Message-ID: <27745asstr$976129804@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: The Sexton X-Original-Message-ID: <90lf56$542$1@nnrp1.deja.com> X-Article-Creation-Date: Wed Dec 06 13:32:21 2000 GMT Subject: {ASSM} A First Posting (MF, M-Solo) Date: Wed, 6 Dec 2000 14:10:04 -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: gill-bates, Vulpine After years of reading erotica, I've bitten the bullet and written some. I'll certainly come to regret this. In the meantime, the following is, in the opinion of some people, dirty. Those people are stupid, but they make the rules for now, so if they say you shouldn't be reading dirty things, it's your look-out if you disobey. Also, to deal with the other legality issue, this is mine. I own it. If you fuck with it, I'll be pissed off. Possibly secretly flattered, but still pissed off. So kindly don't. Please criticize this, or I'll write some more that makes all the same mistakes. And we wouldn't want that. * * * * * * * * He flexed his palm with a practiced motion, and the soap did barrel rolls between thumb and fingers. His hand ended up sudsy, and, moving carefully to keep the hot showerhead stream of water from washing away his preferred lubrication, he slid his closed fist down over his cock. In his imagination, it was larger than in real life, and his stomach was smaller. And in his imagination, his fist was someone's mouth, or their ass, or their hand, their vagina if he was thinking about a girl, and frequently his fist played several parts before he was through, before he climaxed and cleaned up. He slid his soapy hand up his shaft, pulling on and sliding over his skin in that way that boys and men can, slowly. He had much to think about. A girl, a woman, a wondrous, magical, inhuman faerie creature that he decided to call Victoria, because he was thinking about writing a story about her, his very first. He slid his hand back down, and his cock throbbed a size larger. 'Victoria' was close enough to her name that anyone with an Anglo background or any knowledge of English history would be able to guess her real one. So the pseudonym was useless, but providing one was traditional. He closed his eyes briefly, as his fingers caught on that perfect spot, that fatty bit of skin under the head of his cock, what was left of his foreskin. His cock throbbed again. He pictured her breasts, which were her only sexual features he'd be able to describe with any accuracy. He felt ashamed immediately on two fronts. For one, that was a nasty sort of objectification, and the reason he'd ever seen her breasts was because she trusted him not to do that sort of thing with the image. And, secondly, thinking of her tits and ass and twat as her only sexual features did a disservice to her lips, and her eyes, and her fingers that she thought were too short, and her chin that she thought was too long - and to her attitude, and her intelligence, and her glittery magical-ness. He leaned against the wall, extra hot water pouring down his back, and pinched a nipple while squeezing his cock. His blood pressure was on the rise. So much for not objectifying. He'd failed. Her breasts were beautiful, like the rest of her. She was a healthy girl, a real one. She was athletic, she was slim, she had a soft stomach, and thank all the gods, under normal circumstances you couldn't count her ribs. Her breasts, perfectly sized to her torso, sloped like none he'd ever seen, with an inside curve, and pointed away from each other. Her nipples were tiny, very pink, and very puffy, and her pale breasts had shifted and slid on her ribcage as she'd changed shirts in front of him, unconcerned, a little proud of herself for being brave enough to do it. He masturbated faster, sliding his hand up and down, and imagined writing about her breasts, about suckling them, and pinching them, and kissing them, and doing all of the things one did. For an instant, he imagined her holding her mounds together with her hands, as his cock slid back and forth in between. But then he fled the image, disturbed by the idea of hunching over her, and embarrassed by his weight, and how he imagined she would react to seeing him naked. His cock threatened to go limp, but he gave it a squeeze and moved on. He'd seen her in a bikini often enough, or wearing briefs for bed. Her rear was perfectly formed, round and soft. And he could imagine what she hid inside her frequently silk briefs, a tangle of golden - no exaggeration needed here, her hair wasn't blonde, it was pure gold - curls, moist and matted in his fantasy, and underneath that, two pink outer lips, puffy like her aureola, a trail of something sticky and shiny catching the light where they meet. He pumped with his hand as he slid it up and down his hot cock, pushing now with his hips, twisting his nipple. He could see her spreading for him, bending one leg, that tendon on the inside of her thigh stretching. He'd stroke her thigh, and kiss her mouth - he had done that before, in real life, for neither of them were scared of it - and enter her, feel her lips slide aside, her vaginal folds rearrange themselves around his cock, maybe half an inch longer than the one he held in his fist. He lifted one leg, resting his foot on the edge of the tub, his fist pummeling his pubis as he stroked his cock. His eyes were firmly shut. Water streamed over his shoulders, washing away the soap, but it was about to not matter. She was atop him now, no transition needed, riding, rolling her hips, about to come herself, her eyes closed, her mouth open, and her astounding breasts - the clearest part of the picture - dancing above her smooth stomach and pierced navel. Her hands were on his shoulders, very warm, she pushed with them down against his cock, she climaxed. He climaxed, fist pressed against the base of his cock. White, sticky semen covered his hand, fell on his foot, was washed away. He retrieved the soap, cleaned his hand and rinsed his crotch, turned the water off. He toweled off. He'd never get around to writing that story. He loved her a great deal. But, in the end, not like that. She was astounding, but not human, this faerie queene, and that sort of relationship was dangerous. Anyway, he couldn't get enough of her into his head to write a realistic story. Which was just as well. His prose was florid at the best of times. Too many adjectives and dependent clauses tacked onto the end of perfectly good sentences. Besides, knowing him, he'd find some way to make it self-reflexive, the pompous ass. He dried, put on clothes, and went to call her to see if she wanted to go to dinner. -- 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+