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Subject: {ASSM} Sunday Morning 1/3: True, MF
Date: Mon, 10 Apr 2000 21:10:59 -0400
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All rights remain with the author. Possession of a copy of this text
does not imply permission to distribute it, other than for no fee and in
its entirety, including this notice.

This story is true and autobiographical. Truth though is in the eye of
the beholder and as this is my story, it is also my truth. It happened,
just as you are about to read, over ten years ago. I still sometimes
wonder if it was just a dream, something I imagined or pieced
together from countless fantasises. It *is* in my real experience; it
does not contain many of the absurd conventions of fantasy sexual
encounters. Judge it by the measure of your own experience, for it is
in mine.

This story is for adults, however that might be defined in your
country. In mine everything recounted below is legal. Compared to
many stories of this type it is probably tame in terms of 'steam' , but
for all that I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it for
you.
I needed to write it;  to allay the ghosts of my memories.

Joseph Lawrence, Copyright 2000



Story: Sunday Morning

1. The Top Room.

	I lay on the bed alone. It was an old fashioned single bed, the
sort that's prone to squeaks from its rusting frame and creaks from its
darkened varnished head board. I kept the pace down, so as not to let
the rust betray my actions. I was twenty-one and my lightly clenched
hand slipped over thin lubricated latex. The sensations it gave me
through the crinkling rubber lit up the darkness in my head but left the
darkness around me as thick as ever. I prayed that hardly a sound
would leave the room while within there could be no doubt as to what
I was doing. It didn't take long, my head filled with red, my breath
fell
from me and my heart pounded even faster than the beat of my hand.
My lions tightened, holding high above the bed for a moment before
they exploded, filling the latex with liquid latent humanity. In the
long
blank seconds that followed I became aware once more of the
darkness around me, and the warmth of the bed around me. Had I, in
my moments of oblivion, given myself away? I waited, holding my
breath against the tightness in my chest for precious seconds so as to
listen for sounds of movement around me. None came. It was a little
after three in the morning.
	In that highest room in the house I did not lay in my own
bed. Around me a foreign household slept, or I hoped it did. In the
room below me slumbered a friend, a mid-forty year old mother. In
the room next to me, separated by a thin partition, lay her sixteen year
old daughter. Two floors below, curled up with each other for
companionship slept two dogs. No one made a sound. If they had
heard me they were keeping silent about it. In my hand I shrank;
slipping out of the now cooling latex. Another fantasy had passed. I
slept, consigning the problem of disposing of the evidence to the
morning.
	Light softly sifted in through the closed curtains. I smiled to
myself. Thoughts from the night drifted into my mind, pleasing
thoughts, powerful thoughts. Here I was on a Sunday morning in
someone else's bed. The trouble was it was their spare bed. The room
was nothing new, it had all started a year before. The house was
owned by a teacher. She and I shared a passion, but no passion, for
folk music. Every Saturday night we went to a club and listened, and
in her case occasionally joined in. I drank a beer or two, and more
often than not we all ended up at someone's house until the small
hours. At first I had driven myself home each time, but later, and with
not a little fear of the dangers of driving after drinking she had
offered
for me to stay the night at her house. Her daughter, sixteen but still
in
some ways a lot younger, wanted nothing of all this. She had her own
friends and went out with them to places we knew nothing about. She
still clung on to some girlish things; she still loved to ride her pony
and went all giggly at mention of many of the more womanly
practical things that had come into her life over the past few years.
She was beginning to make her own way in life, and as in generally
does, her way meant 'not her mother's way'. There was no father. Her
parents had divorced soon after she was born and her mother
remained single. She had had a few men friends, though none had
lasted longer than six months. The last had been a mandolin player by
night, and an electrician by day; he had left two months ago. Apart
from me, the house was filled with females; I was outnumbered.
	I had been fantasising about the daughter the night before. It
was her face that filled my head just before it briefly left this world.
It
was just a fantasy of course, as were thoughts of the mother. There
was no love between any of us, though I was considered almost an
honorary member of the family. In a sense I was rather more than the
daughter, who, in her patchy growth towards womanhood, spent less
and less time in the house than I did! For all that she was a likeable
girl, beautiful in an unassuming way. She was not a child, but she
was, and she knew it. There were boys in her life, one or two that her
mother knew about, and while they did go to her room there was no
indication that they did anything else other than to listen to the
latest
records; not too loudly either. The daughter did her teenage rebellion
in other, softer ways. I wondered what she wore in bed to cover her
young curves. She held her breasts high with little assistance from any
garment. She would not discuss the matter of support with her mother,
preferring to giggle and leave the room in embarrassed amusement. I
wondered if she had ever taken off that nightwear for some acne-
pocked stick insect of a teenager. Maybe she had; for all the remnants
of her girlish youth, it was difficult to see her clad in haloed white.
Her mother, on the other hand, carried the scars of sags of years of
disappointment with men. I stood no chance with either of them,
especially as I was but a rather socially inept but friendly virgin. I
was
harmless, and they both knew it. They knew I'd never force my
advantage, if indeed I had one. They knew that they were just my
friends, and maybe that why the door to my room opened then and
through it stepped the daughter. She covered the few feet to the
window and opened the curtains and then looked round to me. Now I
knew, and it fitted both her body and her character perfectly - a
'Forever Friends' night-shirt.
	She stared for a moment. Obviously she had not expected me
to be there, or had forgotten my likely presence. She smiled, "Hello."
	I didn't know what to think. Here was the vision of my
dreams standing before me in all her innocence and not a lot else.
Frankly I suspect I was the more embarrassed. No, I know I was the
more embarrassed, for she stood before me confidently, but was that
confidence born of innocence or knowledge. How could I find out?
Did I have the guts to find out? I tried, "D, d, d..." I stammered,
making my doubts clear, "d, dddoo you know what a girl like you can
do to a man st, st, st, sttanding like that?" My mind raced with dreams:
of her lifting her night-shirt over her head, or her walking to my bed,
of her lifting the covers and sliding her tight body in beside mine. My
body responded silently.
	"Standing like what?" She said, her nipples clearly visible
behind the print. Was she the innocent, or the tease? I made my point
plainer.
	"A attractive sixteen year old girl. Standing in little more
than a night-shirt. I mean, its enough to make any man..." then I
realised it was best not to go there. This whole episode had gone on
long enough, and was beginning the threaten my long term presence
in the house.
	"You think I'm attractive then?"
	"Well..."
	"Do you?" She giggled disarmingly.
	I swallowed and lifted my head a little. "Yes."
	"How?"
	"Don't you think you ought to go and put something on
before you get me carried away?"
	"Would you really? Get carried away I mean?"
	Even though I knew it would get me into deep trouble I told
the truth, "Yes. Now go on."
	She smiled at me and walked out, leaving the door ajar. The
moment had passed, and with it the danger. Whatever my fantasies,
the realities of intimacy with a sixteen year old while her mother lay,
probably awake, in the room below were quite a different matter.
Different enough to dissipate any excitement her lithe presence had
caused.
	Drawers opened and closed in the room next to me. A door
opened close by. A footstep creaked on the floorboards of the landing.
I closed my eyes and breathed out in relief. When I heard my door
close I opened them and  my breath left me. She stood, naked now by
my bed. She was close enough to touch. With her night-shirt had gone
most of her girlishness. This vision, this dream was a woman, albeit is
small one, petite but perfectly formed. Her breasts curved tightly, her
nipples standing proud and firm. Her short dark hair complimented
perfectly by the thin mat that topped her legs. She was close, but so
far away that I dare not reach out for her. My body tensed and sprang
into readiness, but I knew I could not allow myself to do what I was
ready for. My heart filled my chest as my manhood filled my loins.
	"Are you carried away now?" She said smiling in a
confidently matter of fact way. I didn't know what to say. I was a
virgin, and while I knew what I should do in theory I had no idea of
what to do in practice. I also knew that with her mother just below us I
must do nothing. Why did she have to tease me so?
	"Are you serious? Or are you just playing with me?"
	"Very serious," she said with pleading eyes, "please help
me."
	"Help you? How can I help you?"
	"Do you have to be so dumb? I'm offering myself to you and
you have to ask how?"
	"I'm a frightened virgin, and you mother is asleep in the
room below. If she finds out what's happening here she kill me."
	"Please! I need you."
	"Do you need me in particular? Or will any man do?"
	She looked hurt, "Go on, make fun of me. Don't you like me?
Don't you like what you see?"
	"I love what I see, you're beautiful, and any man should be
proud to know you, but I can't be that man."
	"Yes you can. I know you don't love me, you never will, but
right now I need to be a woman and not a girl. Please, let me give
myself to you."
	"...and I to you," I said in involuntary agreement.
	She stepped closer. A wisp of a scent more powerful than
any exotic perfume reached me and stoked the fire in my loins. She
spread he legs a little, and the wisp became a gentle breeze. It took my
hand and, pushed on by a trembling fearful heart, drew it out from
under the covers. I reached out for her wrist. She held herself stiffly
and closed her eyes with an intake of breath. With the heat of her skin
on my hand I stopped, frozen by fear, anticipation, self-doubt and
inexperience. She opened her eyes and looked down. She drew her
arm away, only to bring it forward again to take my shaking hand and
bring it gently to her breast. She closed her eyes once more. I had
never felt such a feeling before. She had placed my hand with my
fingers resting on her outstretched nipple. I was surprised how full it
felt, I was surprised at how her breath changed - heaving and gasping
- as I slipped my hand slightly to one side. I paused. Her breath
shallowed slightly, though it was still laboured. I pulled back
slightly,
only to have her thin fingers grasp my hand and press it back to her
breast. Beneath my fingers now I could feel pimples in the disc
around her nipple, which I tentatively brushed to and fro. She leaded
forwards and tipped her head to kiss my forearm, "I'm not made of
glass. You can do whatever you like."
	Partly from inexperience and partly from wanting to make
the moment be as memorable as possible I answered, "I want to do
whatever you like. You're the one who matters. I want you to be
happy."
	She looked into my eyes and taking my hand again, she
moved forwards, slipping my hand over her belly and to her thigh.
She brought her nipple to the side of the bed and with words unspoken
asked for me to kiss it. I leant forwards, my hand moving lower, my
instinct overpowering my intellect. I knew this must not happen, yet
here I was letting it happen, and wanting it never to end. I open my
mouth a little, readying my lips to close with her flesh. I stopped and
tiled my head to look up. Our eyes met again and she nodded, smiling
at me to go on. I sighed and felt the warmth and fullness of her breast
on my lips and the wirey roughness of her hair on my fingertips. She
brought her hands up to rest on my head, holding me lightly to her. I
felt the radiant heat of her readiness on my hand and the strength of
her thighs on my palm. I latched on to her nipple and rippled it at the
end of my tongue. I had never felt anything so beautiful in my life.
	I licked and sucked on her breast for what seemed in those
fast running moments like hours, all the time my hand tentatively
touched, probing ever further with each stroke. First touching her
hairs, then drawing back to stroke her thigh. Then moved forward
again to run the tips along the borders of her hair. I remember, in my
haze, remarking that the hair that adorned her was not soft and downy
as I had expected, but hard. She just nodded between gasps and closed
her eyes to savour the sensations. Growing bolder, I brought my hand
up to lay on her belly above her hair then ran it down her other thigh
that twitched momentarily before slipping further away. Her
movement caught me by surprise, bringing my fingers fully into her
bush, pressing onto the yielding fatty flesh below. I panicked, drawing
back sharply, my teeth pulling past her nipple.
	"Careful!" She gasped sharply. "What's the matter, don't you
like what you feel?"
	"I love what I feel, I just... I just don't know exactly what it
is
that I'm feeling."
	"Come here again, and I'll show you."
	I paused, more afraid than at any time since the night before.
	"Come on. You might not know what you're feeling, but
you're feeling it well. Come..." She raised her hand to my head, and
arching her back a little, she drew my head back to her breast. In the
sharp light of the early morning her skin looked almost flawless, and
her breasts seemed the most wonderful things in the whole world. I
sighed once more as my mouth touched the rippled tumescent nipple.
With me back to her she reached for my hand once more and took my
middle finger between hers. "Don't be afraid," she said in a voice
twice as gentle as her years. With that she guided my hand to her hair-
covered mound once more, pressing my finger to the top of the
parting that I only knew from fleeting glimpses in magazines and in
books. "It's ok," she said, "you can touch what you like." The thoughts
that rushed through me terrified me. Her warm mound was filling
beneath me, a heat rose from below, a heat that combined with the
delicious exotic scents to drive my finger downwards. She shuddered
as her lips parted slightly allowing my fingertip to slip a little into
her,
but it was only a fraction, a tiny foretaste of what it promised to
give.
For the first time I began to realise that my dreams might be about to
come true, and that the next thing I was to fill might not be just a
condom.
	Somehow, back in my once teenage mind, I had thought that
once between a woman's lips my finger, or anything else that I could
place there, would disappear without trace into an almost liquid
heaven. It didn't. My fingertip drew over full flesh, hot, full, but not
liquid, nor was there any trace of the delicately scented hole which I
had expected. The scent, while wonderfully enticing, was rich and
complex;  a powerful melange of fruit and smoke. Somehow it
reached deep into me and pulled at me, calling me to taste its riches,
to imbibe it and wallow in its heady grasp. Yet still I had not found
its
source. It had found me, but I knew not  from where it came. I slipped
my finger lower. Another misconception that was instantly destroyed
was that a woman's pussy opened at the front of her body. Even in my
confused excitement I could clearly tell I was having to curve my
hand more and more to go under her. Then it happened. It took me
totally by surprise; it shook me, forcing me to gasp loudly. My finger
slipped easily to the depth of the nail between her folds. The flood of
scent told me that I had found the source of her incredible hold on me.
The realisation held me tight; I was in a woman; I had found her.
	She moved once more, giving me easier access. I ran my
finger up and down exploring the extent of her, but never further in.
Her inner lips felt almost rubbery, but with her fluids on my fingertip
they slipped easily underneath me. She reached down with a hand
once more, urging my finger up. I almost felt cheated as she forced
me out of her to rest between her upper outer lips. She gasped
breathed urgently. I didn't know what I was doing, but her hand on
mine drew me back and forth over the warm folds of flesh, each time
sending a gasp to her mouth. I stopped sucking on her breast. She
slipped her free hand onto the back of my head and once more drew
me to her. She knew what she wanted from me, even if I had little
idea of what that might be.
	Cold, a rush of cold air over my thighs. Cold air and a
pressure taken off my loins. Filled with her scents and passion, I
didn't
care what had happened, until a warm hand  grasped me firmly. She
stroked at me quickly and urgently. A woman was actually touching
me! I dropped my finger down, slipping through her folds and into
her. I pushed it in, in into her, in deep, as deep as I could in my
inexperience. She cried out, though no in pain. For all her tightness
and dryness of earlier she was now open and inviting, yielding and
giving. Her hand gripped tighter, stroking me faster. I felt the start
of
the tightness in my loins, I felt the gentle scrape of her hair on my
knuckle, I felt the surge of her chest and the rush of her heartbeat. I
arched off the bed, she tugged at my hair and my finger slipped in and
out of her lucious folds. Then she froze.
	I carried on with my motions, made oblivious to the world by
her delicious and heaving body. She released me suddenly and
grabbed at my hair, pulling me away from her. I carried on probing
her with my fingers, but she writhed back  and I slipped out as she put
herself out of reach. I open my eyes and looked to her. She tipped her
head to the door. My eyes followed as my gaze reached it, all signs of
my excitement fell away. Here was I, lying naked with a filled
condom lying halfway down the bed,  with an equally naked sixteen
year old whose heart still beat the rhythm of arousal as her mother
looked sternly on both of us. No words were spoken; none would have
been able to express the intense embarrassment of the moment for any
and all of us. I felt acutely ashamed. I had abused the mother's trust
by
allowing myself to take advantage, or some might say abuse, her only
daughter in broad daylight under her own roof. I knew my time there
was very limited, probably to enough to get dressed and hurry off, and
I would never darken her door again.
	"Young lady! Get down those stairs at once!" The daughter
dropped her head in shame and stepped out, slipping behind her
mother's robed form.
	I felt I deserved everything I was no doubt about to get.
"What on earth do you think you were doing?"
	My stammer fell away. "I couldn't help myself!"
	"You certainly did help yourself! She's only sixteen for God's
sake!" With that she stormed out leaving me wondering what I should
do next. Should I get dressed and slip away? Should I try to
apologise? Should I defend the daughter's honour and ruin my own?
Should I drop her in it for the sake of my pride? Should I stand my
ground unrepentant, after all we were consenting adults... in law at
any rate? Somehow I couldn't bear to get off the bed. As I dithered,
the threatened storm broke below me. Voices in accusation and anger,
voices raised in despair, then nothing... nothing. How could I leave
now, breaking the silence? How could I even move for fear of the
noise that it might cause? I knew my welcome in the house had
expired the moment her night-shirt had touched the floor. Then I
heard crying.
	Gathering my clothes, I dressed as best I could, finally
tiptoeing to the door. I opened it painfully slowly and carefully. I
stopped to work out how long it would take to get out of the house,
then realising that I could do nothing to help the situation I stepped
out along the hall. I passed her room door, still with one of those
name plaque's on it. I turned the corner to go down the next flight and
stopped. Ahead the mother's door lay open. I would have to pass it to
get out. I pressed on filled with nervousness. I got to the door but
dare not look in. I passed it quickly and quietly. Only one more flight
and I'd be free, one more flight of stairs to get to the rest of my
life, just one...


To be continued.

Joseph Lawrence, copyright 2000.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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