Message-ID: <46568asstr$1076411403@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: by_jane@literotica.org (jane) X-Original-Message-ID: <80045de.0402092058.3a8f93b9@posting.google.com> Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 10 Feb 2004 04:58:47 +0000 (UTC) X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 9 Feb 2004 20:58:46 -0800 Subject: {ASSM} Glimpses 06/94 by jane Lines: 523 Date: Tue, 10 Feb 2004 06:10:03 -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: dennyw, IceAltar Author: jane Title: Glimpses 06/94 Summary: Marsha and Rebecca play a game of dares while at their picnic. Keywords: none Length: 2703 words Copyright: c. 2004 *1 September 1996, Sunday - part one* i know ... monday is the holiday ... but for a cottage- closer thats a day of fighting traffic, of packing and unpacking, of putting up the shutters or taking down the tent ... monday, teachers have to do their tuesday lesson plan ... fran and anna worry over that ... and children feel a vague uneasiness that summers end is final, a year might change them, make them strangers to the fun theyd had that season ... maybe thats why sunday is more restful, why marshas picnic happened when it did ... and centre island? ... imagine, if youve never been there, several islets chained together ... big enough for picnic crowds and solitudes, carrousels and beaches, lagoons and massive willows ... relax ... and watch how marsha celebrates an end and a beginning ... toronto ... § Outside of Old Mill station, Marsha sweltered, waiting for her friend. Heat floated from the downtown core like oil across a puddle. Should have done Algonquin. Not downtown. Should have closed the cottage. Always did when Dad was ... She bit her lip. She'd chosen from the possible, not dreams. Worse in NYC with Lib. Bec needed this. "You're late." "No way. You're early." In baggy shorts and linen blouse, Rebecca was the shorter, larger of the two. Straight, brown hair just touched her shoulders. "Fuck, it's hot." They plodded through the pastel cavern wired to Discmans, barely hearing shrieks of steel, assaulted by the smell of diesel fuel while walking to the platform. A blur of glass and metal slowed and stopped, then doors slid open. They slouched onto the nearly empty train, still lost inside their music; they dropped their canvas packs and slipped onto a seat. A couple sat across from them. Early twenties, maybe? He wore an earring; she wore her chestnut hair in braids and beads. Her blouse, so sheer it barely cast a shadow on her braless chest, held Marsha's full attention. No tan-lines marred the breasts that swayed beneath the filmy top. Marsha leaned her leg against Rebecca's, felt pressure in return. You're watching too. The woman placed her hand atop her partner's thigh and let the train's momentum ease it slowly toward his groin. Marsha held her breath. The hand touched up against a lump. Fingers pressed the cloth to give it definition, to show its shape and length and thickness. Her fingers made it swell, then made it spasm underneath his shorts. She squeezed it. Three warning notes announced a station; the passengers exhaled. At Runnymede new riders entered; the notes repeated; the train resumed its race. The couple's eyes stayed frozen, their faces calm. His hand, this time, explored his partner, roamed across the blouse to find the hem, to slip beneath it. His thumb and finger grasped a nipple, rolled it left, then right, the cloth so thin that Marsha saw the wrinkles wax and wane across its surface. He held it. Perspiration formed along the woman's brow. He freed it, let it sway, erect, with every subway lurch. Lips twitched. Marsha pressed her thighs together. The signal for another stop resounded. The hand withdrew. The couple rose and straightened clothing and disappeared behind the sliding doors. Done, as sudden as it started. The train accelerated. The banshee wheels defeated speech, and Marsha turned toward her friend to mouth a "Wow!" "Believe it! Weird!" Marsha put her lips to Becca's ear. "Cool, eh?" "Why'd they do it, Marsh?" She felt a tremble of excitement, wondered what had happened to the couple just before the ride and what might happen after. What a turn on! "Dares," she answered simply, distracted by a daydream and the mewling of her clit. § Walking south on Bay toward the docks, they giggled as they thought about the trip downtown. Laughter bent them double while waiting for a light. "Don't tell we missed our stop, okay? Rebecca?" "You were dreaming of her boobs." Marsha shoved her. "As if you weren't. They jiggled!" Union Station to the ferries wasn't far. Air cooled suddenly. All at once she sensed a difference: an extravagance of sky, a squabbling of gulls, the heavy smell of water. Four others waited with a football on the terrace of the entrance. Rebecca saw them first. "Kim! It's awesome!" "Love it!" Marsha hugged her teammate, palmed her shaven head as if she'd like to dribble it or shoot. "I'm almost grounded," Kim complained. "Mom's in shock. My dad gets back tomorrow." "Rad. You look like twenty-five or something. Like a white-ass Michael Jordan." Marsha pushed her tongue along her chin. "More like some refugee," said Trevor, pushing hands into his cut-off jeans and kicking at the concrete. "You'd think my hair was his." Kim threw a pass too low to catch and watched her boyfriend chase it. "Not for me. No way," whined Crystal. "It looks like cancer." She was small, with breasts that overflowed a push-up bra and strained her tight, white tee. Danny put himself in charge. A quarterback-in-waiting, he issued his commands, "Let's do it, guys. We can bullshit on the ferry." The six broke huddle, then queued for tickets with a whisper lost in seagull screes and breezes off the Lake. "They jiggled! Just like fucking Jello!" § It sucks. As if. The guys had set things so their girlfriends played across from them. Soft tackle. Not hard to figure why. The person with the ball, Crys or Kim, got mauled by Dan or Trevor. A hand caught accidentally underneath a top or hooked inside a thigh. A roll across the grass. Groping, more than football. Am I supposed to cheer? Or do I need a fucking date to get to play? Then Crystal sprained a finger. Danny dried her tears, while Marsha and Rebecca shared a soda. "What a drag, Marsh." "Duh. We're like invisible." Then Rebecca, with one word, changed everything, "Dare." "Dare what?" "Take out Trevor. Let Kim score." "And how do I do that?" Marsha was a runner, but Trevor lifted weights. A grin italicized Rebecca's answer, "I bet you could think of something. Dare." "A sip?" Kim asked. "What's all the whispering?" Marsha eyed Rebecca. "You're about to score a touchdown, Kim." "Let's go," commanded Danny from the makeshift field. Crystal waved her finger as the teams lined up across the ball. Kim, at centre, let the back of Danny's hand rub lightly on her butt. The plays were all identical. Dan takes the snap and, just as Crystal tries to sack him, he shovels it to Kim. Trevor makes the stop and cops the feel. Marsha blocks or stands and watches. It almost went that way. Kim caught the lob and followed Marsha down the field. Trevor leered. But Marsha stopped just short of him, just as he leaned to dump her, stopped and raised her elbows. Her short tank top rode up across her torso, high enough to show she hadn't worn a bra, high enough show her tight brown nipples, not a deke described in Trevor's playbook. Marsha ducked beneath his empty grasp. He tottered forward. She reached a hand to stop his fall and caught him right between his thighs. She held him steady, his penis limp against her palm. He gained his equilibrium, but Marsha held on long enough to feel it start to swell. "Touchdown!" sang Kim from twenty yards up-field. "Nice block," he muttered. "My pleasure," softly. "Hey!" Kim sprinted next to them. "Just like you said." "Nice run. We oughta jog sometime." Then Marsha winked. The wink ran out the clock. The heat got hotter; Crystal's finger hurt again, and Trevor wanted beer. They kicked their runners off and settled on the grass. Marsha said, "Let's rent a bike." Rebecca felt like sketching. They left. The others voted for a swim. § "You slut! You really did it!" "I did." Marsha clapped a hand across her eyes and choked in laughter. "You should've seen his face!" "He's Mr. Stud." Marsha frowned. "Hey, Bec, so why did I get picked? You're my slave, right? Remember?" She laughed. "Oh yeah. Like you hated it." The couple slowed. The path meandered toward the rental outlet in and out of shadows. Marsha chose her words with care. "It was a rush! Would you have ..." was followed by a lifting of her shoulders. Ambiguity, as if a sudden breeze had blown it, disappeared. "I would've. Yes," Rebecca answered. Then Marsha changed the subject. They talked of school and movie scenes and songs and clothes that one could die for. Not until they'd paid deposits, picked the bikes, and pushed them onto blacktop, did Marsha grin and whisper, "Bec, I dare you." "What?" "Do the ride without your bra. Like me." Rebecca laughed, "You're nuts. I'm not a stick like you. I'm gonna bounce all over. No." "You've got no choice. I own you." "You're bad, Girl!" Marsha heard a tremor in her best friend's voice but only shook her head at further protests. She watched Rebeccca walk toward a change room, then waited, wondered if she'd really have the nerve. The blouse was sleeveless, flimsy, with only pockets to provide some modesty. It'd chafe her nipples, would get them hard. She felt Rebecca's fear, but something else as well. It made her tingle, being in control. Marsha saw her, and she smiled. There was a wave each time Rebecca stepped, a telltale swing, a crimson in her cheeks. "I can't. I have to put it on again. Please, Marsh," she whispered. "I'm naked. It's too weird." "Chill. There's no one even looking." Marsha laughed. "Come here. I'll fix you. Uncross your arms." "I'm fixed! I did the dare. It's over." "Trust me." Marsha pulled her closer. "A little more support. A little less complaining." Marsha quickly slipped the last three buttons. "Don't!" "Wanna lose the blouse as well?" she teased, then bunched the tails and tied a knot beneath her bosom. "How's that?" Then she freed the final button at the top. "Awesome!" "More like I'll get arrested." "You love it. Is that your mother over there?" "Oh, shit. Don't start that, Marsha. Please." They set a lazy pace that let them steal long glances at each other. Rebecca's top, with arms extended on the handlebars, exposed herself along each side. Marsha's was too short for leaning. "Ride like on your ten speed, Marsh." The cloth rode up. Marsha's breasts hung free. "Woohooo! A dare!" "No way." "Yeah, way. Those guys. When we catch up to them, just lean." "You're dreaming, Girl." Four young men in ball caps, paired by coolers slung between them, blocked the road ahead. The talk was Jays. Engrossed in baseball, shoves and shouts, they didn't hear two cyclists approaching from behind. It staggered them, the bikes from out of nowhere, one on either side. It shocked them, when a blonde-haired teen leaned forward, raised her elbow purposefully, and flashed. They froze. Then dropped the coolers long enough to clap. Then, whistled. Then, shouted naughty propositions at the disappearing teens. "Rude," Rebecca laughed. "You're crazy, Girl!" § Near the docks at Hanlan's Point they rested, shared water from a fountain. "They better not be there when we go back, Bec." "They bite. You loved it." "You picked a winner audience." "You loved it, Marsh." "Still wanna sketch?" "Always." "You pick where." At school they'd battled for the perfect point of view. Once, in Seven, an easel-shoving tiff required an intervention from the principal himself. Still, going into Twelve, it was a ritual to jockey for position. Not today. Rebecca found a place where she could see the harbour through a frame of stately maples, and Marsha acquiesced. She said she liked the quiet: a family picnic further down and no one else in sight. She waited till her friend had planned a skyline, then settled on the grass nearby. "What's up?" Rebecca studied buildings while she talked. "I'm doing you." "Not." "Just draw. You'll never even know." "I'll know." "At Tech," Marsha muttered while holding out her pencil to measured Becca's head, "we'd have nude models." "Right. So stop it. Now! Get lost." "This is perfect." Marsha drew two lines to catch the angles of the head and trunk. "Take off your blouse, okay?" "I'm not listening. I'm drawing." "So draw." "The light's perfect." "Just your top is all. For me." "Get real, Marsh. I'm concentrating here." "Okay. Just undo it. No one's gonna see. Not off, just open." She waited for approval before she added, "Dare." Rebecca tapped her pencil on the book. Marsha smiled. "You're totally insane." She pulled the knot, then slipped the last remaining button. Panels of the blouse now hid her from the sides, but Marsha's view was clear. Just a flutter when a breeze attacked the cloth. "I could get in so much shit." "You're fine. No one's even close. Just move that side a little. Just a bit. So I can see your tips. Perfect." "Marsha!" Blood engorged her nipples and rouged her cheeks. "I can't draw like this." "Then don't. Don't move. You're perfect." Her pencil swept across the pad, picking out strong shadows at the neck, the hip, the base of each round globe. She contoured swells and rolls of flesh, fought not to over-emphasize the darker oval or the yearning of the nipples. It was sensual, but not erotic. Marsha's mind was lines and tones. "Move your right leg down a touch." Rebecca's drawing lay beside her. "How long?" "Ugly shorts, Bec. They're wrecking it. Take another dare?" "You're psycho, Marsh. No way. Am I naked in the sketch?" "Such a baby. Here." Marsha closed the book and crawled the space between them. "Don't move. They're gross. I'm tired of drapery. Don't move. Keep looking where you were." Marsha rolled each hem until the shorts had disappeared beneath the shirt. Rebecca squirmed each time a wayward finger brushed her thigh or touched her floral panties. "There. Cool gotchies." "Marsh! You didn't ask! How much can people see?" "Relax. No one's even close. Hold it just like that. It's rad. I'll leave a little of the blouse. A tease. Okay?" "How would you feel naked?" Marsha mapped the muscles of each leg, crossing through the flesh, avoiding outlines, building forms with shade and highlight, looking for a third dimension in each line. She checked proportions critically, then paused. "What's wrong?" "I'm almost done." Marsha glanced behind her. The nearest people, thirty yards away, were totally oblivious, absorbed in grilling something. "Bec? Don't freak on me. This is boss. I mean it. It's just for you. No one else will ever see it." 'Kay." "Two minutes, Bec. Just trust me for that long." "I'm not going any further, Marsh. Not in public. No way!" Marsha didn't ask. She turned the sketch face-down and crawled back to her friend. "For me." She brushed an errant strand of Becca's hair. "Don't move." Marsha's hand swept lightly on the model's thigh. She jumped when Marsha touched her panties. "Marsh!" "Don't!" She pulled the crotch aside, exposing soft brown pubic curls. "Don't freak, Bec. Nobody can see. I have to finish this." Rebecca winced. "You're crazy, Marsha." "I can't just leave a blank." "Marsh." "Don't move." Rebecca shuddered at a breeze. "I'm almost done." "You'd better be. God, you owe me!" "I wish we had a place where I could spend all day on this." "Hurry." "Just a little shading, Bec. A touch." "Can anybody see?" "There." And it was over. Rebecca readjusted things, retied her blouse and stretched her cramping legs before she looked at Marsha's sketch. They studied it together. "It's beautiful." "You mean it, Bec?" "She's beautiful. It isn't me." "It's you. You looked amazing." Rebecca eyed the drawing. "Am I still blushing?" "It's good on you. Innocent." "I am." "Go do your harbour scene." "Not now." "Excited?" "You know I was." "You're just a slut, Bec. Like me." Marsha laughed and started to remove the sketchbook page. "Keep it there till we get home. I want it safe. I want to keep it. To remember." "You think you might forget?" The couple laughed and pushed their bikes across the grass and started back to join the others. This story cannot be reposted or published without the author's permission. All comments and queries can be addressed to by_janeNO@SPAMliterotica.org by deleting the capital letters before sending. -- 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}| +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+