Message-ID: <25101asstr$963195013@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Message-ID: <3968D5C0.EA7707E8@nls.net> From: Varangien <Kesper@nls.net> X-Accept-Language: en Subject: {ASSM} The Second Chance (1) Date: Sun, 9 Jul 2000 22:10:13 -0400 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org> Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/25101> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: english, gill-bates <1st attachment, "tsc (1).txt" begin> THE SECOND CHANCE PROLOGUE "Tom, Tom," I heard a voice whisper and felt a hand push at my leg. "Wake up you old man. People are staring." I became instantly alert and rubbed an eye, pretending that something were caught there. Eighteen eminent people looked at me, nine on each side of the long table in the wainscoted seminar room with leaded glass windows Alice, sitting beside me, was the one who had nudged me from my doze. Those scientists from half a dozen countries were there to hear the latest addition to my widely respected theory that time travel was possible but not within our particular universe. "Where was I," I grumbled, the pain in my belly returning. I took another pill with a swallow of water. "You were recapping your theory that we can travel back in time only in alternate universes," Alice whispered into my ear. I looked up at the sober faces who gazed back at me with astonishing respect, at me, an old man who would soon be oblivious to everything; who would not be aware of oblivion. "We can travel back," I began, then stopped to hack some phlegm into a handkerchief. "but not in our bodies. We can do it only with our minds, which, I posit, exist independently of our physical being." "Are you, perhaps, speaking of the soul, Professor?" asked a smooth faced Jesuit in rather dapper clerical garb. "No. The soul is a spiritual concept. I'm talking about the collective memories of an individual, the experience of existence. They can survive the death of the body, if transported into the past, into a close alternate universe where the only difference from our present one may be the existence or non existence of a single microbe. "That's an elegant notion," the priest replied with a small smile, hunching his shoulders and leaning forward at the table. "But it's no more provable than the hinges on the pearly gates." "Quite right, Father Quinn," I forced myself to smile through the nagging pain in my stomach. "Whoever manages the trip cannot return to tell us about it." "The trip?" asked a callow youth not yet forty, "How could it be accomplished?" "I've been working on that," I replied dourly, "but unfortunately it requires suicide, and, of course, one can never know the results of that. Father Quinn is quite correct. We're dealing here with the question of life after death." * * * "You're going to do it, aren't you?" Alice growled as we walked down the hall toward the lab and our offices. She pulled on my sleeve, forcing me to stop and look at her. "It's better than rotting away in pain," I replied with a bit of annoyance, trying to avoid looking into her disconsolate face. The heavy woman with a wrinkled face was three years my junior, sixty four years old Her gray hair was pulled into a tight bun on the top of her head. She was not pretty, although I had always found her to be extremely attractive, like the bust of an ancient Greek woman; dignified, self-assured. We loved each other, although we had never touched intimately in our twenty five years of scientific collaboration. We would never be so tawdry. We were faithful to our spouses. "What can I say, Tom? What can I say?" and she began to weep convulsively, losing that haughty reserve that was her hallmark. I almost put my hands on her, almost embraced the woman, but I flinched. "Should I say good-bye now, Tom?" she choked emotionally, tears falling down her cheeks as we stood before the door of the lab. "Good-bye, Alice," I said, eager to do it, to be done with the whole fucking world. I left her crying at the door as I closed it behind me. * * * I sat in what could only be described as an electric chair which was connected by thick cables to machines and processors that only I and Alice understood. It was not science. The results could not be verified. It was based just on theories I had elaborated over many years, some of them when I was only half sober. But I had nothing to lose. I was dying, so I pushed the button. Chapter One My mind seemed to explode and I felt an awesome fear, a panic that caused me to lose control of my bicycle. It plunged into a line of privet bushes and I fell headlong onto the hard sod of the neighbor's lawn. I wanted to scream in terror, and yet I was elated at being alive. My mind had been invaded, yet I knew how and why. Who are you?, I asked, and I replied to myself. The fear vanished and I felt nothing but delirious joy. "Are you hurt?" Mrs. Grierson inquired anxiously, leaning over me. "Tommy!" my mother called in fright as she ran from our front yard where she had been tending a flower bed. "I'm all right," I replied in a soprano voice that startled me. "I think the bike hit a rock." Yes, it was my mother who bent over me and kissed my face. Oh, Lord! I was home again after such a long voyage! My eyes grew moist. "Are you hurt?" Mom asked, wiping away my tears. "No, not really. I just bumped myself." "You should be more careful," she chided me with a warm smile. I got up and retrieved the bike, which was not damaged. Mom and Mrs. Grierson began to chat. As I wheeled the bicycle down the sidewalk and then up our driveway I marveled at the smooth, hairless shapeliness of my forearms. I was conscious of being sixty seven years old, but I was also the same boy of the day before. I was absolutely astounded. After I parked the bike on its kickstand next to the back porch I rushed upstairs to my bedroom to examine the rest of me. I already knew how I looked naked, of course, but not from my new perspective. I glanced out the window and saw Mom go into Mrs. Grierson's house, and knew that I had perhaps an hour to myself. I stripped off my clothes quickly, eagerly, and then stood in front of the long mirror on the closet door. I was amazed by my youthful, blond body. I stood over sixty inches tall and must have weighed one fifteen or one twenty. I had some heft, but my body was absolutely boyish; there was not even a wisp of pubic hair above my hard cock, which jutted out about four inches. My limbs were shapely and soft looking, almost girlish. There was no masculinity in my chest and shoulders, which were still undeveloped. My nipples were raised on small cones of flesh, like little titties. I fondled myself, in love with my own young image, like Narcissus. I ran my hands up and down my soft thighs, then my belly and chest. I gazed at my boyish face and then again at my cock. I had not masturbated for the first time, I suddenly realized, although I knew about it, had thought about it. Some of the guys in my sixth grade class were doing it. Even Ritchie, a good friend, had been jacking off for almost a month. I remembered the first time I was twelve, when I sat on the toilet naked, just before a bath, and I played with my cock until it erupted with a stinging sensation but agreeable pleasure. That happened during the first week of Summer vacation. I gazed into the mirror and thought that I did not have to wait until school was out, that this second time around I could begin doing it about four weeks early. I grasped and gently squeezed my small cock. It felt good. I had experienced orgasms countless times in my sixty seven years, although much less frequently since my late fifties. But the young body I now inhabited, the hairless boy reflected in the mirror had yet to feel that pleasure. I pulled on my cock with fingers and thumb, the head of it bumping against my palm. I looked at my image and thought myself pretty as I manipulated the slender penis with growing eagerness. I felt a tingle in the head of it, that telltale sensation which I knew from long experience heralded the ecstatic release, the pleasure which could not now be avoided. My face grimaced, upper teeth on lower lip, and I spewed with a small shout onto my palm and between my fingers. The profound pleasure caused my knees to weaken. I never remembered it feeling so wonderful. I squeezed out the last dollop and in a fit of naughtiness brought the slimy hand to my face for a taste with the tip of my tongue. I then smeared my boyish chest with the stuff and then my belly and right thigh. My breathing soon reverted to its normal rhythm and after another gaze at my boyishness, I went to the bathroom for a quick shower. * * * Masturbation! I was back with that once more, I groused as I toweled myself dry. Here I was, on an adventure unprecedented in human history, and all I could think about was sex and jacking off. The rutting instincts of my twelve year old body overwhelmed the elegant mind trapped inside. The Noble laureate could only think about getting laid for the first time. At least in this new life, I felt certain, I would not have to wait until I was a college sophomore. I sat on the edge of my bed and pondered my unique situation. I could not announce to the world that I, Thomas Horger, knew for a certainty what was to come in the next half century. Were I to do that, I would be placed under professional care. And if I persisted and foretold accurately the outcome of elections and sporting events, the course of the stock market and weighty international events, to say nothing of technological innovation, I would probably be kidnapped by greedy men. Even worse, I could attract the attention of the government, which would seek to use me as a weapon in the unfolding Cold War. Physically I was just twelve years old. No one could imagine that I had the life experience of a sixty seven year old man, a man who had seen the beginning of the twenty first century. At my young age, I reasoned, I could effect little change in the world. I would probably not be able to prevent even the stroke that would kill my father within two years time, although I certainly intended to nag him about his diet and high blood pressure. When I became an adult, of course, I would enjoy a breath taking career, probably in particle physics again. I would become fabulously wealthy, a multi billionaire, and people would marvel at my uncanny ability to make the right investments. I would win the Noble Prize once more. But as a pubescent boy I could effect little, except, of course, in the realm of sex. I mused about the morality of it, of being an old man in a young body. Would it wrong of me to exploit my inner maturity to seduce young girls? I ran my hands up and down my smooth, almost girlish thighs. Perhaps even a pretty boy or two, I thought, just as an experiment. It would be unseemly for a twelve year old to focus on adult women. It would be ludicrous, although there was a certain moral logic to it. And the logic would demand that my sexual partners be at least over forty. It was a stupid notion. I was twelve years old, I reminded myself again as I pulled on my small cock. It was not unheard of for a precocious boy that age to engage in sex with his contemporaries. I would never be accused of being a child molester, because no one could understand the truth of my situation, which was unprecedented, unbelievable. I had to decide the morality of it on my own, because there were no standards in society that related to my unique condition. * * * "What are your reading there?" my father asked. I was curled up on the couch, when he came into the room.. "It's a new novel by Camus, La peste," I replied. I had read the book twice before. "Is your French so good?" he asked in amazement. "You've been studying it for just a year." "I take after you, Dad. I'm quick with languages, and besides Camus is quite easy, like Hesse's Siddartha. It's very plain text." "But you don't know German," he protested, obviously confused. "I've just heard about it. I haven't read it yet," I lied. I had read it at least a dozen times in the original German. I was almost a Buddhist. He gave me a queer look and sat down on the chair opposite me. "You've been acting strange lately," he said softly. "Do you think I'm strange? I asked reproachfully, looking into his face. "I'm sorry, Son. I suppose I've not been keeping up with you. I've been so busy at the university."" "I'm growing up, Dad. I'm changing." He glanced at me with wry amusement. He assumed that I had recently masturbated for the first time. "Let's see a ball game this weekend," he suggested. "The Indians will win the World Series this year," I announced in an off hand manner. "You'd better get some post seasons tickets early." "Do you really think so?" he replied with a large grin. "The season has just begun." "I know it for a fact," I said truthfully. The lovely man got up, came to the couch and tousled my hair. "You're a real Indians fan, Tommy. I'll put in for those tickets tomorrow." * * * "Tommy," my Mom remarked one morning at breakfast, soon after my arrival. "You seem to be so distracted." She was a highly educated woman. Had she finished her dissertation, she could have been a Ph.D. like my father and perhaps even have been on the faculty of the university. "Is something troubling you?" she asked with concern as she placed a glass of orange juice before me. I looked into her sparkling eyes, which were almost thirty years younger than mine and placed my hand on hers. It was an inappropriate gesture for a boy my age, and she pulled her hand away suddenly with a quizzical glance, but then placed hers over mine. "What's gotten into you?" she asked, and I thought it to be a most apt question. "I'm not myself," I said truthfully. She shook her head in confusion. "You'd better hurry or you'll be late for school," she said and turned again to the stove. * * * . The days immediately following my arrival proceeded with complete normalcy. The old man in me was fascinated by the many physically lovely creatures, male and female, who shared my sixth grade classroom. As a person who had once been old, I appreciated the beauty of them as could no ordinary twelve year old. They were, however, just kids, very uninteresting children whose antics were extremely tedious. I could not match their youthful vibrancy, although I tried, because I dared not behave like a grown person in a child's body. During those first days I heard a number of comments about how different or strange I had become, but such observations ceased before too long. I was a brainy kid with an almost perfect record in school, so I didn't have to dumb down. It was boring, however, to be a boy of twelve again. It was so confining, and I looked forward to going off to college. My buddy Ritchie noticed immediately that there was something different about me, as had my Mom "I think I have a bug," I explained to both of them. How could they possibly suspect the awesome truth of the matter? "You're eating too many sweets," Mom suggested. "You need to jack off," Ritchie opined with a smug expression. He had been doing it for almost a month. "I did it yesterday," I responded with a smugness of my own. "Did you use soap? I can't do it without soap," the boy confessed in an agitated voice. "No," I replied, assuming a superior position. "I lay on the bed and played with my cock until it got hard. Then I just pumped it with my fingers until I shot." Ritchie looked at me with considerable respect. I had bested him again, as I always did. He and I were best buddies since kindergarten, but it was my new persona that allowed me to appreciate the boy's loveliness. He had raven hair and a pale, oval, childish face, although he was as large as I. His lips, always so quick to smile, had a natural rosy tinge. On the second day of my awakening, when we walked to school together, I felt a lust for him, an unprecedented sexual yearning. In all my previous years I had never experienced such a feeling for another male. I could have that boy, I knew for certain. It would be so easy to seduce him, to tempt him into homosexual acts. I could probably lead him to believe that it was he who initiated it, who wanted it, that it was he who was the seducer. At his age, before the onset of homophobia, it is not uncommon for boys to jack off together, even to experiment naughtily with a close friend in some private, secure place. It could be done on a sleep over after the lights were turned off, after some rough housing clad just in underpants which tented above rigid cocks. It would only require a casual touch or a suggestive whisper to encourage the sexually curious boy to try things in the dark which he would never do in the day. He would proceed innocently with an excited sense of naughtiness to touch, to kiss, perhaps to suck his best buddy. Yes, certainly that. He was a very curious boy. Even fucking was possible. "Ritchie," I could say. "Do you really want to do the queer stuff all the way?" In his innocence he might venture it, not realizing the pretty boy in his arms was actually an old man indulging himself in young flesh. He could never know the truth of it. He would only remember experimenting with his best buddy on a blissful Spring evening. No, I won't do it, I resolved as we waited at the curb for the green light which would permit us to cross to the school on the other side of the street. It was just too grotesque. I would not betray the core of my moral being for a short while of shameful self indulgence. But I refused to deny the boy's beauty and sexual allure. I refused to be a hypocrite. * * * I didn't see Sara until the weekend after my arrival, because she had been out of town to attend her grandfather's funeral. For over fifty years that girl had filled my mind with fantasy and regret, because, when I was twelve the first time, I had lost her. It was all about sex. We had been such close friends, playmates, since before we could remember that we took each other for granted, assuming that our childish world would remained unchanged. Sara became sexually conscious a year before me, and I noticed a change in her when we were eleven which I could not comprehend. She played more physically with me, rough housing with increasing frequency, subtly inviting me to touch the nubs of her incipient breasts. I was a shy boy and too unsophisticated to realize the possibilities. Ritchie eventually became her first boy friend, and I just remained pals with the two of them. On my second chance at youth I resolved to have Sara, and it would be easy, because behind her tomboy facade, I knew, lurked a slut who was ready for anything. I was eager for her, when she and Ritchie came to my back door one morning and called me out. "Let's go up to the field," she suggested, when I came on to the back porch. We had often played in that vast acreage of tall grasses and weeds, so fragrant in Spring, where children could sit on the ground and be lost to the rest of the world. It was a notorious place in which teenagers enjoyed sex hidden away in the lush vegetation. Sara was not as lovely as my fantasy remembered. She had a plain, somewhat mousy face, and her limbs were sparse, almost skinny. I had imagined over the decades that she was a beautiful pixie, but the truth of it was that she looked more like an undernourished waif. I found Ritchie, who was far prettier than she, to be more sexually attractive. It was a great disappointment, seeing her the second time around. A lifetime of day dreams suddenly became absurd. Yet I still wanted her, if only because I had invested so much of myself, emotionally, in my elaborate memory of the girl. "Let's go up there by the railroad tracks," Ritchie said, suggesting a slight detour. "Sure," I responded as I came down the steps, and Sara agreed with a smile. The tracks, two blocks away, were those of a little used spur that penetrated the field and served a few industrial buildings along its route. We had played there forever, learning to walk the rails without teetering. Sara seemed to be rather excited that morning. "Let's go into the field," she insisted as soon as it was in view, taking our hands in each of hers. We ran into it, the weeds slapping around our bare thighs, the houses of our neighborhood in the far distance. Sara suddenly fell to the ground, pulling Ritchie and me down with her. We rolled about to make a secret space for ourselves. Only the birds and butterflies could see us. "Do you want to practice kissing?" she asked with a naughty smirk. Sara was an inch taller than the two of us boys, but this time I refused to be intimidated by the bold girl. I rolled over to her and placed my palm on a small breast. I kissed her like an adult. She endured me for awhile with scant response from her lips. "It's Ritchie's turn now," she said and pushed me off of her. He was eager for it and so was she. They kissed like lovers, although it was their first time. I realized I was too late, that I should have arrived weeks earlier. Ritchie had Sara again, and she would probably let him fuck her, if I were not there. "I'm going home," I said as I got to my feet, but they seemed not to hear. Ritchie was on top grinding his body at her as they kissed. I waded through the weeds towards home, disappointed somewhat, but not too much. My long fantasy had been shattered by reality. The scrawny girl had not aroused me in the least, because what I truly wanted was a female older than she with more heft both in body and mind. I decided to seek out Phyllis Schaefer, a sixteen year old who lived two doors down from mine. Phyllis had a plain, blond face and was a bit heavy, although not fat. She was a studious girl, very intelligent, and we often talked like old friends despite the difference in our ages.. The old man could manage to seduce that lonely girl, I thought callously, and achieve for my young body an urgently needed sexual release. God! It was so humiliating to be twelve years old again like this. * * * "Hello, Tommy," Mrs. Schaefer greeted me at the back door after my knock. "What brings you here?" She was a stout matron of about forty, a war widow in an apron with flour on her hands and a twinkle in her eyes. Mrs. Schaefer was one of my favorite persons. "Is Phyllis home?" I inquired with a grin. "Yes, of course, Tommy. She's upstairs in her room. Tell her the cookies will be done soon." It was as easy as that. Phyllis had once been my baby sitter and I had the run of her house. I climbed the stairs two at a time and burst into the girl's room, surprising her as she lay on the bed reading a book. "Tommy," she exclaimed and sat up. "You startled me." "Sorry," I said with calculated sheepishness as I gazed at her friendly, homely face. "What's up?" she asked in a chirpy tone. "I'm bored, Phyll. Sara and Ritchie got all mushy out in the field so I left." "Wasn't Sara your girl?" the large teenager asked teasingly. "Naw. I've never had a girl," I replied with a hang dog expression. "I'm surprised. You're such a good looking boy." "I suppose Sara likes Ritchie's looks better than mine." "Well, he is really rather pretty, if one prefers dark haired boys. I'm partial to blondes, myself," she said slyly but innocently. Phyllis looked at me with a weak smile, and I could see a yearning in her face. I remembered, when I was eight and she twelve, how she often kissed me in a playful manner and touched my soft legs. I knew I could have her if I just reached out the way a normal twelve year old could never imagine. I did not have to conquer the girl; I only had to make myself available to her..It was so easy, so easy that I felt guilty for an instant. But this was an intelligent female just at the start of her adulthood; fair game for a horny young boy with a skilled coach to guide him.. My guilt was misplaced, I thought, and I sat on the bed next to her. "What are you reading," I asked casually and picked up her book. It was Untermeyer's volume on American literature. I thumbed the pages. "I like his treatment of Dreiser's Sister Carrie," I said as I handed the book back to her. "You've always been a bookworm, Tommy," she said gaily and tousled my hair. "I can't imagine you understand much of what you read." "Why do you suppose I read?" I replied in a testy voice. "I understand more than most kids my age. Sara doesn't read much, you know, nor does Ritchie. They're just kids. That's why I like talking with you." I thought the lonely girl was about to embrace me. Her arms were ready and her mouth was open in excitement, but her mother interrupted us. "Kids," she called from downstairs. "I have cookies and milk for you." I placed my palm on her cheek as I got off the bed. She uttered a choking sound and her eyes grew moist. I pulled her up with my hand. She suddenly comprehended the possibilities, but the illicit reality of it made her extremely nervous. It was so easy. * * * After our snack Phyllis and I went for a stroll. She was clearly troubled by her deep infatuation with a twelve year old boy who was three inches shorter than she and thirty pounds lighter. Her feelings for me had always been there, primly repressed. It was the nasty old man who exploited them, the old man whose young body enslaved him. Pubescent hormones overruled the cranky professor who thought that Phyllis was a sweet young thing bereft of any sexual allure. I took hold of her hand and she shook it off. "The neighbors will see!" she protested vehemently. The street was empty except for a few cars at the curb, but one could imagine snoopy housewives peering out windows. "I've always liked holding your hand," I complained. "But you're not a little boy any more," she retorted, vainly trying to stay in charge. "No I'm not," I agreed. "I'm older than twelve, you know." "Yes, you're very precocious." "I could get you pregnant," I let fly with a zinger. The girl's face turned beet red. "Please . . ., Tommy," she stuttered. "Let's go to the field," I said, looking up at her. She did not reply, but we continued walking in that direction. She took my hand as we crossed the road, and she seemed to hurry when we pressed into the tall weeds. We went deeply into the field trotting hand in hand. As the world behind us became dimmer, we grew more elated. Finally we fell to the ground and lost the world all together. "Don't get me pregnant, Tommy. Promise me," Phyllis implored as we grappled to each other on the fragrant soil and weeds. I paused. "There's no hurry," I said calmly. "We can have pleasure without making a baby. "But I want you to be my first boy," she almost whined. "I'll pull out in time," I promised. "Do you want to get naked with me?" Phyllis raised her head above the level of the weeds and looked about. "OK," she said excitedly. We disrobed frantically, tossing the clothes aside in our eagerness. Phyllis in her nakedness was larger than I would have preferred. Her thighs were too heavy, her breasts almost grossly outsized, yet I fell upon them with the desperation of youth. The old man inside was flung into a corner. Without the least hint of sophistication I rolled onto the willing young woman and pushed my cock rudely into her, ripping through her protective membrane like a drunken Cossack. She did not cry out in pain, but pushed me off her once the deed was done. "It's too dangerous, Tommy, but you've had me. Now I want to give you pleasure." She began to kiss me, my lips, my chest, my belly. She groaned in excitement as she tasted my body. She slavered my girlish thighs. "You're so beautiful," she murmured just before she took my slender cock into her mouth. * * * "I can't be your girlfriend, Tommy. People would talk. But we can do this again and next time it`ll be even better. I'll snitch some rubbers from the drugstore where I work. We lay in each other's arms She cuddled me possessively, completely satisfied after I finished licking her to orgasm a second time. . "Could we stay here awhile longer?" I asked, loving the feel of her ample body, wanting her to suck me once again. "No, I have to go," she replied. She sat up and gathered her clothes. She paused to look at me sprawled on the ground. "I think you're as pretty as Ritchie. You're now my own living doll." "Do you like to play with dolls, Phyllis?" I teased and wagged my flaccid cock at her. "You want it again? Tommy! how much stuff do you have inside those cute balls of yours?" The girl leaned down and once more I felt her lips on my cock. She sucked on me avidly with slurpy, popping sounds as her hands caressed my thighs. "Phyll," I warned her before too long, feeling that magic tingle once again. This time she did not pull away and finish me by hand, as she had done twice before. I held her head steady and spewed into her mouth, gasping in extreme pleasure. She rose and sat back on her heels. She swallowed. "There wasn't so much of you that time," she said with a grin. "But I really have to go now or I'll be late for work." We pulled on our clothes, rose and walked back toward the road and the houses beyond. "Come visit me tomorrow morning, Tommy," she said when we stopped at my driveway. "My mom won't be home and I'll have some rubbers." I moved to give her a kiss, but she stepped back and looked about apprehensively. "We really shouldn't be seen together. We must keep this a secret." I stood and watched as she walked down the sidewalk toward her house, smug in the realization that I would not have to resort to masturbation for the foreseeable future. ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ This post has been reformatted by ASSTR's Smart Text Enhancement Processor (STEP) system due to inadequate formatting. ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ <1st attachment end> ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. The post was sent as an email attachment and has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software. ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ -- 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: <ckought69@hotmail.com> | | FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+