Message-ID: <27022asstr$972483002@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Message-ID: <20001025041749.50483.qmail@web10304.mail.yahoo.com> From: One Gallus Subject: {ASSM} Counselor 4, 5, 6 Date: Wed, 25 Oct 2000 10:10:02 -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, IceAltar, RuiJorge __________________________________________________ Do You Yahoo!? Yahoo! Messenger - Talk while you surf! It's FREE. http://im.yahoo.com/ <1st attachment, "C 4.txt" begin> {ASSM} Title: Counselor Part 4 MF, rom, oral, anal, feet) Author: One Gallus, Disclaimer Not to be read: by anyone under the age of 18, or if it violates the standards or laws of your community, or if adult erotica offends you. Not to be posted on any other site, or changed, or used in any way without author's permission. THE COUNSELOR Part 4 The Maumee River splits the city of Toledo. When I was a child, the Maumee waters were widely advertised as clean and safe for human consumption. Roadside parks along the riverside featured hand pumps fixed every hundred yards, and though it was charcoal filtered, the water did not have to pass any other purification process. It came from the pump clear, chilly, and utterly obnoxious. Mother used to pump the water into a wash cloth and bathe my face and hands with it before the family's picnics. I gagged when the cloth passed over my nose. Nonetheless, half the businesses in town seemed to be proud of this stinking stream, and named themselves for it: Maumee Lumber, Maumee Mill, Maumee Hardware, Maumee Clinic, and Maumee Community College. The college is not bad as community colleges go. It is more than adequate for students interested in practicality rather than prestige. Working class types, like my father, were proud to send their sons and daughters to get their start here. Then they would move on to more advanced schools as they finished their associate degrees. As I parked my Escort Tuesday Night I was impressed with the number of cars under the mercury vapor lights. I had to park in the last row, next to the grassy berm, near the street. I looked at my watch; I had a long walk ahead of me and it was only ten minutes till class started. I started running, and by the time my sixty-yearold body was walking down the hallway to Room 221, sweat was running freely off my slick head. I was now worried, that I would have to make a grand entry, but luck was with me; I entered the classroom from the rear. There were two or three desks toward the back, and I sat down, breathing hard, and sopping my handkerchief on top of my head. I pulled my light jacket off and looked toward the front. There was a raised dais with a table, a chair, and a lectern, and thankfully no teacher yet. I then surveyed the crowded room. Seven desks across, and ten deep, one or two of them empty. This was a large class! She came in though the front entrance and strode directly to the desk, where she put down her books and folders, and then took her place at the lectern. She looked taller standing there than she did in my office. She wore a loose fitting, long sleeved cotton twill dress of solid gray-green. She was girded with a wide, woven leather belt of burnished brown fastened with a heavy buckle of brass. Somehow, brass disks were fixed to the weave and on each disk was a kind of pattern. The Celtic cross was there, between her breasts; it was reversed with the coral color in striking contrast to her solid hued dress. There was a green cast to her hose and her feet were clad in plain brown loafers. "Hello class, my name is Reilly Bartee, and you are in my Creative Writing Class. It has been my experience that we need a classroom of this size to begin with, and a smaller one later on. The reason? You may find that you're not really interested in this free form style of learning. Practically all of the grading is of a subjective nature; I mean to say, that it is I who will be the judge and jury of your work. There is no standard test that you all take. I will grade in two ways in this class: Number 1: How far you progressed from where your started. Number 2: Do I like what you are writing? If you are not comfortable with that, you can get your money back this week and select another class. No hard feelings." Reilly was completely relaxed, and so far, totally free from dependence on notes. There was no tension, except for a sense of gathering excitement. She leaned out over the lectern, bringing the class into focus, making eye contact. I slid down in my seat, sitting on my tailbone. Looking around, seeing mostly young people, a few gray heads, a few baldheads, hoping she had not spotted me yet. "Now, before you make any rash moves, let me say that I will be working as hard, if not harder than you. I plan to read every paper initially. Later, I will identify some teaching assistants who will help me in the grading. It's been my experience that some of you come into class as novices and some come as writers with at least a modicum of experience. Again, if that does not set well with you, I understand. It is just the way I do things, but I believe if you stick with me, and practice what I preach, you will be one hundred percent better at your writing than you are right now." The first hour was a presentation on left brainright brain functions. How the creative process was basically a right brain process, but that the right hemisphere might as well be silly putty in a writer, unless she brings the left brain into play. The linear left brain, is where language, organization and other logical processes take place. Then, at 8:15, (minutes were flying) Reilly looked at the clock and said very seriously, "OK class, let's take a break. Everybody stand up and straighten your underwear." There was a short beat, then an abrupt spate of laughter, and we all stood up, except for me. I waited till she exited the door at the front, and then I rushed to the rear exit and looked at her back disappearing down the hallway, in front of several female students. I knew where they were headed. The males were making their way in the opposite direction, and I joined them. I had no idea why I did not want to be noticed. Then immediately, I absurdly thought, "If I want her to notice me, why am I hiding?" When I returned, I slowed as I approached the rear classroom door. Keeping a milling squad of students in front of me. I shifted skillfully, and was able to envelop myself in a group moving back into the room, and seat myself at my desk.. However, I noticed that the classroom was filling more slowly, and the students seemed scattered over the seventy desks. At 8:30, Reilly mounted the podium and said, "OK guys, I told you it would happen. What do we have now, about half a class? Some of you are just being courteous, and will not return on Thursday, but that's fine. We will meet in Room 225 on Thursday, which is half the size of this cavern. Now, you stragglers, come up here and fill these empty seats!" I tried to blend in, but I knew she would spot me as she watched us move toward the front. I inadvertently aided her by allowing my book to be knocked out of my hand by an eighteen-year-old blonde beauty. "Oh, I'm sorry!" she said, and everyone looked my way as I dove for the text. I retrieved it, stood up and was rewarded with, "Why, Clifford! What a nice surprise!" Baldness in itself really does not bother me but, when a bald man blushes, it is with twice the skin of the hairy. "Very good class Ms. Bartee." "Oh, you can call me Reilly, we're very informal around here." Somehow I remembered, and said with perfect coolness, "Ah, that's nice, I'm somewhat informal myself." Her bright smile drove the flush from my face, and I sat down in the front row, ears cooling. She summed up the right brain-left brain thing, assigned the first two chapters of Gabriele Rico's book, WRITING THE NATURAL WAY and dismissed the class at 9:00 PM sharp. The students crowded around her, and she interacted with them, smiling all the way. Her eyes caught mine several times, and lingered. I stayed at the rim of the circle and waited. When the last two people left her, I stepped forward. I could see the fatigue. Lines showed at her eyes, and at the corners of her mouth. Sweat was beaded on her forehead. But she smiled again and said, "God, I'm tired. I love this, but I feel beaten up and stomped down right now." "Oh, I'm sorry, I was going to ask you out for a little refreshment." "Clifford, I'm too weary to go anywhere but home and just sit back and relax. I have some iced tea in the refrigerator. You come with me, and let's drink it together." "Are you sure?" I asked. "Why wouldn't I be?" "After the rude way I turned you out?" "You weren't rude, you were doing what you had to do!" "Thanks Reilly, I can stop by for a few minutes." I pulled my little Escort over to the faculty parking area and spotted a dark blue Jeep Cherokee with a green arm waving out its window, and followed it. We drove into Oregon, a suburb, whose streets wound around several directions and thoroughly lost me. Finally, we entered a driveway at the side of a large, frame, two-story house. In the dim light, I could see gray siding and dark, colonial blue shutters. A front porch, almost a verandah, guarded most of the front and side. The two car garage door opened and Reilly pulled the Cherokee into the space at the left. The right space was empty. She exited her car and waved me into the garage. My heart skipped as I debated the invitation, then I pulled in. We entered into a utility room hallway, along which were the washer and dryer, and a bathroom on the other side. We came out into the large kitchen. Large green ceramic tiles covered the floor. An oversized refrigerator was on the left, sink and cabinets on the right, stove in between. She said, "This is a standard kitchen with everything pretty much the way anyone would arrange it. The tea and ice are in the fridge; the glasses are in the cabinets. Fix it up, and I'll be down in a minute." "OK." Then she walked into the dim room beyond, turned and was gone from view. I heard her somewhere beyond, padding up carpeted stairs. I turned back to the bathroom, and relieved a bit of liquid pressure that had been building since we left the college. I looked carefully into my hand, and observed that I was giving rise just a bit. I zipped up, flushed, rolled up my sleeves, and went to stand at the sink, looking into the mirror. I too was tired; the wrinkles were far deeper than any Reilly carried. Below my eyes was a slight puffiness, a shade darker than the other skin. I let the cool water run over my hands, soaped them, and washed my face. I washed all the way to the back of my neck. I rinsed in cool water, and then washed my hands up to the roll of my sleeves. I found a puffy white towel and rubbed my face and head briskly. My gray hair stood out in a ridiculous half ring with the naked hemisphere pushing out the top, and I thought of a daisy, half plucked. In a low voice, I looked at the image in the mirror, and in a barely audible voice I said, "Allan, why are you here?" I pulled a comb through my hair too quickly and went back to the kitchen. In the refrigerator was a large plastic pitcher full of tea. There were some dark bottles on the bottom shelf, some Guinness, probably. I took out the tea, found the glasses, filled them half way with ice, and poured the tea. I stood and sipped my glass and felt the wetness travel all the way down my gullet and splash in my stomach. My glass was half-empty when she walked in barefoot, wearing a white terry cloth robe. END OF PART 4 <1st attachment end> <2nd attachment, "C 5.txt" begin> {ASSM} Title: Counselor Part 5 (MF, rom, oral, anal, feet) Author: One Gallus, Disclaimer Not to be read: by anyone under the age of 18, or if it violates the standards or laws of your community, or if adult erotica offends you. Not to be posted on any other site, or changed, or used in any way without author's permission. THE COUNSELOR Part 5 Her hair, now close to her face in small wet rings, had a darker cast but retained its red glow. Her face was scrubbed from makeup. Red splotches showed on her cheeks. She smiled and said, "We're quite informal around here. By the way, you look like a daisy with one petal," pointing to my hair. I swiped it with my hand, then reached for her tea and handed it to her. "Umm," she said, took it from me, and drank it down, loudly gulping as she did. I watched with fascination as her white neck bobbed with each gulp. Then she set down the glass and said, "Come in here and rub my feet, they're killing me." I followed her into the dim room, made slightly lighter by her switching on a small lamp. We walked past a wooden dining table with straight-back rope-bottomed chairs placed around it. We moved past a fireplace, a plaid love seat, a television and several bookcases. A large leather couch was at the very end of the room. A large green and grey oval rug centered the room. We maneuvered around a heavy coffee table, toward which she pointed. "You sit here," she said, and then she sat down carefully on the couch, across from me. I sat on the coffee table facing her. A distance of two feet separated our knees. "Reilly, are you OK with.?" "Don't ask me anything. Don't talk, I'm too tired to talk." "But what about Del...?" "No!" She shook her head vigorously. This is another world, and I am not leaving it tonight. Her eyes were moist and her look was fierce. I nodded my head, sat for a minute with my elbows on my knees, hands dangling between. Suddenly her right foot pushed away my elbow and placed itself on my knee. I sat up and grasped it with my fingers over her arch, my thumbs firmly under the ball. I looked into her hazel eyes, and she was smiling. I held her gaze and began to press gently and release, moving my thumbs as I did. I don't know why, but I have always been good at massage. My fingers seem to instinctively seek out the small, invisible indentations on the body and press them easily. When she closed her eyes and sighed through her teeth, I looked down at her foot and leg. The robe was covering her right knee, but I could see the light freckles on her shin. The foot was soft and though it was not small, it was nowhere near my size thirteen. Where the toes touched each other, there was a pale, pink color. I held the arch with my left hand and bent her toes back firmly, holding them there for a long moment. She groaned. Having such wonderful results, I repeated the action several times. When the groaning ceased, I moved to her ankle with my left hand while cupping her heel with my right hand. As I pulsed firmly at her heel, I lightly chaffed around her ankle. The groaning began again. I looked toward her face, but her neck was slack and her eyes were softly closed. Her lips were slightly parted and the low, breathy alto came with every squeeze of her heel. The groans eventually stopped, and so I stopped moving my hands. She slipped her right foot out of my hand, and replaced it with her left foot. I traced through the same movements with little variation. "God, I love your hands," she said, head still bowed, features still loose. "I love your feet," I said and started pressing my thumbs to her arch. "Umm," she crooned, are you a lover of feet? "I love YOUR feet," I said, still working away. "Well, that's interesting," she said, her speech slurring with her relaxation, but lifted in mock shock. "But, I also love your ankles and your legs," and with this I ran a hand under her ankle and up her calf, where I paused and kneaded the firm flesh there. "Oooo, Clifford," she cooed. "And I love the backs of your knees." I ran my hand up into the shallow cavity created by the slight angle of her leg. The robe fell away halfway up her thighs. A grassy fragrance floated up to greet me. I breathed deeply taking it in. The backs of the knees, I believe, are some of the most sensitive spots on a human being. A few people are even ticklish, but most feel a radiating relaxation when stroked there. I love to be massaged here myself, and I hoped Reilly would not jump and giggle. She didn't. "Whooo" she exhaled in a whisper. I pressed down her knee till her leg was in a straighter position, and rubbed the same area with flat of my palm. "Whooo," it came again. Then the most extraordinary thing happened. She raised her right foot and placed it firmly on my hardening penis. As I rubbed her knee and leg, her foot rocked back and forth on my crotch. I could hear a voice inside my head. It was obviously shouting, but seemed miles away, I clenched my eyes and it came again, "Allan, what are you doing here?" "Clifford?" Reilly asked. I looked up, and her hazel eyes were staring me squarely in the face. "Take them off, NOW," she said. I jerked my hands from her leg, and lifted them with my palms open and startled. She chuckled low, and rocked her foot on me again. "Take these pants off!" she said. I reluctantly put her foot down on the floor, crossed my legs and removed the bulky, dull black Rockport from my foot. I pulled off the sock as well. Then came the other one, sock and shoe at once, flipping out of my hand and somersaulting off into a corner of the room. Then I stood, and slid down my khakis, and stepped out of them. As I did, it occurred to me that I had on my "senior underwear." I like to refer to them as my "professional baseball underwear," seeing them outlined through the sleek uniforms of the Toledo Mud Hens, as well as the big league teams. However, when your pants are at your ankles, they are definitely your grandpa's shorts. I was about to lower them. "Wait a minute," she said. I was dying. I waited through the long inspection. "That is one pair of sexy underwear, Buster!" "You say the most appropriate things, Reilly." I stepped out of them and tossed them aside, much aware of my shrunken sex, I then took a step toward the couch. "Uh-Uh, your not through yet, Darlin', sit back down," she said. I sat, the wood table was cool on my naked buttocks, my softness lost and hanging somewhere below and in front of me. "Here, rub some more," she said, and placed her soft foot directly on my limp penis. I felt myself stirring again as she rocked back and forth. I reached down to her foot and began stroking its instep and ankle. She brought it to my chest and played lightly over the front of my shirt. Then on a whim, I lifted my right foot, and placed it between her legs. I expected to feel the moist curls of her pubis against the sensitive sole of my foot. There was moistness, to be sure, but I felt only smooth skin. There was no harsh stubble, just a sweet softness. "Reilly, you have no hair," I said tenderly. "Not much," she smiled. I felt again, searching this time, and detected a few filaments with the ball of my foot. Then she took my foot into her hands and ground it against her vulva. Her other foot was moving toward my face. She ran her toes along my cheek, caressing me. "Reilly, please," I made a move to come to her. "Clifford, please stay there." She pulled my foot to her, and I felt my toes slipping into the wet folds. Her left foot moved down my cheek, her toes now over my mouth and tapped there, lightly. I opened my lips and her toes slipped inside, and I touched the tip of my tongue to each, licking gently. My own toes were now on her clitoris and I tapped lightly as she did on my lips. My penis was now distended its full length, slightly past its foreskin, which she deftly shifted about with her right foot. Every move was slow and and flowed naturally into the other. Then I felt her hips begin rise to meet my foot, which thrust firmly against her clitoris. She pushed my foot down into her wet opening, taking over her clitoris with her own fingers. She plunged forward then, sliding both feet to the floor and lifting her pelvis toward me, then dropping away, impaled on my foot. I have never felt anything so wonderfully unique in all my life. Her movements were now furious, and she was panting audibly and deep, "Uh, Uh, Uh." Finally, in one grand thrust, she held my foot into her as far as it could possibly go, and went into a rigid tremble. Sharp, falsetto, whimpers, strangely animal, chirped from her throat. I seemed to me, I had never before given anyone quite so much pleasure; I felt nine feet tall and my chest was light, and my heart was beating a steady rapid rhythm. She relaxed her hold on my foot, and sat up and back into the couch. My foot dropped away. Her eyes fluttered, and she smiled. "Stay right where you are, Darlin'." Then she closed her eyes for a full minute and sat with a transfixed smile on her face. Then she suddenly dropped to her knees, and took me into her mouth. I felt the chill of her wet hair against my belly. She slid her hand along my penis with long slow strokes, stretching back the foreskin, then lightly scratching her teeth against it as she went down. Then she sucked on the upstroke, then stretched the foreskin back again, and placed her thumb into the place where the tissues all come together, the point of her nail sticking me there, just a little. I was audibly panting. Her teeth gently gnawed the head of my penis. "Oh!" I tensed, "Oh!" Then I groaned, loudly and sent my semen hurtling up into her mouth. She greedily slurped and swallowed, letting the excess run down across her hand. She lapped at it slowly and gently, and smiled up at me. After a while she dreamily looked into my eyes. "I am now relaxed and refreshed Clifford," and she lifted her body back to the large couch. As she did, the fullness of her legs and glistening vulva revealed themselves, but her robe was cinched at the waist, and her breasts were hidden still. Floating up, and out from between them spilled the Celtic cross. She lay back on the couch, on her side, her back against its back. Her left breast fell over her right one and formed a crevice four inches above the V of her robe lapels. Her right arm extended straight out from her body. "Come lay beside me," She said. As I lay facing her, her right arm came up around my neck, and she pulled me to her mouth and kissed me, her lips parted. Then she lay, breathing into my mouth, my right arm around her waist, my weight upon my left arm. Her left arm was over my shoulder and arm, and I felt her breath on my chin, tickling me, but I did not dare to move from the moment. Mouth to mouth, belly to belly, hip to hip, we lay. Her left leg moved slowly up between my legs and pressed gently against my scrotum. An hour past, she was sleeping deeply. First, my left shoulder went numb; then my back began aching. I disentangled myself from her, slid my lower body into the floor and awkwardly stood up, using the coffee table to support me. Aside from closing herself into a fetal position, and smiling, she never showed any signs of consciousness. I found a green afghan across the love seat, and placed it over her limp body. Then I gathered my clothes, found my shoe in the corner and dressed. I did not muffle my sounds, but she didn't stir. I kissed her on the side of her head, and walked back to the kitchen. There I found her ice tea class, filled it with tea, dropped in some ice cubes, and drank it straight down in loud gulps. I visited the bathroom, flushed, lowered the toilet seat, and washed my hands. I looked into the mirror. I asked myself no questions. Then I headed for my Escort. END OF PART 5 <2nd attachment end> <3rd attachment, "C 6.txt" begin> {ASSM} Title: Counselor Part 6 (MF, rom, oral, anal, feet) Author: One Gallus, Disclaimer Not to be read: by anyone under the age of 18, or if it violates the standards or laws of your community, or if adult erotica offends you. Not to be posted on any other site, or changed, or used in any way without author's permission. THE COUNSELOR Part 6 I then stepped into her garage, reaching immediately for the button-switch nearby, and the door opened. I got into my Escort and backed out. I was reaching for my own remote door control, when it occurred to me that I couldn't shut the garage door, duh. I did not dare to leave it open; one doesn't do that in Toledo. I didn't want to disturb Reilly, now sated and asleep. Actually, I was pretty dissipated myself, and wanted to do nothing quite so much as lie down on a wide bed and drift away. However, I had to navigate through a strange neighborhood, and once I found my way out, I faced fifteen minutes of freeway, and a late return to my wife. I stared blankly at the open garage with the dark blue Cherokee inside. Fianally, reaching a decision, I walked back through the garage to the button, pressed it, and sprinted for the driveway, breaking through with time to spare. But then the door immediately stopped, reversed itself, and opened again. I saw it then, a safety-light beam, a foot high, guarding against accidental closures of the garage door on human heads. Tired, and now winded from the dash, I walked slowly back into the garage, turned to measure my distance. I set my feet for the fastest getaway, and hit the button again. The door travelled its relentless pace downward as I burst toward its opening; I reached it when the door already a third closed. I crouched for head clearance, jumped to clear my feet over the beam, and hurtled through in a distorted posture. When I landed, the door closed nicely, but an old familiar pain bolted through my lower back. I stood, bent and panting, feeling the tightness close around my spine. I was exhasted from the long day, the sex, the sprints, and the spasms. My hands on my knees were all that kept me from collapse. Slowly, I pushed my self upward and emitted a "shhhhh" sound through my clenched teeth. Now my back was overly straight, but my legs were flexed and splayed, like I was holding my pants up, but I couldn't use my hands. I forced myself to waddle back to my car, and I considered that neighbors could be watching this strange commotion. Shamefaced, I backed into the car, sat, then lifted my legs painfully inside. On the way back, I my teeth were gnashed and my forehead creased, but the pain did keep me from falling asleep at the wheel. Finally, I was at my own garage door and the opener worked this time. I forced my feet up the two steps leading into the house, and dragged my feet down the narrow carpet to my room. I could see the light flooding in from the turn in the hallway, and her voice called from inside. "Clifford! Where have you been?" "Just a minute, Emily, I called, and limped into the hallway bathroom. I kicked off my shoes, dragged off my socks, dropped my pants and shorts in a pile, tore off my shirt and tee shirt, and slid open the shower door and stepped into the bathtub. Thankfully, the handicap grab bars I had installed for Mother enabled me steady myself and to turn on the water which was soon not. I pressed the shower button and the mericful steamy waterfall beat against my lower back like so many liquid needles. Emily came to the doorway, "What's going on?" "Ah, ooooh, ooooh!," I backed into the spray. "My back went out! I went through a door and somehow twisted it the wrong way. Would you get bring me a pain pill?" She fished through the medicine cabinet and then called, "You want it now?" "Yes!" give it to me now!" She slid open the door a bit and put her closed narrow hand through the crack and in and dropped the Darvocet into my wet palm. I popped it and then took a glass of cold water, "How come you're so late?" she asked. "Oh!" I yelled out sharply, as I staggered against a feinted pain. I regained my posture and said, "We went out for tea afterward, the teacher was there too, had sort of a seminar. I was going through the door to my car, and the pain just hit me! Remember when I picked that necktie off the bed that time and it went out? I feel beat up and stomped down," I grunted. "Well, you could have given me a call, I was worried sick!" she whined. "I'm sorry dear, we were so into it, I didn't even think about it," I said. "Would you put a blanket and some pillows down on the floor in my room? I don't think I can manage in the bed tonight. The next day I was extremely sore, but I could stand straight. A little tender loving selfcare, and I could possibly make it through the day. I was late, and KC greeted me with, "You look like fifty miles of bad road, Boss." That day, besides several other cases, I struggled through two looming divorces, one teen age rebellion, and a repentant wifebeater. It was burden enough for any one man, even with a good back. That night, I set a foot-high step-stool under my computer monitor, pulled out the center drawer of my desk, and put a large plastic storage box on it. On the box I put a composition book and two Bic pens. I stood and went to work on the exercises in "Writing the Natural Way." I drew a small circle in the middle of the page, a "stalk" for my cluster. Inside the circle I wrote, "Celtic." I drew a line shooting out from the circle, and at the end of it I drew another circle. Inside I wrote, "Reilly." Again. going back to "Celtic" I drew another line in the opposite direction, drew a circle and wrote in "Pagan." Then "Pagan" became my focus, and I drew a line from it, made a circle, and wrote in "Bridget." Then another line from "Pagan," ending in a cirlce, where I wrote "Sex." Then I drew a line from "Reilly" to "Bridget." Then from "Sex" I drew a line and put a circle at the end, and wrote in "Naked." Then another, "Dance." Then another, "Red." Then another, "Feet." Then another, "Belly." Then my left brain threw a switch, and I immediately put the notebook flat on my desk where I could see it. I placed my keyboard and mouse on the storage box and began to write. Twenty minutes later I read it to myself. With a few tweaks, twenty minutes after that, this is what I had: PAGAN GRASS Here I kneel on the soft turf of Erin, Dampness rising up from the ground, The evening smell of earth and grass Musks at my flaring nostrils. I gaze, fixed upon her dancing feet, Flecked with green seed and black loam, Crushing and stamping, pressing into the earth, Beating out the blood and marrow of the grass In the hot bright light of a peat-fire. Her smell fuses the air, the grassy air upon her body. My hot eyes follow her feet to her mottled legs, Her legs, leading thence to dusty thighs, Brushed by the tatters of moving sackcloth. Through its coarse shreds I see her reddened sex, Her rounded belly, sweaty, undulating. She dances near, and I encircle her moving knees, Reaching outward, and upward, and behind, Till I clasp my hungry hands into her nether flesh, And pull her glistening gut to my mouth, and taste. Clifford Allen I worried a bit about the assignment, yet it was the result of what she told us to do. I trusted to the cluster technique, which was nothing new to me, having used Rico's method since 1984. It was a marvelous way of releasing right brain, creative energy, and it would work for anyone. I printed out a copy and slipped it into my notebook for tomorrow's class. Then I checked the sheet Reilly had given out to the class called, "Guidelines." At the end of the sheet was printed this request: "You can save both of us a lot of work and time by e-mailing your assignments. They must be in the form of attachments with full information. My e-mail address is `LifeOfReilly@maumee.edu.'" I attached the poem to a short e-mail note of explanation and sent it that very moment. Then I went to the floor with Rico's book between and before my elbows, and began to read over the first two chapters again. A half hour later, "You've Got Mail" came out of my speakers, and I stood up to check it. It had one line. "Tea? Tomorrow Night?" END OF PART 6 <3rd attachment end> ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice----- Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. The post was sent as an email attachment and has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software. ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice----- ------- ASSM Moderation System Notice-------- This post has been reformatted by the ASSM Moderation Team due to inadequate formatting. -- 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+