Message-ID: <32140asstr$998511004@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Father Ignatius" <FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com>
NNTP-Posting-Date: 21 Aug 2001 16:28:59 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} {RP} "Expanding Julie's Sexual Horizons" by Father Ignatius (MF oral anal toys voy <*>)
Date: Wed, 22 Aug 2001 16:10:04 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Expanding Julie's Sexual Horizons
Father Ignatius
MF oral anal toys voy <*>
(c)September 2000

My friend Jim is a shit-stirrer who doesn't know when to keep his
mouth shut. When I first introduced him to Julie he made some
witty little comment to me under his breath about "Mud-wrestlers
always did do it for you, didn't they?" Julie has excellent
hearing, so it wasn't far enough under his breath. She didn't let
on, though. With a completely neutral expression on her Victorian
porcelain-doll face, she made as if to shake hands with him. When
he put his hand in hers, she dislocated his thumb. I found this
both scary and a major turn-on.

Okay, Julie's a meaty girl. She won a lot of swimming trophies at
school and anchored the freestyle relay team. She has big, full,
swimmer's shoulders; a broad, firm swimmer's back and her narrow
waist flares out to wide, womanly hips and muscular buttocks above
long, powerful legs.

And she has large, business-like breasts. She characteristically
wears a sports top as well as a bra to give them extra support.
They get most distractingly -- and not only for her -- in the way
when she's working on a drawing board. "Thank God for CAD
stations," she says, through her curved Cupid's-bow mouth. I said
she looks like a Victorian porcelain doll, and she does --
complete with brown, old-fashioned bangs, a snub nose, and
laser-like, icy-blue eyes that might have been made of glass. Eyes
like that make a man want to do things for a woman. That and not
getting his thumbs dislocated. When she walks into a room, people
notice. I was completely infatuated.

* * *

The first time we had sex I discovered she wasn't shy to tell me
what she wanted. We spent Saturday afternoon together and were
fooling around on the sofa after dinner. I had unbuttoned her
shirt, revealing her ample frontage, and was kissing her neck and
the upper slopes of her breasts. When I started tickling their
under-sides, she came to a decision and stood up, lifting me to my
feet. She shrugged her shirt onto the floor, took me by the hand
and, reaching up behind her back to unhook her bra as she walked,
led me into my bedroom. She dropped the bra on the floor and,
turning to me, pulled me onto her front as she lay back on the
bed.

I burrowed like a happy puppy into her abundance and, in the
following ecstatic minutes, worked my way from her glorious mouth
down to her navel and below. Rubicon time. Thinking prudently of
my thumbs, I edged the waistband of her tracksuit trousers down a
cautious, gentlemanly half-inch and licked politely. I felt the
firm fingers of her firm hand close round the top of my skull. She
pushed my face down her belly and ground it into her. She lifted
her buttocks off the bed. I straightened up to draw the trousers
down to her thighs and she lifted her feet off the bed to let me
pull them off entirely.

I bent down again to business, to her pale yellow lacy panties
that half-revealed the whorls of brown pubic hair pressed back
behind that dainty barrier. The hand appeared on top of my skull
again and I felt my nose pressed firmly into service. We started
by going slowly side to side. Then -- after a sudden, sharp gasp
from Julie -- we went more gently up and down for a while.
Finally, the team worked out, by experiment, to a little circular
motion one way round for my face and the other for her pelvis,
making her breathe deep and fast while I cautiously breathed
through my mouth.

Abruptly, she caught her breath, lifted my face from her and again
lifted her buttocks from the bed. I pulled the stained, soaking
panties down her legs, leaving a trail of moisture down one thigh,
past her ankles and heels, and tossed them aside. I bent again to
her crotch but she grunted, "Mm-mm," closed her legs, took my
cheeks and jaw in her two hands, and pulled my face up to hers. My
eager cock, straining inside my jeans, ploughed the furrow between
her thighs until the tip butted into her curls while she pulled
off my tee shirt.

I felt her hands push in between us, beneath my belly. Her fingers
slipped under the waistband of my jeans and met inside my
underpants on either side of my frantic, imprisoned cock. I felt
her thumbs undoing the single metal waist-button and then her
thumbs clamped her fingers through the cloth. She brutally ripped
my zip open by yanking apart the fabric on either side and she
pulled my underpants and jeans down around my thighs. My cock
flopped eagerly out and burrowed into her crotch. I felt her
thighs open under mine, felt her belly muscles contract under
mine. Her pelvis swivelled and her hands, under my buttocks,
pushed me firmly into her. "In," she said. I did it.

Her thighs gripped my pelvis and she set the brutal rhythm she
wanted. "Harder," she grunted, teeth clenched. I did it. I gripped
her shoulders, swung back, swung forward and thrust hard into her.
She pushed me back and together we swung me forward again. I
reverted to wild, uncontrolled, back-to-teenager thrusting,
revelling in the honey feel of my cock sweeping roughly back and
forth up her toned, gripping cunt, rushing and tumbling towards a
hasty, inelegant, glorious, animal explosion of pleasure.

That zip was never quite the same again. I replaced the jeans and
learned to get them off quickly myself when she got that look in
her eye. But we always did much the same thing, in missionary
position. Eventually, keeping my thumbs carefully out of harm's
way, I plucked up the courage to make an elaborately casual remark
about expanding her sexual horizons. She didn't say anything but
looked thoughtful and uncharacteristically uneasy. I should have
been uneasy too.

* * *

My casual remark had been catalytic, I discovered the next time I
went to her flat in Green Point to collect her for movies. I rang
the bell a few times without getting any response. I eventually
delivered a brisk, last-try rat-a-tat on the doorknocker. The door
swung violently open and there stood Julie. She was naked except
for stereotype-teenage-fantasy black fishnet stockings, a
stereotype-teenage-fantasy suspender belt and
stereotype-teenage-fantasy strappy, red high-heels. I could only
gape.

"Don't just stand there!" she snapped. "Do you want the whole
neighbourhood to see me like this?"

Her hand shot out. Two powerful fingers dug into the waistband of
my jeans behind my belt-buckle and she yanked. I disappeared,
pubis first and still gaping, into her doorway like... like...
Well, not a cork into a bottle. But you know what I mean. The door
slammed behind me.

The whole neighbourhood, at my guess, would have been just
fascinated to see her. While I carried on with the gaping, my cock
got into the business of reacting to Julie's movie-going outfit.
Her fingertips noticed my response and she smiled fondly and
cupped her other hand under my balls, encouraging further action
unlikely to lead to the movies. This made me nervous, as she
doesn't do fond smiling. She was acting a little bit off in other
ways, too. She gave me a sweet, sweet smile -- the first on record
-- and a deliciously memorable kiss, gentle as cigarette smoke.
She usually kissed me as if she was attacking grapefruit. I
noticed when she did it that we stood exactly eye-to-eye because
of the high-heels.

She smelled nice, not of perfume -- which she didn't wear -- but
of something fruitily familiar and half-remembered, redolent of
cosy comfort, like your mother's home cooking when you're nine
years old and never not hungry. Blood transfer was affecting my
thinking and I made the mistake of pushing this minor mystery to
the back of my mind.

She backed down the passage into the living room, pulling me by my
belt-buckle and, well, my balls. By the time we got there, my cock
was once more trying to get out of my trousers. Mere movies, I
hoped and prayed, were off the agenda. She yanked the end of my
belt out of the buckle and got down to dragging my nether clothing
off.

"Shoes off," she said. I did it, standing on the back of one with
the toe of the other foot and wrenching my feet clear, the way it
freaked my mother out when I did it on her budget as a child. My
jeans and pants were shackling me by the time I was barefoot and I
stumbled out of them hastily as Julie pulled my tee shirt over my
head. There was another whiff of the familiar, elusive odour. In
no time, I was bare as a babe with my eager cock questing hungrily
around, dragging me behind, in the direction of Julie.
"Eager-beaver," said that little, irreverent internal voice that
got me into such trouble before I learned not to let it out of my
mouth. Hey, where'd she go?

She hadn't gone anywhere. She had turned her back on me to bend
forward over the back of the armchair, gripping the arms in her
hands, hair flopping down and obscuring her face. The high-heels
lifted her just to the right height to allow her to do this, and
her lower belly nestled into the crumpling antimacassar.

"I've been thinking about what you said about expanding my sexual
horizons," she said, in a slightly muffled voice. I leered at the
marble roundness of her buttocks, the dark anal cleft, the
suggestion of an anal opening, the glimpse of labia, the roughness
of brown hair; the long, strong legs held straight and plunging
into the whore-sandals. "Start at the left."

Left? Left what? There was a startling array of objects on the
table next to the armchair. A can of Crisco, courteously opened,
standing on a housewifely Kleenex. A thin, round bridge pencil. A
regular, hexagonal, wooden pencil, red-and-black St dtler HB. A
quadrangular ballpoint pen, slightly thicker. A tiny little dildo
-- pre-pubescent, I guess. I didn't know they came that small. A
trainer dildo? Then a somewhat larger dildo, a gap, and finally, a
notably large dildo. "To dream the impossible dream," hummed the
internal voice, half to itself. And, finally, a whole box of
Kleenex. All in a row, ends all lined up, equally spaced (except
for the gap) in textbook anal-retentive fashion.

Anal-retentive? In a flash, I realised that the gap was where my
own cock fitted into the series and understood what Julie expected
of me. She was mysteriously patient and quiet. Looking back on it,
that should have made me nervous, too. As it was, the bit I was
thinking with was straining with renewed excitement and my brain
only caught up much later. I dipped the toothpick into the Crisco,
twiddling it in my fingers to get it thoroughly coated and bent to
those wonderfully round, firm buttocks.

I eased them apart with thumb and forefinger. They tensed and
resisted. I felt Julie's effort of will that relaxed them and
allowed me to part them, revealing the puckered little rosebud of
her ass-hole. I blew gently on it and watched it pull in and then
relax like a sea anemone when a diver swims past. A warning growl
from the front of the armchair hastened me forward to my duty.

I slowly introduced the toothpick a careful half-inch into her
anus. It was too small for her to resist. I twiddled it. A little
gasp floating round the side of the chair. I transferred it from
anus to Kleenex, generously Criscoed-up the thin, round bridge
pencil and pushed its hemispherical end into the
trying-not-to-resist rosebud. Twiddling it did nothing -- it was
too round --  so I moved on up to the hexagonal St dtler. This
time, twiddling produced a squeal and Julie's full hips writhed
around on the back of the chair. Her knees bent for a fraction of
a second and then resolutely straightened again. The quadrangular
ballpoint pen was an even greater success.

It was dildo time. The trainer dildo took much more encouragement
to go in than the writing implements had needed. Once it was in
it, though, was obviously doing a much better job. I experimented
for the first time with a back-and-forth motion. I had to put a
hand on Julie's back to steady her but she writhed around so
distractingly that I decided to skip the next dildo and get into
action myself. I straightened and pressed my straining cock
against the rosebud, holding her by the hips. She tensed and I
felt the buttocks clamp closely and forbiddingly round the top of
my cock. Encouraged, I pushed harder but, with a flicker of
annoyance, she clamped harder. I'll bet you didn't know buttocks
could clamp with a flicker of annoyance. Well, they can.

"Crisco," growled Julie. Ah, yes. I did it, my cock luxuriating in
the lubricated touch of my fingers and palms. This time, I pressed
firmly and patiently. Eventually the relaxation came and I was
able to force my cock slowly in. The tight band of her sphincter
dragged down my cock until it firmly clamped the very root. Eyes
closed, head flung back, naked toes sliding slightly on the
carpet, Criscoed fingers slipping as I grasped her hips, I
strained to get one more millimetre further inside her.

* * *

At this point, I later worked out, she must have fallen asleep.
The intensely pleasurable enclosing sensation around the base of
my cock transformed into a painful and much more powerful grip.

"Ow! Ease up!" I said.

No response.

"Please?"

"Please! Julie! You're hurting me!"

No response. A gentle snore -- yes, by God, a snore! -- drifted
around the armchair. And there I stood, trapped. Lust drained away
but the blood in my cock didn't; it had no way to get out. As the
minutes ticked by, it seemed to me that my trapped cock grew
within her and pleasurable tingling gave way to painful throbbing.
Julie gave a little grunt and made a turning-over-in-bed motion.
For the sake of my yet-to-be-conceived children I grabbed her
firmly, Crisco-slippery, and held her onto the top of the chair.
The hideous force of the clamping band eased for a brief moment
but, before I could react, clamped down again double hard. She
slid further forward and raised me helplessly to tiptoe. I started
to sweat. I grabbed the chair either side of her hips, heedless of
Crisco marking the fabric, grateful for the greater friction to
hold her steady.

"Julie! Julie! Wake up!" I prodded her butt frantically. Not a
hope. She was completely unconscious, drugged almost. How could
this be?

I braced my knees and pulled, trying to walk backwards on toe-tip.
No change. I tried harder, recklessly throwing my torso back to
get a bit of momentum. _Ow!_ Don't try that again. I pulled back
as hard as I could without jerking. The chair slid back across the
carpet, loaded legs digging into the pile. Great.

I put the heels of my hands on the back of the chair and pushed
back, doing vertical press-ups on the chair-back. Nothing. _Nada._
I tried harder. Julie slid a little bit over the chair, back to
her original position. This was progress; I could get my heels
onto the floor again. With a little sigh, she slipped back again,
remorselessly pulling me to tiptoe once more. Damn and blast.

I looked about for inspiration and caught sight of myself
reflected in the living room's picture window that used to look
out over Table Bay. I looked ridiculous: obscured (mercifully)
from pubis down by Julie and the chair, I stood teetering with
arms thrown back for balance and looking worried. I looked exactly
what I was -- a man with his cock trapped up the butt of a
slumbering Juno. Well, at least things can't get any worse, I
thought, as I reflected on the tragicomedy.

At that point, things got worse. My gaze travelled through my
reflection and focussed on the newer block of flats that is the
reason Julie's flat doesn't look out over Table Bay any more. And
there, on the external walkway and gazing slack-jawed into Julie's
front window, stood a family of up-country tourists from Gauteng.
They'd caught sight of us on their way from the lifts to the
kitchen door of their hired holiday home. On the other side, it
looks out over Table Bay but, right now, they were finding me a
lot better value than the view they'd paid for. "Vanderbijlpark
can't offer anything like this," you could hear them thinking.
Well, I should bloody well hope it can't.

As I watched, aghast, the mother indignantly chivvied the
under-age daughter through the kitchen door, followed her in and
banged the door virtuously. The father and the near-grown-up son
continued to be rivetted, with idiot grins pasted over the front
of their moron heads. After the briefest possible interval, the
net curtain of a bedroom window flicked aside and the wide-eyed
daughter returned unimpeded to her gaping. The mother, for her
part, materialised discreetly in the kitchen, thin-lipped with
self-righteous, wouldn't-miss-it-for-the-world disapproval. Her
Gauteng neighbours were certainly going to get chapter and verse
on life in the decadent Cape when she got back home.

And every second that passed, my poor captured cock got more and
more and more painful. I was trying not to think about huskies in
Alaska gnawing off their legs to escape bear-traps when Julie
snorted, raised herself up on her arms and looked about her,
dazed. She obviously had no clue where she was.

"Julie! For God's sake...!"

She didn't seem to hear me. But, at least, she stood up. My heels
greeted the floor again, with affection.

"Julie! Hey, Julie!"

No dice. She shook her head, as if to clear the sound of dream
voices, and obviously regretted it.

"Ooooh, shit," she said and, gripping her head in her hands,
strode off down the passage to her bedroom. She walked in such a
way, I have to tell you, that I formed the opinion that she'd
completely forgotten she was wearing unaccustomed high-heels. And
me. And me? Guess where I went? Yelping in pain and in horrible
anticipation of pain, I had an instant crash course on how to
march in lockstep with stumbling stiletto heels. All in all, I did
well: I only got a stiletto heel-driven by the full weight of this
mysteriously groggy, stumbling hefty woman-onto my instep and toes
three times. At my three corresponding screams of agony, she
gasped in pain and clasped her head afresh but otherwise behaved
as if I wasn't there. Rather an insult, really, I've since
thought, when I had leisure to consider.

She dragged me into her room and, like an exhausted long-distance
swimmer who has gone out too fast too soon, she "dragged the
piano" (i.e. me) into the final lap and gratefully threw herself
face down onto her bed. I was painfully yanked with her and
flipped forward as she crashed. _Ow!_ And a split-second later,
the teeth of my upper jaw met her skull with an explosion of
blinding pain. Double, triple _ow_! Jesus bloody buggering Christ!
Pity my top lip was in the way.

"_O, aarde!_" There was a spatter of applause and a derisive cheer
from outside the window. When I could again open my tear-spurting
eyes I dimly saw the Gauteng contingent, like good tourists, had
repositioned themselves so as to follow the next act of our little
improvised street theatre. The daughter was now in the next
bedroom, the mother was in the bedroom the daughter just vacated
and the two men had moved along the balcony. They rested their
elbows on the parapet, hands hanging, watching the afternoon's
entertainment as placidly as if it were a circus act on
television. I hadn't much control over my life at that point but,
at least, I could thwart them. I reached over to the bedside table
to snap off the light and saw on it a near-empty bottle of sherry.
I pressed the switch and a cheated chorus of "Aaaaaaah!" floated
over from the next building as the room went dark.

That sherry on the bedside table -- she'd won it in a raffle.
Didn't drink the stuff. It had been standing around unopened for
months. At last, I identified the elusive odour Julie was putting
out: Bertram's Extra Dry Sherry. Julie, normally abstemious, had
most of a pint of sherry in her. Calming herself to expand her
sexual horizons, no doubt. Pity her anal sphincter obviously
wasn't calmed enough to expand. Hell, blast and double damnation.
No wonder she was out. She was going to have the mother of all
hangovers when she eventually came round. Serve her right, the
bloody bitch, I thought vengefully. Me and my big mouth. I wasn't
in a position to do much but at least I could kick myself, which I
did.

The pain in my cock was now beyond unbearable, to say nothing of
my other wounds. I lay on Julie in what, normally, would have been
a highly erotic position -- nothing is sexier, I believe, than
firm, round buttocks nestled into the lower belly -- wondering
frantically what to do. I wasn't icily calm but eventually I
thought of the shower. An icy cold shower was exactly what we both
needed, in the worst way. Particularly the innocently slumbering
Julie, I thought bitterly. It was only a matter of getting there.
I lay there contemplating a variety of bizarre ninja manoeuvres to
achieve this. Eventually I realised that it was a choice of
carrying this Juno into the shower or dying of blood loss --
merciful, merciful blood loss -- following the regrettable
explosion of my cock.

If I could slide her gently half-off the bed, get her knees on the
floor, I could get enough leverage to lift her and all would be
well -- relatively well, anyway. If she slid past to the point of
no return, though, and flopped onto the floor then I might as well
be nailed to the floor by my scrotum until dead.

I pulled experimentally. _Ow, ow_, bloody _ow_. That wasn't going
to work. I rolled her to one side, got one arm around her waist,
rolled back, pushed up with the other arm and, in exquisite agony,
anti-humped her -- you should pardon the expression -- slowly
backwards towards the edge of the bed. She slumberingly resisted
every inch of the way while I sobbed and swore and gritted my
teeth. When her knees went over the edge of the mattress, she
suddenly went of her own accord. My fingernails clawed at the
bedclothes like a cat being Velcroed off the sofa. I was desperate
to stop her before she pinned me to the floor for the rest of my
short, unnatural life. Stiletto-stamped toes shrieking in protest,
I stopped her at the last moment. I took a deep breath and uttered
a brief prayer (for God to have a sense of humour). I braced
myself on my wounded feet and, clasping her with both arms, humped
her -- this time you need not pardon the expression -- to the door
of the shower. God, she was a weight.

The bathroom door faced the window and, as we reeled through from
the darkened bedroom, my shoulder struck a light switch. A
fluorescent light flickered horrifyingly to life. A crow of
delight and some spontaneous applause indicated that we were
silhouetted for the further entertainment of the Gauteng Fan Club.
I was beyond caring now. I staggered grimly forward on my very
last reserves of strength and lifted Julie triumphantly over the
sill of the shower cubicle. God -- who does, it turns out, have a
sense of humour -- arranged for her heels to catch and over we
went, twisting as we fell. Always the gentleman, I broke her fall
with my body, smashing my head gallantly on the tiled wall in the
process. Appreciative whistling came from the balcony opposite.

When the flashes of light behind my eyelids eventually flickered
out, I fought to roll Julie over on her front. As she hung from my
poor, abused cock, I kneeled and wrenched the cold tap with all
the force I could muster. Freezing, stinging water deluged us
both. Julie screamed angrily and threw her head back. My lower lip
paid the price this time and got between my teeth and her skull.

"Fuck!" she screamed, not knowing where she was.

"Fuck!" I mumbled resentfully, clasping my abused face.

She realised fast enough that someone naked was lying on her
nakedness, though, and briskly smashed her elbows backward at me.
The anal sphincter crushed me tighter than ever and I felt ribs
crack before I could grab her arms.

"Jesus, Julie, it's me! Relax! Stop!"

She swung her head round as far as it would go and recognised me.
She didn't seem to take it as good news.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she screamed.

"I'm expanding your fucking sexual horizons, you dizzy bitch. Now
let me go."

"Let you go?" I saw her on her face the reflection of her physical
stocktaking. Sexual horizons?

"Oh." She blushed, for the first time on record.

"Do it, dammit. Let me go. I'm dying here."

Pause

"I can't."

"You can. Bloody do it."

"I can't."

Then the bloody woman started to giggle helplessly. I was about to
get her attention by the famous
hangman's-noose-executed-with-soap-on-a-rope trick when, at least,
the giggling allowed her to relax and the horrible clamping eased
up. This time I didn't wait but wrenched myself free, sobbing with
relief. My cock was unrecognisably huge, shaped and coloured like
an aubergine. I lay and cried while the cold water beat down on my
distressed manhood.

"Oh, God," said Julie, "I feel sick." And she vomited copiously
onto the shower floor. The sweet, sick smell of half-digested
sherry chokingly billowed out through the shower stall.

"_Ag, sies!_" cried the peanut gallery, fascinated and affronted.

Time and water eventually helped. Julie, staggering to stand and
see straight, tried to be solicitous but spoiled it by giggling
and the turned worm drove her away with harsh words.

Much, much later I got dressed again. My cracked ribs hurt
damnably, putting on my underpants was exquisitely painful -- but
marginally better than the prospect of zipping my cock if I didn't
-- and I couldn't get my damaged feet into my shoes.

Julie tried to get me to stay but I wanted to get medical
attention for my skull, my teeth, my ribs and my feet. Driving was
horribly painful but not as hard to bear as the appreciative
whistling and applause I got from the Gautengers as I limped
across the car park. They playfully tossed me a can of Castle
lager, as a sort of street-theatre tip, I suppose. Unfortunately,
I was looking shamefacedly down, not up at my third-floor
tormentors, didn't see it coming and did not attempt to catch it.
It ricocheted off the bonnet of my new BMW and cracked the
windscreen.

"_Ag, kak!_ Sorry, hey, man," came a Gauteng voice, followed --
not a moment too soon -- by the sounds of hurried withdrawal.

* * *

And yes, when the doctor saw my other wounds, he suspected I'd
been mugged. He suspiciously insisted that I strip completely. And
yes, he then insisted on a full and complete explanation of my
swollen, plum-coloured, sorry-for-itself penis. And yes, he then
failed in his manful struggle not to roll around on the floor
laughing. He nearly made it but made the mistake of catching the
nursing sister's eye and then they were both off. They kept
snorting and trying to say, "I'm sorry" and then giggling off
again while I stared patiently at the wall, praying unsuccessfully
for the ground to open up under me.

The news spread through the hospital like wildfire. I was escorted
off the premises by a goggle-eyed escort of wheel-chaired and
ambulant patients and every member of staff who could find an
excuse for walking, whispering, behind me -- about a hundred per
cent of them, I judged.

The zip on those jeans was never the same again, either. And, if I
ever get another erection ever again (and I'm not betting on it)
and it isn't exquisitely painful (and I don't believe it won't be)
there'll be no more expanding of sexual horizons. It's the
missionary position for me, preferably with someone the size of
Allie McBeal. And I'm never eating aubergine again either.

-----

* I would be pleased to hear from you, at FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com, about
whether or not you liked this story, and why.

* Thanks to DrSpin and Ruthie for the editing, advice and encouragement and
to Denny for meticulous proof-reading.

* This is a revised version of the story. The original version was written
in six hours as a Write Club duel with Jack of All Trades. Rui Jorge was the
referee. Thanks, Jack; thanks, Rui.

The Challenge Words were:


Jack of All Trades
 quadrangle
 infatuated
 catalytic

Father Ignatius
 armchair
 bridge pencil
 toothpick

Rui Jorge
 tragicomedy
 ninja
 squeal

* I would be pleased to hear from you, at FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com, about
whether or not you liked this story, and why.

* My collected stories are hosted on my web site,
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/FatherIgnatius/www/.

* Thank you for reading me.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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