Message-ID: <26575asstr$970261819@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: not-for-mail From: "Father Ignatius" <FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com> X-Original-Message-ID: <8r2bf1$2b23$1@news.adamastor.ac.za> Reply-To: "Father Ignatius" <FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com> NNTP-Posting-Date: 29 Sep 2000 15:11:29 GMT X-Priority: 3 X-MSMail-Priority: Normal X-MimeOLE: Produced By Microsoft MimeOLE V5.00.2919.6600 Subject: {ASSM} [REV] Expanding Julie's Sexual Horizons {Father Ignatius} MF oral anal toys voy <*> Date: Fri, 29 Sep 2000 17:10:19 -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/Year2000/26575> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: RuiJorge, dennyw Expanding Julie's Sexual Horizons MF oral anal toys voy <*> (C)September 2000 Father Ignatius This is a revised version of a story originally written as a Write Club (http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Rui_Favorites/www/Write_Club/) duel with Jack of All Trades (http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/j/wwwoat) refereed by Rui Jorge (http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Rui_Favorites/www/). Thanks, Jack; thanks, Rui. The Challenge Words were: Jack of All Trades quadrangle infatuated catalytic Father Ignatius armchair bridge pencil toothpick Rui Jorge tragicomedy ninja squeal - The original versions of both stories are in the ASSTR Collection at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Collections/Alt.Sex.Stories.Moder ated/Year2000/26508 - I would be pleased to hear from you, at FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com, about whether or not you liked this story or not, and why. - Thanks to DrSpin (http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/) for the editing, advice and encouragement in revision and to Denny for meticulous proof-reading. ----- When I first introduced Julie to my friend Jim (a shit-stirrer who doesn't know when to keep his mouth shut), he made some witty little comment to me under his breath about "Mud-wrestlers always did do it for you, didn't they?" Julie has excellent hearing, as it happens, and so it wasn't far enough under his breath. She didn't let on, though. With a completely neutral expression on her Victorian porcelain-doll face, she made as if to shake hands with him. When he put his hand in hers, she dislocated his thumb. I found this both scary and a major turn-on. Okay, she's a pretty meaty girl. She won a lot of swimming trophies at school and anchored the freestyle relay team. She has big, full, swimmer's shoulders; a broad, firm swimmer's back; her narrow waist flares out to wide, womanly hips and well-rounded, well-muscled buttocks above long, powerful legs. And she has large, business-like breasts. She characteristically wears some sort of a sports top as well as a bra to give them extra support. They get most distractingly-and not only for her-in the way when she's working on a drawing-board. "Thank God for CAD stations," she says, through a curved Cupid's-bow mouth. I told you she looked like a Victorian porcelain doll, and so she does-complete with brown, old-fashioned bangs, a snub nose, and laser-like, icy-blue eyes that might have been made of glass. Eyes like that make a man want to do things for a woman. That, and not getting his thumbs dislocated. When she walks into a room, people notice. I was completely infatuated. The first time we had sex I discovered that she wasn't shy to tell me what she wanted. We spent Saturday afternoon together and were fooling around on the sofa after dinner. I had unbuttoned her shirt, revealing her ample frontage and was kissing her neck and the upper slopes of her breasts. When I started tickling their undersides, she came to a decision and stood up, lifting me to my feet. She shrugged the shirt onto the floor, took me by the hand and, reaching up behind her back to unhook her bra as she walked, led me into my bedroom. She dropped the bra on the floor and, turning to me, pulled me onto her front as she lay back on the bed. I burrowed like a happy puppy into her abundance and, in the following ecstatic minutes, worked my way from her glorious mouth down to her navel and below. Rubicon time. I edged the waistband of her tracksuit trousers down a cautious, gentlemanly half-inch, and licked politely. I felt the firm fingers of a firm hand close round the top of my skull and felt my face pushed further down her belly and closer towards it. She lifted her buttocks off the bed as I straightened up to draw the trousers down to her thighs and then she lifted her feet off the bed to let me pull them off entirely, to drop them unregarded on the floor. I bent down again to business, to her pale yellow lacy panties that half-revealed the whorls of her brown pubic hair pressed back behind that dainty barrier. The hand appeared on top of my skull again and I felt my nose pressed firmly into service. We started off going slowly side to side. Then-after a sudden, sharp gasp from Julie-we went more gently up and down for a while. Finally, the team worked up to a little circular motion one way round for my face and the other for her pelvis, making her breathe deep and fast. Abruptly, she caught her breath, lifted my face from her and again lifted her buttocks from the bed. I pulled the stained, soaking panties down her legs, leaving a trail of moisture down one thigh, past her ankles and heels and tossed them into oblivion. I bent again to her crotch but she grunted "Mm-mm", closed her legs, took my cheeks and jaw in her two hands and pulled my face up to hers. My eager cock, straining in my jeans, ploughed the furrow between her thighs until the tip butted into her curls as she pulled off my tee-shirt. I felt her hands push in between us, beneath my belly. Her fingers slipped under the waistband of my jeans and met inside my underpants, either side of my frantic, imprisoned cock. I felt her thumbs undoing the single metal waist-button and then her thumbs clamped her fingers through the cloth. She ripped my zip open in one smooth movement by pulling apart the fabric on either side. And pulled my underpants and jeans down around my thighs. My cock flopped eagerly out and burrowed into her crotch. I felt her thighs open under mine, felt her belly muscles contract under mine, her pelvis swivelled and her hands, under my buttocks, were pushing me firmly into her. "In," she said. I did it. Her hands moved to my rib-cage, her thighs gripped my pelvis and she set the brutal rhythm she wanted. "Harder," she grunted, teeth clenched. I did it. I gripped her shoulders, swung back, swung forward and, impelled by her firm hands, thrust hard into her. She pushed me back and together we swung me forward again. I reverted to wild, uncontrolled, back-to-teenager thrusting, revelling in the honey feel of my cock sweeping roughly back and forth up her toned, gripping cunt, rushing and tumbling towards a hasty, inelegant, glorious, animal explosion of pleasure. The zip was never the same again. I eventually replaced the jeans and learned to get them off quickly myself when she got that look in her eye. But we always did much the same thing, in missionary position. Eventually, I made an elaborately casual remark about expanding her sexual horizons. She didn't say anything but looked thoughtful and uncharacteristically uneasy. * * * My casual remark had been catalytic, I eventually discovered. Enlightenment began the next time I went to her flat to take her to the movies. I rang the bell a few times without getting any response. I eventually delivered a brisk, last-try rat-a-tat on the door-knocker. The door swung violently open and there stood Julie. She was naked except for stereotype-teenage-fantasy black fishnet stockings, stereotype-teenage-fantasy suspender belt and stereotype-teenage-fantasy strappy, red high-heels. I gaped. "Don't just stand there!" she snapped. "Do you want the whole neighbourhood to see me like this?" Her hand shot out. Two powerful fingers dug into the waistband of my jeans behind my belt-buckle and she yanked. I disappeared, pubis first and still gaping, into her doorway like... like... Well, not a cork into a bottle. But you know what I mean. The door slammed behind me. The whole neighbourhood, at my guess, would have been fascinated to see her. While I carried on with the gaping, my cock got into the business of reacting to Julie's (I madly supposed) movie-going outfit. Her fingertips noticed my response and she smiled fondly and cupped her other hand under my balls, encouraging further action unlikely to lead to the movies. This made me nervous; she doesn't do fond smiling. She was acting a little bit off in other ways, too. She gave me a sweet, sweet smile-the first on record-and a deliciously memorable kiss, gentle as cigarette smoke. She usually kissed me as if she were attacking grapefruit. I noticed when she did it that we stood exactly eye-to-eye because of the high-heels. She smelled nice, not of perfume-which she didn't wear-but of something fruitily familiar and half-remembered, redolent of cosy comfort, like your mother's home cooking when you're nine years old and never not hungry. Trying to understand her uncharacteristic behaviour, I made the mistake of pushing the minor mystery to the back of my mind. She backed down the passage into the living room, pulling me by my belt-buckle and, well, my balls. By the time we got there, my cock was once more trying to get out of my trousers. Mere movies, I hoped and prayed, were off the agenda. She yanked the end of my belt out of the buckle and got down to dragging my nether clothing off. "Shoes off" she said. I did it, standing on the back of one with the toe of the other foot and wrenching my feet clear, the way it freaked my mother out when I did it on her budget as a child. By the time I was barefoot, my jeans and pants were shackling me and I stumbled out of them hastily as Julie pulled my tee-shirt over my head. There was another whiff of the familiar, elusive odour. In no time, I was bare as a babe with my eager cock questing hungrily around, dragging me behind, in the direction of Julie. "Eager-beaver," said that little, irreverent internal voice that got me into such trouble before I learned not to let it out of my mouth. Hey, where's she gone? She hadn't gone anywhere; she had turned her back on me and bent forwards over the back of the armchair, gripping the arms in her hands, hair flopping down and obscuring her face. The high-heels lifted her just to the right height to allow her to do this; her lower belly nestled into the crumpling antimacassar. "I've been thinking about what you said about expanding my sexual horizons," came her slightly muffled voice as I leered at the marble roundness of her buttocks, the dark anal cleft, the suggestion of an anal opening, the glimpse of labia, the roughness of brown hair catching the light; the long, strong legs, held straight and plunging into the whore-sandals. "Start at the left." I pulled myself together. Got a grip on myself, you might say. Left? Left what? Next to the armchair, on the table, was a startling array of objects. A can of Crisco, courteously opened, standing on a housewifely Kleenex. A toothpick. A very thin, round bridge pencil. Hearts, naturally. A regular, hexagonal, wooden pencil, red-and-black Staedtler HB. A quadrangular ballpoint pen, slightly thicker. A tiny little dildo-sort of pre-pubescent, I guess-I didn't know they came that small. Trainer dildo? Then a somewhat larger dildo, a gap and, finally, a really huge dildo. "To dream the impossible dream," hummed the internal voice, half to itself. And, finally, a whole box of Kleenex. All in a row, ends all lined up, equally spaced (except for the gap) in textbook anal retentive fashion. Anal retentive? In a rush, I saw that the gap was where my cock fitted into the series and realised what Julie expected of me. She was mysteriously patient and quiet. Looking back on it, that should have made me nervous, too. As it was, the bit I was thinking with was straining with renewed excitement and my brain only caught up much later. I dipped the toothpick into the Crisco, twiddling it in my fingers to get it thoroughly coated, and bent to the wonderfully round, firm, strong buttocks. I eased them apart with thumb and forefinger. They tensed and resisted. I felt Julie's effort of will that relaxed them and allowed me to part them, revealing the puckered little rosebud of her ass-hole. I blew gently on it and watched it pull in and then relax like a sea-anemone when a diver swims past. A warning growl from the front of the armchair hastened me forward to my duty. I slowly introduced the toothpick a careful half-inch into her ass. It was too small for her to resist. I twiddled it again and was rewarded by a little gasp floating around the side of the chair. I transferred the toothpick from anus to Kleenex, generously Criscoed-up the thin, round little bridge pencil and pushed its rounded end firmly into the trying-not-to-resist rosebud. Twiddling it did nothing-it was too round-so I replaced it with the hexagonal Staedtler. This time, twiddling produced a squeal and the full hips writhed around on the back of the chair. Julie's knees bent for a fraction of a second and then resolutely straightened again. The quadrangular ballpoint was an even greater success. It was dildo time. The trainer dildo needed much more encouragement to go in than the writing implements had but once it was in it was obviously doing a much better job and I experimented for the first time with a back-and-forth motion. I had to put a hand on Julie's back to steady her but she writhed around so distractingly that I decided to skip the next dildo and get into action myself. I straightened and pressed my straining cock against the rosebud, holding her by the hips. She tensed and I felt the buttocks clamp closely and forbiddingly round the top of my cock. Encouraged, I pushed harder but, with a flicker of annoyance, she clamped harder. I bet you didn't know buttocks could clamp with a flicker of annoyance. Well, they can. "Crisco," said Julie. Ah, yes. I did it, my cock luxuriating in the lubricated touch of my fingers and palms. This time, I pressed firmly but patiently but relentlessly and eventually the relaxation came and I was able to force my cock slowly, slowly in. The tight band of her sphincter travelled slowly up my cock until it was firmly clamped round the very root as-gasping, eyes closed, head flung back, naked toes sliding slightly on the carpet, Crisco'd fingers slipping as I grasped her hips-I strained to get one more millimetre further inside her. * * * At this point, I later worked out, she must have fallen asleep. The intensely pleasurable gripping sensation around the base of my cock transformed into an intensely painful, much more powerful grip. "Ow! Ease up!" I said. No response. "Please?" "Please! Julie! You're hurting me!" No response. A gentle snore-yes, by God, a snore!-drifted around the armchair. And there I stood, trapped. Horniness drained away but the blood in my cock didn't; it had no way to get out. As the minutes ticked by, it seemed to me that my trapped cock grew within her and pleasurable tingling gave way to painful throbbing. Julie gave a little grunt and made, I guess, a turning-over-in-bed motion. For the sake of my yet-to-be-conceived children I grabbed her firmly, Crisco-slippery, and held her onto the top of the chair. The hideous force of the clamping band eased momentarily but, before I could react, clamped down again double-hard. She slumped a bit further forward as she settled, raising me helplessly to tip-toe. I started to sweat. I grabbed the chair either side of her hips, heedless of Crisco marking the fabric, grateful for the greater friction to hold her steady. "Julie! Julie! Wake up!" I prodded her butt frantically. Not a hope. She was really out, drugged almost. How could this be? I braced my knees and pulled, trying to walk backwards on toe-tip. No change. I tried harder, recklessly throwing my torso back to get a bit of momentum. Ow! Don't try that again. I pulled back as hard as I could without jerking. The chair slid back across the carpet, loaded legs digging into the pile. Great. Really great. I put the heels of my hands on the back of the chair and pushed back, doing vertical press-ups on the chair-back. Nada. Harder. Julie slid a little bit back over the chair, to her original position. This was progress; I could get my heels onto the floor again. With a little sigh, she slipped back again, remorselessly pulling me to tip-toe once more. Damn and blast. I looked about for inspiration and caught sight of myself reflected in the flat's picture window that used to look out over Table Bay. I looked ridiculous: obscured (mercifully) from pubis down by Julie and the chair, I stood teetering with arms thrown back for balance and looking worried. I looked exactly what I was-a man with his cock trapped in the butt of a slumbering Juno. Well, at least things can't get any worse, I thought, reflecting on the tragicomedy. At that point, things got worse. My gaze travelled through my reflection and focussed on the newer block of flats that is the reason Julie's flat doesn't look out over Table Bay any more. And there, on the external walkway, gazing slack-jawed into Julie's front window, stood a family of up-country tourists from Gauteng. They'd caught sight of us on their way from the lifts to the kitchen door of their hired holiday home. On the other side, it looks out over Table Bay but, right now, they were finding me a lot better value than the view they'd paid for. "Vanderbijlpark can't offer anything like this," you could hear them thinking. Well, I should bloody well hope it can't. As I watched, aghast, the mother chivvied the under-age daughter indignantly through the kitchen door, followed her in and banged the door righteously. The father and the near-grown-up son continued to be rivetted, with idiot grins pasted over the front of their moron heads. After the briefest possible interval, the net curtain of a bedroom window flicked aside and the wide-eyed daughter returned unimpeded to her gaping. The mother, for her part, materialised discreetly in the kitchen, thin-lipped with self-righteous, wouldn't-miss-it-for-the-world disapproval. Her Gauteng neighbours were certainly going to get chapter and verse on life in the decadent Cape when she got back home. And every second that passed, my poor captured cock got more and more and more painful. I was trying not to think about dogs gnawing off their legs to escape traps when Julie snorted, raised herself up on her arms and looked about her, dazed. She obviously had no clue where she was. "Julie! For God's sake...!" She didn't seem to hear me. But, at least, she stood up. My heels greeted the floor once again, with affection. "Julie! Hey, Julie!" No dice. She shook her head, as if to clear the sound of dream voices, and obviously regretted it. "Ooooh, shit," she said and, gripping her head in her hands, strode off-in such a way, I have to tell you, that I formed the opinion that she'd completely forgotten she was wearing unaccustomed high-heels-down the passage to her bedroom. Guess where I went? Yelping in pain and horrible anticipation of pain, I had an instant crash course in how to march in lockstep with stumbling stiletto heels. All in all, I did rather well: I only got a stiletto heel-driven by the full weight of this mysteriously groggy, stumbling hefty woman-onto my toes three times. At my three corresponding screams of agony, she gasped in pain and clasped her head afresh but otherwise behaved as if I wasn't there, Rather an insult, really, I've since thought, when I had leisure to consider. She dragged me into her room and, like an exhausted long-distance swimmer who has gone out too fast too soon, she "dragged the piano" (i.e. me) into the final lap and gratefully threw herself face-down onto her bed. I was painfully yanked with her and flipped forward as she crashed. Ow! And a split-second later, the teeth of my upper jaw met her skull with an explosion of blinding pain. Double, triple ow! Jesus bloody buggering Christ! Pity my top lip was in the way. When I'd blinked the tears away, I saw a near-empty bottle of sherry by it on the bedside table. She'd won it in a raffle. Didn't drink the stuff. It had been standing around unopened for months. At last I identified the elusive odour Julie was putting out: Bertram's Extra Dry Sherry. Julie, normally abstemious, had most of a pint of sherry in her. Calming herself for expanding her sexual horizons, no doubt. Pity her anal sphincter obviously wasn't calmed enough to expand. Hell, blast and double damnation. No wonder she was out. She was going to have the mother of all hangovers when she eventually came round. Serve her right, the bloody bitch, I thought vengefully. Me and my big mouth. I wasn't in a position to do much but at least I could kick myself, which I did. The drink went to her head when she bent down? The pain in m y cock was now beyond unbearable, to say nothing of my other wounds. I lay on Julie in what, normally, would have been a highly erotic position-nothing is sexier, I believe, than firm, round buttocks nestled into the lower belly-wondering frantically what to do. I wasn't well-placed for icy calmness but eventually I thought of the shower. An icy cold shower was exactly what we both needed, in the worst way. Particularly the innocently slumbering Julie, I thought bitterly. It was only a matter of getting there. I lay there contemplating a variety of bizarre ninja manoeuvres to achieve this but eventually I realised that it was a choice of carrying this Juno into the shower or dying of blood loss-merciful, merciful blood loss-following the regrettable explosion of my cock. If I could slide her gently half-off the bed with her knees on the floor, I could get enough leverage to lift her and all would be well-relatively well, anyway. If she slid past to the point of no return and flopped onto the floor, I might as well be nailed to the floor by my scrotum until dead. I pulled experimentally. Ow, ow, bloody ow. That wasn't going to work. I rolled her to one side, got one arm around her waist, rolled back, pushed up with the other arm and, in exquisite agony, anti-humped her-you should pardon the expression-slowly backwards towards the edge of the bed. She slumberingly resisted every inch of the way while I sobbed and swore and gritted my teeth. When her knees went over the edge of the mattress, she suddenly went of her own accord and I was left with my fingernails clawing at the bedclothes like a cat being Velcroed off the sofa, desperate to stop her before she pinned me to the floor for the rest of my short, unnatural life. Stiletto-stamped toes shrieking in protest, I stopped her at the last moment and, after a deep breath and a prayer (for God to have a sense of humour) I braced myself on my wounded feet and, clasping her with both arms, humped her-this time you need not pardon the expression-to the door of the shower. God, she was a weight. I staggered grimly forward on my very last reserves of strength and lifted her triumphantly over the sill of the shower cubicle and God-who does, it turns out, have a sense of humour-arranged for her heels to catch and over we went, twisting as we fell. Always the gentleman, I broke her fall with my body, smashing my head gallantly on the tiled wall in the process. When the flashes of light behind my eyelids eventually flickered out, I fought to roll Julie over on her front and, as she hung from my poor, abused cock, I kneeled and wrenched the cold tap with all the force I could muster. I was deluged in freezing, stinging water. So was Julie. She screamed angrily and threw her head back. This time my lower lip paid the price and got between my teeth and her skull. "Fuck!" she screamed, not knowing where she was. "Fuck!" I mumbled resentfully, clasping my abused face. She realised fast enough that she someone naked was lying on her nakedness, though, and briskly smashed her elbows backwards at me. The anal sphincter crushed me tighter than ever and I felt a rib crack before I could grab her arms. "Jesus, Julie, it's me! Relax! Stop!" She swung her head round as far as it would go and recognised me. She didn't seem to take it as good news. "What the fuck are you doing?" she screamed. "I'm expanding your fucking sexual horizons, you dizzy bitch. Now let me go." "Let you go?" I saw her on her face the reflection of her physical stocktaking. Sexual horizons? "Oh." She blushed, for the first time on record. "Do it, dammit. Let me go. I'm dying here." Pause "I can't." "You can. Bloody do it." "I can't." Then the bloody woman started to giggle helplessly. I was about to get her attention by the famous hangman' s-noose-executed-with-soap-on-a-rope trick when, at least, the giggling allowed her to relax and the horrible clamping eased up. I didn't wait but wrenched myself free, sobbing with relief. My cock was unrecognisably huge, shaped and coloured like an aubergine. I lay and cried for a very long time while the cold water beat down on my distressed manhood. "Oh, God," said Julie, "I feel sick." And she vomited copiously onto the shower floor. The sweet, sick smell of half-digested sherry chokingly billowed out through the shower stall. Time and water eventually helped. Julie, staggering to stand and see straight, tried to be solicitous but spoiled it by giggling and the turned worm drove her away with harsh words. Much, much later I got dressed again. My cracked rib hurt damnably, putting on my underpants was exquisitely painful-but marginally better than the prospect of zipping my cock if I didn't-and I couldn't get my damaged toes into my shoes. Julie tried to get me to stay but I wanted to get my head, my rib and my toes to a doctor. Driving was horribly painful but not as hard to bear as the appreciative whistling and applause I got from the Gautengers as I limped across the car park. They playfully tossed me a can of Castle lager, as a sort of street-theatre tip, I suppose. Unfortunately, I was looking shamefacedly down, not up at my third-floor tormentors, and didn't see it coming to catch it. They throw accurately in Gauteng and the can ricocheted off the bonnet of my new BMW and cracked the windscreen. "O, aarde! Sorry, hey, man," came a Gauteng voice, followed-not a moment too soon-by the sounds of hurried withdrawal. And, yes, when the doctor saw my other wounds, he suspected I'd been mugged and insisted on me stripping completely. And yes, he then insisted on a full and complete explanation of my empurpled penis. And yes, he then failed in his manful struggle not to roll around on the floor laughing. He nearly made it but made the mistake of catching the nursing sister' s eye and then they were both off, snorting and trying to say, "I'm sorry" and then giggling off again while I stared patiently at the wall praying unsuccessfully for the ground to open up under me. The news spread through the hospital like wildfire and I was escorted off the premises by a goggle-eyed escort of wheelchaired and ambulant patients and every member of staff who could find an excuse for walking, whispering, behind me-about a hundred per cent of them, I judged. * * * The zip on those jeans was never the same again, either. And, if I ever get another erection ever again (and I'm not betting on it) and it isn't exquisitely painful (and I don't believe it won't be) there'll be no more expanding of sexual horizons. It's the missionary position for me, preferably with someone the size of Allie McBeal. And I'm never eating aubergine again either. ----- ENDS - My collected stories are at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/FatherIgnatius/www/Stories.html - 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. 28th September 2000 -- Father Ignatius<Father Ignatius at hotmail dart calm> Stories: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/FatherIgnatius/www/Stories.html Life on ASSD: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/FatherIgnatius/www/Play/ Write Club: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Rui_Favorites/www/Write_Club/ Iron Writer: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Rui_Favorites/www/Iron/ -- 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+