Message-ID: <35275asstr$1013893815@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: mmtwassel@aol.com (mat twassel) X-Original-Message-ID: <20020216084238.01898.00001595@mb-mi.aol.com> X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 16 Feb 2002 13:42:38 GMT Subject: {ASSM} Lorrin Murray and Mat Twassel: Calendar Feb 1 - Feb 15 Date: Sat, 16 Feb 2002 16:10:15 -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: kelly, gill-bates Calendar Feb 1 - Feb 15 by Lorrin Murray and Mat Twassel =============================== Feb 1 Up and Down, In and Out Her eyes are greener for the red lining them. They soften and water as she watches. She can see his back, wide at the top, tapering down smoothly but with muscle to his slim waist. She watches him move up and down, up and down, hears each sigh and groan as if she were under him. As if it were her smooth tan skin, her ribs just barely showing, her flat, almost concave tummy, her breasts round and soft. Feb 2 Aerial Nude The view is almost aerial, but more of a 45-degree angle. We are looking down into the pool. Underwater, her body is one sinuous line of curved nakedness. Were we to go downstairs, into the basement, into the pool room, whose ceiling is glass -- the glass bottom of the pool -- the image would not be distorted. Her eyes would be open, staring down at us, her silky blond hair would spread out in a flat triangle. We'd see her nipples tightened from the water, hard and brown. We'd see her stomach, smooth and flat, with two almost invisible lines running down accenting her toned obliques. Her legs would be smooth slim stretches of peachy flesh. And if she were to see us, she might give us a naughty grin, and bubbles of air would slip out her mouth, and she might even reach one delicate hand down to her groin and wink impishly at us. But our view is aerial, so all we can see are distorted angles of peachish skin. Feb 3 Skier, Yosemite National Park Inexorable Recklessness Head down, poles angled at 45-degrees, he takes the curve of a corner in the air. From our side we can see the way wind has carved the snow. The soft swirls. The crevice. The slopes and shadows smooth as a woman's bottom. Only a moment now until his skis kiss the surface, skip and shoot. Only an hour until, back at the lodge, his tongue travels carefully towards her asshole. Feb 4 The University of Moonlight The light covers can't hide how beautiful she is, asleep in her little dorm room, in her little bed, a smile of perfect contentment upon her face. She must be dreaming. It must be a happy dream. Her lips part ever so slightly. Her hands are pressed together between her legs, but not in a sexual way. Not yet. Feb 5 Michigan Blacktop Down the center of the highway he runs, front heal about to hit, shoulders and back bare, skin glistening with sweat. From his stride, though it's difficult to tell at this angle, I'd say he's really moving. Pace better than a seven, maybe, better than a six. Sun shimmers at the tops of his shoulders. His hair bristles in the breeze. His shorts flap -- creases the color of iron. The big muscles of his buttock bunch beneath the cloth. Abundantly empty, the highway tunnels ahead. From the dense shadows of tall pines to his left, a raccoon peers. To his right slim fish slip beneath the silvery ripples of the roadside pond. Light catches a pair of woman's panties caught in the reeds. White panties speckled with mud, droplets of dew glistening at the center -- but the runner doesn't seem to notice. Feb 6 The Hottie from 410s She's wearing an old pair of khakis and a t-shirt. She's on the phone with a cute guy from down the hall. "So," he says, "my friend, Mike Jones, was talking and he heard some guy say he went to lunch with the hottie from the 410s. That's you." Her eyes widen and she smiles. She slips one hand into the front of her loose khakis, under the waist band of her undies. Her skin is smooth on the way down and slightly prickly on the way up. She traces the soft cleft, up and down, still smiling. Feb 7 Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy from Company B Gray hair, a few tendrils curling over his ears, but the middle-aged man seated at the piano bench is in pretty good shape. The muscular tension in his raised arm is readily apparent. On the girl's bare bottom a red blotch like Africa shows how hard he's hitting. In her crack we can see the puff of her sex lips, the slit between. A couple more continents and her cunt will be fully open, ripe and ready for fucking. Feb 8 The Golden Age of Jazz She is holding a platter arranged with fresh baby carrots in the center. Surrounding them are bite-sized segments of succulent cauliflower and in the outer ring plump crescents of juicy orange. He is standing behind her holding her breast in his hand, his finger and thumb encircling a nipple. Her face is turned to the side and tilted up. Her lips are parted to receive his kiss. Feb 9 Missy at the Mailbox The girl walks down the front steps in her short boxers and a t-shirt. She is not wearing a bra, and when the wind gusts, her dark nipples show and the ponytail of cornsilk hair atop her head spills. By the time she gets to the mailbox, Missy, her next door neighbor, has seen her and walks over. They smile at each other and then Missy puts a hand on the girl's hip and moves in close. The girl can feel Missy's breath on her cheek. "You are getting better and better looking every day," Missy says. The girl smiles and blushes and looks down. Missy lowers her head, forces the girl to look into her eyes. Dark smoldering eyes. Missy's hand moves softly inward, just an inch or two on the girl's hip. Below the top of her boxers, the girl clenches. Shudders. Missy smiles. Bright white teeth. "You must come over and play sometime," Missy says. Feb 10 The Music Room--Beth: 4:30 The mildly ungainly ugliness of the man's knuckles, the hint of knobbiness, the stray circlets of dark hair and the brutal ruddiness make a nice contrast to the peachy smooth glide and glisten of the girl's cunt. The first two fingers are in her, the last two curled back, the blunt thumb is on the edge of her asshole, pulling the skin a little, about to push in. Feb 11 The Princess Dreams of Her Wedding Golden light rains down upon the bed of animal skins where the princess dreams of her wedding. One hand pushes a thrash of golden curls across her forehead. Her other hand closes over the fine thatch above her groin. Her legs have slipped apart, showing us the slim furrow of slippery pink. At the long plank tables on either side, the king and queen and all the noble men and women and all the rude ruddy peasants of the province have begun to feast. Cauldrons of creamy soups, steaming pies of curry and baby lamb, rare fruits plump and ripe, limbs of succulent beasts cooked to perfection. The guests gulp heady wine from silver goblets, wipe grease from their lips, and drink again. Stacks of dowry rise everywhere else, gems and jewels, furs, clocks, cattle, peacocks, unicorns, stuffed critters with ebony antlers, sabers, spears, armor, white stallions, plush carpets, musicians, all rising up to the castle's ceiling. The princess sighs and opens her arms to her prince. He'll pierce her smoothly with a single thrust, ensconcing his sleek cock in her snug quiver. How fine and full she'll feel clasping him that way. Her little belly lifts in anticipation. Her lips part. Her sex blooms rose red. Oh, if only the Pope didn't want his wedding poke--a prick like Porky Pig rooting and blubbering in her delicate cunt. That won't do. The prince pushes him off. The Pope swings his sword. Mounds of dowry come crashing down. Feb 12 Ensconced in Wisconsin Outside the tall glass windows which make up an entire wall of the second floor library, leaves dark and bare dance in the wind. Inside, with each thrust, he pushes deeper into her smooth slick warmth. With each thrust she shudders and moans, feeling the fullness of his prick, the fullness of his pulse. With each withdrawal she sighs, begging him to return, to stay, to fill her back up. Thrusts and stays, removes and sighs, thrusts again, again, again -- one thrusting, staying couple of paired endurance thrusting and moaning together until a final shout-sigh of perfection. Feb 13 Shades of Gray--The Empire Earliest dawn. Pools of gray sheep stand on the gentle slopes of the soft gray hillside. Above the crest a gauze of gray light lifts. Stretching through the valley below, like a model railroad, the Empire races towards New York, a slim streak of lascivious pink licking the tops of Pullman cars as they ride the curve. If we look closely at the middle window of Pullman car #1507 we can see a pair of faces peering out. Vivien Leigh and just behind her, Cary Grant. Their faces at first seem to be filled with horror, as if these travelers are seeing something outside their window too dreadful to describe. But don't worry: it's nothing outside. Just the grip of orgasm at the finish of their pre-dawn fuck. Feb 14 Shades of Gray--At the Movies Their faces glow with the silver-gray of movie light. Holding hands with the boy to her left, the girl is staring straight ahead, watching the screen, her eyes wide, her lips parted. The boy to her left is also facing forward, but his eyes have shifted to spy upon the girl's face. Perhaps something in the squeeze of her hand has alerted him. Her other hand is in the lap of the boy to her right, under his unbuttoned levis. His eyes are closed, or squinted, looking down at the spot of pale light which touches her slim wrist as her fingers work the fattened bulge. Feb 15 Peppery Something ever so slightly peppery about the scent of his skin, the taste of his sweat. But even after his shower, even when he's freshly clean, he smells this way. She's standing behind him now, naked herself, her nose and lips brushing his shoulder. He's facing away from her, a white bath towel wrapped around his waist. Her arms have reached around him, her hands caress his chest. When he turns, the towel will come undone, they'll kiss, and it will all start again. Later she will take the towel to the laundry basket, but before dropping it in, she'll bring it to her nose, close her eyes, take in the scent. Mm, peppery. She can't help it; it makes her want to fuck. =============================== Calendar Feb 1 - Feb 15 by Lorrin Murray and Mat Twassel Comments? Write to LorrinMurray@aol.com or mmtwassel@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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+