Message-ID: <41442asstr$1048464603@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Path: corp.supernews.com!not-for-mail From: Vulgar Argot X-Original-Message-ID: MIME-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Sun, 23 Mar 2003 09:02:41 -0500 Subject: {ASSM} Marigold, part 2 Date: Sun, 23 Mar 2003 19:10:03 -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: RuiJorge, dennyw Marigold, Part 2 by Vulgar Argot (NC, MF, Oral) (Author's Note: This is the sort of erotica I've always wanted to read, but so rarely see. It is the DS half of BDSM without the bondage or masochism. It is non-consensual without involving physically forceful rape. As a warning to the reader, this installment includes sexual activities, but no actual sex. Those who only want to read about sex in its rawest form should skip parts one through four.) Thule drove Marigold home without speaking. After a few minutes of silence, he reached over and turned on the radio. Loud rock and roll music blared forth. He turned it down enough to make conversation possible. But, no conversation came. There were few other cars on the road and Marigold found it easy to become hypnotised by the dashed white lines going past. With her eyes focused on the lines, the rest of the world receded into darkness. She shivered. Thule reached over and turned on the heat. She half turned to look at him out of the corner of her eye. She couldn't believe she was in his car. Thule was one of the dregs. His family was poor. He was poor. His car was at least fifteen years old and smelled of cigarette smoke. And, while some people she knew from church had risen above being poor, he seemed to revel in it. He wore generic blue jeans, probably from Sears. His shirt was flannel. His hair matched hers for color and nearly for length. Sensing her eyes on him, he reached up and ran his hand through it. She smiled, though she couldn't say why. He pulled up a couple of blocks away from her house. She looked at him questioningly. "Fix your hair," he said. She pulled down the sun visor, "It's a little messy, but..." "It's JBF hair," he said more emphatically, "If you go inside looking like that, your parents will know." "JBF hair?" "Yeah, like you've just been...Listen, I'm sure that your parents have had sex at least once. They know what hair looks like after you've been up to that sort of thing. It's how Maya's parents found out about us. Fix your hair." She did as she was told, smoothing her hair until it met with his satisfaction. "If I pull up to your front door and let you out, will there be questions?" he asked. "I doubt it," she said, "I get rides from other people at the newspaper sometimes. My parents don't stay up looking out the window when I stay late." "Okay," he said and restarted the car. "Thule?" she said. He looked at her expectantly. "No," she said, "nothing. I'm sorry. Thank you for the ride home." He seemed to be considering several possible responses before he said, "Any time. I'm surprised you don't have your own car." She shrugged, "My parent's don't think that it's safe for a girl to be alone in a car." "But, they let you stay at the school until nine o'clock at night?" She laughed mirthlessly, "That's different. That's for Harvard. We fought about it a lot, but I wouldn't budge. I really want to go to Harvard." She expected him to say something crude, but he just stopped the car, "Here you are. I'll see you in school tomorrow." "Yeah," she said, "Okay." She made no move to get out. He raised an eyebrow. With a start, she realized that she was waiting for him to get out and open the door for her, like Elliot would. Feeling foolish, she undid her seatbelt and let herself out. === Her parents were not waiting at the window when she came in. Her mother sat, watching some inane reality program on TV. Her stepfather was in his home office, reading his Bible. As she walked past the open door, he said, "Marigold, come in here please." She went in, dutifully, standing with her eyes down as he finished what he was reading. "This is very late," he said, "We were expecting a call." "I'm sorry," she said, "I got so wrapped up in getting the newspaper ready, I lost track of time." "Sorry is between you and God," he said sternly, "I expect a phone call next time. And, I don't expect there to be a next time for a long time. It's not proper for a young Christian woman to work so hard all the time. When will you have time for prayer and reflection?" "I read the Bible verses you assigned me today, sir." "Yes," he said, "but I'm sure you don't yet understand them." He looked up, his face showing how merciful he thought he was being, "You look exhausted. Go get ready for bed. Your Bible study can wait until tomorrow night." Gratefully, she went upstairs, slipped out of her clothes and into the shower. Naked and alone, she closed her eyes, thinking it might be nice to cry, but no tears came. And, while she may not have much time for prayer, she did take time for reflection. Thule was, she remembered in the abstract, beneath her notice. If he weren't trailing her GPA by 0.004 points, she really wouldn't have known he existed. She had taken one more advanced placement class than him senior year, which along with a single A- freshman year, was the only thing keeping their grades apart. No matter how well she'd done, he'd been dogging her steps. More infuriatingly, he seemed to do it effortlessly. He didn't do any extra work, never volunteered for anything, showed no respect for the teachers, and with few exceptions, left school as soon as it was over. She could count his extracurriculars on one hand. On several occasions, she had complained to teachers who cut him slack because he handed in an assignment late, citing "work" or some equally ludicrous excuse as the reason. She had always refused to see their race for grades as a competition. He was socially invisible, hanging out with misfits from all the undesireable cliques. His girlfriend, Maya, had been a theatre nerd. He was always hanging around with the computer and math geeks. A few of the barely popular had made the mistake of associating too closely with him over the years, tipping themselves over the edge to unpopular. By all rights, she should be an enormous social pariah for having let him touch her, worse having put his cock in her mouth. The bitter taste still lingered there. But, strangely, she didn't feel different, socially, at all. It was as if tonight had happened in an entirely different world, where there were no consequences for who you let touch you or how. Surreptitiously, she turned the shower head to its most forceful setting and positioned herself under it. She knew it was a sin to touch herself down there, but she considered this to be a loophole. As the water pounded away at her, she tried to duplicate the feeling she'd gotten from Thule's hands on her breasts, stroking and teasing them, but even with the added stimulation of the pounding water, she couldn't approximate it. Frustrated, she turned the shower back down and off. In her room, dressing for bed, she decided to put the experience aside for further study later. Standing in the middle of the room in nothing but a long t-shirt, she impulsively decided to lock her door and wear nothing else. She fell asleep with one hand pressed between her thighs, not there for self-abuse but just there, here other on her chest, still trying to figure out what Thule had done to make her feel so good. === Marigold and Thule had the same classes all morning. But, he took seemingly no notice of her, focusing on the work and talking with his usual circle of unacceptable friends. It wasn't until she asked a question in fourth period AP computer programming that he acknowledged her existence. The question was a particularly tricky one and the teacher stared blankly at her when she asked it. "I can help her with that, Mr. Shaw," he offered. The teacher, who was in way over his head, nodded his grateful assent, "Thank you, Bart." He pulled up a chair next to her. Several of the more socially aware types in the class turned to watch, but when he started actually explaining what she'd just asked, they turned away. He interrupted himself mid-thought, "Come and sit with me today at lunch?" She turned abruptly to face him, "What?" "You heard me," he said. "I will not," she hissed indignantly. He shrugged, "Your choice. What you need to remember is that arrays are stored in contiguous memory, so you can..." "What do you mean my choice?" she asked, "I can just say no." He looked her in the face, "You can always say no, and live with the consequences." She looked around rapidly to make sure no one was eavesdropping, "You're a monster," she sputtered. His shrug was more expansive this time, "Probably. I'm not proud of myself, treating you like something subhuman, the way you and your friends have done to me and mine for the last four years." She was getting angry now, "I never treated anyone as badly as you did me," she growled. "Sit with me at lunch," he said, "Or don't. As I said, it's your choice." === She almost didn't do it. It had been easier to strip for him, even easier to take his cock in her mouth than it was to walk across that cafeteria to where he sat, eating alone, reading a computer magazine. When she sat down, he didn't even look up immediately, but went right on reading. She felt like he was the only one in the whole cafeteria ignoring her. She started to flush crimson and almost fled before he looked at her. "That's a very pretty skirt you're wearing," he said, "You should wear them more often." If the skirt had been anything other than ankle-length and loose fitting, it would have come out as lewd. As it was, it just left her puzzled. "All right," she said, "I'm here. What do you want?" "What do I want?" his eyes flashed dangerously, "I want to have lunch with my friend." He raised his voice on the last word, just enough for the nearest eavesdroppers to hear it. But, that was enough. Stubbornly, she ignored the statement and started eating. He went back to his magazine. "You can't just sit there and ignore me," she said desperately, "Otherwise, why am I sitting here? Talk to me." He looked up at her, holding her gaze for a long moment, like he would refuse. Then, he closed the magazine and put it aside, "OK, dear. What would you like to talk about?" She searched desperately for something to say, "You sure seem to know a lot about computers. Where did you learn it all?" To her surprise, he smiled, "I've had computers at home since I was in grade school." "How did you..." she stopped herself. "How did I afford it?" he asked, enjoying her discomfort, "The first one was barely more than a toy. I got it from one of those Christmas charities. I used it for years after no one else was. At fourteen, I started mowing lawns and shovelling snow and saving every penny I could get until I could afford a second-hand corporate machine, then a second one. After that, I knew enough about them that the hobby paid for itself. Why are you taking AP programming?" She put down her sandwich, "The same reason I'm taking all of my AP classes. An A in an AP class counts as 4.3 towards your GPA as opposed to a 4.1 in a Regent's class." "It does?" he looked incredulous, "Is that why my GPA is over 4.0?" She looked horrified, "You didn't know?" But, the grin on his face told her that she'd been had, "Oh, you're awful." "You really hate that I'm Salutatorian, don't you?" "No," she said quickly, "of course not." "Mari," he said, stretching out the syllables, "do you really think it's a secret?" She shrugged, "I don't think I even notice who's number two in the class. I'm not in competition with anyone but myself." "You are so full of shit," he said. She grinned broadly at him, letting him know, he'd been had. "Oh, my God," he said, "You have a sense of humor." She leaned in to speak lower, "Why are you making me do this?" "You're not enjoying our conversation?" he asked, one eyebrow raised. "I would enjoy it more if it were more private," she said, running a hand through her hair. His face clouded, "Well," he said, "if you're ashamed of your new friend, I guess we can meet again in the newspaper office after school." Before she could interrupt him, he picked up his magazine and waved her away, "Go sit with your other friends. I have reading to do." === Several times, she tried to approach him during the day, maybe to apologize, maybe to try to make an excuse not to be there that night. But, he managed to avoid being anywhere that she could talk to him privately. Resignedly, she headed down to the newspaper office to await their next meeting. When she got there, he was nowhere to be seen, but a few staffers were. The newspaper wasn't really more than announcements of upcoming events and announcement of awards won, so most of the time in the office was spent in socializing. As soon as she sat at her desk, Brianne cornered her, slinking over to her desk with malice in her eyes. "So," she said casually, "I missed you at lunch today. What did you and the dreg have to talk about?" This much she had rehearsed for at least, "I needed to ask him about some stuff we'd covered in AP programming. He helped me in class today." The lie did not roll easily off of her tongue, even if it was mostly true. "Really?" asked Brianne, "You seemed awfully chummy. I hear Elliot was really pissed when he found out." Marigold shrugged, "He's really got nothing to be pissed about unless people have been gossiping and taking things way out of context." She gave the two gerunds heavy emphasis, "Hey, is your piece on the prom done yet?" "I handed it to you yesterday," Brianne said. "I know," said Marigold, more harshly than necessary, "If you need help using the spell checker, there are plenty of people here who know how. I also marked up a few places where it needed to be reworked. Try to have it done before you leave." Brianne would have answered, but Marigold turned back to her computer dismissively. The other girl flounced away. Marigold felt an unfamiliar surge of power. It was not in her nature to force people to back down. But, Brianne had really gotten on her nerves. It had been her damned prom article, clearly written with no thought in about ten minutes that had kept Marigold in the office so late, trying to make sense of it. Worse, the girl couldn't spell worth a damn and seemed to barely know how to construct an article after four years on the newspaper. Brianne's father ran the local Pennysaver and Brianne was under the impression that what he and she did passed as journalism. Somehow, she'd managed to worm her way into Columbia School of Journalism. Marigold was sure she hadn't written her admissions essay either. By all rights, she should have been the one washing semen out of her hair last night. She chuckled bitterly to herself. Thule would never bother with a scatterbrained lightweight slut like Brianne. They would have nothing in common. The very idea.... She quickly clamped down on that line of thought and got back to work. People began filtering out. There were only a few left when Thule showed up. He went over to one of the workstations at the wall and began running a diagnostic. A couple of minutes later, two of the other remaining people left, so that only she, Brianne, and Thule were left. She became terrified that he would say something before they were alone. But, he sat in front of the computer and read a paperback she couldn't see the title of. Eventaully, Brianne shut off her computer, walked up to Marigold, and said loudly, "My prom article is done. I hope you two have fun," before skipping out of the room. Even after she left, Thule just sat reading for what seemed like a long time. Finally, Marigold got up from her desk, closing and locking the door of the office. "Boy," said Thule, "she's a bitch." Marigold nodded in agreement, "She is, although I'd never be so crude as to say so." He put down his book, "Why are you friends with her, then?" "I'm not," she answered quickly, "We run in the same circles. That's all." He swiveled his chair towards her, "Did you sign her yearbook?" She shrugged, "I sign a lot of yearbooks." "What did you write?" She looked annoyed, "I don't know. The usual. Best of luck over the summer. Can't wait to see you next year. Why?" He shrugged, "Sounds pretty friendly." She looked down at him like she would a particularly dense child, "It doesn't mean anything. It's just...being nice." "Do you think you're a nice person, Marigold?" "I...I try to be," she looked uncertain, "not always. Thule, I'm sorry about today in the cafeteria." "Sorry," he asked too casually, "in what why? Like repentant, sorry?" "Yes," she said ernestly, "Like that." "So, you want to be my friend now? Want everyone to know that we're friends?" he looked hopeful. "Sure," she said weakly, "maybe not everything about what we do, but friends is okay." He looked her squarely in the eye, "How fucking stupid do you think I am?" "I..." "Come here," he ordered, "Sit in my lap." "What do you want?" she asked desperately, "Do you want another blow job? You want to see my breasts again? Will that make you happy?" She started pulling off her sweatshirt. "I want," he said evenly, "for you to come here and sit on my lap." "I can't do this anymore," she said angrily, "Go ahead. Tell them about my Harvard essay. I'll apply to Yale. It's not the end of the world." He looked at her evenly, as if waiting for her to take the statement back, "It's always your choice," he said finally, "but we're beyond the Harvard essay now." "What do you mean?" she asked. "Do you think Yale wants people who give blow jobs on school grounds?" "You have no proof," she exclaimed, wishing it to be true. But, he reached over to the computer behind him and, with a few mouse clicks and a few keypresses, a small window came up. The low-quality image and jerky motions said it was a web-cam feed. Unfortunately, the feed was not so bad as to hide the fact that the two people were him and her, they were in the office, and they were replaying the events of the previous night. "You recorded me?" she shouted angrily, "You monster." She threw herself at him, intent on doing him real physical harm. But, at barely five foot three, she was able to do little against Thule's more than six foot frame. He caught her wrists, spinning her around and pulling her into his lap. "How could you?" she cried, "How could you do this to me?" He growled in her ear, "I did it because I intend to keep you for a while. You're going to do what I tell you. But, I'll make you a promise. If you're a good girl and do what you're told between now and when you leave for Harvard, you're free. I won't bother you anymore." In spite of herself, she felt hope well up, "Really? Do you promise?" He nodded against the back of her hair, "I promise. I'm good for my promises. I told you yesterday I wouldn't rape you and I didn't, did I?" "No," she said, "I guess you didn't....What do you want me to do?" He loosened his hold on her, "From now until September, you're my girlfriend. Get rid of Magic Earring Ken. You're going to be my kind of girlfriend. I am not going to be your kind of boyfriend. Do I need to be clearer?" "But..." she twisted to face him. "What?" he asked harshly. "My parents will never allow that. They expect me to marry Elliot once I graduate from Harvard. He's a nice, Christian boy. He'll be a good husband. Even if I had a good reason to leave him, they'd never let me out of the house if I were seeing you." He shrugged, "You'll have to figure something out." "I can't," she pleaded, "It's just not possible. I promise. I'll meet you whenever you want, in front of whoever you want, do whatever you want, but I can't live in my parents' house and do what you ask. And, I can't leave or they won't pay for Harvard. Please. It's not possible." "Hmmmm," he said, "Really not possible?" "Really," she said, "Please." "Well," he said thoughtfully, "I don't want to ruin Harvard for you..." "Oh, thank you," she exclaimed loudly, wrapping her arms around his neck. The relief was genuine. "Hold up," he said, "Here are my conditions...." She nodded, listening carefully. "One, you will find some way to spend next weekend with me. I'll pick you up Friday after school and drop you off Sunday night. Two, you will make it clear to any and all of our classmates that we are friends. Three, you can go to the prom with Elliot, but you're leaving with me. Four, I expect you to arrange a suitable replacement as my prom date. Don't make it someone you like because I'm going to blow her off to leave with you. And, five, I want you to wear a prom dress that doesn't hide your chest. At least once, I want you to see how beautiful you are." She thought about it. Finally, she said, "One will be tricky, but I'll manage. I have no idea how I'll manage four. If I need your help getting someone popular to agree to go to the prom with you, will you help?" He nodded, "If I can." She sighed and relaxed against him, "Thule, can I ask another question?" He nodded, his face up against the top of her head. "Do you really think I'm beautiful?" He laughed, "Do you think I'd blackmail just any girl into being my girlfriend?" "No," she said, "It would have to be someone you hated very much. But, you did not answer my question." "I think you're one of the most beautiful girls I've ever seen. Even when you dress to hide your figure, you're beautiful. When you're naked, I feel like I've leashed a goddess." She hadn't known before that moment that it was physically possible to blush over your entire body. But, it felt like she was radiating enough heat to burn him through both their clothes. "Are you wearing panties?" he asked. "Of course," she answered, "What kind of question is that?" "Take them off," he ordered. "What? No," she said, "You promised my first time wouldn't be in this dingy little office." He took her chin in one hand and turned her to face him, "You may be a beautiful goddess, but you'd still damned well better do what you're told without question." Standing up off of his lap, she complied, hiking up the seeming acres of material that made up her skirt until she could reach underneath and pull off her red, lacy panties. She tried to hide them, but he pulled them out of her hand, "These are quite sexy. What does the good, Christian boy think of these?" "No one was supposed to see them," she exclaimed, flushing crimson again, "They normally stay under my skirt." He laughed, sliding one hand up under her skirt, stroking the back of her leg, just below her bottom, "Come on. It didn't occur to you that I might see them?" "I..." she remembered that she had changed her underwear at the last minute today from the unflattering white panties to these rarely worn red ones, an inappropriate gift from a befuddled older relative, "I guess I thought you might. Would you have preferred my huge, white ones?" He chuckled and drew her closer to him, his hand moving up to cup her buttock, "I prefer you like this best of all." She slapped him lightly on the shoulder, "Do you ever stop being a pervert." He nodded, "Sure, but you bring it out in me." His other hand slid underneath her skirt until both gripped her buttocks, kneading them gently. She let out a little gasp. "Thule," she whispered, "please don't fuck me tonight, not here. I will if you want, but I'm begging you." He smiled, "You're cute when you beg, but in this case, it's totally unnecessary. I keep my word. You'll keep your much-valued virginity until next weekend, at least. Today, I'm just going to make you look forward to losing it." His words made her feel like such a whore that she almost wept. She'd always viewed losing her virginity as something she would do for her husband on their wedding night, to be looked for only for what it signified, not for itself. She was horrified to realize that she was not entirely dreading the event. What kind of girl was she, really? He pulled his hands out from under her skirt and wrapped them around her, drawing her to him as he rose to meet her. He was so much taller than her that she had to look up to see his face. When she did, he leaned down, one hand sliding behind her head. She opened her mouth in surprise just as their lips met. Unlike Elliot, when he'd been given the opportunity for such things, he barely used his tongue at all, preferring to dart it in and out, teasing her tongue and lips. She determined to bear up under it, but her mood quickly changed from tolerance to reluctant enjoyment. His hands barely touched her, but where they did, they seemed to leave hot fingerprints on her flesh. She fought the pleasure as hard as she could. At some point, he had lifted her up onto the conference table, where she was now sitting, but she couldn't remember when. He lifted her sweatshirt over her head, fumbled with the buttons on her blouse. She found her traitorous hands helping him, peeling off the uncomfortable bra as quickly as she could. She wanted him to rub circulation back into her breasts again like he had last night. She wrapped her legs around his waist and leaned back, arching her back. His lips travelled down her throat and chest, his hands wrapped firmly around her waist. His mouth covered one nipple. She gasped at it. His tongue teased the very tip of it. The sensation was so intense for a moment that she thought she would swoon. He didn't let up, teasing it with his lips, teeth, and tongue. She moaned, unable to fight it anymore. When had he laid his shirt across the table for her to lie back on? The warm flannel tickled her back. She wrapped both arms around his head now, pressing him against her breast, urging him on. One hand slid from around her waist, catching and undoing the zipper on her skirt, laying it out like a blanket beneath her. She realized abstractly that she was totally naked, but for her knee-high stocking now. It should have bothered her. But, before it could, he traced a line of kisses down her belly. His hands gripped her bottom, massaging it powerfully. Suddenly, he was lifting her up, his chin forcing her legs apart. She cried out in surprise, doubly so when his warm, wet tongue slipped inside of her. She started to panic at the pleasure of it. Even as her ankles locked between his shoulder blades, she tried ineffectually to push his head away. Tear rolled freely down her cheeks now, "No, please," she begged, "It's dirty. It's too...dirty. Don't..." He either didn't hear or didn't listen, driving his tongue deeper inside of her, homing in on her clitoris. She writhed then, squirming and gasping while trying desperately not to lose contact. With his tongue working her most sensitive spot in the front and his hands kneading her bottom in the back, she soon lost all awareness of anything but his hands, his tongue, and what they were doing to her. She squirmed. She moaned. Soon, she felt a trembling overtake her entire body, starting where his tongue touched her and working its way outward. At that moment, she couldn't feel like more of a whore and she couldn't care less. "Oh, God!" she cried out, "Oh, Thule. Oh, God." Still, he did not relent. And the pleasure went on and on, wave after wave washing over her. Even after he stopped, pulling her into his lap, naked thighs straddling his legs, breasts mashed against his bare chest, she shuddered as wave after wave of aftershocks shook her. She sat in his arms, crying and letting him stroke her hair for a long time after that. She was supremely aware of his cock straining against his pants beneath her, embarassingly aware of how much she wanted to slide it free of his pants and mount it right now. Fingers trembling, she reached down, undoing his belt. He stood, letting his pants fall free. But, before she could make her intentions known, his hand was on her shoulder, pushing her to her knees. She wanted to protest, but the moment of insanity passed and she was grateful to have another way out. She wrapped her mouth around his cock, sucking it as he'd taught her the previous night. It was easier this time. She licked and sucked it, making up in enthusiasm what she lacked in technique. After a few minutes, he grabbed a fistful of her hair, trying to pull her away, "I'm coming," he gasped. Not wanting a repeat of the uncontrolled explosion last night, she refused to be dislodged. Again the hot, bitter liquid burned her mouth and throat, but she managed to keep most of it inside this time, dribbling only a little bit down her chin. He collapsed into the chair, pulling her into his lap. Their naked groins were less than a foot apart, but his didn't seem particularly threatening at the moment. She lay her head on his chest and listened to his heart until it slowed to a normal speed. Noticing the time, she leapt up from his lap, ran to her desk, and frantically dialed the phone. After three rings, her stepfather picked up, "Yes?" "Sir, it's me," she said, "Marigold. I lost track of time again. I'm still at the newspaper. We had to do physical layout tonight. I'll be done real soon." There was a long paused and then a sigh at the other end of the line, "Marigold, I thought I made it clear last night that you were not to stay there so late night after night." "Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir. Things just ran late and..." "I still expect you to do your Bible lesson tonight. One day, we can let it slide, but a good, Christian instruction is essential to the raising of children." "Yes, Sir. I'll be there soon, Sir." she said. The other end of the line went dead. Thule chuckled, "He sounds like a bit of a hard-ass." "He's concerned about my upbringing," she said defensively. He's afraid I'll stop being a good Christian when I leave in September. If he only knew..." Her voice trailed off as she started crying. He was up, his arms around her, before she knew he had moved, "What's the matter?" he asked. "I'm such a slut," she whispered, "I don't have to go away to be a bad Christian." "Hey," said Thule, comfortingly, "come on. You're not a slut. I'm blackmailing you. Remember?" She laughed miserably, "I wish it were that easy. But, I liked it. And, I wanted....no, never mind." "You wanted what?" he asked, "Tell me, my tethered goddess." She smiled at the nickname, "I wanted more. I wanted it all. I didn't want you in my mouth. I wanted you between my legs. Even here, even now. God knows what I am." Thule nodded, "Aye. God knows that you're a screwed up chick if you think you're bad for this. God made sex feel good. He didn't do it because he wanted us to avoid it. He wants us to fuck. God is a big fan of fucking." She chuckled, wiping her eyes, "I don't remember that verse in the Bible." "Read Song of Solomon again some time," Thule answered, "you'll find it between the lines." (Legal note: This is mine, not yours. Read it. Enjoy it. Print out a copy if you want to read it in bed. Don't steal it. If I find it anywhere else than here or in the Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository, it will not go well for you.) --Vulgar Argot http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/VulgarArgot/index.html -- "I've been accused of vulgarity. I say that's bullshit." --Mel Brooks -- 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 | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+