Message-ID: <23621asstr$955415459@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: joseph_lawrence@my-deja.com X-Original-Message-ID: <8ct2k0$bb1$1@nnrp1.deja.com> X-Article-Creation-Date: Mon Apr 10 17:22:26 2000 GMT Subject: {ASSM} Sunday Morning 1/3: True, MF Date: Mon, 10 Apr 2000 21:10:59 -0400 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: gill-bates, IceAltar, newsman All rights remain with the author. Possession of a copy of this text does not imply permission to distribute it, other than for no fee and in its entirety, including this notice. This story is true and autobiographical. Truth though is in the eye of the beholder and as this is my story, it is also my truth. It happened, just as you are about to read, over ten years ago. I still sometimes wonder if it was just a dream, something I imagined or pieced together from countless fantasises. It *is* in my real experience; it does not contain many of the absurd conventions of fantasy sexual encounters. Judge it by the measure of your own experience, for it is in mine. This story is for adults, however that might be defined in your country. In mine everything recounted below is legal. Compared to many stories of this type it is probably tame in terms of 'steam' , but for all that I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it for you. I needed to write it; to allay the ghosts of my memories. Joseph Lawrence, Copyright 2000 Story: Sunday Morning 1. The Top Room. I lay on the bed alone. It was an old fashioned single bed, the sort that's prone to squeaks from its rusting frame and creaks from its darkened varnished head board. I kept the pace down, so as not to let the rust betray my actions. I was twenty-one and my lightly clenched hand slipped over thin lubricated latex. The sensations it gave me through the crinkling rubber lit up the darkness in my head but left the darkness around me as thick as ever. I prayed that hardly a sound would leave the room while within there could be no doubt as to what I was doing. It didn't take long, my head filled with red, my breath fell from me and my heart pounded even faster than the beat of my hand. My lions tightened, holding high above the bed for a moment before they exploded, filling the latex with liquid latent humanity. In the long blank seconds that followed I became aware once more of the darkness around me, and the warmth of the bed around me. Had I, in my moments of oblivion, given myself away? I waited, holding my breath against the tightness in my chest for precious seconds so as to listen for sounds of movement around me. None came. It was a little after three in the morning. In that highest room in the house I did not lay in my own bed. Around me a foreign household slept, or I hoped it did. In the room below me slumbered a friend, a mid-forty year old mother. In the room next to me, separated by a thin partition, lay her sixteen year old daughter. Two floors below, curled up with each other for companionship slept two dogs. No one made a sound. If they had heard me they were keeping silent about it. In my hand I shrank; slipping out of the now cooling latex. Another fantasy had passed. I slept, consigning the problem of disposing of the evidence to the morning. Light softly sifted in through the closed curtains. I smiled to myself. Thoughts from the night drifted into my mind, pleasing thoughts, powerful thoughts. Here I was on a Sunday morning in someone else's bed. The trouble was it was their spare bed. The room was nothing new, it had all started a year before. The house was owned by a teacher. She and I shared a passion, but no passion, for folk music. Every Saturday night we went to a club and listened, and in her case occasionally joined in. I drank a beer or two, and more often than not we all ended up at someone's house until the small hours. At first I had driven myself home each time, but later, and with not a little fear of the dangers of driving after drinking she had offered for me to stay the night at her house. Her daughter, sixteen but still in some ways a lot younger, wanted nothing of all this. She had her own friends and went out with them to places we knew nothing about. She still clung on to some girlish things; she still loved to ride her pony and went all giggly at mention of many of the more womanly practical things that had come into her life over the past few years. She was beginning to make her own way in life, and as in generally does, her way meant 'not her mother's way'. There was no father. Her parents had divorced soon after she was born and her mother remained single. She had had a few men friends, though none had lasted longer than six months. The last had been a mandolin player by night, and an electrician by day; he had left two months ago. Apart from me, the house was filled with females; I was outnumbered. I had been fantasising about the daughter the night before. It was her face that filled my head just before it briefly left this world. It was just a fantasy of course, as were thoughts of the mother. There was no love between any of us, though I was considered almost an honorary member of the family. In a sense I was rather more than the daughter, who, in her patchy growth towards womanhood, spent less and less time in the house than I did! For all that she was a likeable girl, beautiful in an unassuming way. She was not a child, but she was, and she knew it. There were boys in her life, one or two that her mother knew about, and while they did go to her room there was no indication that they did anything else other than to listen to the latest records; not too loudly either. The daughter did her teenage rebellion in other, softer ways. I wondered what she wore in bed to cover her young curves. She held her breasts high with little assistance from any garment. She would not discuss the matter of support with her mother, preferring to giggle and leave the room in embarrassed amusement. I wondered if she had ever taken off that nightwear for some acne- pocked stick insect of a teenager. Maybe she had; for all the remnants of her girlish youth, it was difficult to see her clad in haloed white. Her mother, on the other hand, carried the scars of sags of years of disappointment with men. I stood no chance with either of them, especially as I was but a rather socially inept but friendly virgin. I was harmless, and they both knew it. They knew I'd never force my advantage, if indeed I had one. They knew that they were just my friends, and maybe that why the door to my room opened then and through it stepped the daughter. She covered the few feet to the window and opened the curtains and then looked round to me. Now I knew, and it fitted both her body and her character perfectly - a 'Forever Friends' night-shirt. She stared for a moment. Obviously she had not expected me to be there, or had forgotten my likely presence. She smiled, "Hello." I didn't know what to think. Here was the vision of my dreams standing before me in all her innocence and not a lot else. Frankly I suspect I was the more embarrassed. No, I know I was the more embarrassed, for she stood before me confidently, but was that confidence born of innocence or knowledge. How could I find out? Did I have the guts to find out? I tried, "D, d, d..." I stammered, making my doubts clear, "d, dddoo you know what a girl like you can do to a man st, st, st, sttanding like that?" My mind raced with dreams: of her lifting her night-shirt over her head, or her walking to my bed, of her lifting the covers and sliding her tight body in beside mine. My body responded silently. "Standing like what?" She said, her nipples clearly visible behind the print. Was she the innocent, or the tease? I made my point plainer. "A attractive sixteen year old girl. Standing in little more than a night-shirt. I mean, its enough to make any man..." then I realised it was best not to go there. This whole episode had gone on long enough, and was beginning the threaten my long term presence in the house. "You think I'm attractive then?" "Well..." "Do you?" She giggled disarmingly. I swallowed and lifted my head a little. "Yes." "How?" "Don't you think you ought to go and put something on before you get me carried away?" "Would you really? Get carried away I mean?" Even though I knew it would get me into deep trouble I told the truth, "Yes. Now go on." She smiled at me and walked out, leaving the door ajar. The moment had passed, and with it the danger. Whatever my fantasies, the realities of intimacy with a sixteen year old while her mother lay, probably awake, in the room below were quite a different matter. Different enough to dissipate any excitement her lithe presence had caused. Drawers opened and closed in the room next to me. A door opened close by. A footstep creaked on the floorboards of the landing. I closed my eyes and breathed out in relief. When I heard my door close I opened them and my breath left me. She stood, naked now by my bed. She was close enough to touch. With her night-shirt had gone most of her girlishness. This vision, this dream was a woman, albeit is small one, petite but perfectly formed. Her breasts curved tightly, her nipples standing proud and firm. Her short dark hair complimented perfectly by the thin mat that topped her legs. She was close, but so far away that I dare not reach out for her. My body tensed and sprang into readiness, but I knew I could not allow myself to do what I was ready for. My heart filled my chest as my manhood filled my loins. "Are you carried away now?" She said smiling in a confidently matter of fact way. I didn't know what to say. I was a virgin, and while I knew what I should do in theory I had no idea of what to do in practice. I also knew that with her mother just below us I must do nothing. Why did she have to tease me so? "Are you serious? Or are you just playing with me?" "Very serious," she said with pleading eyes, "please help me." "Help you? How can I help you?" "Do you have to be so dumb? I'm offering myself to you and you have to ask how?" "I'm a frightened virgin, and you mother is asleep in the room below. If she finds out what's happening here she kill me." "Please! I need you." "Do you need me in particular? Or will any man do?" She looked hurt, "Go on, make fun of me. Don't you like me? Don't you like what you see?" "I love what I see, you're beautiful, and any man should be proud to know you, but I can't be that man." "Yes you can. I know you don't love me, you never will, but right now I need to be a woman and not a girl. Please, let me give myself to you." "...and I to you," I said in involuntary agreement. She stepped closer. A wisp of a scent more powerful than any exotic perfume reached me and stoked the fire in my loins. She spread he legs a little, and the wisp became a gentle breeze. It took my hand and, pushed on by a trembling fearful heart, drew it out from under the covers. I reached out for her wrist. She held herself stiffly and closed her eyes with an intake of breath. With the heat of her skin on my hand I stopped, frozen by fear, anticipation, self-doubt and inexperience. She opened her eyes and looked down. She drew her arm away, only to bring it forward again to take my shaking hand and bring it gently to her breast. She closed her eyes once more. I had never felt such a feeling before. She had placed my hand with my fingers resting on her outstretched nipple. I was surprised how full it felt, I was surprised at how her breath changed - heaving and gasping - as I slipped my hand slightly to one side. I paused. Her breath shallowed slightly, though it was still laboured. I pulled back slightly, only to have her thin fingers grasp my hand and press it back to her breast. Beneath my fingers now I could feel pimples in the disc around her nipple, which I tentatively brushed to and fro. She leaded forwards and tipped her head to kiss my forearm, "I'm not made of glass. You can do whatever you like." Partly from inexperience and partly from wanting to make the moment be as memorable as possible I answered, "I want to do whatever you like. You're the one who matters. I want you to be happy." She looked into my eyes and taking my hand again, she moved forwards, slipping my hand over her belly and to her thigh. She brought her nipple to the side of the bed and with words unspoken asked for me to kiss it. I leant forwards, my hand moving lower, my instinct overpowering my intellect. I knew this must not happen, yet here I was letting it happen, and wanting it never to end. I open my mouth a little, readying my lips to close with her flesh. I stopped and tiled my head to look up. Our eyes met again and she nodded, smiling at me to go on. I sighed and felt the warmth and fullness of her breast on my lips and the wirey roughness of her hair on my fingertips. She brought her hands up to rest on my head, holding me lightly to her. I felt the radiant heat of her readiness on my hand and the strength of her thighs on my palm. I latched on to her nipple and rippled it at the end of my tongue. I had never felt anything so beautiful in my life. I licked and sucked on her breast for what seemed in those fast running moments like hours, all the time my hand tentatively touched, probing ever further with each stroke. First touching her hairs, then drawing back to stroke her thigh. Then moved forward again to run the tips along the borders of her hair. I remember, in my haze, remarking that the hair that adorned her was not soft and downy as I had expected, but hard. She just nodded between gasps and closed her eyes to savour the sensations. Growing bolder, I brought my hand up to lay on her belly above her hair then ran it down her other thigh that twitched momentarily before slipping further away. Her movement caught me by surprise, bringing my fingers fully into her bush, pressing onto the yielding fatty flesh below. I panicked, drawing back sharply, my teeth pulling past her nipple. "Careful!" She gasped sharply. "What's the matter, don't you like what you feel?" "I love what I feel, I just... I just don't know exactly what it is that I'm feeling." "Come here again, and I'll show you." I paused, more afraid than at any time since the night before. "Come on. You might not know what you're feeling, but you're feeling it well. Come..." She raised her hand to my head, and arching her back a little, she drew my head back to her breast. In the sharp light of the early morning her skin looked almost flawless, and her breasts seemed the most wonderful things in the whole world. I sighed once more as my mouth touched the rippled tumescent nipple. With me back to her she reached for my hand once more and took my middle finger between hers. "Don't be afraid," she said in a voice twice as gentle as her years. With that she guided my hand to her hair- covered mound once more, pressing my finger to the top of the parting that I only knew from fleeting glimpses in magazines and in books. "It's ok," she said, "you can touch what you like." The thoughts that rushed through me terrified me. Her warm mound was filling beneath me, a heat rose from below, a heat that combined with the delicious exotic scents to drive my finger downwards. She shuddered as her lips parted slightly allowing my fingertip to slip a little into her, but it was only a fraction, a tiny foretaste of what it promised to give. For the first time I began to realise that my dreams might be about to come true, and that the next thing I was to fill might not be just a condom. Somehow, back in my once teenage mind, I had thought that once between a woman's lips my finger, or anything else that I could place there, would disappear without trace into an almost liquid heaven. It didn't. My fingertip drew over full flesh, hot, full, but not liquid, nor was there any trace of the delicately scented hole which I had expected. The scent, while wonderfully enticing, was rich and complex; a powerful melange of fruit and smoke. Somehow it reached deep into me and pulled at me, calling me to taste its riches, to imbibe it and wallow in its heady grasp. Yet still I had not found its source. It had found me, but I knew not from where it came. I slipped my finger lower. Another misconception that was instantly destroyed was that a woman's pussy opened at the front of her body. Even in my confused excitement I could clearly tell I was having to curve my hand more and more to go under her. Then it happened. It took me totally by surprise; it shook me, forcing me to gasp loudly. My finger slipped easily to the depth of the nail between her folds. The flood of scent told me that I had found the source of her incredible hold on me. The realisation held me tight; I was in a woman; I had found her. She moved once more, giving me easier access. I ran my finger up and down exploring the extent of her, but never further in. Her inner lips felt almost rubbery, but with her fluids on my fingertip they slipped easily underneath me. She reached down with a hand once more, urging my finger up. I almost felt cheated as she forced me out of her to rest between her upper outer lips. She gasped breathed urgently. I didn't know what I was doing, but her hand on mine drew me back and forth over the warm folds of flesh, each time sending a gasp to her mouth. I stopped sucking on her breast. She slipped her free hand onto the back of my head and once more drew me to her. She knew what she wanted from me, even if I had little idea of what that might be. Cold, a rush of cold air over my thighs. Cold air and a pressure taken off my loins. Filled with her scents and passion, I didn't care what had happened, until a warm hand grasped me firmly. She stroked at me quickly and urgently. A woman was actually touching me! I dropped my finger down, slipping through her folds and into her. I pushed it in, in into her, in deep, as deep as I could in my inexperience. She cried out, though no in pain. For all her tightness and dryness of earlier she was now open and inviting, yielding and giving. Her hand gripped tighter, stroking me faster. I felt the start of the tightness in my loins, I felt the gentle scrape of her hair on my knuckle, I felt the surge of her chest and the rush of her heartbeat. I arched off the bed, she tugged at my hair and my finger slipped in and out of her lucious folds. Then she froze. I carried on with my motions, made oblivious to the world by her delicious and heaving body. She released me suddenly and grabbed at my hair, pulling me away from her. I carried on probing her with my fingers, but she writhed back and I slipped out as she put herself out of reach. I open my eyes and looked to her. She tipped her head to the door. My eyes followed as my gaze reached it, all signs of my excitement fell away. Here was I, lying naked with a filled condom lying halfway down the bed, with an equally naked sixteen year old whose heart still beat the rhythm of arousal as her mother looked sternly on both of us. No words were spoken; none would have been able to express the intense embarrassment of the moment for any and all of us. I felt acutely ashamed. I had abused the mother's trust by allowing myself to take advantage, or some might say abuse, her only daughter in broad daylight under her own roof. I knew my time there was very limited, probably to enough to get dressed and hurry off, and I would never darken her door again. "Young lady! Get down those stairs at once!" The daughter dropped her head in shame and stepped out, slipping behind her mother's robed form. I felt I deserved everything I was no doubt about to get. "What on earth do you think you were doing?" My stammer fell away. "I couldn't help myself!" "You certainly did help yourself! She's only sixteen for God's sake!" With that she stormed out leaving me wondering what I should do next. Should I get dressed and slip away? Should I try to apologise? Should I defend the daughter's honour and ruin my own? Should I drop her in it for the sake of my pride? Should I stand my ground unrepentant, after all we were consenting adults... in law at any rate? Somehow I couldn't bear to get off the bed. As I dithered, the threatened storm broke below me. Voices in accusation and anger, voices raised in despair, then nothing... nothing. How could I leave now, breaking the silence? How could I even move for fear of the noise that it might cause? I knew my welcome in the house had expired the moment her night-shirt had touched the floor. Then I heard crying. Gathering my clothes, I dressed as best I could, finally tiptoeing to the door. I opened it painfully slowly and carefully. I stopped to work out how long it would take to get out of the house, then realising that I could do nothing to help the situation I stepped out along the hall. I passed her room door, still with one of those name plaque's on it. I turned the corner to go down the next flight and stopped. Ahead the mother's door lay open. I would have to pass it to get out. I pressed on filled with nervousness. I got to the door but dare not look in. I passed it quickly and quietly. Only one more flight and I'd be free, one more flight of stairs to get to the rest of my life, just one... To be continued. Joseph Lawrence, copyright 2000. -- 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+