Message-ID: <37332asstr$1026817802@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: mmtwassel@aol.com (mat twassel) X-Original-Message-ID: <20020715224339.09288.00000760@mb-fk.aol.com> X-MailScanner: Passed X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 16 Jul 2002 02:43:39 GMT Subject: {ASSM} Mat Twassel: No Matter What They Say (monet, sting, mcdonalds) Date: Tue, 16 Jul 2002 07:10:02 -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: kelly, dennyw This story was my entry in Celeste's Virtual Reality short story contest. ======================= No Matter What They Say by Mat Twassel ======================= She lay on the McDonald's table, legs high. Her cunt was tight but pleasant, and when I pushed, almost with a squeak it gave; a spot of cherry juice squelched up, nipped my nose. She giggled. I touched the drip, tasted it--tart and sweet, just the way I like it. She giggled again and then her cunt started sucking. My cock could have been a fat straw. The come came out of me, and when it was all gone, she still wanted more--those final noisy slurps of vanilla milkshake. "Was I good?" she said. "The best," I answered. "Even though I don't have any character?" "Who says you don't have any character?" I said. "You're a virgin, again and again. What more could I ask for?" "Soul?" she said. "History. A future. Babies. Adorable brats scooting across the lawn, always forgetting to put their sandals on." "Smelly diapers," I said. She smiled. "Want to fuck my ass now?" I looked around the room. Customers in line were watching us as they waited to order their burgers and fries. Abruptly she flipped up her little skirt and bent forward. Her bottom was creamy and firm, with that uptilt I just love. "Is the hole pink or brown?" she asked. "C'mon, put it in." I touched the pucker gently with my thumb. It quivered. "All at once?" I asked. "Squirt some special sauce on it first," she said. I fumbled open the packet. The goo squeezed out. I worked it in. "Tickles," she said. I gave her ass a playful slap. "Do that again," she said. I hit her harder. "Now more sauce." I opened another packet. "At Arby's they have plastic bottles." "I didn't know that." "Horsey sauce, they call it." "Where do you get this knowledge?" "Put it in now, okay?" I put it in. She was tight and hot, an oven of dark lust. "All the way," she moaned. "Oh, that's good." At the next table a mother was settling a dispute between her children. "Hush," she told them, "We can get another toy." "Do you ever really come?" I asked, stroking the nape of her neck as I fucked. Her neck was so slender, with an adorable point. I could feel her pulse behind her ears. I knew I could last a long time. She squeezed, and suddenly I wasn't so sure. "Do you mean 'Do I fake it?'" she said. "I couldn't fake it if I wanted to." "Why not?" "Faking it just sets me off." "Nudder toy," said one of the children. "Let's finish this somewhere else," I said. "How about your place?" She turned to look at me. For a moment I thought I detected an expression of bewilderment. "Sure, my place," she said. The painting above the fireplace was chillingly good. Waterloo Bridge. Dark, gray green waves roiling and slapping. A skyline of smoke and sleet and phallic towers. An edge of sun somewhere in the low distance. The way the wan light caught the cold waves, the low, lonely rooftops, made me shiver. I was about to say, "Shouldn't that be in London?" but I changed my mind. "Want a blankey?" she asked. "A blankey and some tea?" She squeezed my hand. "Sit here," she said, directing me to a plump chair. She put a soft afghan over my lap. "Enjoy the gloominess in comfort. I'll fix tea." I sank into the deep leather and watched her walk away. "Do you really live here?" I asked when she returned. She was dressed demurely. A cashmere sweater and a simple skirt. She held a dark metal tray, perhaps tarnished silver or raw pewter, two steaming cups, and a small plate of frail crackers. "Silly," she said. "Where should I live?" "I don't know," I answered. "I can't imagine. Someplace... jauntier?" "When I open the drapes this place livens up a lot," she said. "But for right now let's enjoy the dark. Should I put some music on?" "Sure, if you like," I said. She handed me a cup of tea. Intoxicating and mild. My favorite oolong. "What do you want to hear?" she asked. "Something you like." "Oh," she said. She put down her teacup and stepped over to the player. I half expected to hear a Sousa march. Not really. Or maybe as a joke. What came on was Sting, "An Englishman in New York." I knew the song but hadn't expected it. "It's jaunty... in a sad, mellow way. Isn't it?" I agreed. She snuggled next to me. She kissed my ear, then my mouth. Her breath was sweet and warm. I had my arm around her. I stared into her eyes. "It's not a trick," she said. "Really it isn't." Then she kissed me again, and I almost believed her. ======================= No Matter What They Say by Mat Twassel ======================= Mat's Erotic Calendar is at http://Calendar.atEROS.com/ Please subscribe. Mat's Erotic Calendar at http://calendar.atEros.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: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+