Message-ID: <45263asstr$1068462602@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: From: mmtwassel@aol.com (mat twassel) X-Original-Message-ID: <20031109190921.13111.00000349@mb-m04.aol.com> X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 10 Nov 2003 00:09:21 GMT Subject: {ASSM} [Blanket] Mat Twassel: Three If By Air Date: Mon, 10 Nov 2003 06:10:02 -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 Three If By Air by Mat Twassel =================================================== Eagle I am waiting at the light a few blocks from the Stop-N-Sock, and at the gas station on the corner just a few feet away, the woman--young, pretty, petite--is at the nearest pump, about to stick the gas nozzle into her black boxy car, an Explorer, maybe. Gas prices are soaring, but I don't care. She has on a halter top and these tan hiphugger shorts, and when she leans forward a little I can see way down her back to the tattoo of a bird, a big angry eagle--just his bold head and hooked beak and flat black wide-spread wings. What I wouldn't give to kiss that bird tattoo just above the woman's ass. I think about the bird's talons prying down beneath those hiphuggers, and when the light changes I am thinking about sticking my tongue as far as it would go into the heart of the woman's asshole. At the driving range I bash half a bucket of golf balls all over the place. My target is the big oak tree just beyond the back fence, but despite the stiff breeze blowing straight out I can't get near it. That the balls are old and decrepit doesn't help; for the life of me I can't keep my shots straight. I push right, hook left, sky and skull and dribble. I try all kinds of different swings. Finally I go back to the way I did it over a dozen years ago when I was in my twenties: aim left, swing hard and full, and make sure to follow through. Amazingly this works. The good old power fade. I slam ball after ball up against the fence right at the base of the tree. There are two balls left in the bucket when my hat blows off. It's a straw hat, and the wind just takes it. It sails out twenty yards before touching down, and then it starts rolling along on its brim. It rolls and rolls. Finally it comes to rest about 120 yards out in the middle of the driving range. Shit. I take out my nine iron and aim at the hat. I hit the shot just right, but nine iron is too much club, and the ball soars straight over the hat, lands ten yards beyond it, and bounds along the ground like a scared rabbit. On a good putting green maybe the ball would have bit and spun back, but the driving range turf is artificial stuff something like the backside of a welcome mat. To hit the hat I'd need to switch to the pitching wedge, but I don't; I hit my last ball with another nine iron--I hit it just as solid and true as the first one, and with the same result. Inside the pro shop I ask the guy if he can PA the people to stop hitting balls so I can fetch my hat. Then I trot out into the range, snatch up my hat, wave it briefly at the golfers on the practice tees, and trot back in. I'm just about back to the tees when I recognize the woman with the eagle tattoo. She has a full bucket of balls and a big headed driver with a golden shaft. She's really pretty, and maybe about twenty, and she's smiling at me. "Hey," she says. "Nice hat." I grin foolishly. It's only when I'm back in the car driving home that I think I should have said, "Nice tattoo." Or at least stayed to watch her swing. Not that anything would have come of it. Not that she'd want me to give her some tips or fuck her brains out. I do stop at the gas station where I'd first seen her, though--the same exact pump--and I think of her while I fill my tank. It's satisfying, but not very. Ladybug Hardly a proper kiss, just the briefest dry brush of lips at the end of our first date, but I was in love with Marlowe. I knew she was the one. For our second date we visited the Shaker Exhibition. It seemed appropriate. Marlowe wore no jewelry. She was beautifully simple and straightforward, as perfect as God made her. Sure enough, the display entranced Marlowe: stern brooms to smooth surfaces, the snug nest of oval boxes, the array of precision handtools. Marlowe beamed with pleasure admiring a Shaker chair. She turned to me, eyes agleam. "Wouldn't it be fun to sit on?" I scanned the hall. No guard in sight. "Maybe for a quick moment you could." "No. I mean naked. Wouldn't that be ...?" Then we kissed. A long, sweet, sweeping kiss. I'm sure people stared, but I didn't care. We kissed again, and hurried to my car, to my apartment, to my bed. I stroked her back. My fingers worked like light. "Isn't it ironic that Shakers didn't believe in sex?" "Mm. Ironic." "I mean their stuff is so sexy. Like you. Naturally beautiful. No jewelry. No tattoos." My fingers played upon her skin, rested on the perfection of her bottom. "Oh, but I do," she said, and her bottom clenched. "What? Where?" "A tattoo. Near my most secret spot. A little ladybug. My boyfriend had to hold me apart for the tattoo guy to work. Does it matter?" I didn't answer. I gripped her bottom as best I could. Gently I pried the cheeks apart. Nothing. Her skin was pure but for the pretty, star-shaped crinkle. Marlowe laughed. "Maybe he flew away. Or maybe ..." "What?" Again and again I've tried to find the ladybug. Still no luck. But I'll keep trying. Balloon A faint light, dim, and far away, and pale as ash, filters through the upper arches of Professor Levitt's rooftop office window. Ariel, one of Levitt's 19th Century American Poetry students, nestles best she can in the plush wing chair. Her legs, long and bare, hang over the arms. Gradually her breathing returns to normal. The dim light falls as quietly as late autumn leaves, and Ariel imagines she can hear them crush and crackle beneath the footfalls of students trudging the campus sidewalks towards their dorms and dinners and Friday night dates. A shiver shoots down Ariel's spine. Almost imperceptibly, her belly lurches. Her cunt lips curl. A thin lick of love sap seeps across the crinkle of Ariel's anus skin. "Oh," she sighs. Professor Levitt, observing carefully from the floor just in front of the wing chair, smiles up at Ariel. "What a delicious little aftershock," the professor exclaims, and she wipes a touch of similar slickness from her chin, tests it with her tongue, then watches as Ariel's secretions continue their slow pool. "I'm just a little chilly is all," Ariel claims, not daring to look in her professor's eyes. "Oh, you poor thing. You were so good. I'm sorry. Here, let me get you ..." Levitt rises gracefully from the floor and a moment later drapes something over Ariel. "Mm, nice blankie," Ariel coos, closing her eyes to better enjoy the softness of it sliding over her skin. Professor Levitt laughs. "Actually it's a sweater. It's big enough for a blanket, though--it's huge. One of Sam's little nieces knit it for him, but it's too big for Sammy, monster though he is, so I wear it sometimes to grade papers. Practically covers my knees. Comfy, isn't it?" Ariel murmurs something. She clasps the softness to her. The sweater is comfy. So are Professor Levitt's hands, caressing Ariel's shoulders as they are. And then her breasts, through the blanket--not the blanket, the sweater, Uncle Sammy's sweater, Ariel's breasts, Levitt's hands shaping them, holding them, bunching them, having them, blanket and breasts and mmm. Too soon the sweater slips away. Ariel opens her eyes, soft, questioning, smoke-blue pools. "Forgive me," Professor Levitt says. "I like looking at you bare. Suffer for me, okay? I'll warm you later. I'll make you so hot." Kneeling on the puddle of sweater, Professor Levitt lifts Ariel's nearer foot and lightly kisses each toe, biggest to smallest and then back again. In the end she takes the big toe into her mouth and sucks, licking, too, and pressing Ariel's arch with her fingers. Ariel shivers. Professor Levitt opens her mouth wider and takes all the toes inside. Her tongue delves a crease, and for a moment Ariel's skin is nothing but nipples. Ariel closes her eyes and seeks the skylight, while Levitt's tongue licks the tender bottom of Ariel's foot. Like walking on clouds, Ariel thinks, until the tongue rasps a delicate spot right in the center, and the tickle makes Ariel mad with want. Her foot jerks frantically. Levitt catches it, holds it fast, swallows the toe, and sucks and sucks and sucks, hollowing her cheeks with the effort. "You're going to make me pee!" Ariel cries, at last squirming free. "Oh, goodie," Levitt answers, staring with unabashed interest at Ariel's middle, and now Ariel is going to be embarrassed either way. "Don't worry, sweetie, the sweater makes a good mop, but maybe later," the professor says, letting Ariel off the hook. Levitt bundles it up and pushes it under Ariel's bottom. "Oh, I love that your pussy's so plump!" Ariel covers herself with her hands. Levitt takes the hands each by a wrist and leads the wrists away. "I need to see," she says. "I am a greedy monster, aren't I?" Keeping Ariel's wrists in her hands, Levitt lowers her mouth to Ariel's sparse muff, nuzzles and kisses the curly hair and sucks the damp strands, then dips lower, lips kissing the pointy clit, chin nudging the wet cunt wide. Ariel quivers when Levitt's tongue goes in--but it's out too quick for Ariel to come. "Oh," she gasps. Her thighs quake and her cunt clenches emptily. She starts a second "oh," one which Levitt, pumping her cunt-wet tongue into Ariel's juicy mouth, swallows. The kiss leaves Ariel limp. "Please," Ariel moans. Levitt moves her hand down to Ariel's mound. Her palm presses. Ariel moans again. "You do like to come, don't you?" Levitt says. Ariel whimpers. "Maybe I should make you do it yourself, just to see." Ariel shakes her head side to side. "No?" Levitt says. "No? Why not?" Ariel tenses. "Why not?" Levitt insists. "Tell me. Tell me, or I won't do it." Ariel takes a deep breath. "When I do it, it's like little soap bubbles popping. When you do it, it's like ... it's like ..." "Like what?" "Like everything." "Be specific." "I can't. "You can." "Like. Like. Like the World Trade Tower collapsing." Professor Levitt laughs. "Those poor firemen." Despite herself, despite Professor Levitt's fingers playing with her cunt, Ariel laughs, too. "Those lucky firemen," Professor Levitt says, lightly rubbing the pebble of Ariel's pee place. "You think I'm a horrible. You probably think I'm a horrible monster like Sammy." "Oh, Sammy's not a complete monster." "He's not?" "No, sometimes he can be sweet. Or at least courteous. Sometimes he'll shave extra close. Do you know a man's face can be a little bit like a bicycle seat?" Levitt's forefinger slides the taut stem of Ariel's pudgy clitoris. The bared bulb glistens. "But you said ..." "Sam's just a little spoiled is all. Six older sisters will do that." Levitt traces the soft skin outside Ariel's cunt lips. She pulls gently, then lets the puffy skin relax, then pulls again. The sticky squeak of sex oil makes her smile. "Now he's got scads of nieces, some of whom I've never seen. Oh, what sweet flaps you have!" Levitt takes one wing of Ariel's cunt between her fingers and spreads it out. Her thumb smoothes the petal. "For some reason they all adore him. They tease him mercilessly. Good old Uncle Sam. They send him things. Witness the oversize sweater. Getting all cunty with your drool." "Oh. I'm sorry." "Don't be. It's sweet. I love it. Maybe I'll wear it to bed tonight." "What if Uncle Sam smells it?" Professor Levitt chuckles. "Then I'll snuff him with it. He'll die a heavenly death." She takes some of the fabric and tries to stuff it into Ariel's opening. She doesn't manage to get much in. "Wait," Levitt says. "I've got a better idea. Something else. Something more fitting." She goes to her desk. A drawer opens and closes. A moment later Levitt returns. "What do you think of this?" "What is it?" Ariel asks. Professor Levitt hands Ariel the object. "An ink stamp," she says. "Of a hot air balloon. Another one of Sammy's nieces gave it to him. Or maybe it was the same niece as the sweater. It came with an ink pad, but that's all dried up now. No matter." Professor Levitt takes the stamp from Ariel and places the hard rubber panel of it gently against the skin of Ariel's belly just below her belly button. "Can you feel it? Does it feel like a balloon?" "I don't know," Ariel says. "Here, let me give you another one." Her hand around the handle, Professor Levitt presses the stamp into Ariel's tummy. "There, two balloons. Soon you'll be light enough to take off." "It tickles," Ariel says. Levitt gives her more and more balloons, one on top of the next. "If only the poor people on the World Trade Tower had these," she says, "they could have floated to safety. Wouldn't that have been nice?" Once again she pushes the face of the balloon stamp firmly against Ariel's belly, this time just an inch above her mound. Ariel moans. "I said wouldn't that have been nice?" Ariel shivers. "I guess so." "But the really good thing about this," Professor Levitt goes on, "is the handle." Now holding the stamp by its face, Levitt brushes the wooden handle against Ariel's sex. "The knob is not too small but not too fat." Patiently Levitt wets the wood with Ariel's juice. "The barrel's not too long, but not too short." Levitt eases an inch of handle inside Ariel. "Not too rough, not too smooth. What a nice little knob. Just right! Plump and fat and perfect for fucking you with." Levitt pushes the balloon. Another inch of handle goes in. Ariel's cunt grips it. "Hold on now," Levitt urges. With each push, the balloon's upper flange rubs Ariel's clit. The bevel and bulge burrow deeper. Ariel's hips lift. Her body quakes. Her cunt contracts against the barrel, her juices gush. The second trade center tower begins to topple, and Ariel, lighter than air, rises up, up, up, disappearing inside herself. Professor Levitt sighs with satisfaction. Life, with any luck, will be deliciously difficult from now on. =================================================== Three If By Air by Mat Twassel Portions of "Three If By Air" appeared in Desdmona's FishTank, a workshop for erotic stories. http://desdmona.com/fishtank.asp Help support ASSTR/ASSM http://www.asstr-mirror.org/donations.html -- 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: Moderators: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |ASSM Archive at Hosted by | |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}| +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+