Message-ID: <29592asstr$985734604@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Message-ID: <20010327144443.81447.qmail@web10303.mail.yahoo.com> From: One Gallus Subject: {ASSM} Signals Part 1 (inc, Fm, mf) X-Original-Subject: Signals 1 (inc, Fm, mf) Date: Tue, 27 Mar 2001 18:10:04 -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: newsman, gill-bates __________________________________________________ Do You Yahoo!? Get email at your own domain with Yahoo! Mail. http://personal.mail.yahoo.com/?.refer=text <1st attachment, "Signals 1.txt" begin> Note: This story contains graphic sexual descriptions and should not be read where it is illegal or by people under the legal age under their local laws. Note: This story may not be changed or posted or otherwise used without permission from the author. SIGNALS Part 1 By OneGallus I don't know if this is true of every male or not, but to me, there are females in this world who become the object of my strong desire, not through any physical or social charm, but through some delicious peculiarity. This quirk of mine has both plagued and comforted me through adolescence and into adulthood. In the seventh grade, I was hooked on my social studies teacher who was tall lanky and stiff-necked. She held her head awkwardly, shifting from one odd angle to the other. She had small eyes, rimless glasses and a hardness around her lips. Frequently she would clear her sinuses with a kind of closed-mouthed snort. She wore a yellow Eagle Number Two Pencil inserted into a gray curl, jutting forward at a forty-five degree tilt and sharpened to a deadly point. In my vision, she has assigned me special tutoring. As instructed, I go to her home for this extra attention. It is a Victorian two- story home, built in the 1920's. I enter the front door as instructed and hear her call me from her room upstairs. I ascend a dark paneled staircase and open her door. She is sitting up, naked in her bed. A red social studies text rests on her lap. Her tiny breasts barely jiggle as she lifts her arm and says, "Come, Wayne, we shall now discover in what governmental body that power is concentrated." So, you should not be surprised at my quirky attraction to Sonia. She, was nearly my age, fifteen, almost sixteen. Her last name was Matthews, but even then I thought her family must have changed its name. At first, I thought she had a Mediterranean, look about her. The not unpleasant aroma of curry eddied about her. Her skin had a dark cast to it and a slight fuzz on her upper lip. Her arms were also hairy, but not with fuzz. Long black swirls of hair grew upwards on her arms, though I saw nothing on the backs of her hands. Apparently she shaved her legs religiously, because I never saw a hint of hair below the modest skirts she wore. A few days before, she had kicked off her shoes in history class and I completely missed the fall of Ft. Sumpter. Her feet were small but her toes were long and the fluted depressions between the foot bones showed darker than the surrounding skin. I fantasized those feet caressing the calf of my leg as we lay side by side. I know this is an unconventional attraction for a WASP, but that is my point. Perhaps it will help you understand my story better. I desperately wanted to ask this girl out. Yet, I had little experience with girls. There had been adventurous touchings and kissings at parties and school outings, but nothing really focused. I wasn't sure if I could work up the courage to actually request a date. And if I somehow made myself do it, and she accepted, where would I take her? Would a girl like her enjoy a movie? A dinner? A play? But then, how would I get her there, since I couldn't drive? Take a bus? "What's wrong Wayne?" my mother asked "You look like you're gonna cry," She was preparing supper and I was sitting at the table, staring off into space, contemplating my problem. "I don't know, Mom, I want to be friends with a girl, but I'm shy, I guess. I feel so stupid when I get around her, I can't talk." "Well, what do you like about her?" "I don't know, maybe just her looks, she's different somehow. She's quiet, kind of shy, but she's nice. She's got kind of a dark complexion, foreign, I guess, speaks with an accent. Uh... no, that's not exactly true either, she just sounds different somehow." "Is she pretty?" Mom asked, turning to face me and leaning against the counter, crossing her arms. I had never thought much about Mom apart from her maternity. Her question seemed to force me into an unexpected comparison between her and Sonia. Mom was forty-three and had not yet drifted away from the narrow willowy figure she was to carry for many years. Sonia was dark, fifteen and petite. I laughed, "Not half as pretty as you." Mom threw her head back and sighed a delighted smile. She kept her almost-blonde hair short and wavy. Her face was a graceful oval and she wore only the slightest suggestion of a hereditary double chin. Of well-known actresses, she probably most closely resembles Glen Close. "Ahhh, what a sweet boy you are! What's this girl's name?" "Sonia. She's just, well-nice, and I'd like to take her out." I rose and walked to the sink and stood in a slump beside Mom, gazing out the small window and into the back yard. My mother was only slightly shorter than my own six-feet- two. I opened the cabinet and extracted a glass and filled it with cold tap water. "Do you talk with her at school?" I turned the water glass up and drank it all the way to the bottom, burped quietly and answered, "Not much. I don't know what to say." I had tried, and Sonia had smiled and responded graciously, but her very friendliness left me tongue-tied. "Talk about something she's interested in," Mom said. "Gosh, I don't know what that would be," I said, turning toward her. "Find out!" I shrugged. "If I asked her out, how would I take her anywhere? I can't drive." "Take a cab? Or let me drive you?" Mom said immediately. She smiled mischievously, slipped her arms around my waist and pulled me to her. "How would that be, loverboy? I could keep an eye on you that way, keep you out of trouble." Her face was almost level with mine. Both her eyebrows were raised in amusement. "I don't know enough to get into any trouble," I said, feeling genuinely sorry for myself and at the same time liking the proximity of my mother. "Oh, that kind of knowledge will come naturally, too naturally!" she said and hugged me tighter. I have since observed many mothers reacting to their sons in exactly the same way. I have noticed that mothers are especially solicitous of their sons in this regard. They love their daughters and have their own unique way of relating to them, but they especially monitor the development of their sons. They feel their sons' emotional hurts far more sharply than they do their daughters'. Perhaps this is because, being females, they know what women can cope with. They may be more uncertain of the vulnerabilities of their boys. Certainly physical demonstrations with sons are more evident; the feeling of the male biceps, the patting of the boy's chest, the hugs and the kisses, they're all there with boys and not so much with girls. This is what I presumed I was now experiencing as my own mother held me. However, as I felt her thighs and pelvis against me, the sensation was unusually pleasant. My groin felt far too content, nestled as it was against Mom, and I knew I needed to retreat. I kissed her on the forehead and pulled back, turning to the sink again. I made a show of filling the water glass a second time. However, Mom was not finished with her affection. She encircled me from behind, the side of her face ruffling the back of my hair and sniffed loudly at my neck. Her belly was now pressing against my butt, her hands were running over my chest. "Would you like me to teach you how to treat a girl sweetheart?" she asked in a bantering tone. "Somebody better give me lessons," I said in exasperation, at the same time, my mind was now drifting away from Sonia's feet and nearer my mother's abdomen. "I could teach you how to ask a girl for a date," she said, her hands still moving on my chest. "I could teach your how to dance. Tah- tah-tah-ta-ta-dah." And she swayed a bit to the tune she was toodling. I felt her pelvis up tight against my ass, moving. My cock was stiffening and I was afraid to turn around. She pulled me around anyway, stepping back just a little and searching my eyes. "Have you ever kissed a girl?" Mom asked. I felt myself blush. "Only when I was twelve, at that birthday party, pretty stupid, huh?" I shook my head in disappointment. "Then, at the Christmas party, under the mistletoe." I puffed the air, "Stupid!" "Don't you dare say that!" she said, a little anger flaring. "You are the best looking boy at school." and she pulled me to her, pressing into my erection. We swayed a moment. Then she stilled her movement and we stood there, belly to belly. I felt a kind of gathering pleasure, like when I was a little kid and had climbed and clung to the clothesline pole. I remembered that Mom had called me in several times before finally I dropped to the ground, my skinny legs trembling. Now, it was not the clothesline pole but my mother's long body against which I pressed, and for the moment, she held herself there for me. Almost reluctantly, she said, "Maybe you'd better work on your homework a while before dinner." She stepped back and let me go, still smiling but her eyes were conspicuously on mine. "We'll talk some more later." I turned immediately, taking advantage of the few inches clearance between us and headed for the bathroom. I carefully locked the door, and hurriedly pulled down my pants and released the pressure against my jeans. Sitting there on the toilet, with my penis in my hand and Mom's long body in my mind, I pounded myself to release. Where, in my mind, had Sonia gone? I finished, trying to cover my deed with the sounds of a toilet flush, a hand washing and a swish of spray from the room deodorizer. I checked myself out in the mirror and then turned, unlocked the door, and opened it. Mom was standing there. She put an affectionate hand on my shoulder, "I thought you were doing your homework," she smiled. "First things first," I said, quoting my old social studies teacher. I smiled back, trying to look innocent, feeling the heat with my ears. "Me too," She said with a giggle, and brushed my shoulder as she entered and I exited the bathroom. I continued down the hallway to my bedroom, where I took my history book from the night stand and sat back on the bed. I turned to "Sumpter's Fall." and began to read. What was it she had said? "Me too." I put my history book aside, and walked out of the bedroom and into the hallway. The bathroom was the next door down, and it was still shut. I looked at my watch. Five minutes had transpired. I crept toward the door and stood very silently in front of it, my ear slowly coming up against it. I could hear nothing at all, for the moment. Then came a definite breaking of breath, a loud exhalation. Such a sigh could mean a number of things, especially in the bathroom. I pressed closer to the bathroom door. "Wayne?" Her voice startled me. I froze. I took a step back from the door and answered softly "Yes, Mom?" and wondered if she'd ask me what I was doing at the bathroom door. "Would you check and see if the potatoes are boiling over?" "Will do," I said, trying not to sound too close, and walked past the bathroom and into the kitchen. The potatoes were boiling vigorously and slopping water over onto the electric burner of the stove, making sizzling sounds. I took the lid off and turned the heat down. Mom came in while I was setting the burner. "I don't like to leave things cooking on the stove like that, but, `first things first,' you know. She smiled and bumped me with her hip. I smiled back and went back to the bedroom. Was Mom only joking about the call of nature? Or did she suspect I had been in the bathroom masturbating? Had she been in the bathroom masturbating? The first question I took in stride. The second question embarrassed me. The third question blew the top of my head off. Did Mom think she could banter with me about masturbation with no more effect than with my father joshing me? Most emphatically, the effect was different. On the other hand, Dad would have never joshed about masturbation (and little else) so perhaps she was trying to compensate for a camaraderie he was not providing. Whatever, it jacked up the sexual tension in my body in addition to what her touching had already done. That night, Mom and Dad and I sat around the dinner table. Until August, Ken had been here but he'd gone off to OU in Athens, majoring in computer science. If Ken had been here, I could have talked over Sonia with him, asked him for some pointers, but that's the price you pay for having the place all to yourself. I had traded bedrooms with him, moving my stuff into his nicer room downstairs and piling his stuff upstairs. He hadn't minded, was completely agreeable to it. I enjoyed the convenience but I missed my brother. I looked across the table at Dad. He wasn't going to be of any help with Sonia, or with anything else. He had a well paying supervisory job at JEEP and there simply was not time for other things. Once I asked him how he liked his job. He said, "The bastards over me are biting off my head and the bastards under me are biting off my balls." My father worked hard and was constantly tired. He rarely got home by six in the evening, but usually it was seven or after before he came through the door. Dad gulped a final draught of iced tea and pushed his plate back. Without a word, he got up and shuffled to the bathroom. I knew the drill: A shower, a sleepy hour or two in front of the TV and then off to bed for a four-thirty rise in the morning. Not much conversation passed between Mom and Dad. In fact, as I sat there, picking up Mom's delicious green beans with my fingers and eating them one by one, I realized that not much had occurred between them for years. Dad almost seemed to be an appendix to the family. Certainly, he was the breadwinner, since Mom only worked sporadically. If he was anything, he was breadwinner. If he was anything else, I failed to see it. Because of his commitment to work he had forfeited direct participation in the family. My problems were clearly not serious to him. Thus they had been delegated to Mom. What mattered was JEEP. I knew he didn't want to talk about it, because his attitude was, "You just can't know what I have to put up with." Dad and I were in the living room, he in the recliner and I on the floor. The TV was turned to Monday Night Football. I was on my stomach, my elbows crossed over an oversized cushion which Mom had sewn herself. I was in my stocking feet, raising and kicking them gently against the couch behind me, finding a rhythmic pleasure in the exercise. Dad was gazing at the TV through half-closed eyes. He was already in his pajamas and robe though it was only nine- thirty. Mom was in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on the clean up there. I heard the light click off and her bare feet padding down the hallway. "Whew!" she said as she dropped onto the couch. I looked back over my shoulder and saw she was sitting with her long legs and slender feet straight out, wiggling her toes. Her faded housedress was knee length, but it had ridden up just above her knees. "You tired?" I smiled. "I'll be OK in a minute. Is there anything else on?" I looked at Dad. His eyes were all the way shut now. In a half-whisper, I said, "I think it'll be OK to change channels in a minute." When the next commercial hit, Dad ratcheted down his Lazy Boy and stood up, swaying. He yawned, looked at his watch and said to himself, "Sheesh, four-thirty comes early," and he shuffled toward the door. "Wait a minute Harold, you're boy needs a little advice," she said, surprising me as well as Dad. "What's that?" he said, looking at me, his eyes bleary. I opened my mouth but Mom spoke, "He's got a problem." "What's the problem?" he asked me, exasperated. I had not anticipated this, so I didn't how to respond. As it turned out, I didn't have to. It occurred to me that Mom was making a point. "There's a girl at school he wants to take out, but he doesn't know how to go about it," Mom said. Dad, looked at my mother a long moment, then shut his eyes and shook his head very slowly from side to side. Then he shuffled off to bed. "And there you have it!" Mom said sarcastically, "The Harold Renfro solution to all problems." "Long hours, I guess." "Yeah," she said, "I have long hours too, my feet are killing me." I handed Mom the remote and smiled, "The TV's free. Get what you want." At the same time I shifted so that I was sitting in the floor with my back against the front of the couch. Mom's legs were beside me. I reached over and took her narrow foot into my hand, wrapping my fingers around it so that my palm was over her instep and my fingertips on her arch. I began to knead. "Ummmm, um," Mom said. "That feels great, can you do both at once?" "Sure," I said, getting up and sitting at the end of the couch and shifting myself at an angle toward Mom. I patted my lap. "Let's have `em." My mother pivoted and put her two feet into my lap. I resumed my ministrations, using both hands on her feet. She purred like a kitten. As I flexed her toes back, stretching her arch and pulsing my thumb into their bottoms, she said, "Well, if you ever get Sonia's feet into your hands, you won't have any trouble getting to know her." "Really? Maybe I should be a masseur." "Oh baby! Your book would be full!" Inspired by her compliments, I began to encircle her ankles and rub up into the calves of her legs. "Ummm" she said, sliding down toward me a little, flexing her legs and giving me better access. When she did this, her heels came to rest directly on top of my penis, the only things between were my briefs and jeans. Since I was soft, there was really nothing for her to distinguish. However, I felt that clothesline- pole-feeling gathering in my groin. "I think I need some lotion," I said, thinking I could break the spell by getting something from the bathroom. "Don't you dare leave me now!" Mom said. "But my hands don't slide along very well, I need some oil." "Spit on them," she said. "Spit on them?" I asked, incredulous. "Sure, spit makes good lubrication." "But Mom, spit?" "Trust me." I spat on her feet, and she jumped a little and laughed. "I meant your hands, silly!" "Oh! I'm sorry!" She rubbed the spittle, one foot upon the other. "Mmmm, maybe this is better." she mumbled. I resumed my massage and rubbed the saliva into the backs of her feet, particularly along the sides of the heel pad where there was a slight callus. "Rub around my knees." She opened them slightly, then closed them. I followed her directions; she cooed and sighed when I touched the backs of her knees. The trouble was, her heels were digging into my crotch and I was beginning to grow. I was becoming increasingly nervous, not knowing how to end the session without calling attention to what was rapidly becoming apparent. "Use more spit," Mom said. I spat on my hands, rubbed them together and began massaging around her knees. "Does Sonia act like she might go out with you?" Mom asked. Her forearm was over her eyes. "Well, she smiles at me when I see her, and she speaks to me all the time." "What does she say?" "Hi?" I laughed. As I rubbed under Mom's knees, her heels increased their contact with my penis. I couldn't really tell whether I was intensifying the contact by my movement, or if Mom herself were pressing into me on the down stroke. The very thought of it tightened my prick. I did not let up. "Does she ever, you know, come on to you?" Mom asked. "What does that mean?" I asked. "Well, does she flirt with you?" I paused a moment and thought. However, the gentle movement of my mother's heels against me did not pause. She moved them over my erection with a kind of grazing motion. Did she know she was doing it? I looked at her closely. She appeared to be preoccupied. "I guess, I don't know," I said. Mom then seemed to realize that she was the giver and I was the receiver and she pulled her feet out of my lap. Then she pivoted around and sat with her feet on the floor, slightly crossed, looking down at her wiggling toes. "Why don't you ask her to a football game?" "No car." "I'll give you cab fare. Ask her tomorrow, OK?" "She doesn't like football. I've never seen her at a game. She's from-somewhere in the East." "Whatever, take her to a show, rub her feet, she'll like that!" Mom looked at me and grinned. I laughed, and took Mom's hand. "I love you Mom, thanks." I leaned in for a kiss and Mom pulled me to her and made an exaggerated pucker with her lips and smacked. I kissed her on the lips and she held me to her for a moment and then said, "Well, I could teach you to dance." "I don't think so." "Stand up." Reluctantly, I did, conscious that my erection was now protruding, but not knowing how to hide it. Mom, nevertheless, stood and positioned my arm around her waist and my other arm flexed to the side and joined with her hand. She hummed a few notes and I tried to follow. However, I was mainly concentrating on the increasing friction her body made against my prick. She was undeterred, though I know she must have felt me nudging into her belly; she pulled me even closer and we moved in time with her self-made music. After a few turns around the floor, we paused, still in our embrace. She smiled at me and said, "Maybe that's enough for tonight. You've got a lot to learn, but you'd better take care of first things first." I felt myself boring into her belly. Not far below that was forbidden territory. She didn't move. I smiled. "You know Mom, there's nobody else like you!" Her eyes sparked and she smacked me on the lips again, held her head back and looked at me. Suddenly she firmed her lips and thrust her hips into me, delightfully mashing my cock against her pubic bone. "You'll make a great dance partner for Sonia," she leered. Then she turned and walked back to her room. I hurried to the bathroom and unzipped my jeans, exposing my cock and thinking I had never seen quite so big. I stood leaning over the sink pumping myself almost to an orgasm, then holding back. I dribbled puddles of pre-ejaculate onto the porcelain surface. As I masturbated, very lightly, I pictured Mom sitting over there on the toilet, her legs akimbo and her fingers working busily between them. An old movie that we once rented came to mind. Mom, Ken and I were watching, "Being There" with Peter Sellers and Shirley McClain. Sellers, practically a mental zero, had somehow been taken for a wise and discerning man. McClain's car had slightly injured him and he was invited to McClain's elegant home to recover. In her own mistaken perception of Seller's wisdom and sensitivity, McClain was attracted to him. Unable to resist his appeal, she visited him in his bedroom and threw herself at him. The simpleton did not understand what was going on, though she thought he did. She asked him what he wanted from her. He said, "I like to watch," referring to his compulsion to endlessly watch TV. She took this to mean he was some sort of intellectual voyeur and wanted her to masturbate as he watched from his perch on edge of the bed. This, she was more than willing to do, rolling around on the floor under his dangling feet, caressing his leg as she groaned and writhed, stroking herself into glorious climax. I remembered laughing along with Ken and Mom, but my mother was the most affected. She had laughed so hard we had to stop the tape to let her get it out of her system. Tears were running down her cheeks. Finally, she calmed and we restarted the movie but all through remainder of the film, she kept breaking out in giggles, her mind obviously on the scene. Had my mother been writhing under her own hand in this very bathroom, over there on the toilet today? As I visualized that possibility, I became Peter Sellers, "Chance, the gardener." I was I who was sitting with my feet dangling off the bed. It was my mother whose hand was feeling up into the leg of my pajamas and rolling in the floor under me. I violently expelled the remainder of my cum into the sink and shuddered as Mom's sinuous body twisted provocatively in my mind. I could feel my pulse pounding in my ears. I washed my penis with soap and water, dried it, and fastened my pants. I then took the bar of soap into my palm and washed my hands. As washed, I looked up into the mirror, and found myself smiling. End of Part 1 Go to Part 2 OneGallus@yahoo.com <1st 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------ -- 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+