Message-ID: <25913asstr$966715808@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
X-Original-Path: extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!edrn
From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
X-Original-Message-ID: <8nm1in$4vg@edrn.newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Write Club Duel #2 - Mr.Slot v Father Ignatius
Date: Sat, 19 Aug 2000 16:10:08 -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/Year2000/25913>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: dennyw, RuiJorge
Write Club Duel #2: Mr Slot v Father Ignatius
(conducted 19 August 2000)
Referee: DrSpin
Keywords:
exMr Slot:
halcyon
librarian
compliant
exFather Ignatius:
life-guard
water-polo
First-Graders
exReferee:
Celine Dion
sandpaper
bromeliads
Detective Work (MF, oral) ~ by Mr. Slot
Hardened thug Liam McTavish won't buckle under police
questioning. Enter today's detective - long blonde hair,
big tits, perfume. It's a dirty job, but somebody's got
to do it, and Detective Scott has a way of making a man
spurt it all out.
Not a long story from Mr Slot, but definitely up to his
humorous standard. All nine keywords were used, all
effectively - except for the referee's word "bromeliads".
Tsk, tsk.
"We found your first getaway car in Bromeliads Avenue."
Now, really!
* * *
Lifeguard-cum-Coach (MF, not water-sports) ~ by Father
Ignatius
Anna Kournikova in a Baywatch swimsuit. Well, there's an
image to overcook the brain, for a start. But nobody hits
on the bombshell pool lifeguard `cause she's too damned
gorgeous. So she takes matters into her own hands and one
lucky stiff strikes it rich.
All keywords used impeccably, especially "bromeliads".
Look and learn, Mr Slot.
Nice dry story about wet swimsuits and swimming pools.
Well done, Father Ignatius.
* * *
REFEREE'S DECISION:
I might have done a Denny and declared a draw, because Mr
Slot's rollicking good humour is infectious and
appealing, and the detached and wry humor of Father
Ignatius is a nice balance.
Mr Slot's story contained some spelling and grammatical
imperfections. Father Ignatius did better, but had a
couple of typos. I edited none and left everything in as
mailed to me.
I give both 8.5 points - but I then deduct half-a-point
from Mr Slot for his escape on Bromeliads Avenue.
Both excellent stories, considering the three-hour time
limit (and the difficulty factor of the keywords).
Recommended reading.
DrSpin
* * *
The following is a work of fiction consisting of adult
concepts and possibly sex. Do not read if you are not
legally permitted. I don't want the police on my front
doorstep. You are welcome to read but please don't
distribute without my permission. Feel free to make any
comments to the author.
Send E-Mail to dalech33@hotmail.com
Detective Work (MF, oral) - by Mr.Slot
"Okay, McTavish, tell us what you know."
Liam McTavish blinked against the harsh light of the
lamp that was shining into his face. If he could have
moved his arms he would have shielded his eyes, but the
handcuffs put paid to that idea.
"I ain't telling you nuthin, copper," he said. "Ain't
no way I'm giving you anything."
McTavish was a big, hulking, brute of a man that could
intimidate anyone with a simple glare. He was in his
forties now, and had spent most of his life in and out
of jail. In his early days he had shown a lot of
promise, working as a lifeguard at the Bondi pools, and
even being in the water-polo team, but once he had his
first sniff of criminal activity he was hooked. It was
one thing he felt he was really good at, and the
notoriety was something he revelled in. Getting caught
occasionally was just an occupational hazard.
He had been in a position like this countless times.
Shining a light in his eyes hadn't worked the first
time he had been arrested, and it sure as hell wasn't
going to work this time. He twisted his head towards
one of the silhouettes and glared at it.
"Come on, McTavish," said the silhouette, "we know you
were involved in that bank job. Just tell us where the
money is, and who your accomplices are, and we'll let
you off with five years minimum security."
"Bite me," responded McTavish. He did indeed know where
the money was, and he also knew who his accomplices
were, but what the cops didn't know was that his
accomplices were currently sitting in the boot of an
old Ford at the bottom of Sydney Harbour. The bank job
had netted nearly a quarter of a million dollars, too
much to share with a pair of amateurs like the Johns
brothers. The money was safe where it was, and would
wait until McTavish was ready to pick it up.
"Maybe we should smack him around for a while," said a
voice from behind the lamp.
"That won't work," said the silhouette. "Guys like
McTavish here are to stupid to feel pain. I think it's
time to bring in Detective Scott."
"Are you sure?" asked the voice behind the lamp. There
was no answer, but McTavish heard the door to the
interview room open and close. He had never heard of
this Detective Scott, but he figured that he could
handle anything they threw at him. Two hundred and
fifty grand was a big incentive.
"Maybe you should confess now, McTavish. You really
don't want to deal with this. Tougher men than you have
been turned into jelly after just fifteen minutes with
Scott." The silhouette moved behind McTavish and
whispered into his ear. "Why don't you do yourself a
favour and just tell me where the money is. It would be
better for you in the long run."
McTavish sat in stony silence, refusing to budge. He
listened as he heard the silhouette sigh before moving
back to the lamp. The sound of the interview room door
opening and closing again heralded the arrival of
Detective Scott.
The silhouette reached over and turned off the lamp.
McTavish blinked, trying to get used to not having the
light shining into his eyes. When they cleared he got
his first glimpse of Detective Scott.
Detective Scott was about 5'7", snappily dressed in an
Armani suit, and the best looking female McTavish had
ever seen. Nice body, big tits, and long blonde hair
that had been pulled back severely into a bun. On her
face she wore wire-rimmed glasses that made her look
like a librarian, but there was something beneath the
facade that made McTavish nervous. He decided that
bravado was the way to go here.
"So what now? She going to sandpaper her nails until I
beg for mercy? Or maybe she will put on a Celion Dion
CD and torture me with that." McTavish dismissed Det.
Scott with a snort. Did they really think some slip of
a girl with a nice rack was going to get him to talk?
"We know all about you and the Johns brothers," said
Det Scott, walking up to him and leaning down to stare
him in the eye.
McTavish caught a whiff of her perfume, and it caused
something to stir in him. It was something child-like,
like a first-grader being admonished by his teacher. He
didn't like it one little bit. He also didn't like that
they had found out about the Johns brothers.
"We found your first getaway car in Bromeliads Avenue.
And we have an eyewitness who saw the three of you get
into an old Ford Cortina. It's only a matter of time
before we find it, and the Johns brothers." She stood
up and reached up to release the bun in her hair,
letting the tresses fall down over her shoulders. "All
we really need from you, Liam, is the location of the
money."
McTavish found something very appealing about the way
she said his name. That child-like stirring turned into
a very adult one. He could feel his cock start to
stiffen in his trousers.
"We know that you wouldn't trust Chris and Jason with
the money," said Det. Scott as she took off her jacket.
"So you must have hidden it yourself, seeing as you
didn't have it on you when we picked you up."
McTavish stared at the blonde detective. There was
something very sexy about a woman in a shoulder
holster, even if the gun that should have been there
was in a secure locker outside. He noticed how the
straps to the holster arched across the top of her
breasts, and he estimated that the white shirt she was
wearing hid DD's, at least. He saw her fingers brush
lightly across her breasts as she removed the holster.
McTavish gulped.
"You know," said Scott as she placed her holster over
the back of a chair, "we do things differently now.
Gone are the halcyon days of beating a confession out
of a suspect. Now we have other methods. Far more
effective methods." She started to unbutton her shirt.
McTavish glanced at the other Detective, the one that
had just been a silhouette before. He noticed that he
was paying just as much attention to Det. Scott as he
was. There was something very wrong with all this, and
it made the old thug very, very nervous. "What are you
doing?" he asked, turning back just in time to see
Scott remove her shirt. He gulped again when he saw she
was wearing a white lace teddy beneath.
"Why, I'm interrogating you, Liam. What do you think
I'm doing?" she asked innocently.
"It looks to me like you are fixing to get your titties
out," replied McTavish, always the gentleman.
"Maybe, maybe not. It depends on how long it takes you
to break," said Scott seductively.
McTavish threw back his head and laughed. "Lady, I been
to strip shows before, and not once did I feel an
overwhelming urge to tell everything I knew. You just
go right and get naked, I ain't telling you nuthin."
Scott just smiled as she slid out of her pants,
revealing that she wore knee-high kid leather boots
under the loose fabric. She walked over to McTavish
again and leaned down till her lips were mere
millimetres from his. "Just tell me were the money is,
Liam," she breathed, "and I promise I'll go easy on
you."
McTavish just smiled, determined not to let her know
how much she was getting to him. But there was one part
of him that he couldn't control, and it was this part
that she looked down at.
"Oh my," she cooed, "what do we have here?" She ran her
fingernails lightly over his fly, and down to the hard
lump beneath. "Looks like you want to tell me more than
you're admitting, Liam."
"I ain't giving up the money, toots, I don't care how
much you try to tease me. I been teased by the best,
and you ain't got nuthin on them." McTavish sounded
confident, but beneath his rough exterior was a man who
wanted to fuck this blonde beauty.
"We'll soon see about that, Liam," said Scott as she
grasped his zipper and gently eased it down. Her long
delicate fingers reached inside and grabbed him. "My,
what a big boy you are." She took a good grip and eased
him out. The fact that McTavish never wore underwear
made her job a lot easier. In a matter of seconds she
had him loose, then kneeled before his semi-hard
member.
"Where's the money, Liam?" she asked.
"What money?" replied McTavish, trying very hard not to
sweat.
Scott looked up at him. "Tsk, tsk," she said, waving
her finger at him. "That's not the correct answer." She
leaned forward and blew on his cock, causing it to
stir. "Where is it, Liam?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," replied
McTavish, a slight quiver in his voice.
Scott gently grabbed the head of his cock with her
fingers and lifted it up. Her tongue darted out and
licked along his shaft, from base to tip, in one long
delicious movement. McTavish's cock was no longer a
compliant piece of meat, now it was a rod of steel.
"Liam? The money?"
"I=85I'm not saying anything." McTavish tried
desperately to control himself. He was sweating freely
now. He watched as Scott flicked tongue into the eye of
his dick and sighed in spite of himself. "I want a
lawyer," he said.
Scott ignored his request and slowly slid her mouth
over the head of his cock. He watched as she applied
enough suction to draw in her cheeks. She released him
and said, "Are you ready to talk, Liam?"
McTavish just shook his head, it was all he was capable
of.
Scott went back to work, holding his cock by the head
as she wrapped her lips around the shaft, sucking and
licking her way up and down. Her free hand went
straight to his balls, massaging them gently between
her fingers. "Tell me everything, Liam," she said after
releasing him from her mouth.
"No," gasped McTavish. His neck muscles strained as he
desperately tried to maintain control.
Scott just smiled and placed her mouth over his
trembling dick. She took him in, sliding her lips down
over the head, down his pulsing shaft, down, down,
down. At last her nose was pressing against his
groin, his entire cock resting deep within her throat,
McTavish could swear that he felt her tonsils pressing
against him. And then she started to move. Her lips
sliding up and down his dick now, making it slick with
her saliva.
The sucking sounds coming from his crotch was sending
McTavish quietly mad. He wanted to place his hands on
her head, run his fingers through her hair, force her
down on his cock, but the handcuffs held his hands
behind him. He was powerless in her grasp. "Oh God," he
groaned, closing his eyes against the light in the room
which suddenly seemed to be far too bright. He could
feel his balls start to bubble with sperm, his cock
starting to burn like a furnace. He could also hear
the Detective between his legs start to moan. It was
too much for him, and he began to cum.
Except he couldn't.
Something was stopping him. He could feel an incredible
grip around the base of his shaft.
"Tell me, Liam"
"Oh Christ, Oh Fuck, let me cum bitch." His voice had
gone up and octave with the strain. His entire body was
concentrated around his one small appendage. He wanted
desperately to be released.
"Tell me where the money is," said Scott, just loud
enough to be heard over the grunting prisoner.
"Fuck you, you fucking skank whore bitch. Let me the
fuck go."
"Tell me!" yelled Scott. "Tell me and I'll let you
cum!"
"Fuck, fuck, fuck," cried McTavish. His face was now
crimson, and he felt like he was going to explode.
Scott reached down and licked the tip of his cock.
That was the last straw. "It's under the floor of my
garden shed, in a steel box."
Scott smiled and released her grip. White hot cum shot
from McTavish's cock, splashing over her face and
breasts. She scooped up a big wad from her cheek and
sucked it from her finger. "I guess I didn't have
to get my titties out after all, Liam."
The big, hulking, brute of a man that was Liam McTavish
slumped forward in his chair and cried.
The End.
* * *
Lifeguard-cum-Coach (MF, not water-sports)
(c) Father Ignatius, August 2000
FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com
http://turing.mth.uct.ac.za/FatherIgnatius/Writing/
-----
I was coming up on the end of my daily morning
freestyle mile in the gym pool when I noticed Pammi
standing by the side, apparently waiting for me. Her
real name is Barbara, I think, but we started calling
her Pammi after Pamela Anderson when she started
wearing a Baywatch swimsuit. She said that, since
Baywatch, the kids all know who the lifeguard is just
by her wearing the right suit. Well, nobody objected.
No, sir.
Pammi's the pool life-guard but she also does swimming
coaching. The nearby school doesn't have a pool so they
have a sort of corporate membership and send their kids
over to the pool for Phys Ed and Pammi looks after
them. They think she's wonderful. Don't we all?
In fact, Neil, the club manager, confided that Pammi's
Baywatch suit had a measurable effect on gym
attendance. He's an interesting chap, Neil, and he
likes to chat. He's divorced and his life is an odd mix
of rampant bachelorhood and devoted fathering to his
two young daughters. I know all that I know about
bromeliads, for example, to the nature programmes he
watches on TV with his daughters. How the subject came
up, however, was when we were talking about sex and he
likened an aroused woman's sex organs to the
inflorescence of a particular bromeliad he'd
seen on TV. That went straight past me--I needed
footnotes. Turns out, while Neil-the-devoted-father was
making popcorn for the TV-enthralled kids, Neil-the-
rampant-bachelor was thinking about his upcoming date,
scheduled for after they'd gone home to their mother.
And then this bromeliad programme came on. Thanks to
that, Neil can never again give oral sex without
thinking of bromeliads. And, thanks to him, neither can
I.
We were talking about sex because we were standing one
day, after my swim, ogling Pammi--as is only right and
proper--as she supervised a class of kids poolside. We
were making remarks about, "Do you think she'd give me
breaststroke coaching?" and so forth when she blasted
someone with the whistle she always had hanging round
her neck on a dark purple cord. When she let it drop
from her mouth to call out an instruction, it plopped
into her cleavage and jiggled about as it got itself
lodged snugly. I made some smart-arse remark to Neil
along the lines of "Ever wish you were that whistle,
nestling your little head between those?" and Neil
replied, "And occasionally getting blown by Pammi?"
Thing is, no-one's ever hit on Pammi, that I know of.
Physically, she's more like Anna Kournikova than Pamela
Anderson. This, of course, is more than fine with all
the guys. But, by the time she's kitted out in the
Baywatch swimsuit, she's probably over-the-top
feminine. If that were possible, of course. Standing
by the edge of the pool--taller than Steffi Graf,
straight, broad-shouldered, well-muscled, electric-blue
eyes, long, blonde hair--blowing the whistle
authoritatively and barking out orders, she's more than
a little intimidating. Amazonian, even--a blonde
Wonder Woman whose magic bracelets could bounce back
your come-on with ten-fold scorn. She got respect, is
what she got. The guys ogled from afar but left her
alone.
* * *
I finished my mile, wrecked. I checked on the clock as
I hung, gasping, on to the poolside. My time wasn't too
good--I'd allowed Pammi to distract me.
"Let me give you a hand," she said, appearing before
me. A strong grip enveloped my right hand and lifted me
as I pushed out of the pool. I stood before her, blood
still singing, as she looked me up and down. I was
embarrassed: my cock would be standing out somewhat, as
they always do at the end of a race, or whatever. You'd
think the blood would have better places to go at time
like that but that's the way it is.
"And now, big boy," she grinned, "I want you to give me
a hand. Those damned water-polo players have left their
damned goals in the pool again and I've got a class of
First-Graders arriving soon for a lesson. Can you help
me lift them out? I've been struggling with them until
I'm fed up with it."
The water-polo goals spend most of their life out of
the pool, propped against the wall away from the water.
When they have water-polo on, they lower them into the
water each side of the pool and secure them by dropping
thick pins that slot into steel-lined holes in the
concrete poolside. They're big, quite heavy and pretty
flexible so lifting them out again single-handed--so
neither of the pins jams in its hole--is almost
impossible. It's the original two-person job unless you
have the knack of it.
Pammi obviously expected us to take one side each but,
anxious to get my back to her and so hide my
embarrassingly swollen cock, I went to the middle and
grasped the upper bar, palms down, for what the weight-
lifters call "military lift". I then became
uncomfortably aware that my cock's shameless
misbehaviour was causing my Speedo to hug my butt even
tighter than usual. Damn. Going forward was easier than
going back, so I squatted, gripped the bar firmly,
hands shoulder-width, and lifted the goal. The knack is
to shake the goal around a little as you lift to shake
the pins loose before they can get stuck. That, and
enough brute strength, I guess.
The goal came obligingly out of the water and I dragged
it back until my back hit the wall. I came out in front
of it and leaned it back against the wall in storage
position.
"Wow," said Pammi, "nice lift."
I looked at her to see if she was teasing me but she
wasn't.
"Nice back," she said. "Nice butt." Her eyes dropped to
my Speedo again, "Nice everything, in fact."
I got embarrassed again. "Glad to be of assistance to
the kids," I muttered, sounding ridiculously pompous
even to my own ears, and strode hurriedly round the
pool to the other goal.
"Nice shoulders, too. Quite the teacher's helper,"
observed Pammi from behind me as, blushing furiously, I
lifted the other goal out of the water. "I'm out of
gold stars, though. What does the teacher's helper want
as a reward?"
Sullenly resentful now, in a curiously adolescent way,
I smart-arsed, "How about a nice kiss from the
teacher?"
"Sure, honey," she said without any trace of hesitation
whatever. When I didn't move, she walked towards me and
took me in her arms. One hand went to the curls in the
nape of my neck and took a firm, proprietorial grip.
She dipped her heard to the right and pressed her lips
smilingly against mine. It was a proper kiss. no
teacher's helper I ever knew got more than a peck on
the cheek before.
It was more than a proper kiss; she withdrew slightly
and used her lips to nibble at by lower lip, which she
then sucked at gently. My mouth opened and her warm,
slippery tongue slithered into my mouth. Pressure from
her hand behind my neck. We submerged into a deep,
French kiss. I felt her other hand move down my back
and press me too her. I had been trying to keep from
pressing my hard-on into her but she forced the issue
and, truth to tell, once I stopped fighting her, giving
in was a lovely sensation.
Her hand moved lower again, onto my butt, and I felt
her thumb in the waistband of my Speedo. Insistently,
she dragged and pulled at it. It was too tight to make
much progress. She broke the kiss and knelt to make a
two-handed job of it. The Speedo was briskly dragged
down over my thighs. My cock sprang out at her eye
level and she started back then smiled up at me slyly.
As my feet stumble out of my ankled Speedo, she took my
now throbbing cock into her mouth and deep into her
throat. Then she withdrew and stood, drawing me forward
by the hand. Eagerly compliant I followed her up the
stairs of the diving board. We walked out over the
water and she turned to me.
She sat, and then lay down on the sandpaper-like non-
slip surface. I had a sudden flash-back to Army days,
of hasty coupling on narrow, Army-issue cots with too
many bootlaces to undo to make undressing worthwhile. I
dragged the shoulder-straps down her arms. She lifted
her elbows and her swimsuit bunched round her waist as
her magnificent breasts appeared under my questing
mouth.
I reach down to her crotch and dragged the gusset of
her swimsuit frantically to one side, feeling her
wetness beneath. Her hands appeared on my buttocks and
pulled me forcefully into her.
The diving board had its own rhythm. It forced us to
its own metronome-steady beat while we fought it to
fuck furiously but, when we yielded to it, it led us
steadily up a long path to a shattering orgasm.
Pammi slumped back, limbs hanging off the board. I
looked down on her; knees toes and heels of my hands
hurting from the sandpaper-like non-slip surface. I
wondered what her back felt like.
"What is it with this town?" she murmured sleepily, "I
thought no-one would ever come on to me again."
There was no time to pursue that for, at that moment,
there was a clatter of tiny feet and the chatter of
tiny voices and a whole lot of First-Graders made
themselves heard stampeding down the ramp from the
street into the pool area. There was no time to do
anything except hug Pammi to me as I rolled off the
board. We plunged together into the water and,
underwater, shot guiltily apart. I went in the
direction of my poolside Speedo, I hoped, and I don't
know where she went.
I popped my head out of the water and checked for my
Speedo. It was about two yards to my right, about four
feet from the edge. Damn. I swam sideways and then
lunged out of the pool, fingers scrabbling for fabric.
Sure as fate, a little First-Grader voice floated
across the pool, "Oh, look, Miz Emsley! I can see that
man's butt!" There was a clatter of high heels coming
round the corner as, Speedo in hand, I hastily
submerged again.
By the time I surfaced again by the steps, the Speedo
was respectably in place. Mrs. Emsley, flushing, had
apparently been too late for the money shot and was now
wondering whether her ghastly little charge had
offended the nice man. The nice man pretended not to
have heard anything and retreated hastily to the
changing rooms as Pammi appeared, shoulder straps over
her shoulders and generally looking as if butter
wouldn't melt in her mouth.
When I emerged in my street clothes, a Phys Ed lesson
was in progress, looking completely normal except for
the fact that the coach, for reasons best known to
herself, had chosen to conduct this one with a towel
round her waist over the normal swimsuit. Trying not to
think of bromeliads, I ultra-casually waved her
good-bye, tripped over the bottom step and, pursued by
First-Grader tittering, stumbled out into the street.
* * *
"Just a moment, Mikey," called out Neil as I walked
past his door on my way to the pool a few cold mornings
later.
"I had my daughters over last weekend," he said, as I
poked an enquiring head into his office. He was holding
a stack of photographs--large, glossy, black-and-white.
"We saw a nature programme on mythological beasts--
unicorns and gryphons and stuff. And halcyons. Do you
know what a halcyon is?"
Well, no. As a matter of fact, I didn't. Do you?
"A halcyon is a a mythological bird that was supposed
to calm the stormy winter waters around the solstice by
laying over the water.
What the fuck? I thought, inwardly rolling my eyes.
"That's great, Neil," I said politely, edging towards
the pool.
"It seems to me that here we've got a bird who's quite
calm about being laid over the water," he said,
grinning, and showed me the top photograph. Fuck. It
was a picture of me and Pammi on the diving board,
after it was all over. Her legs, her arms, her head,
her long, blonde hair, the shoulder-straps of her
swimsuit hanging from her waist, even her whistle were
all hanging towards the water. It was--I gotta say
this--a picture of a very satisfied, happy, relaxed
woman.
It was a stunningly good picture, too. The focus was so
sharp I could see the individual eyelashes over her
closed eyes and the half-moons on her fingernails. The
light-and-shade effects over her breasts, my muscles,
the swimsuit crumpled round her waist and taut over her
hips, even the lights on my buttocks. That picture
belonged on a calendar.
"Whenever I look at that picture I can hear Celine Dion
singing," said Neil. You know, that scene in 'Titanic'
where Kate Winslet is being the figurehead?"
I grunted absently as I leafed incredulously through
the rest of the photos. The first was of Pammi watching
me swimming. The last was of the back of a First-
Grader, fuzzily close to the lens, pointing across the
pool at my sharply-focussed back and marble-white
buttocks as I leaned out of the pool, grabbing for my
Speedo. And everything, absolutely everything, in
between.
"I really wanted to get the camera to try and take
evening photos of owls with my daughters." Neil's voice
seemed to be coming from a long way off. "That's why I
had special low-light film. I decided that the club
could pay for the camera if I took gym photos for the
next brochure, though. And then you and Pammi came
along. And came."
"I had to make a deal with the guy at the lab. They are
under instructions not to process this kind of thing.
In the end, he did it for free, conditional on I let
him have a set. And the slide-librarian from the Fine
Arts department up at the University, who's helping me
learn photography, made a set of slides from them.
They're probably on the Internet by now." Said Neil.
Chuckling. He looked at me, expectantly.
Eventually, I said, "But I'm nothing like Leonardo
diCaprio."
-----
ENDS
The Stories of Father Ignatius are at
http://turing.mth.uct.ac.za/FatherIgnatius/Writing/
The author is always pleased to hear, at
FatherIgnaius@hotmail.com, from readers whether or not
they liked
his stories, and why.
This story is at
http://turing.mth.uct.ac.za/FatherIgnatius/Writing/Stor
ies/Lifeguard-cum-Coach.html
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/
--
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. |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+