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Subject: {ASSM} [Write Club Duel] Aqiullae v. Father Ignatius
Date: Wed, 20 Sep 2000 21:10:08 -0400
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Here are the two stories, Aquillae first.
The nine words were:
From Aquillae: spiv, logotechnician, craspedomorphology
From Father Ignatius: museum, car park, cloakroom
And from me: seaman, organism, jaculation
My verdict will be on Alt.sex.stories.d. Enjoy.
-----
Hecate
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
-----
The Phantom of ASSD
by Aquillae
Copyright 9/18/2000
Alexandria straightened her skirt, fluffed her hair, picked up her carry on
case, and then opened the door of the supply room. Walking briskly through
the terminal at Heathrow, she headed for the exit doors and the nearest
waiting taxi. After her long, bumpy flight she was eager to get home and
slip into a nice hot bath.
A few seconds later the cleaning crew staggered out of the supply room.
*------*------*------*------*------*------*
Bob rang the door bell a second time. He had too. It was part of his job.
Just as it was part of his job to walk through wind and rain, sleet and
snow, it was also part of his job to ring the door bell a second time. For
Bob was a postman, and he always rang twice!
Just after the second ring the door was opened.
Bob, a veteran mailcarrier of fifteen years, was unfazed by the beautiful
young woman who opened the door wearing nothing but a powder blue bath robe,
that was untied, and an inviting smile. Automatically, as he had done for
the past fifteen years, he handed her the large package, made a wave
good-bye, and walked back to his vehicle.
Three blocks later, while handing Mrs. Simpson her mail, he finally broke.
The site of the young divorcee in her see-through nightgown, her sultry come
hither dark eyes, and the deep sexy sound of her voice as she offered him
some milk and cookies was too much.
Three blocks away from Mrs. Simpson and Bob, Alexandria Czkdyck opened the
package that had just arrived. Inside the package was a frilly white teddy,
a pair of handcuffs, a video titled 'The Many Loves of Rebecca Snow', and a
twelve inch dildo. Attached to the dildo was a note from Mr. Que. She
pulled off the note and placed the dildo down on the table.
As she read the note, which was a typical over wordy thank you card from Mr.
Que, the dildo began to hum and vibrate. The vibration increased, and
suddenly from the slit in the head a long, thin, metallic rod emerged. The
rod extended to nearly six inches, then slowly the tip of the rod began to
fan out like a radar dish.
Alexandria slapped the note down on the table, now realizing that the
affectionate note and the other things in the package had merely been a
bribe to pacify her anger.
"Good evening, Double-O Sex." The dildo relayed the pre-recorded voice of
her boss, "I take it that you are alone since you've activated this message.
If you are not, then tell the little strumpet to bugger off."
"Now, I know you are on permanent holiday recuperating after that nasty
little business you had with that spiv, Freddie the Flatulent. But we need
you Double-O Sex."
"Yeah, right." Alexandria started to put the things back into the package.
"This mission, which you will accept, is vital to the future of our great
nation, and indeed perhaps the world."
Alexandria, quite accustomed to Que's longwinded intros to a case, went
about fixing herself a pot of tea as the dildo rambled on with information.
"As you may have read in the papers recently, there has been a rash of
kidnappings here in our country and abroad. At first, there appeared to be
no connection to the individuals kidnapped. But just recently, our Scuzbot
9000 has detected a singular thread which seems to be the cord which binds
all of the kidnappings together. And that cord is."
A female's voice cut into the speech, "Please insert an additional two
pounds to continue the conversation."
"Oh, blasted!" Que's fine upper firsts tone was gone, "Miss. Wiggles! Have
you got change for a fiver?"
Alexandria poured the tea, sat down at the table, and opened the Sun to page
three.
"Your connection will be terminated in one minuet if you do not deposit the
correct amount." the female voice chirped.
"Dam it! Well, go and ask that fellow if he's got any change." Que was
quickly losing patience with both the female operator and Mrs. Wiggles.
"That one. No not the officer. Good lord! Do you expect a member of Her
Majesty's Royal Officer Core to have change for a fiver? The seaman
standing next to him. Now go!"
"Your connection will be terminated in thirty seconds if you do not deposit
the correct amount."
"Bloody hell. Look, can you just hold on for one second. This is important
state business we're trying to conduct here."
"I'm sorry, sir," the polite female voice chirped in reply, "But our orders
are quite explicit on the matter."
"Dam your orders!" Que shouted at the young female voice, "Do you have any
idea who I am?"
"No, sir, I don't."
"I'm Sir Wilberforce Clayborn Que."
"So you say, sir."
"You don't believe me?"
"No, sir, I don't."
"Why.why you cheeky little bounder! What's your name?"
"I'm sorry, sir, we're not allowed to give out our names." The female voice
chirped away.
Finished with the Sun, Alexandria started to read the Guardian.
"You have ten seconds to deposit the correct change."
"Wait! Wait, here comes my assistant, Mrs. Wiggles. She has the change.
Here, give me the.what the devil is that on your face, Mrs. Wiggles? Good
God, Mrs. Wiggles, remember who you are. You're the secretary to the head
of MI-6. Not some back street floozy. Now, go and rinse your mouth out."
There was a metallic sound of coins dropping.
"Thank you. You now have two minutes left on your call."
"Right! Double-O Sex, you still there?" Que paused for a moment then
hurried into the briefing. "The link to all the kidnappings was the
occupation of the people kidnapped. Each and everyone of them worked as a
logotechnician."
Alexandria continued to read the paper.
"The only clue we have at this point to the kidnapper's identity is a
business card left at the scene of each of the kidnappings. The card simply
had the letters A.S.S.D. writen on them."
Alexandria looked up from the paper and listened with interest.
"It seems, according to our Scuzbot 9000, that the letters stand for some
diabolical organization, perhaps bent on world domination."
"Because this case involves the kidnapping of nationals from several
countries, you will be working as a team with several other international
spies. The rendezvous point for the initial meeting with your counterparts
will take place at 4:30 pm on the third sub level of the car park, just
across the street from the Lord Pooh-Bah Museum. Try to be on time Double-O
Sex." Mr. Que hung up his end of the dildo connection.
Alexandria jotted down the rendezvous information on a pad. She then added
the letters which had first sparked her interest. She had seen them some
place before, just recently on a case. But which case. She couldn't
remember.
A quick glance at the kitchen clock showed the time to be half past two.
Regretfully there would be no time to properly break in the new things and
still make it for her rendezvous. Resigning herself to yet another day lost
to the riggers of work, she picked up the phone and called a taxi service.
At quarter to four Alexandria stepped out of her house and entered the front
passenger side of the taxi.
"Where to, Miss?" the good looking young driver asked.
"Lord Pooh-Bah's Museum. And make it quick. I'm late."
"How late?" he asked as he started the car.
"I have to be there by four thirty."
The driver shook his head causing his short blonde hair to toss back and
forth. "No way you're going to make it by half past four. Not on a day
like today with all the construction going on in the city."
"Perhaps you know a short cut." She smiled at him.
"Even taking a few cuts here and there," the car started to pull out into
the street, "and pushing the speed a little, we'll never make it. Never."
"Never?" she looked at him and batted her eyes, "Never?"
"Well," he shifted in his seat, "there might be a way to get you there by
half past. Just barely, mind you."
"How?" she leaned over close to him placed her hand on his jacket.
He gave a crooked grin and glanced down at his crotch.
"Oh."
"Well, I guess you don't want to get there that badly."
"Oh, no." she stroked her hand on his jacket, "That's not what I meant."
Slowly she lengthened the strokes until her hand was down at his waist.
With practiced ease she repositioned herself.
The driver shifted in his seat to lift his crotch higher.
With deft ease, she unbuckled his belt and unzipped his jeans. As she
pulled them open and down slightly, she was surprised to see the taxi cab
driver wearing black silk boxers. She rubbed her hand up against the crotch
of the boxers.
"They were a gift from my girlfriend." the young driver commented as he
tried to keep the car on his side of the road.
"Very sexy." she purred in a low voice, and gently fished out his thickening
erection. She brought her lips to the tip of his head and stopped. There
was a scent of peppermint. She looked up to him, "I just love peppermint."
"I know." he whispered as she slowly sunk her mouth down on him.
The sweet taste of the peppermint excited her and she devoured him with wild
abandon. After a few minutes of her skillful oral technique, Alexandria
began to feel drowse. Placing the blame for her tiredness on last night's
orgy, she pulled up for air, and then went straight down on him to the base
of his cock. She was determined to finish him quickly, and she did. With a
flinch of his hips his jaculation began. Not wishing to smear her dress or
make up, Alexandria swallowed every last drop.
Satisfied that he was finished she lifted her head up. She felt dizzy.
Looking about, she finally realized that the car had been stopped for some
time. "Were are we?" she asked as she tried to focus on the surroundings.
"This isn't the car park."
"That's one you've got right, Double-O Sex." the young driver smiled at her.
Alexandria slowly slumped forward against his chest and passed out.
*------*------*------*------*------*------*
Alexandria lay on the cold hard slab of an operating table, spread eagle
with her arms and legs tied, and cursed herself for being stupid enough to
fall for the old trick of the spiked dick. From the way her body felt, she
guessed it was probably derivative of the Zoot-root plant.
Suddenly the darkness of the room was spilt by a piercing thin white light.
Accompanying the light was the theme songs from the movie 2001. As the
music reached its crescendo the light flashed bight and a figure moved into
view behind a thick curtain of coats. Out of a small cloak room burst the
phantom. As the music faded away, the lights slowly came up, and the
phantom promenaded down the flight of stairs to Alexandria.
"Welcome, Double-O Sex, to my world." he spoke in a solemn voice.
Alexandria turned her head to see him. What she saw puzzled her. She had
never seen any living organism which closely resembled the figure that stood
beside her.
"Who are you?"
"I am, The Phantom!" He walked away toward a large, gaudy rollback desk.
"And you, O lovely, Double-O, are to be my prisoner."
"How do you."
He turned quickly. "I know all about you, Double-O! I know your wants,
your desires, even your love of peppermint." Breaking out of the voice and
manner he had been using, he asked in a childish tone, "Was the peppermint
tasty?"
Alexandria spit in his direction.
"Ah," he resumed his solemn tone, "defiant to the last. As I would want
you."
"What are you going to do to me?"
"Well, if these were the good old days of the cold war, I'd quickly kill
you." He laughed a maniacal laugh. Then with a quick cutting gesture of
his hand, he stopped laughing. "But, seeing as how this is the age of the
new world order, I can't do that. It would be too 'naughty' of me." He
slapped his hand several times. "Oh, bad boy. Bad boy. Shame." Then with
a clap he called out, "Ralphie! Joey! Come, come. I've work for you."
Running up quickly to his side were two men dressed in white lab coats and
carrying photographic equipment. They stood at his side like lap dogs.
"This is Ralphie. And this is Joey. Say hello to the pretty young lady
boys."
The two men waved and smiled silly little grins at her.
"As you may have noticed, craspedomorphology is their passion. Isn't it
lads?"
The two men nodded quickly.
"What are they going to do to me?"
"Do? Oh, yes. They're going to take your picture for future blackmail."
"That's all?"
"In this day and age, my dear sweet child, that's all we're allowed to do.
Violence is a strict no-no."
Alexandria relaxed with the news.
"Of course, they will be touching up the photos. Just a little. Nothing
much."
"What kind of touch ups?"
"Hmmm, what did you have in mind, Ralphie? A pink flower dress. Tea
length, of course."
Alexandria screamed and struggled to free herself from the belts.
At that moment, the rear wall behind Alexandria shook as pieces of the
ceiling began to come down. With a roar of sound the wall exploded inward.
In through the cloud of dust ran several agents from MI-6 armed with
submachine guns.
Somehow, in the chaos of shooting everything in the room full of bullets,
the Phantom and his two henchmen escaped.
Alexandria was freed by her old partner, O-Sixty-Nine.
"How did you guys find me?" she asked as she pulled the blanket around
herself.
"Simple. Que had a homing device planted in that white teddy he sent you."
O-Sixty-Nine replied.
In through the dust walked Que, followed closely by Mrs. Wiggles.
"Well, Double-O Sex, you've made a right monkeys breakfast of it this time.
Got yourself captured. Your equipment lifted. And managed to let the bad
guy get away. Still, you did manage to find the kidnapped logotechnician's
it seems."
Fin ???????
Convalescence (MF exhib<*>)
(c)September 2000 Father Ignatius
FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com
-----
Write Club Duel
Opponent: Aquillae (aquillae@excite.com)
Referee: Hecate (hecate1@bigfoot.com)
Special rules:
1. No: paedo, rape, snuff, violence, or Rom;
2. The story must contain:
a scene in an airport,
a postman,
a pair of black silk boxers
3. No previously-used characters
Challenge Words:
Aquillae: spiv, logotechnician, craspedomorphology
Nat: museum, car park, cloakroom
Hecate: seaman, organism, jaculation
-----
There are many complaints to be made about flying tourist-class;
the un-food-like nature of the so-called food, the shortage of
leg-room, the superabundance of crying babies, the occasional
tantalising peeks into First Class revealing that, in addition to
getting leg-room and real food on real plates, they even get the
prettiest stewardesses. The bitch-list includes "not enough room
to screw". Or privacy, you may add, thinking--and rightly--about
the shameful way that children and little old ladies insist on
hogging their fair share, and more, of the limited toilet
facilities available on an aeroplane. This happens not to be a
problem for Carol, however.
* * *
I first met Carol when I was recuperating from the medical effects
of trying to run refugee camps in Uganda. These were set up in
great haste to cater, with woeful inadequacy, for the flood of
Rwandan refugees from the conflict then current. The most
immediate emergency is all the exhausted people without food or
shelter who roam the countryside. When the tents and field
kitchens arrive, they can be housed and fed, after a fashion and
the transient population becomes static. As the camps are
inevitably horribly overloaded, though, the second phase tends to
be the emergence of the traditional enemies: typhoid, dysentery
and cholera. Nowadays, on top of all else, we also have a high
incidence of AIDS in the general population. Every so often, a
new disease, such as Congo fever, emerges. And the breaking news
is rumours of the re-emergence of smallpox. All in all, there's
never a dull moment.
When I eventually collapsed with some interesting tropical
disease, the Red Cross flew me out in the direction of my recorded
next-of-kin. This led to a long convalescence in the tiny town
where my retired father lives amongst a community of largely
retired people. I was very weak for a long, long time and my
step-mother took delight in feeding me up. They have a very active
social life with a large circle of friends. I was inspanned to
assisting them to host a brisk series of braais. Being caught
alone on the receiving end of the generation gap, I was expected
to be barman and cook while the wrinklies lizarded around in the
sun. They would watch me scurrying around trying to keep up with
their intake, offering helpful remarks.
I was a tremendous audience for all their stories that they'd
already told each other time without number. One of my dad's
friends was a retired sailor who'd captained the giant tug "John
Ross" that patrols the stormy Cape coast and I became fully
conversant with his youthful exploits shipping tanks to Murmansk
and so forth. Several of them, like my dad, are retires
university lecturers. One is a retired linguist of African
languages whose research interest was the establishment of
technical neologisms in non-technical African languages; if you
ever want to know what the Xhosa for "carburettor" is, he's your
man. The other one was an optical physicist; he's one of the
youngest. He took early retirement from the Hubble Space
Telescope project after they'd blasted their super-duper,
high-resolution toys into the sky.
All this went on to the point where I was well-fed, relaxed,
healthy and, after a long hiatus, bored and ready for mischief.
Not to put to fine a point on it, I was becoming as randy as a
stoat with no-one under the age of sixty-five to assist me with
this last stage of my convalescence.
As we were setting out tables and chairs in the garden for yet
another braai the telephone rang and Joan, my step-mother, came
out to report that Doris had asked if she might bring her
grand-daughter. Said grand-daughter, Doris had confided, had been
sent to stay with her to get over a traumatic break-up with her
long-term boyfriend. The grand-daughter was, of course, included
in the usual generous hospitality.
Most of the guests had arrived by the time Doris and her
grand-daughter appeared and I was being run off my feet, as usual,
with barman duty. Carol was younger than I'd expected for a
refugee from a long-term relationship--about eighteen, I guessed.
She had short, red hair and a pale, freckled complexion that
looked ready to explode into lobster-orange given enough of the
harsh, African sun. She was a little pudgy--the last signs of
puppy-fat were still there--with broad hips and a very nice, very
round bottom encased snugly in blue jeans. When she forgot to
slouch, she revealed good shoulders and nice, round breasts firmly
clasped in a sports bra that showed through her thin,
much-laundered, white, cotton, button-up shirt. She was still
young enough to be embarrassed by being seen in public with Granny
and slouched along resentfully, dragging her sandals in a pathetic
show of defiance. She was also looking a bit browbeaten. No-one
knew who Doris would be at all surprised by that.
"Hullo again, young man," said Doris, cheerful as usual, "How the
hell are you?"
"I'm fine, thanks, Doris, and how the hell are you?"
"Parched like a donga in a drought and dying for a gwaai," said
Doris firmly, "Carol, lovey, get Granny a G&T, there's a good
girl."
Hallelujah! A fellow member of the Younger Generation to wait
hand and foot. Maybe I'd get time to sit down and have a drink
myself for a change.
Doris lost interest in us as, in a single practised movement, she
plumped into a chair while lighting up the first gwaai of the
afternoon and starting a conversation with Joan. There was a
bar-sized ash-tray placed ready by her chair. Long before she
went home, it would be my duty to empty before it overflowed with
stompies.
Left to our own devices, Carol and I looked warily at each other.
"Hi, I'm Henri," I said, offering to shake her hand, "Can I get
you a drink?"
"'Sokay. Where are the mixings?"
I took her into the kitchen where we each opened a can of Castle.
I'd just started saying something moronic about, "So, you're
Doris's grand-daughter? Are you going to be staying long?" when
Doris's gravelly roar of outrage floated in from the garden.
"Oi! Carol! Where's my bleddy drink?"
Carol scarcely had time to start rolling her eyes in a martyred
fashion before my father, terminally embarrassed at the failure of
his hospitality, shot through the door.
"What's going wrong? People dying of thirst out there?"
"I'm doing it," snapped Carol, irritably. Oops. He backed out
hurriedly. I watched Carol mixing Doris's G&T, just so. She must
have been properly trained, even as I had been by my father before
I ever met her, on exactly how Doris likes her G&Ts.
"Thanks, lovey," said Doris, sinking most of it in one pull. "God,
that took time. Were you coming on to my grand-daughter in the
kitchen, young man?" She crowed with dirty laughter and the rest
of the wrinklies joined in while I smiled in the way you smile
when you're embarrassed and trying to be cool with it. Carol just
stared at the ground and glowered.
"Well, Joan, seems you've fed him up back to health and strength,
all right, eh?" Doris nudged Joan and there was another round of
dirty laughter. Doris emptied her glass with a second pull and
handed it to Carol. "That was a good start; get Granny another,
there's a good girl."
I started forward, knowing that I was expected to do these things.
"No, pellie, you stay here," said Doris. "I don't want to die of
thirst out here while you two young things canoodle in the
kitchen. Look out, young man, your boerewors is burning."
Annoyingly, she was right. I shot back to the braai to turn the
boerewors and lamb chops and damp down the fire while Carol
scuttled off to the kitchen with Doris's empty glass.
"Honestagawd, kids these days. Hanging around like a bunch of
spivs with nothing to do except look for trouble," said Doris
forthrightly. My father nodded in commiseration. "Are you going to
make that salad or aren't you?" he said to me as Carol reappeared
on the trot and presented Doris with her replenished G&T.
"Just off. Watch the fire for me," I said,
"Go and help the young man, Carol" said Doris, "Shown him what
you've got."
To the sound of another round of knowing laughter, Carol and I
beat it into the kitchen to make the salad and get to know each
other, not necessarily in that order. Away from Doris, she was a
relaxed, fun person and we bickered happily about how to make a
truly excellent salad and, before long, she was putting an arm
into the small of my back to hold me steady while sucking salad
dressing from my fingers so I could smooth the hair back from her
brow because her fingers were oily, too, and she was giggling as,
in making a hasty taste-test, she accidentally dropped a
half-slice of cucumber onto her breast and I then had to suck that
clean, too, and I was discovering what it feels like to have salad
dressing in your hair while someone holds your head into her
breast and gives you some insight into why a long-term boyfriend
might have dumped such a delightful, fun creature.
For Carol likes to have sex where there's a danger of getting
caught. For example, in my dad's kitchen while he's got guests.
Or, if you've tried and failed to get a fully-aroused but
panic-stricken Henri to do that, in his bedroom with the picture
window facing onto the garden where the wrinklies are chatting and
supervising the braai, behind a lace curtain that flutters in the
breeze.
I stumbled down the passage after her as she backed in front of
me, unbuttoning the waist-band of my jeans, pulling down the zip,
pulling the jeans down, my underpants, while I struggled to
unbutton her shirt.
"Not here," I said, as we staggered into my bedroom and I saw the
wrinklie brigade beyond the lace curtain.
"Yes, here," she said firmly, shrugging her shirt off her
shoulders and letting it slide down to her elbows. I capitulated
and nuzzled into her breasts while feeling for the front hook of
the sports bra. She undid her own jeans and pushed me aside as
she briskly thrust them, tangled with her panties, down to her
calves. Her shirt was still bunched round her elbows as she took
my waist firmly in hands and fell back onto the bed, carrying me
with her. In less time that it takes to tell, she had engineered
me, bursting with lust, onto her, between her spread knees, as she
lay hobbled by her clothing, helpless to resist. Not that she
wanted to.
Sobbing with the recollection of how many weeks I'd gone without
sex, I plunged eagerly into her and was as eagerly received. I
thrust and pounded at her, inelegant and thoughtless, like an
over-eager schoolboy who's blown all his pocket money savings on
his first whore and she responded in kind as the pressure quickly
built into a massive, hot, sticky series of merciful releases that
went on and on and on.
When I finally rolled off her onto my back, we lay shoulder to
shoulder, getting our breath back. "Wow," she said, rolling over
to examine the semen dribbling down her legs and onto the
bedspread.
"Sorry, I was 'way overdue," I said.
"Tell me about it, young man." She was mimicking Doris, "Henri,
was it?"
"Yes, Henri,"
"Okay, Henri, let's get that salad out there before they come
looking for it."
"So, young man," said Doris as I served her salad and boerewors
and lamb chops, "been getting on all right, have you?"
"Yes, Doris. Just fine."
* * *
Next day we fucked in the Klerksdorp Museum. Doris heard they
needed some strong backs to get a new exhibit--an old trek wagon,
designed for twenty-six span of oxen to drag through the
veldt--properly mounted and serenely volunteered on my behalf. She
sent Carol to get me. After it was all over, the helpers
dispersed and the museum settled back into its customary deserted
state and we took a look round. It's a very unusual museum, being
in the old town prison-house. The rows of cells, with the original
heavy steel doors still fitted, each house a different exhibit.
You step through the door into the cell and, a few feet inside,
there's a wall of glass. You stand in the gloom inside the door
and, beyond the glass, there's an exhibit, spot-lit from above the
exhibit. The most memorable exhibit, complete with freaky dummies,
is a reconstruction of what the cell looked like after Saturday
night when the building was still a prison. A door or two down,
there's a reconstruction of what a Boer bedroom looked like back
in the earlies, with peach-pip studded floors and toys made out of
sheeps' vertebrae. And a double bed.
Carol hadn't shown much interest in the museum, taking advantage
of the gloom to cup my butt and feel me up generally. When she
saw the bed, she slid her palm down my belly, inside my jeans and,
wrapping her fingers around my eager cock, murmured, "I wonder how
they get in there to clean?" The short answer is through a series
of doors, one to the outside and linking each cell to the next. We
found the outside door and sneaked from cell to cell through the
exhibits until we got to the bedroom.
Behind the glass, you could scarcely see out. The light inside
reflected off the glass wall and made a crude mirror. It was
almost impossible to see through the glass. Not that we were
looking. We were pulling each other's clothes off and rolling
onto the bed. I was kneeling, naked, between her legs and about
to dip my head into her crotch when she said, "No, wait. First
tie my hands."
Um. What?
"Tie my hands," she said, "I can't get off otherwise."
Short of tearing strips off the antique curtains I didn't know
what to do until I thought of my bootlaces. I stripped my boots
of them in clumsy, randy haste and realised that the flat
headboard offered no convenient tethering points. The old Boers
were obviously not into bondage; they presumably wanted their
wives free to brew coffee or herd the cows at a moments notice.
Frantic to bury my cock into Carol's dripping, beckoning cunt, I
had the inspiration of tethering her wrists to her ankles, with
clumsy, rushing fingers, trying to remember how not to tie a
granny-knot.
"Yes, yes, come on," said Carol through gritted teeth as I
finished the last knot, "Quick, do it."
I needed no further encouragement and buried my face in her
dripping crotch, burrowing and licking as she twisted and writhed
and begged for release. When I couldn't hold back any more I
took her shoulders and leaned my weight on them, pressing her back
into the pillows, as I thrust gently forward, slowly introducing
my cock into her cunt, millimetre by millimetre as she begged me
to come on, come on, do it, do it.
At this point I became aware of the sound of adolescent
sniggering. Squinting, horrified, through the glass, I became
aware that a party of high-school students had arrived on a museum
field trip. There was no doubt about it; we were the highlight of
the tour. I could here excited young voices calling down the
corridor, "Frikkie, kom kyk. Kom kyk!" No teacher worth her salt
is oblivious to such suspicious interest in the educational
process and, as I watched, from between Carol's knees, I dimly saw
a skirted adult appear beyond the glass in the cell doorway. My
cock shrivelled guiltily while the still oblivious Carol strained
against my bootlaces and thrust her pelvis beggingly forward at
me.
She was soon brought up-to-speed in no uncertain style; the kids
were reluctantly herded from the cell and the door, left standing
open for years, was forced creakingly shut by the indignant
teacher as the museum's senile security guards blundered around
trying to figure out how to get at us. I tore desperately at my
hastily-tied knots as the sounds of pursuit approached, finally
freeing Carol's wrists while leaving the laces flapping from her
ankles. We grabbed our clothes and sneaked into the next exhibit,
towards the approaching guards. It is an exhibit, entitled (you
should excuse my French) "Jaculation", of Bushman hunting
techniques with spear and bow--they manage to achieve marvellous
accuracy hunting wildcats, red-tailed foxes and other such
innocent-bystander organisms.
We hid behind a board with a diagram of spear and arrow
trajectories that, in other circumstances, might have proved most
interesting. Right now, it merely proved most useful as as shield
while the guards blundered past to the bedroom exhibit. Being
barefoot, we were able to tip-toe quietly back through the various
exhibits through the door into the open air, sneak back into the
corridor and, clothes in hand, run nakedly for the cloakroom with
not more than twenty or thirty wildly excited teenagers screaming
"Kyk daar, mevrou!" and giving pursuit. At one point, Carol trod
on the lace bound round the other foot and nearly sprawled,
dropping her clothes. I caught her and dragged her on, abandoning
the clothes to the pursuers.
Fortunately, the cloakroom was empty. I hastily barricaded the
door with the attendant's chair. I was more embarrassed than I
knew it was possible to be but Carol was giggling delightedly and,
as I turned from jamming the chair under the door handle, she gave
me a joyful, child-like hug-and-kiss. I tore myself free as the
pounding on the door began.
"Get dressed, for Christ's sake!" I begged her, dragging on my
trousers. My boots had been left behind, I now discovered.
"In what?" she giggled. I gave her my shirt that, at least came
on her to mid-thigh. As the door continued to resist our excited
pursuers, we climbed out of the cloakroom window and squeezed
painfully through the hedge into the car-park, our two
half-nakednesses startling the postman who shouted out after our
guiltily fleeing figures. Mercifully, the car keys were still in
my trousers pocket. As the guards, the teacher and the kids
erupted out of the door, I got the car going and, spinning wheels
and shooting gravel back at them, we rocketed off.
The last thing I saw in the rear-view mirror as I hurtled for the
nearest corner was Carol's black silk boxers waving triumphantly
in the fist of a happy, happy high-school boy who is forever going
to think better of museums than he might otherwise have done.
It was then that I decided that my recuperation was over and Carol
decided that she'd got over being dumped by her previous
boyfriend.
* * *
We flew out to Johannesburg the next morning, tourist-class. Carol
made a determined effort for us to carry on in the airport
cloakroom where we left off in the museum cloakroom but i was
spotted sneaking into the Ladies with her and only fast talking
got us onto the flight. But at least this meant that I found out
how to have sex in tourist class, without concealing blankets or
using the toilets. But that is another story.
-----
ENDS
- The Stories of Father Ignatius are at
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/FatherIgnatius/www/Writing/
- I would be pleased to hear from you, at
FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com, about whether or not you liked this
story, and why.
- Thank you for reading me.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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