Message-ID: <34993asstr$1012414203@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: mmtwassel@aol.com (mat twassel) X-Original-Message-ID: <20020130092522.17375.00000184@mb-fk.aol.com> X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 30 Jan 2002 14:25:22 GMT Subject: {ASSM} Calendar by Mat Twassel and Lorrin Murray Date: Wed, 30 Jan 2002 13:10:03 -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, newsman Calendar By Mat Twassel & Lorrin Murray ============================== Jan 19 Chicken Chili The chicken chili yesterday turned out pretty good. Not that the chicken added a whole lot. I just used one breast. Maybe it added a bit of body. I'm sure beef would have been better. Sometimes eating "healthy" is a nuisance. Before we leave it, I'll mention this week's photo in my Ansel Adams calendar. Mount Resplendent in the Mount Robson National Park. Very sheer and glassy. Some parts look a little like black and white plastic garbage sacks. No sign of life, of course. If it weren't considered improper, I'd rather have a calendar with pictures of people fucking. Or kissing. Or brushing their teeth. In today's imaginary photo we see from behind a pretty woman standing at the stove stirring a pot of chicken chili. She's wearing a man's dress shirt, but that doesn't stop me from getting a pretty good look at her bare bottom. Yummy. Jan 20 Flipping Ahead Can our calendar be a daily one, not monthly? I've flipped ahead to tomorrow's picture, and it's a woman again, the same woman, with brown hair and light blue eyes. This time she's waist-deep in a flat ocean and has no shirt on. Her breasts are large and her nipples small and hard. She is gorgeous. Oooh I simply love our calendar. Jan 21 Martin Luther King Day--More Bare Breasts Actually we can only see one of them, not large but plump, full, round, ripe. The baby's head covers the other. The young woman is black. The stationery before her on the writing desk is white. She has her pen in hand, but she is not writing now. She appears to be in contemplation--her face caught between grin and grimace, smile and frown. Jan 22 A Woman Again Today's calendar. Ahh, yes, let's see. A woman again (I think they are all women in this calendar, but perhaps not), with deeply tanned skin, which is smooth and almost glimmering, and long, silky looking black hair which falls below her shoulders. She is wearing a small white t-shirt, and one hand is raised up, covering her mouth, which is half-agape, partially revealing very bright, white, even teeth and a pink tongue. Her eyes are wide and black, and her expression, one of surprise, seems to be just a little bit naughty. I wonder what she's done? Jan 23 Early Morning Massage We see the large muscles of his shoulder, rhomboideus major, rhomboideus minor, levator scapulae, across the plain of his upper back, and over the cusp, below, we see his hands, his thumbs, pressing into those same muscles on her back, and her black hair, flowing, and the gray white of the sheet, and a soft comfortable crescent of her face, but mostly it's the big muscles of his back, working, tensed, driving the weight into her body. In a moment, she might sigh, an easy contented sleepy sound, and she might manage to roll herself to her back, to spread her legs, to welcome him in with her eyes wide and upon him and a small easy smile on her lips, one which becomes wider the more he sinks into her, a fully fledged smile reflected in her eyes, and when he's all the way in, just before he pulls back, she squeezes him there, and whispers "muscle groups," and laughs with her eyes to see and feel his pleasure so acutely, so deeply, so swollen, but we haven't arrived there yet; it's all supposition; it's all the future; for now it's just those large muscles, those big thumbs, pressing. Jan 24 Michigan Blacktop The pine forests of Michigan in mid summer. A blacktop road weaves between the trees, and down the center, coming right at us, a pair of double yellow lines. Between these fresh fat stripes, about to step onto her shadow, comes a naked girl. She is probably not yet twenty, this pretty girl, with breasts like small perfect pears ripening in midday sun and easy blond hair. She has her head down, she's concentrating on her bare toes, or not concentrating at all. One slim leg slightly bent is reached slightly forward, her hands evenly at her sides, a sly notch of juicy but innocent space shows between her thighs just below the blond bush, trim yet fuller than fashionable. In the little dimple of her belly button a tiny gem glints bright white. Echoing this flash from the hill behind her, another glint, distant but brash, this one from the windshield of a semitrailer truck as it crushes forward. Jan 25 Rack'em Up Her tongue tip touches the corner of her mouth, her eyes are wide, intent; she's bent far forward, and in the wide vee of her knit jersey plump scoops of breast, creamy as custard, lurch. A dreamy explosion of pale blue chalkdust plumes from the thrusting cuetip. In a fraction of a second we'll hear the sharp smack of break. Until then we'll feast on her nipples, clearly erect. Jan 26 Early Morning Her toes are playful, like lion cubs playing with their prey, perfect little pads of flesh kissing the penis skin, the big ones pushing up under the flange, pushing and playing until it goes off. Jan 27 Melinda's First Period Eagle Peak and Middle Brother, Yosemite National Park, California White snow-capped peaks shooting up like fifties breasts. Tall pines sway in the stiff wind. The eagle has the girl about her boyish hips. Her little belly clenches with the lift, and then she's soaring through the sheaved sky, and the first blood has miles to fall before it touches snow. Jan 28 Mandy's Workout On the snowshoe machine she's slim and sleek and smooth, her legs and ass and arms one sweet sinuous line, one endless sexual moan of supple motion. Off to the sides the women are dragging the fallen weightlifters to the locker room. Jan 29 Through the window, beyond the dark reflections of trees with numerous, flicking, soundless rustling leaves, is a woman. She wears all black. A tight, smooth black collared shirt, unbuttoned to the top of her breasts; small tight slacks; high narrow black boots. Her blond hair is long, pulled back smoothly in a neat ponytail. She wears no makeup except for charcoal eyeliner. She waits for the car to pass and thrusts herself quickly onto the street, one long straight leg at a time. Jan 30 Her eyes are as black as her hair. Her mouth is full and red. She is waiting for the veal Milanese. The kitchen is slow. She taps her foot impatiently. Each time her toes lift up, the outside of her slim tan thigh tenses, up, up past the bottom of her skirt. Behind the fabric, her bottom tightens, smooth and circular. Jan 31 Bush's Energy Plan at Work Twenty Below, No Food or Firewood The last logs burn dim. On the plank floor the couple fuck. His hips are lifted; legs clasped about his back, her body has followed him all the way up. This will be the final full thrust. Streams of starving wolves crash through the window. Orgasms of glass shoot everywhere. ======= We hope you've enjoyed our calendar. If you have comments, we'd like to hear them. Write Mat at mmtwassel@aol.com or Lorrin at LorrinMurray@aol.com -- 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+