A turning, bodies move together. A kiss. He turns, embraces her, the strength of youth, renewed vigor flows through him, his hardness visible. She leads him, pulls him down to the blanket, holds him against her, her legs around him. Her hand disappears, between their bodies, searching, stroking, she guides them in union. Slowly, by inches, they join together. At last, rear dimpling, they lay completed. Her pain grips him, fingers pressing his back, motionless, desire remains suspended. Conquering, slowly, desire forces its way past fleeting pain, brief innocence. She surrenders, his control slips, wavers, their eyes meet, lock, hold crashing together. The faint sounds of their coupling, ragged breathing fills the clearing, they slowly meet and release. Thrusting, needfully, their pace rises, each moving in unison, seeking union. Her cry rings out, echoes in the silence, she pulls him in her, opening fully. His shout follows closely, he flows into her, joins her, completes her, and they collapse. Watching, from afar, night sky: silence fills the clearing, sounding bare whispers--"I love you" -- If you liked this, drop me a line. My e-mail box doesn't fill up yanno. -- The most beautiful experience we can have is the mysterious. It is the fundamental emotion which stands at the cradle of true art and true science. Whoever does not know it and can no longer wonder, no longer marvel, is as good as dead.~Albert Einstein -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+