Message-ID: <25104asstr$963198639@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Message-ID: <20000709203147.74224.qmail@hotmail.com> From: "Allison George" MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; charset="iso-8859-1" Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2314.1300 Subject: {ASSM} One of Those Things (MF, mast) Date: Sun, 9 Jul 2000 23:10:39 -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: dennyw, gill-bates NOTICE: This story contains descriptions of sexual activity and should not be read by anyone under the age of 18 even if you've handled an IPO. Any comments that the gentle reader has should be directed to me at: allison_george@hotmail.com My lawyer (who incidentally is also my hubbie!) wants me to advise all readers that this story is copyright under 17 USC Section 102. Permission is given to download a single copy of this story for the purpose of reading it off line. Permission is also granted to archive the text in its entirety on any non-profit web site. Any other distribution including posting of this story to a commercial web site without the author's permission is strictly prohibited. One of Those Things (c) 2000 By Allison George It was just one of those things, sitting there on a toilet just off of his bedroom on the 24th floor of the Plaza Hotel. She was having as much luck trying to stem the flow of the milky white oil oozing from her quim as the little Dutch boy did trying to keep the North sea from the newly reclaimed coastal plain. She chuckled at the thought of a little blond-haired moppet sticking his dike-plugger into her slippery cut; at least it might get her off, which is more than the comatose marketing manager in the next room accomplished. Damn it all, he urged her head down onto his cock but wouldn't touch a drop of her love nectar. No, it was just dip the swizzle stick, mix it up, and get it out as quickly as possible, a quick cock-in-tail with no climactic afterthought. Yeah, it was just one of those crazy flings she thought to herself. The flight from San Francisco was a real bitch. A line of storms stretching from the Canadian border down to Oklahoma. The pilot taking the 757 south through the northern part of Texas but all this did was add an hour to the flight with plenty of gut-wrenching bumps. How could she ever been roped in by this character, particularly with the IPO presentation scheduled for tomorrow. Not only did this jerk fall asleep two minutes after shooting his load into her, but he must have hidden her panties somewhere. All her clothes save cotton bikinis were on the chair where she put them before sliding between the sheets into his embrace. Damn, she had been thoughtful enough to stick a couple of panty liners in her purse. A lot of good they'll do now. She sighed, thinking about how to explain to the cleaners the dark stain in the crotch of the charcoal-worsted slacks. There were sure to ask what it was and where it came from. Come from? Heck, it was come! Sure she could save herself the embarrassment and consider the slacks ruined but it was the principle of the thing rather than their cost. Too bad she was staying on the 17th floor, otherwise she could slip on one of the terry cloth robes and slip down the hall to her room. Negotiating the hallway and the elevators with a blue blazer, wool pants and silk blouse draped over her arm was bound to raise eyebrows. It was still too early to think that there would be a clear path to her own room. Several wads of toilet tissue soaked with their joint spent fluids of love gurgled down into the sewers of New York as she flushed. She was tempted to ball them up and stick them right next to Mr. Marketeer's nose, hoping he might roll over and give his cheeks a nice sheen. However, the thought that the musky emollient might awaken the slug before she could escape was more than she could bear. While washing her hands the solution becomes obvious. Of course, why not fashion a primitive Kotex out of a hand towel? She slipped on her blouse, feeling the cool silk chafe gently against her breasts, still swollen with desire. Folding one of the clean towels in half she placed it against the crotch of the wool slacks, carefully pulling them over her hips to settle her puss against the soft nap of the towel. A fresh coat of lipstick and a spritz of cologne behind each ear and she was ready to get out of this room and into a hot bath. She did a quick pirouette to see it the towel caused any unsightly lumps. Nothing she couldn' t live with. Grabbing her bag and slinging the blazer over her shoulder, she headed for the door taking one final look at Mr. Marketeer asleep, oblivious to her departure. Too bad she thought, you don't know what you missed. Each step along the hallway towards the elevator brought back a swift reminder of the absence of sexual fulfillment. The towel, lubricated by his spent come and her own continued arousal, slid back and forth along the inflamed furrow. Damn it all, why do men have to be such bastards? They always come with the greatest of ease. It only would have taken another minute or two of firm hard strokes to quench the flickering flame of lust that still burned lightly along her moist nether lips. Shit, just one of those crazy flings that seemed to have taken over her life recently. She was flush with anger over the ruined evening as she approached the elevator. Just great, company to share the ride down as she noticed a couple in their early 50s waiting patiently. Don't act like a bitch in heat, it's not their fault she thought. She presented her best demure smile. The man returned an appreciative greeting while his wife only frowned in return. Of course, how stupid could she be? The man's appreciation was only for the twinned nipples pressing darkly against the white sheer silk, her breasts held tighter than usual because of the towel stuffed in her pants. Oh well, maybe it will give him a rise that will hang around long enough to please the little wife later this evening. A quick ciao, and she was off the elevator down the hall to room 1725. Seeing the water start to fill up the bath, she flipped a couple of orange-scented bath oil caps into the tub. Might as well make the best of the rest of the evening. She kicked off her pumps and slipped out of her slacks. The damp towel fell to the floor. Double shit and damn, the faint pink tinge on the makeshift crotch piece reminded her of the one thing she neglected to pack. The last several weeks were hectic, focused on honing the presentation; she'd moved from one meeting to another, often not getting home until ten or eleven at night. All thought of her lunar-linked cycle was forgotten. Here was the evidence of yet another egg biting the dust, unable to reach the magic moment of consummation. She'd call down to the desk for a box of tampons take care of tomorrow's looming necessity. She turned off the cold spigot, letting the hot water heat things up for an additional minute. A breathy sigh escaped her lips as she stepped into the tub, sliding down, letting the heat flow into each pore as she submerged, the bobbed auburn curls relaxing, her hair fanning out over the water until only her nose was still above the surface. She lingered this way, breathing slowly, until her body reached equilibrium with the gentle buoyancy and warmth of the bath. Pushing herself back and forth, her breasts, swollen from both lust and the hormonal passage into the next fertility cycle, swayed gently bringing forth small wavelets that lapped against the sides of the tub. Extending her legs, she pushed against the end of the tub, surfacing, ready to cleanse herself of the lingering foreign fluid and the unspent tension in the lips that guarded her honey pot. Taking a bath oil cap, she popped it open, releasing the fragrant fluid over her distended nipples. With smooth deliberate circles, she massaged the oil gently over the aureolae of each swollen mound, passing briefly over the nubs. The plaintive introduction to the Casta Diva began to echo in her mind, moving down through various neural highways, escaping from her lips in a soft hum. Whether the passage of the centuries had left any druid blood in her was beside the point. The kinship with the moon and stars was enough to give her body renewed strength. She increased the speed of the tight circles, dwelling longer on each nipple; a tweak and finger flick transmitted excitatory signals downward to those golden sex receptors, which reacted with quivering contractions. 'Tempra, o Diva, tempra tu de' cori ardenti' - - leaving an excited nipple, her right hand began its slow passage down her smooth stomach, pausing only briefly to massage the beginning of muscular knot that portended the discomfort to come in the morning. 'Ah, bello a me ritorna del fido amor primero' - - her hand pressed against the fringed mound, a finger lingering at the portal of sexual release as her other hand tweaked and teased each nipple in turn. Her breath quickened and heart fluttered with that first touch to the love pearl. She quickly slid over the little bead, slipping past the clenching lips, stirring the warm pot, drawing forth more oily elixir that mixed with Mr. Marketeer's residual come until there was enough of the soothing balm. She began to gently massage the love pearl with her juice slickened finger until it was fully erect at which point she began to quicken the touch. The rhythm of fingers on her left hand on her breasts swiftly harmonized with the flickering digit on her cunny button. It wasn't long before her body began to quiver as the heat spread outwards from the linear axis between her breasts and cunny. It was the shimmering silver chime from one of those bells that now and then rings that brought a swift final conclusion to her need as she slumped back into the perfumed water. It was just one of those things. It was just one of those nights, she thought while she passed her fingers through her hair, separating the tangled strands. Each of the limp strands curled back on itself with each pass of the hair dryer until her head was again a mass of auburn curls, cascading down and lingering just above her shoulders. Too many of her physical needs were going unmet these days. Maybe it was work, who knows? She had hoped this day would have started with just one of those fabulous flights across the country. A sip of champagne in first class coupled with the thought of her Internet Company finally going public quickened her pulse. Being an east coaster by birth, she always loved New York; the Valley being way too casual for her. After the analyst presentation tomorrow morning and a meeting with her bankers in the afternoon, a weekend to play before having to trek back. Norma at the Met on Saturday and a reunion brunch with her old college roomie, Liz, on Sunday. Damn, why didn't they close the plane's door on time. An attractive man had been the last to get on, taking the seat next to her. An regional vice president of marketing for a Fortune 500 consumer products company, he was headed back to corporate in New York for their annual strategic planning session. Idle chat during the flight revealed the different paths each had taken since business school. He'd opted for the established corporate path, while she capitalized on her undergrad degree in computer science, moving into a couple of start up situations before founding her own dot com company. He was a half-decade her senior, clearly a prospect for a nice dinner out, if not more. After finally making it past the turbulent midwest, she suggested that they go out for dinner before settling in. She'd made reservation at Le Taxi in midtown earlier in the week and would be pleased to share her table with him. It was a brief surprise to hear that he was also staying at the Plaza. Yes, something might come of this night, maybe even a trip to the moon on gossamer wings. Just one of those things to take the nervous edge away from tomorrow's presentation. The evening's promise most certainly collapsed under the weight of great expectations. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe he was just one of those slam, bam, thank you ma'am kind of guy, who knows? Maybe if we'd thought a bit of the end of it, we wouldn't have even begun. From the moment they'd de-planed the heat of sexual attraction between the two of them started to build. Her breasts, seemingly fuller and more sensitive than the day before, strained against the confines of her bra. She had already unbuttoned a second button of her blouse to try to catch any cooling breeze that would wick away some of the built up heat. In the cab towards Manhattan, her nether lips twitched silently emitting the mild warmth and scent of arousal that she certainly thought he could detect. So much assurance when she saw the bulge in his khakis; so little realization upon the evening's end. She finished smoothing moisturizer into her face and gave her hair a final fluff. She'd only need a quick shower tomorrow; one of the benefits of a perm was not having to fuss much. The flashing message light on the phone surprised her as she made her way back into the main room. Mr. Marketeer apparently chilled from the lack of the warm body he fell asleep with had called to find out why she had left. When we started painting the town, we 'd have been aware that our love affair was too hot not to cool down. Too simple by half she thought. Damn the nerve of him, asking her out again tomorrow night! No way on earth was this going to happen. Better to say so goodbye, dear, and amen; she didn't even want him to think here's hoping we meet now and then. While he may have thought it was great fun, she didn't think so with only a filled quim and no come. But it was just one of those things. -- 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+