Message-ID: <36990asstr$1024751405@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: Mmtwassel@aol.com X-Original-Message-ID: <2f.2914f31e.2a429db0@aol.com> MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Wed, 19 Jun 2002 22:53:36 EDT Subject: {ASSM} [rom fest] Twassel: Romance X-Original-Subject: (rom fest) Twassel: Romance Date: Sat, 22 Jun 2002 09:10:05 -0400 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, dennyw Romance by Mat Twassel ============== "Do it," Jenny whispers in his ear. "Your mom will here any minute," David says. They're waiting in the off-campus apartment Jenny shares with two other girls, but both have already gone home for semester break. Jenny's mom is due to pick her up. Overdue. Jenny's backpack is sitting by the door. She and David have been kissing while they wait. Kissing and touching. Three weeks since they've met, and though they haven't made love yet, they've done almost everything else. Three weeks since they've met, and now they're looking at a four week separation. "Come on," Jenny says, tugging him towards the overstuffed chair. "We've got plenty of time. We'll hear the car." David breaks free. "What if we don't?" "Come on, you fraidy cat," Jenny says, sitting back in the chair and hooking her legs over the padded arms. A mischievious smile crosses her lips. She flips her skirt up and pulls her panties aside. "Come on. My mom's a slow driver." Jenny's cautious finger tests an inner slope of secret skin. "Especially in this weather," she coos. "All wet and slippy. You have at least sixty seconds. Don't you want something to remember me by?" She's just too insistent. Too irresistible. There she is, opening herself. David kneels between her legs. "Oh, yes," Jenny croons. "Stick your lovely tongue into my cunt and make me come. I need you so bad. That's it, honey, that's it. Do it. Oh, yes. Do it!" "Call me as soon as you get home," he'd said some twenty minutes later. Her mom was just pulling up. Jenny gave him her "don't worry" look. Hugging her, David said, "Really. It might be icy out there. Wet and slippery." "I told you, my mom drives like a turtle," Jenny assured him. "Even in dry ice Mrs. Stevens never speeds." She kissed him one last time and, still kissing him, reached down the front of his pants. "Mm, talk about wet and slippy." And then she was off. Hard to forget that impish smile. That flash of naughtiness in her eyes when she teased him. When she told him what she was going to do with him once she got back from .... He remembers kissing her goodbye, the sweetness of her center still on his tongue. He remembers her running out to her mom's car, her honey brown hair swaying, her frisky skirt jouncing, a skyfull of lonley snowflakes drifting down. He remembers the sweet lewd urgency in her voice when she'd said, "Do it." Before she was an hour from campus he'd sent her six emails, each one naughtier than the last. It wasn't the ice or the snow. A monstrous tire from one of those huge pieces of earthmoving equipment came loose from the flatbed and bounced across the Interstate. Numb with grief, David did little the second semester but think of Jenny, study bones and muscle groups, and swim endless laps in the college pool. Abductor magnus, gracilis, semitendinosus. Everything drifted together. Everything fell apart. Somehow he was able to pass his finals, and then he went home. "I know you're hurting, but you've got to do something," his mother told him after a week in which he'd never left the house. She arranged through a neighbor for David to get a job as a lifeguard down at the lake, a thirty minute bike ride away. On the first day of summer David reported for duty. A thunderstorm threatened but for now there was sun. The beach was not crowded, just a few mothers with toddlers digging holes in the sand, and one blanket of three pretty college girls. Chet, the head lifeguard, gave David some instruction and a whistle, pointed out the lifeguard perch, yanked the starter of his rescue boat, and set off across the water. Slathered with suntan oil, David sat under the red and white umbrella, watched the swimmers, and toyed with the whistle. He swung the sturdy cord around his finger, and for three or four minutes nothing much happened. Languid waves lapped the shore. The toddlers dug in the sand, the mothers read their novels, the college girls unpacked a picnic basket, and the whistle's lanyard wrapped around David's wrist. In the far distance, storm clouds continued to gather. Maybe it was the freshening breeze which brought the college girls' voices to David's ears. At first he couldn't make out individual words, just the chirp of talk mingling with the tinny jangle of their radio. Two of the girls were spreading suntan lotion on each other. The third girl got up abruptly. Her nimble fingers adjusted the bottom of her sleek black swimming suit even as she was walking into the water. Something about her--her walk, the sway of her honey colored hair, the innocent swing of her arms, the tight grace of her girlish hips--reminded him of Jenny. This girl was medium small, like Jenny, slim, gentle, shy, full of good-nature, of mirth, of irresistible naughtiness. Okay, that was Jenny. This girl could be anything. Ilium, ischium, pubis, David muttered to himself. The girl was up to her knees now, still strolling out. David admired the shape and movement of her shoulders, the light playing upon her back, the snug yet dreamy dip of her bottom, and most of all that scant slip of space between her upper thighs. Sacrum, pelvic inlet, pubic symphysis, David chanted to himself as a fresh surge of lake water flowed between her legs flooding the special place. David felt a buzzy tingling in his groin and around his ears. He stole a glance back to the toddlers and mothers. When his eyes returned to the college girl, she was swimming, going straight out in smooth easy strokes, and sea gulls were shrieking. On the beach, the two remaining girls, skin glistening, had untied their top straps but hooked them in such a way that their breasts remained covered at the crucial points. A crinkle of radio static pinched the air. "Bananas, can you believe it. Who would bring bananas to the beach?" "Blow job practice?" "Steffie? Ha! Steffie's never sucked a cock in her life." The girls laughed and looked out across the lake. David looked out, too. Calm water, no sign of the girl. David stood, brushing away a fringe of beach umbrella. Little ripples wrinkled in the distance. Nothing else--just the faint buzz of Chet's little boat way way out, skimming across flat water. And yes, there she was, the girl, just a speck, more shadow than substance, swimming steadily out towards the boat. Obviously she was a strong swimmer. Still, that was too far for safety. Maybe she was going to meet Chet. It would be embarrassing to blow the whistle when she was just swimming out to meet the head lifeguard. Definitely it seemed she meant to meet him. But if so, Chet's boat was going awfully fast, almost bouncing. David could hear the hull slapping the water. He could hear the pfft of Chet's beer can opening, the gurgle of beer going down Chet's throat, the smooth suck of Steffie's breath as she glided through the water, and then the dull crack--Steffie's head glancing Chet's boat. His own head ached with the thump of it, his ears rang, and he was blowing his whistle. Blowing and blowing, but no sound was coming out. It wouldn't work. The air was dead, and Chet's boat was veering away, skipping silently across the lake. David's feet churned the sand, his thighs chopped into the water, he pushed off, stroking hard, arms gathering in the liquid distance, body lengths of blue roping behind him. He sped along the water's skin, silent as light gulping empty space, but there was no way he'd be in time, no way--that crash was just too hard. Still he swam, wrenching himself through the water, six strokes for each sliver of breath, a glance, six more strokes, six more, six more, six more, and there she was, a miracle--he almost collided with her, but her body was limp, bobbing face down upon the water, bleeding badly, obviously unconscious, maybe dead. David grabbed her, flipped her, hugged her hard to him, hoping the squeeze would shock her into breathing. He squeezed a second time, a third. She stayed slack. No cough. No sputter of life. Gripping her in the crook of his arm, he side- stroked fast for shore. A crowd had gathered. Up on the access road an ambulance light was flashing. Someone must have had a cell phone. But could they have responded so quickly? Could his swim in have taken so long? The paramedics were rushing out, taking the body. David stood in the thigh-deep water, but only for a moment. He wanted to walk in, but his legs wouldn't take him there. His knees buckled. He sank. Water coasted over his head. He snorted. He stretched out. He lay there for a moment--a perfect dead man's float--then stood again and waded in. The flashing light was speeding away. David shook his head, trying to clear his ears. It wasn't working. He shook his head again. The beach was empty. Everyone was up at the road. David turned, stood there, staring out across the empty water. Way out it looked like it might be raining. Lightning jigged. David listened, but the crash wouldn't come. On the college girls' beach blanket a banana peel was browning in the morning sun. David picked it up. He was holding it when one of the mothers appeared holding the child's hand. "Is she ...?" David tried to ask, but the words stuck. The woman looked at him with sad eyes. Tentatively she reached out. David handed her the banana peel. She said something. "I'm sorry," David said. "I'm sorry. I can't hear you." Then he collapsed. "Does it hurt?" David's mother typed on her laptop keyboard later that evening. She and David were sitting side by side on the hospital bed. David read the words. He considered the question. "No," he said. So odd to say something and not know what was coming out. Like talking underwater. He was sure his words were unsteady. Wobbly. Waterlogged. No way to know. "The doctors think it could be shock," David's mom typed. Her fingers flitted silently over the keys. Toy trains of letters chugged across the screen. "They think that in a few days most likely it will go away. They'll keep you here overnight for observation. See how you are in the morning. Maybe after you've had some rest. Is there anything I can get you?" "Like what?" David said. Evidently she understood. "Anything," she typed. "You name it." "I lost my whistle," David said. "It's not your fault." She stood up, setting the laptop to the side, and stroked David's head. She pulled him harder against her and patted his head and caressed his ears. It felt strange. Like TV with the sound off. Like he wasn't quite there. Like a dream. He wondered if she was waiting for something to happen. Waiting for him to do something. He put his arms around her. They hugged that way for a long time. "I'm going to get something from the cafeteria," David's mom typed. "Can I bring you anything? A sandwich? Some soda? An apple?" "No, thank you. Not right now." Twenty minutes later she was back. She opened the laptop. "It's really storming outside," she typed. "Are you feeling any better? Any difference?" David shook his head. "What is it like?" "It's like nothing." "Nothing at all?" "Pretty much. A little like being underwater." "So you feel a pressure?" "Maybe a little pressure, but mostly nothing. A sort of airy emptiness." Actually it felt like being between Jenny's thighs. But how could he say that to his mother? How could he say that it felt like her thighs were squeezing his ears while he was eating her? Her hands were in his hair and her sweetness was in his mouth and her muffled moans were way way off in the distance, in heaven. There were more words on the laptop screen. "Out in the hall just now I saw one of the doctors. She wants to meet you. She wants to thank you." David looked up. "Thank me? Why? Which doctor?" His mother shrugged. "I don't know his name," she typed. "I thought you said it was a her. The doctor who wants to meet me." "Not the doctor." His mother's paused. Her fingers wiggled over the keys. "The girl." "What girl?" "The girl you saved. She's still in the hospital." "She's alive?" "Oh, honey, didn't you know? Ginny Stevens. Room 211." David stood up, shaking his head. His whole body shook. His mother said something. Her eyes flashed with worry. David sat down. "I guess she's doing pretty good," his mother typed. "I could see if it's all right if we go over there. Do you want to do that?" "I don't know," David mumbled. "Maybe later." "Okay. You were very brave. I'm going to go home now. I hope I didn't leave any windows open. I'll be back first thing in the morning. Is there anything you want me to bring?" "I thought they said I was going home tomorrow?" "You are. But just in case. A change of clothes for the trip home?" "I guess." "Okay. Maybe I should stay." "Go," David said. "I'll be fine. I feel fine. Don't worry." "Should I leave the laptop? In case you have to talk to someone?" "No. Take it. I'll be okay." About to close the laptop lid, his mom paused. "I talked to your ..." She paused again. "Dad." "What did he say?" "He'll check back first thing in the morning. I told him you'd be fine. I told him he should wait. He wouldn't get a plane anyway. I didn't know what else to say. I told him that you saved the girl. He's very proud of you. I'm very proud of you. I should go now. Let you get some sleep. It's very late." She closed the laptop. Nearly opened it again, but instead she opened her purse and handed David a banana. "You never know when hunger is going to strike," she mouthed. "Thank you," David said. He watched his mother leave the room. He set the banana on the bedside table. He lay back on the bed on top of the hospital covers and closed his eyes. He tried to remember the feel of her in the water. The slack weight in his arms. Dead weight. But alive. He'd saved her. She was alive. She wanted to see him. 211. Was that it? David got out of bed. Maybe she'd like the banana. He took it. Cautiously he stepped into the hall. A center island, but no nurses about. Hallways leading out in several directions. Stepping purposefully, David set off. Fifteen minutes later he found the right wing. 202, 203, 204. Only a few doors to go. 205. He risked looking in. An old man on his back on the bed. Tubes coming out his nose. Tubes on his wrist. Pouches of fluid suspended above. 206, 207, 208. Steffie. Steffie in 211. He slowed as he approached. Last door in that section, then the hall veered away, but the door to 211 was closed. "Do it," a voice whispers in his ear. It sounds like Jenny. David shakes his head. He stands at the door. He listens. He listens as hard as he can, but he doesn't hear anything. His fingers touch the handle. He feels the click but doesn't hear it. The door opens the tiniest slit. Inside it is dark. Completely black. He can't see anything. "I love you," he hears. "I love you so much." Her voice is soft and sweet and liquidy. David drinks in the sound. He is about to open the door fully, to step into the room, when he hears the almost moist nuzzle of a zipper crawling open. He hears the rustle and scrape of cotton cloth on secret skin. He hears a low moan. A sweet sigh. A hiss of breath. "Oh, Chet," she says. "Oh, Chet, you're so big." And then the soft slurp. The kiss and tickle of tongue against penis tip. Plump lips nibbling the tight knot. A wash of slow soft sucking sounds. Pleasure humming in her throat as her hand jerks the stiffened flesh. The rasp and huff of Chet's breath. His fingertips caressing her cheeks. The syrupy squish of sex seep mixing with saliva. Juicy friction. Faster. Harder. More. Oh God. Oh fuck. Oh sweet fucking God. David steps back into the hall. The fire alarm is right there. The blare is glorious. She slips into his room. "Hello?" he says. She steps nearer the bed. A foot away she stops. In the dim light David can just make out the white bandage circling her head. "Did I wake you?" she whispers. "Maybe," David says. "I'm not sure." "I thought maybe you'd be up. With all the noise and stuff. Someone said lightning must have made the fire alarm go off." "Oh?" "But that's right--they said you couldn't hear. That you'd lost your hearing. So I guess it makes sense that you'd sleep through it." "I guess it would." "But you can hear now?" "I can hear you." "So you know who I am, right?" "I think so." "I just wanted to thank you." "Sure." "And I'm sorry you got hurt." "How about you? Are you okay?" "I'm pretty good. A slight concussion. I can probably go home tomorrow." "Me, too." "Well, I'm sorry I woke you. I just wanted to ... well, I guess I told you. Thank you." "Wait. Can you stay for a minute?" "Sure." "You're a good swimmer." "So are you, from what I hear. Lucky for me." "Do you think maybe when you're better you might want to go swimming sometime? With me?" "Sure. I think I'd like that." "Good. I'd like that, too." "I'm really glad you rescued me. I'm mean I'm glad it was you. Not that I'm not glad just to be rescued but ..." "Would you like a banana?" "A banana?" "Yeah. I have one. Here on the table. In case I get hungry. But I thought maybe you might be hungry." "I am a little hungry." "Me, too." "So maybe we could share it?" "Yeah. Share it. Would you peel it?" "Sure. Should I peel it all at once, or a little at a time?" "What do you normally do?" "A little at a time, normally, unless I'm in a big hurry." "Then let's do it that way. A little at a time." A little at a time, she peels the banana. She feeds David a bite. She peels the skin back a little more. Then she takes a bite herself. She sits on the bed, and they share the banana. Finally it is gone. "I'll put the peel up here, so no one will slip on it," she says. "That would be good," David says. She sets the empty banana peel on David's bedside table. Then she lies down on the bed next to him. They hold each other. After a while they fall asleep. When they wake up they will kiss. ============== Romance by Mat Twassel How "Romance" came to be written. Let's see. When I was little I'm not sure which I was afraid of more, water or girls. Water came first. I had scads of swimming lessons, but none of them took. Invariably I sank. Not enough fat, too much bone and muscle. That's what they said. In truth I wasn't afraid of water, not consciously, but being in it gave me no pleasure. And maybe deep down I was afraid of it, but on the surface that wasn't it! It was just that I'd sink. I still sink. Girls came later. In junior high and into high school not being able to swim was a major disadvantage, because everyone hung out at the beach during the summer. All that innocent skin and sun. Teasing and checking each other out and acting cool. But if you couldn't swim to the raft you might as well not go. Probably I could have made it to the raft. Maybe it would have been worth the risk. Make it to the raft or drown trying. Yeah! I didn't see it that way back then. I stuck to other sports, and at night when it was too dark for baseball and some of the couples were sneaking of to the quarry for beer and skinny dipping and perhaps even sex, I stayed in my room and played seasons of Spinner Baseball and listened to Top 40 radio and made slightly naughty sketches of Julie and Beth and Dottie and Linda and did the things lonely boys do. I did a lot of that. Oh, right--I shouldn't blame my whole miserable social life on not being able to swim. In reality back then I never connected the two. Even if I'd been a fearless swimmer, I'd probably have been shy around girls. Too shy to speak to them much less ask them on a date. I mean, what if they'd said yes? Yikes! All this is of course long in the past. I still can't swim, but sometimes I have wonderful dreams about swimming. My swimming dreams are generally good dreams; my golfing dreams are generally bad dreams, though I'm a pretty good golfer. Figure that out. Anyway, I'm still a little shy about talking to girls, but lucky for me I met a girl in college who was ... well, who was everything. Who is everything. I couldn't resist her. I can't resist her. Ironically, Laura is a wonderful swimmer, and of all sports, swimming is what she loves best. So that's the background. What I've tried to do here is write a story about a guy who is a great swimmer, a story which more or less follows the boy meets girl, boy loses girl, boy gets girl formula, a story which features a swimming date. Ah! That romantic life I managed to miss--that was my target. Whether this story hits or misses is for you to judge. Let me know. --Mat Twassel PS If you liked this story you might want to check out my new calendar website. http://calendar.atEROS.com Every day there's a new piece of erotica. It's by subscription, but the price is very modest and Fridays are always free. -- 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: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+