Message-ID: <40590asstr$1043442608@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: Meme Mispelt X-Original-Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Fri, 24 Jan 2003 08:54:10 -0500 (EST) Subject: {ASSM} Letter, with Tea and Bourbon <*> {Meme Misspelt} {F-solo rom MF? FFM? fine bone china} Date: Fri, 24 Jan 2003 16:10:08 -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, dennyw DISCLAIMER: This is a work of adult fiction, and is not intended for minors, any persons likely to be offended by explicit erotic content, or for distribution in any area where possession may violate laws or community standards. The author retains copyright in this work; you are hereby granted license to download, print and/or archive this work for personal use only. License is not granted to archive, or publish this work by any means in any publicly available archive, or physical form, without the author's prior consent. Please just ask first, okay? The author loves feedback, criticism and even hate mail, but not viruses! jeez, lay off already with that, puhleeze: meem17@pottedmeatmwmw.com Take out the potted meat before e-mailing, else yr mail will spoil. This story was written as part of Mat Twassel's "In Thoughts of You" project, inspired by a painting by Jack Vettriano, and there are more stories and poems inspired by the painting at Mat's asstr site: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/twassel/www Story codes: F-solo rom MF? FFM? fine bone china Letter, with Tea and Bourbon by Meme Misspelt Hey Chas, how's it going? It's me, Maggie. Been a while since I've written, huh? I bet you're surprised to get this. Or, I dunno, maybe you're not surprised at all. Maybe you can see me writing this. Maybe you can, I dunno, see the molecules whizzing around in my head, making the thoughts before I know what they are. Fuck. I'm having trouble with the light and breezy approach. Why is this so hard? Talking to you was so much easier. If you could see me, I bet you'd like the view. I'm sitting with a cup of tea by my side. I put down the pad now and again and cradle the tea in my lap. It's warm, and it's cold in here. I suppose from the right angle, I might look quite proper. But of course, there's a big slug of bourbon in the tea, and of course both the bourbon and the tea are stolen property. Which, come to think of it, I guess makes the tea "hot," not just warm. Ha ha. But anyway. I've got my hair cut short again. Bangy. It's dark these days, with some blonde streaks. I have long black stockings on, and a mediumish black skirt. Tight black sweater. Black, black, black, just like you like it. And these cute ankle boots with little mini-spike heels. You'd have hated the day I went shopping for the boots -- it was with Janice, you don't know Janice, and God, it took hours, I mean, even I got a little bored. But Chas, babe, you'd love what they do for my legs. When I wear them, I keep trying to catch sight of myself in mirrors, without being all vain about it. Subtle, that's the key. I've got good legs, always have, but these boots do something extra for me. Whenever I wear them, I have to masturbate before I take them off. At least twice, usually, and I'm going to masturbate today. Soon. In addition to the boots and the black-black-black, I am wearing: no bra. Are my nipples hard? I will put the pad and the pen down to check. . . . yes, but that might just be because it's pretty chilly. Finally, I am wearing: no panties. Am I wet? Hold on . . . God, yes. So after all these years -- no, we're _not_ counting them -- Chas, just thinking about you looking at me, about how you'd like the way these boots make my legs look even sleeker and more muscular, thinking about what you'd want to do to me when you got good and done looking -- it makes my cunt absolutely sopping. I guess I should tell you: I've got a boyfriend now. Robert. I didn't tell you about him last year because I wasn't certain of him yet, but we moved in together last March, and it's been easier than I expected. I hope you'd like him. He's more -- well, words like "stable" come to mind -- than you, but I hope you wouldn't write him off as too much of a square. He's got a huge, warm heart. And he's no slouch in the sack, even if he's not quite in your class. And I love him very much. Maybe he doesn't drive me crazy like you did, but crazy wasn't always good for us. See, this is something it took me a long time to figure out. I had a bad run of dating because I kept trying to replace you, and that never worked. Robert doesn't replace you. You left a hole in my life, in my heart, that I don't think that can ever be filled. But Robert isn't trying and failing to fill that hole; he occupies a different space in me. His space. And I don't think that I'll be writing you again, babe. Just this last time, to say goodbye, finally, as best I can. In the end, you're still the best lover I ever had, probably always will be. You can take that to the bank. No one else ever turned me on or got me off like you did. Satisfied? I hope so. Not that it was always great, but even at the end, I could remember how it was at the start. I sometimes wonder what. If. You know. Would we have hung on? What would you be doing? What would you think of me? Would you think I sold out? I worry about that. Remember that book you liked so much, the one I made fun of? The monster went to the oracle to ask if he had a soul. And the oracle said, "Only those who have souls worry about them." But maybe it's different, if you have a soul to start with and then lose it. Maybe you still worry. I mean, I feel basically the same. Only, well, different. These days, I work -- are you sitting down? -- I work for a stock brokerage firm. That took a little string-pulling, considering how things turned out, even for a glorified clerical position. Still, it sounds alarming, doesn't it? But it's not like I take it _seriously_, it's just little numbers. I move them from one column to another, and sometimes I move them back again. And somewhere someone moves columns of numbers that have something to do with me, but it's still not important. It's like my new boots. I do hope you like the boots. But if I couldn't afford the boots, I'd still come here and drink tea, maybe with bourbon -- probably with bourbon -- and write you a letter and play with myself. I don't think I've, you know, let it inside me. I don't feel like I'm one of the people I work with. I feel like they _have_ let it inside them, or maybe let it empty them out. They take it all seriously. But then again, I don't know, maybe they think I take it seriously too. I mean -- and you're probably zoning out, but here comes another good part -- sometimes I wear stuff to work. You know, stuff. Ben-wa balls, and even a butt-plug once. I like to feel something moving inside me when I move. It reminds me that I'm really a sex-creature. I may have to spend the day moving numbers back in forth, but I bring lust into their pristine building. Sometimes, at lunchtime, I go into the restroom, and I pull my panties off, and wad them up and shove them into my mouth for a gag. I have a clean pair tucked in my purse, and a little baggie for the sodden ones. I bring myself off. Sometimes quickly, but sometimes I tease myself for almost the whole hour. I'm very quiet when I finally come, because of the gag, and the great care I take not to make the walls of the stall, or the paper dispenser or anything else rattle. And for the rest of the afternoon, when I need a little perk, I sort of pass my fingers under my nose, and smell the tang of my own cunt, and smile a little to myself. But assuming that no one knows about this, and I see no reason to think anyone does, maybe other people are doing things like this too? So sometimes I see crusty old Thorpe waddling down the hall, and I wonder: Is he wearing a butt-plug? In fact, sometimes when I frig myself in the stall, I think about Thorpe. I see him kneeling on a table, his limbs all trussed together. He is a bit like an enormous roast pig, with an apple crammed in his mouth and a carrot sticking out of his ass. Standing nearby in the shadows is someone, maybe a woman, with a crop in her hand or something. I am not too clear on this part. I'm not clear either on why I fantasize about him. It's not exactly erotic, the thought of his pale, flabby ass, it's more absurd. I could ask my therapist about it, if I wasn't too embarrassed. I think it is maybe something about the idea that there could be a sex-creature in everyone. The thought of him abandoning all his control to his desire. Becoming so vulnerable. . . . but I'm losing you again, so I had better tell you about Martine. Aha, that's better, isn't it? I mean, Martine, the name alone is enough to stir an erection in you, isn't it? French and sexy, oozing rolling r's and love juices all over the damn place. Except she's from Brooklyn, but she still oozes sex. At least I think, or anyway, hope, she does. She has three piercings in one ear, which marks her as at least once-upon-a-time less straitlaced than most of them. All my piercings are hidden. Ha ha. No, but, I can wear a sundress now. I mean, if I wanted. I don't, but it's nice to have the option. Martine likes the black-black-black too. Have you ever noticed -- except you wouldn't. But sometimes a single accessory can make the difference between severe and saucy. During the day she's all business, but if the team goes for drinks at Larson's Grill there's a different belt, or a little beret, a bangly bracelet, or an extra button undone, and you should see the way they flock around her. The young suits that flood the city at happy hour, I mean. Crisp and boyish, every one, like they were stamped from a mold. I'm well-equipped to make these sharp sociological observations because my faculties are undimmed. I order club soda with a twist of lime, and sip it with the care and slowness accorded a gin and tonic. It's very discreet. But Martine. Two inches taller than me, so her legs are that much longer. My boot purchase was inspired a little, I admit, by a pair she has that have the same effect on her. They transform her legs from works of art, which they basically are, to dangerous weapons. They transfix most of the men, and not a few of the women, and hold them in drooling thrall. You always thought I was so uptight about the whole lesbian thing, didn't you? So you would like this, too: another fantasy, in the stall at lunchtime, is Martine. It's the office Christmas party or something, and Martine has had too much to drink. Which is not a stretch. So she goes into the back conference room, which has this hideous, incongruous piece of furniture. It's a disgusting green, and knobbly, like a refugee from some nightmare dorm lounge, but anyway, it's low and flat and comparatively soft. So Martine basically drapes herself over it in a more-or-less semi-conscious state. Limbs akimbo, carelessly strewn. The room is pretty dark and quiet, with a wedge of light across the floor through the cracked door, and the faint babble of people. Out in the front rooms, people are trying to kiss company ass and/or get smashed on the company dime. The firm provides top-shelf stuff, and I'm well-behaved with my discreet soda, but not completely happy about it. I abandon my soda with no regret and creep into the darkened conference room. Deep pile carpet is soundless, and anyway, Martine's pretty out of it. So I sort of loom over her. I lean way down, supporting myself with my arms on the hideous green thing. And I lower my head down to one of her legs, which is pleasantly encased in sheer black fabric. I start right where her ankle disappears into her foxy boot, at the back of her leg. At first, even if she were all the way awake, but blindfolded or something, she would probably not notice what I am doing. This is how delicate this lick is: her nylons could feel it, if they had nerves, but she couldn't. As yet, I'm not transferring any pressure or moisture to Martine's leg. The greedy stocking is keeping it all. But as I slowly, ever so slowly, trace my tongue up her, I get bolder. If she were alert, which she isn't, she would first feel the merest tickle, like the passage of an ant. The intensity of the sensation would gradually increase. Soon it would be obvious that it was the touch of a tongue. In fact, about the time I get to the back of her knee, I think about how you used to tease me there, and I get carried away making a bunch of little circles with my tongue. If Martine had her wits about her, she would now be categorizing the tongue action as distinctly lascivious. Anyway, _something_ penetrates her fogged brain, and she makes this little half-moan and sort of wiggles the leg around to improve my access. She is not really aware of where she is, or of me as such. She probably thinks she's home, that I'm whoever guy she is currently seeing, but she is starting to get pretty hot. At this point, I should mention that you are there. Often it's Robert, of course, but today it's you. You're kneading your cock through your pants and looking speculatively at how Martine's mouth is hanging open a bit. If she's actually drooling, I'm sure you won't notice it. It's pretty dark, so I can't tell what color your hair is, or what you're wearing. But I can read your expression easily, because of the way the faint light hits the planes of your face, and, anyway, because it's my damn fantasy. If you're not there, it's just creepy. Licking some passed-out girl's leg, eww. But when you're there, we're seducing her together. You always did want to see me make it with another chick -- don't deny it, you hinted enough -- and it turns me on to know how much it turns you on. What makes this fantasy work is the element of conspiracy. You and me awakening Martine's lust. I'm losing my patience a bit here, and I can't make the journey up Martine's thigh last quite as long as the trip up her lower leg. I'm eager to taste her. Her excitement is hanging thick in the air. She's moaning more, and tossing her head back and forth, and she mutters, "Oh, Chas, oh, Chas." I shoot you a reproachful look, like, what, you've been having it off with _this_ one _too_? You never did cheat on me, so far as I know, but in my fantasies you often did. Your passion seemed so huge and overwhelming, how could it not spill over somewhere? You just sort of shrug, not apologetically enough to suit me, and stick your hand down your waistband. Martine rolls flat on her back now and spreads her legs wide and draws her knees up a little, which makes her short skirt flop up. Either the light in here is getting better, or my eyes are getting really dark-adjusted. I have already happily determined that she's wearing thigh-highs, and I can now clearly see that she is also wearing: no panties. And because she's hip and young and from Brooklyn, not France after all, it is undoubtedly trimmed with just a little pornstar goatee. Usually I do not care for this at all, but somehow right now it's pleasingly obscene, and anyway, it helps me see where things are. Because Martine's cunt is not just like mine; her outer lips are heavier, she's more hidden. So of course I have to go exploring. Spelunking, even. As soon as my tongue touches her lips, she realizes that is a _female_ tongue, because this is instantly obvious in all books and movies that address the subject, never mind that the tongue equipment is basically the same. I am supernally gifted with feminine knowledge, even though I've never done this before. So Martine's eyes fly open, and she sits up -- or anyway, tries to, whoa! head rush! -- and she sees me crouched over her, with my hungry tongue in her pussy. "Margaret -- !" she gasps, because none of my co-workers know me well enough to call me "Maggie", and "What -- !?" even though it should be very obvious what. I raise my head to address her. She immediately realizes that this isn't really what she wants, my head raised, and lets out with a little whimper, even as I am saying, "Shh, just lie back." And wordlessly, she does. She gives me this _look_. And maybe she can't see you, but then again, maybe she can. Maybe you kneel down and gag her with your dick. Maybe I raise my lips from her and work at her with my fingers for a few moments, so I can watch the muscles in her throat flex as she bobs her head on your shaft. And you'd better tear your eyes from the sight of Martine's pretty lips stretched around your blood-thickened prick, and look at me. Look me in the eyes. And then I guess I make her come, and she makes you come, and somebody I suppose makes me come. But by then I'm afraid I've lost interest: the moment of my peak isn't the porn-flick come shot scene. Back in the ladies', I'm standing; it's a bit awkward, with one shoulder jammed against the back wall. Everything else will move or rattle, the back wall is solid. I have to switch shoulders some days, because I get bruises from pushing too hard. I'll have at least two fingers in me, in my pussy, or somewhere. I've got my clit hood lightly caught between two fingers of my other hand, or sometimes I just like the heel of my hand to grind, right there. I've never dared the bumblebee buzz of a vibe, but I have slipped a slim dildo into my purse. And the moment when I buck and hurt my shoulder and bite down hard on the makeshift gag is the one I already described. It's the look in Martine's eyes when she lies back to let me eat her out, it's the look I give you with my finger pressing her clit while I'm still jealous of her mouth. It's a little bit surrender and a little bit invitation. It's not so much submission, or anyway, not to you, but to our selves. It says, we're helpless, we're sex-creatures. Even at the office party, with a little clump of people getting sloshed in the Xerox room almost right next door, with the threat of discovery imminent, we give in to lust, let it roar through us like a riptide. That's when I come. When our eyes meet. And sometimes I think maybe no one ever sells out, we're all real inside, beating, hard and throbbing, where it counts. We all just pretend to sell out, so it adds up the same as if we had. But the sex-creature is still in Martine and me and you and disgusting old Thorpe and the new assistant VP of Marketing, for all I know. Come to think of it, you could be a VP of marketing by now. Not an assistant, I don't think you could stomach that. Can I see you in a suit, still slouching into the boardroom? Rebellion visible only in your posture and, a little bit, in your tie? I think I can. Hell, maybe we'd be living somewhere like this. Beacon Hill, love -- I think you know the address. There's a new burglar alarm, but it's still not a very good one, and the lock was no real challenge either. It's a safety violation. Remember when I corrected you about the lightning? "Well, okay," you said with that wry little chuckle. You could be so gracious about being wrong, and I could be so mean about lording my education over you. Degree or not, Chas, you were sharp as hell. "So maybe it _does_ strike twice in the same place," you went on. "But the B&E artist still shouldn't." But Chas, it's gotten so much easier to be careful. I looked up their plane tickets on the Internet -- they use the same password for almost all their accounts. And they're always, always out of town this time of year. It's not even the same folks, of course. The house was sold the year after. It's not as if the realtor would have said anything, but they must have heard rumors, whispers from the neighbors' grandkids. Maybe the new owners know somehow, that on this day their house belongs to me. To us. Maybe they know they have an annual visitor. Maybe they think I'm a ghost. But I'm not a ghost. I wander through all the cold silent rooms, up and down the shadowy stairs. All my nerves are running on overdrive. Everything is draped under white sheets. I'm here with the ghosts of all their furniture, and I'm the only thing that's alive. I'm so alive, I can feel every cell, and I'm sure Martine has never, ever felt as alive as this. I'm sure I'm still different after all. I was so nervous the first time, remember? So sure we were going to get caught. Breaking and entering sounded like a big deal. I was shocked when you told me how many times you'd done it, and even more shocked when you told me why: not to steal, or anyway, not to steal anything much more than a bottle. Just for the thrill of it. I felt so incredibly naked on the back deck while you worked the lock, even after you pointed out that there was almost no line of sight to a neighboring building, told me the coast would be clear until the maid arrived next door. You were always so cautious, until I led you into the deep, dark water. The alarm started whooping and I thought I might have a heart attack in the seconds it took you to silence it. It sounded so loud, I was certain it had reverberated through every patrol car within miles. But as I stood there, suddenly clammy, while the echoes of the alarm died away, I began to get it. We were in a house owned by strangers! More than that, we were in their lives. The charge of it was something like voyeurism, but with an added dimension. For an hour or so, despite all the careful rules -- no externally visible lights, keep the noise level down and gloves on, don't touch _too_ much -- we got to _live_ their lives. And surprise, it got me really, really horny. And up the stairs, what a delightfully ridiculous Laura Ashley gingerbread house of a bed we found to fuck in, and what a thrill it was to fuck there, knowing that, as careful as we were, it truly was a risk. They've had the gas shut off, the paranoids. So that's another little lock to jimmy, and I have to light the pilot in the stove to make my tea. Have to remember to turn it all off again afterwards. The thermostat is down as low as it will go, and I turn it up to a livable temperature even though I'm not sure I'm going to be here long enough to enjoy it. There's plenty of heating oil, fortunately. The lock on the liquor cabinet probably wouldn't even stop the help. There's loads of wonderful single malts, but it would compound the crime of theft to mix them with tea. I want bourbon, and there's always a bottle. The cheap hooch is what goes in the tea. The pricey tea, in the fine bone china cup. I haven't done smack since the night you died. I know, I say that in every letter, but my therapist actually approves of this bit. She says it's "working through." My NA buddy -- oh, and I can see you rolling your eyes, arching your brows. "A twelve-step program?" But it was a court order, a provision of my parole, not by choice -- thinks it's a bit weird that I write you, but probably not harmful. I don't tell either of them about the you-know-what in the tea, but fuck 'em. It's NA, not AA that I go to, and it's just one slug a year. In your memory, love. I also don't tell them about my habit of writing you from someone else's house, but I figure that's on a need-to-know basis. I don't remember much of that night, like so many others. Blue, really blue, or anyway bluish -- Christ, I'd thought it was just a metaphor. And the look in the EMT's eyes, disgust like I'd never seen before. Even then, before it really hit me, I thought there should have been more disgust. He looked at me and thought "junkie," but he probably assumed the bad musician had gotten the nice girl on the juice, because that's how it goes, isn't it? Except with us, it was the other way around. Remember the night I talked you into it? You were so nervous, so scared. And damn it, you were right. We should have stuck with housebreaking. After you died, part of me wanted to shoot the whole world into my veins, chase you wherever you'd gone. People tried to tell me that's not what you would've wanted, but fuck them, how the hell should they know? Maybe you're really pissed at me for still being here. But in the end, I really didn't want to follow. And at least you get a private show, once a year. I always wanted to do this while you were alive. Not that you needed instruction in how to get me off, but I liked the idea of looking you in the eyes as I made myself come. I liked to picture you sitting, hard and naked, on a slightly uncomfortable chair just a few feet away, with your hands clasped, maybe tied, behind the chair. Just watching. I could tease you like that for a long time. Fingers first, I think, then some toys. At first, I always wanted your touch too urgently to hold you at some remove. Later it seemed like we'd always have time. And awhile after that, well, I guess we had different priorities. And now, of course, this is all we have. Did I bring some toys with me today, in my little satchel, with the little notebook and the little case of lock picks? Why, yes, I did. Problem: I can't write about this and do it at the same time. Should I describe what I'm going to do to myself first, then carry out the plan? Or should I tell you all about it after the fact? . . . you'd want both, of course. You were always greedy about sex -- kind of like me. But that's all right, I'm feeling very impatient. I may let myself rush "before" a little bit. I wanted you before I even met you, did I ever tell you that? I must have. Some show, I don't remember where, or who I'd actually gone to see, but I remember telling Jenn, I was there with Jenn, "Damn, the bass player's cute!" And she was like, "Really?" And I could see why she wouldn't think so, but still: your eyes smouldered, terrible cliche, but la mot juste, smouldered. And I loved the way your hips moved. I wished that big ugly instrument wasn't in the way, so I could see your hips move better. And, well, yeah. You know. See your cock. Okay, so it didn't happen this way, not really, but pretend, I watched the whole rest of that set thinking about how much I wanted to suck your cock. Mmm, yeah, when you get off stage I sort of grab you and pull you into the bathroom. You're surprised of course, but you don't stop me from unbuckling your belt and tugging those tight leather pants down your hips. And you're not slow to respond, either. I love the feel of you swelling to full hardness inside my mouth. Here's something I'm sure I never told you: the first time you wanted to be in my mouth after you'd been in my pussy, I thought it was really gross. Can you believe it? Twenty-some years old and I'd never tasted myself. Never wanted to. Thought it sounded unclean and unpleasant. So that first time, I did it just because of that look in your eyes that told me how much you wanted me to. Oh, but I liked it. I did not find pussy an acquired taste, nosiree. So in this revisionist first-encounter fantasy, I think you grab my head and start really fucking my face. I mean, groupie slut in the men's room; no reason to be tender, right? And I wiggle my fingers down my skirt, down my fishnets, and manage to get a finger inside. After you blast right down my throat, I pull my hand out of my crotch. Still kneeling, I look up at you with that faux-innocent, eyelash-batting, slightly vapid expression all the video cocksucker girls wear, and I stick my finger in my mouth and suck every last drop of my taste from it. And I see the way your cock twitches when I do that, and I smile. Today, in hoity-toity Beacon Hill, in just a few moments, I'm going to plunge my fingers into myself, and I'm going to lick them clean. I'm going to think about how you loved to lick me, and how you'd love to see me lick Martine. Okay, and maybe a bit about how _I'd_ like to lick Martine. But mostly of you. I'm going to push this vibrator deep inside me, and pull it out. In honor of that first blowjob I never gave you, in memory of all the ones I did, I'm going to slide that slick thing deep down my gullet. You'd be so proud of me, Chas, no gag reflex at all. And then I'm really going to start to fuck myself. I'm going to stick my legs straight up in the air, grab the vibe with both hands and give it to myself as hard as I can take it, just like you used to give it to me. I want to get my hot live juices all over the cold dead sheets. When the owners finally come back from Boca Raton, I want them to find the house still filled with the stench of my sex. Oh God, Chas, I want you so much. I miss you -- (Later) . . . So I think that you could see me perfectly well after all. But since you still might like a keepsake, presented for your approval, a catalog of Maggie's Masturbation Activities on this day, oh, you know damned well what day it is. First, in the chair, in the drawing room or sitting room, or whatever it is. Moderate nipple tweaking, intermittent pussy rubbing. After I set the letter aside, activities escalated. These include repeated vaginal penetration by one, two, then three fingers. Much licking clean of fingers. Nice big blotch left on the sheet. Then I got up and I went into the living room. It was very dark, since the only windows face the back of the house, and they are covered with heavy insulating curtains. I even thought about risking an electric light. The owners have bought this absurd-looking new couch. I pulled the sheet off it to get a better look. It was really long, long enough to lie full-length easily, and the sides swooped up into this high, silly, rolly things. Proof positive that "old money" is no guarantee of good taste. Some more light pussy rubbing to get myself warmed up again. I pinched my nipples and rolled them between my fingers. I thought of you reading this letter, of how hard you would get. I imagined that maybe it was wartime, and you were a soldier, on a strange jungle mission. You'd carry my letter, folded and folded into a tiny square, hidden somewhere. Bottom of your binoculars case, or with your ammo perhaps. Every night when you bunked down, you'd unfold the creased and cracked letter -- carefully, carefully -- and read it under the small yellow glow of a penlight. Then you'd fold the letter back up and secret it away again. I suppose you'd really be in a tent, but I like to think of you crawling out of a sleeping bag and lying flat on your back under the night sky, undoing your zipper. You'd spring up hard and throbbing. It would make my pussy ache to see the way the moon would highlight the veins on your cock. I would want something inside me while I watched you jerk off. I pulled one of my toys, a medium-sized dildo, out of the satchel. It tickles me -- all that realistic molding and the latest in lifelike skin feel, but it's a nearly florescent green. I was going to put it inside me when I noticed the candelabra by the piano, and its slim, elegant tapers. They were cold at first, but warmed up quickly. I lay on the ugly, fancy couch and fucked myself with two of the candles at once. Then I grabbed my plastic bead toy from my bag, lubed it up, and worked it into my anus. It's a little overwhelming, being filled fore and aft. I like it, I like how dirty it makes me feel, but it takes some stretching to do it to myself. It's a little too complicated for me to really get off. I can tease myself for a long time that way, though, and I did. I writhed and moaned a little more and a little louder than I do when I'm just masturbating for myself, because I thought you'd like it. The darkest part of the room was in the corner, behind the sheeted specter of the piano. If you had been standing there, just there, and stood very still, I could have lost your face against the wall. You could have been there watching as I toyed with myself for your pleasure. I got tired of being full and pulled the candles and the toy out. I worked at myself with my fingers, dipping them in and out. I caressed lightly around my clitoris without quite touching it. I didn't want to make myself come in the living room. When I'd had about all the teasing I could endure, I stood up. I twirled around and smoothed my skirt in mock decorum. I tossed my toys back into my bag and slowly climbed the dim stairs. How many beds did we fuck in, in all? Your place, my place, our place. A handful of hotels on our vacations together. And then, what, maybe once every two or three months over our three years together? A forbidden screw in a house we'd violated. Nearly thirty all told, I think. But we never made love in this room, in this bed. By then we were more interested in the pleasure the needle gave us than the pleasure we gave each other. I don't think we even went upstairs. I wish we'd gone up to screw our brains out, I wish all we'd cooked up that day was a pot of tea. I wish, I wish, I wish. It's a nice bed. King-sized. Modern lines, geometric print. I wondered if you'd want me to be all naked for you, or you'd rather play peek-a-boo. I decided to leave my clothes on; the house was warming up, but it was still a bit cool. The frail winter light was fading, and it was even darker in the bedroom than it had been in the living room. I lay diagonally across the expanse of the bed. With my eyes closed tight, I could easily imagine you there. You'd be leaning against the closet door, smiling that little half-smile that always made me melt. I didn't think I could hold out for much longer. I teased myself a little with the vibrator. I slid it up under my sweater to tingle my breasts. I pressed it briefly against my clit, but I was feeling too sensitized for much of that. I switched it off and laid it aside. I spread my lips with one hand and strummed my hand across my clit with the other. I could see you so clearly now, in my mind's eye. You disrobed, slowly, teasingly. You had trouble tugging your shorts down because you were so hard. And you lay down curled on the bed beside me, your ankles in the pillows and your gleaming eyes intently watching my moving fingers. And I didn't, no I didn't, feel the bed sag a little just then. I rolled around a little, lost in my pleasure, that was all. But still, I gasped your name aloud in the empty house. And as I lay there, playing with myself on the bed in the house where -- all right, I can face it now, where you died, eight years ago today -- I felt something on my pussy very much like the touch of a tongue, your tongue -- which I recognize instantly, just like in all the books and movies. It was just overworked nerves, of course. Too much stimulation, a hyperactive imagination. But I kept my eyes shut tight, so tight. I reached out my hand, and it was surely my little green dildo that my hand closed around. Slipped out of the satchel, perched on a rucked-up bit of the comforter. And if it felt warm and soft, well, I had turned up the heat, and it was supposed to be incredibly lifelike. If it seemed to throb in my hand, that was certainly my own pulse. Still, I wrapped my head just around the tip of it, my thumb rubbing the sensitive corona. No one was nibbling tenderly at my pussy lips. Nothing supple and wet slipped inside me there. I didn't feel a feather touch caressing my nipples, just the fabric of the sweater rubbing against them as my lungs heaved. Still, I didn't open my eyes. I kept rubbing my clit, almost fiercely now, as I felt my orgasm rising up in me. When I came, I screamed your name over and over. If there had been a whisper in response, I screamed much too loudly to chance hearing it. And as I drifted off to sleep, I just dreamed the nutty smell of semen hanging in the air, just dreamed your lips pressing gently against mine. When I awoke, I didn't remember any other dreams, and even in the gloom, there was no doubt that I was quite alone. So that's the end of it. Nothing left but to wash up the tea, shut off the gas again, turn the thermostat back to frigid. I need to slip out before the widow across the street gets back from her bridge club. And probably, by the time the owners come back from their vacation, the essence of my -- of our -- sex will have dissipated after all, leaving no trace of how I tarried here, in thoughts of you. Goodbye, my love, my love forever, Maggie -- Meme Misspelt -- http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/meme_misspelt/www/ -- 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 | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+