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Subject: {ASSM} Write Club: Father Ignatius v Jimmy Hat
Date: Sun, 1 Oct 2000 14:10:04 -0400
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Write Club Duel - Father Ignatius v Jimmy Hat
(30 September 2000)
Referee: DrSpin
Special rules: None.
Challenge Words:
Jimmy Hat: thump, libertine, flour
Father Ignatius: Hallowe'en, Dr. Seuss, clingon
Referee: underwater, synchronised swimming, urine sample
---
Referee's Opinion:
Father Ignatius - The Trouble With Penises:
The trouble with creating an elaborate set-up for a short
story in this genre is that the Write Club three-hour time
limit is unforgiving. Nat has a great concept but it takes
much of his allotted time to put it into the story. Terrific
start, excellent middle, tailed-off end - which is a common
Write Club experience, as far as I can see.
Nit-picking done with, it's another very funny Nat story that
will improve hugely with an edit and revision. Nat has decided
to treat his WC stories as first drafts to be revised and
reposted as more complete stories, and I think that is wise,
and worthy of consideration for all.
Jimmy Hat - The Noise in Apartment Six:
Terrific start, excellent middle, and - bad luck, Nat - a fine
finish as well. Smooth and easy use of all nine keywords, and
maybe better use of Nat's killer 'clingon' than Nat himself.
Loved this story. Very funny, too. Worthy reading for all.
Referee's Decision:
Jimmy wins.
Both authors should send their stories to the manufacturer of
the clingon. They will both assuredly engender increased
sales.
---
Herewith the Stories:
---
The Trouble with Penises (FF toys <*>)
(c) October 2000 Father Ignatius
FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com
"The problem with penises," says my fully-liberated,
happily-divorced, man-eating friend Vicki, "is that most of them
are attached to men." Attitudes like this meant that, despite
prolonged and uneasy fencing around by both of us, we never ended
up in bed together. When I married Carol, that became irrelevant,
of course. A lost opportunity to be regretted, maybe. Nothing
more. Just good friends. An unscratched itch, nevertheless.
Carol wasn't cool about Vicki. She was uneasy about how matters
stood between us and once went so far as to say, "You should have
got over each other before we met". Maybe, but we didn't and
that's how matters stood, with Vicki and her long string of
fucking-friends and me amongst her just-good-friends. Carol had
somewhat of a point, but what to do?
Carol's birthday falls on Hallowe'en which means that she tends to
get a pretty oddball selection of gifts. And she's had more
pumpkin-flavoured birthday cakes than most people get. This year,
to prove my unflagging physical interest in my beloved wife, or
something, I had visited www.adulttoychest.com and ordered her a
clingon. It's categorised under "vaginal enhancement" with a
cross-reference under "anal". They cost a bomb because they're
"individually hand-crafted" out of Pyrex glass by "our select
group of artists". A clingon consists of a combination glass
clitoral-and-G-spot stimulator and a glass anal probe. It also
has a handle for optional manual manipulation "but it is designed
to use the rectal and vaginal muscles to move it hands free".
When the clingon is in place, the handle gives the female wearer
the appearance of having an erect, glass penis.
The individual hand-crafting means that it takes three to four
weeks to ship. This is because, for each one, the client (in this
case, the loving husband) has to provide a series of pelvic
measurements to ensure that the product is tailor-made for the
designated recipient. I stand before the world and attest that
greater love hath no husband than he who shall measure his wife up
for an individually hand-crafted Pyrex clingon without spoiling
the surprise. Never in the history of human relations can the
phrase "Nothing, dear, never mind" have been more abused.
When I saw the price, though, I fell off my chair. That's surely
too much for a gag gift. It is for me, anyway. I wanted to do
it, though, and finally convinced myself by throwing a
big-spending-customer hissy fit with the suppliers and insisting
that they craft the handle in the form of an erect penis. "Yes,
sir" they said, "if you want the handle of your clingon to be a
glass dildo, for $476.95 you can have one." Capitalism is
wonderful.
They're annealed for extra strength and you can pre-heat them in
warm water before use. This also happens to make them
dishwasher-proof, by the way. The ad didn't go there but it did
mention that, with proper use, your product "can last for hundreds
of years". I am sure this is a great comfort to us all. Proper
usage starts with safe storage in a padded black drawstring bag.
On Hallowe'en morning, Carol was opening her birthday presents
amongst the ruins of the breakfast-in-bed provided by her loving
husband. Jodie, our pyjama-ed seven-year-old daughter, was
bouncing around the bed excitedly, guessing what was in each of
the packages. Carol kept my gift for last as she always does and
I skilfully timed Jodie's breakfast contribution of making fresh
coffee in the kitchen so she was out of the room when Carol opened
the padded black drawstring bag and drew out the crystal-clear
clingon.
"What the fuck is this?" she said, appalled. Maybe she'd been
expecting a pearl necklace, or something. Anyway. I handed her
the promotional pamphlet and she read through it, jaw hanging.
"Do you think I need to 'regain a woman's sensitivity to orgasm
with a man during intercourse'?" she enquired.
"Not at all, dear. It says 'keep and regain'. Keeping I'm hot
for."
Well, she eventually came round to the idea and, giggling, went to
the hand-basin to run warm water over it.
"Close the door," she said. Jodie was still vrotteling around in
the kitchen, unhampered by parental interest in coffee. Carol drew
her nightdress above her waist as she climbed back in bed. She
handed me the clingon and said, "Go on. A gentleman's
prerogative, after all."
This was a reference to my Granny's Victorian etiquette that
dictates that it is the prerogative of any gentleman who gives a
lady a wearable gift to put it on her the first time. This works
fine if the gift is jewellery or gloves or a hat but can lead to
trouble with her husband when it's stockings, garters, underwear
or even a dress. Ergo, in my Granny's world, a gentleman gives
such gifts only to the lady who is his wife. If he gives her
garters, for example, it means he regards her as being less than a
lady and, indeed, harbours hopes of being less than a gentleman
with her. Etiquette is cool--something for everyone.
Carol lay in bed, legs apart and knees up, scrunching her
nightdress under her breasts and peering fascinatedly down as I
respectfully nosed the vaginal probe up and down her slot.
"Oooh!" she said, snapping her legs together convulsively.
"Sorry," we both said together, and laughed. She opened her legs
again and was dripping in no time. Artfully, I applied the anal
probe to her cunt, slicking it up nicely, pressed the two probes
against their target orifices and firmly slid them home. They went
in like, well, a cock into a cunt, I guess, and Carol sank back on
the pillows, eyes closed. Her hips moved and, fascinated, I
watched the tip of the handle-dildo making small movements unaided
my me.
The bedroom door burst open. I whipped the covers back up to
Carol's chin in time to cover her but not in time to conceal the
tenting caused by the clingon's handle. Not surprisingly, it
looked just like a hard-on under a blanket and I remembered the
day, a couple of years back, that Jodie had caught Carol and me
out while fooling around and seen the tenting of the bedclothes
over my cock.
"What's that?" she had piped, accusingly. "What are you hiding
under the blanket?"
"Nothing," said Carol, putting her leg over my thighs to conceal
the traumatic evidence that Jodie's parents have a sex life. Like,
saying "Nothing" to a five-year-old is going to fob her off? Hell,
five-year-olds _invented_ saying "Nothing" to mean, "Something
very interesting". Jodie never did get an answer she found
satisfactory to her question.
This time, it was my turn to do the leg-over-thigh trick. Jodie
rolled her eyes and sighed. "You two have been fooling around
again." Seven going on seventeen--that's our Jodie. She's going
to be traumatised by that memory one day, you mark my words,
unless some nice young man gets his act together and gives her
a clingon in time.
"I couldn't carry the tray in cuz you shut the door," she accused,
bringing it in. There was a Dr. Seuss book on the tray, too.
Jodie has firm views on who should be the centre of attention and
Carol had exceeded her ration by having a birthday. And, if mum
and dad were free to fool around, it was time to re-establish
control.
"I want you to read to me," she whined and climbed into the bed on
the other side of Carol from me. Jodie lay in her armpit, forcing
a cuddle. I was already doing the same on the other side. Carol
was pinned. Jodie opened the book and thrust it under Carol's
eyes.
"Read" she commanded, focussed on the book.
"One fish, two fish, red fish, blue fish," began Carol obediently,
with Jodie joining in. Masterfully excluded from the centre of
attention, I was left to my own devices to compete as best I could
for a share of Carol's attention. The glass dildo-handle appeared
magically under my fingers without conscious volition from me.
"Oh!" said Carol, jumping.
"Mo-mmee!!," said Jodie exasperated, "It's, 'Oh, the thinks you
can think'!"
"Yes, child."
And a competition, with rules instinctively understood, began
between me and Carol. If she could get to the end of the book in a
normal tone of voice, she had won and was a good mother. If Jodie
figured out that I had won the lion's share of Carol's attention
from her, I had won and was a bad father.
"Not so fast, mommy," instructed Jodie obliviously as a page
whipped hurriedly over and Carol started to gabble.
"Yes, dear," I said, speeding up my activities with the handle,
"Not so fast."
Carol slowed her reading, choking slightly and I gave her a break
by slowing too. She sneakily started speeding up again slowly,
thinking I wouldn't notice but I did, and stepped up my pace to
match. She fooled Jodie, though.
"From there to here, from here to there, funny things are
everywhere," she gabbled and snapped the book closed as her hips
started to buck uncontrollably.
"Jodie, Mommy wants to sleep now, like the Zeep, okay? Go with
daddy and get dressed before you're late."
Okay, she'd won and I wasn't a bad father. Playing fair, I led
Jodie and closed the door as the creaking of the bedsprings
started to become noticeable. I chivvied Jodie into her room and
closed her door, too, and stood in the passage listening to the
sounds coming from our room.
"Oh, God!" said Carol's voice, just once, and I heard the bed go
quiet. Grinning broadly in the gloomy passage I though I could
call the gift a success. I heard Carol get up and walk with shaky
feet in the bathroom.
"Oh, shit," she said, and I heard a thump on the carpet, for all
the world as if a substantial Pyrex item had been dropped on the
floor.
"Having trouble with that?" I asked, going back in.
"I just need a bit of practice," she said. "Thanks for the
practical and useful gift." Again with my Granny's etiquette. And
she kissed me.
* * *
I got home early from work to get into my costume and take Jodie
out trick-or-treating in hers before we went to Vicki's Hallowe'en
party.
"Do we have to go to this damned party?" Carol whined.
"Yes, we accepted ages ago. What's your problem?"
We both know what the problem is. Carol's not cool about Vicki.
My costume was a pretty standard skeleton, a thick, black
body-stocking with phosphorescent bones painted on it. It was
reasonably scary, I guess, and I was admiring how good I looked in
in the bedroom closet mirror when I realised that Carol had been
ages in the bathroom. Getting in and out of my costume was a
mission and I wanted to start the evening with an empty bladder.
"Hoy!" I yelled, beating on the bathroom door. "I need to offer
the municipality a urine sample. Shit or get off the pot."
The door swung open and there stood Carol in her costume. I was
amazed. I'd never seen her looking that good, not even on our
wedding day. I'd never seen her looking like that, _especially_
on our wedding day.
"Wow," I said. After a while, I said it again. And, somewhat
later, again. Pleased, she strutted past me, modelling her
costume. She was dressed like a devil, in tight red body-stocking
that revealed her excellent figure in a way that would have
Vicki's male guests foaming at the mouth. From red high-heels to
red, horned hood hood, she was completely covered in red, except
for her little, round nun's face smirking mischievously at my
mouthing admiration.
A red devil's tail sprouted from her coccyx and squirmed down
between her buttocks. She had the barbed tail hooked over her arm
and she struck a sexy pose at me, showing off the piece de
resistance of her ensemble--a rearing, perpetually hard devil's
cock, proudly pushing out its own special pocket in her
body-stocking. She was wearing the damned clingon to Vicki's
Hallowe'en party. Fuck.
"Just so's you don't forget who you came in with, huh?" she said,
and off to the party we went.
* * *
We made the mistake of arriving too early before enough drink had
been drunk and before the shop-talking, sport-talking boredom had
been washed away in alcohol to reveal the party animal beneath.
The sexes had segregated in obedience to tradition and, ho hum,
the women were talking about cooking at one end of the room and
and men were talking of sport at the other. A woman who, at some
previous party, had had emptied the room by talking about
different ways of preparing rice, was now holding the floor on the
virtues of maize flour.
At the other end, the men were discussing the final of the
synchronised swimming at the Sydney Olympic Games. Vicki, who
despises cookery, sport and sexual segregation with approximately
equal passions, was nowhere to be seen. Not the
anxiously-hovering hostess, she.
"How do they keep together underwater when they can't hear the
music?" someone was asking.
"They broadcast underwater, of course," I said, drawing attention
to our arrival. That stopped all conversations. Carol's costume
was the sensation of the evening, no doubt about it. Vicki
materialised, dressed like a slut in obedience to her own
Hallowe'en tradition, and took Carol by the arm.
"Thank God for one interesting guest," she said to Carol and
looked flatteringly at me. "Run away and talk about sport with the
grown-up little boys, dear," she dismissed me.
The grown-up little boys had an interesting conversation about how
the gold medal winners in the synchronised swimming reminded them
of "The Billy Girls" in Series III of "Allie McBeal". There was
some salacious exploration of the topic of what else in their
lives they do in unison.
"I bet they even give their urine samples in synch," said one wit.
That was enough for me. I set off in search of diversion and
wickedness.
I found it in Vicki's bedroom. Carol had her on the back and was
fucking Vicki with the clingon.
"This is the best birthday present I ever got," she gasped. "If
you can get out of that costume, you can come and join in."
Vicki 'phoned me at work the next day and said, "Yup, I've been
right all along. All it needs to make a libertine is a penis."
-----
ENDS
- The Stories of Father Ignatius 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.
---
THE NOISE IN APARTMENT SIX
(C)opyright 2000 by Jimmy Hat
"How do they hold their breath for so long underwater?" Jennifer
asked as she watched the games less-than-live from Sydney.
Melanie lifted her head from the book she was reading. "Who?"
"The synchronized swimming team," Jennifer replied. "Look at
them. They just stay under there forever. The whole time they're
kicking their legs and twisting. I can't keep up like that in
aerobics class, where there's air all around me."
"That is impressive," Melanie agreed. "Look at their legs. I
would kill for legs like that."
"Mel, you have legs like that." Jennifer was tired of hearing
about Mel's fat thighs, heavy hips, and small breasts. Anyone
capable of wearing the dresses Mel did had no place complaining
about her body. You can't have your libertine cake and eat it,
too.
Mel was about to reply when they heard the moaning from
downstairs. "Oh, man, not again!"
Mel and Jen never thought the walls in their apartment building
were thin until the new neighbor moved in downstairs. Correction.
Not until his girlfriend started stopping by his apartment. To
say the least, her lovemaking was vocal.
"You know she's faking that," Jen said.
"Ya think?"
"Sure. There's no thumping. He's not making any noise. Just her
and her shrieking." The shrieking continued even as they spoke.
"Maybe he's eating her out," Mel suggested. "He might be just as
good at breath control as those swimmers."
"That's a thought. Lick or dick?" Jen asked. The screaming
continued to echo in the room.
"Lick or dick, the bitch won't quit. Can't be his prick. I'm
betting that he likes to lick."
"That sounds like Dr. Seuss," Jen said with a laugh.
"X-rated Dr. Seuss," Mel agreed. "'The Jock in the Box'?"
"How about, 'Horton Hears a Ho'?"
Below, the moaning built to a crescendo. Mel and Jen feigned
applause.
* * *
"What do you want for dinner?" Mel asked.
"Huh?" Jen asked.
"Are you still watching the Olympics?"
"Of course. Today is men's gymnastics. You should see these
fucking guys. They're so buff."
Mel stopped and admired the lean waist and broad shoulders of the
pretty boy from Russia approaching the apparatus.
"That is nice," Mel said.
"Later on is track and field. Just as much muscle, only with
spandex. You can practically tell which guys are circumcised or
not."
"You're starting to sound a bit obsessed."
"Obsessed?"
"Mm-hmm."
Jen thought about it forma moment. "I've actually been wondering
about the drug tests."
"What?"
"You know, the drug tests. They're probably Urine tests, right?"
"I guess," Mel replied.
"And they're supervised, right?"
"I guess." Mel did not like where this was going.
"Well, I wonder if they could use volunteers. To help them aim or
something."
"That is so wrong, Jen. Urine samples, not sperm samples. That's
just disgusting."
Jen's rebuttal was interrupted by the familiar sound of sex from
downstairs.
"What is up with that girl?" Jen asked.
"I think it's more what's up with him," Mel said. "Maybe it's
time we got to meet our new neighbor."
"Huh? What are you going to do? Knock on his door and say, 'Can I
borrow a cup of flour? And, oh by the way, tell your girlfriend
to try biting the pillow instead of screaming her lungs out.' I
don't think so, Mel."
The volume of moaning increased.
"Hallowe'en is coming," Mel suggested. "Maybe we should just go
trick or treating."
"Oh, I see!" Jen replied. "This isn't about asking him to stop at
all."
"You have your gymnasts," Mel said. "And I have my own little
ideas."
* * *
Melanie spotted him at the mailbox. The neighbor. The source of
many a disturbing orgasmic wail. A source she was interested in
tapping for herself. She eyed him up and down. Slim, cute. Just a
bit of stubble on an otherwise athletic looking face. No Russian
gymnast, to be sure, but the Olympics had been over for a week.
Melanie was about to open her own mailbox when she was struck
with an idea. "Excuse me," she said. "My name is Mel and I live
in the building. I just realized I forgot my keys. Do you have a
mobile phone I might use to call my roommate?" Please don't have
a phone, Mel thought, please don't have a phone.
The neighbor turned to face Mel. His eyes subtly moved over her
curvy frame before settling on her eyes. "No, I'm sorry to say I
don't."
Mel's smile turned to a slight grimace. She sighed dramatically.
"I was just on the way in, though. You can call from my
apartment."
"Oh, thanks," Mel said, brightening. She fought the urge to
clench a fist and say, "Yes!"
Melanie let him lead the way. It gave her a good chance to check
out his butt. She approved. He made his way down the hall and
fished in his pocket for his keys. "I'm Rod, by the way."
"A pleasure," Mel said. Rod. That sounded promising.
Rod let her in and quickly took of his jacket. "Can I get you
something to drink?"
"Sure," Melanie answered.
"I think I only have beer in the fridge," Rod said. "Is that
okay, or would you just like some water?"
"Beer's fine," Mel said. "I'm done working for the day."
Rod smiled. "Yeah, me, too." His eyes lingered on Mel for a second
before he stepped to the kitchen. "Oh, the, uh, phone is right
over there."
Melanie picked up the phone and dialed her room. It rang twice
before the line clicked and Jennifer picked up the phone.
"Hello," she said.
"Damn," Mel said, replacing the phone on its carriage. "Answering
machine."
"Sorry about that," Rod said. "Well, you have an open beer, now.
Might as well sit and enjoy it."
She did. Rod drank a beer, as well. They talked. Idle
conversation about jobs, how they came to live where they did,
the last movie they saw. It could just as easily have drifted
onto talk about the Olympics. Mel finished her beer and asked Rod
where the bathroom was. She already knew, of course; the layout
was exactly the same as her apartment. She just wanted to be
polite. After Rod showed her the way, she got on with her
business.
"Rod," Mel called.
Rod moved form the kitchen where he grabbed a second beer. "Yes,"
he said. Mel stood in the door of the bathroom.
Mel held up a small cardboard tube. "You're out of toilet paper."
"Oh," he said. "There's more in the closet." Rod stepped into the
bathroom, and took hold of the closet door. He swung it open and
announced, "Here!"
And there it was. Not toilet paper, though there was a full
package of that. It stood out, and there was no way for Rod or
Mel to pretend it wasn't there. Mel wasn't sure exactly what it
was, but it was certainly adult in nature. Made of glass,
perhaps, it was crystal clear and has three prongs. One was
shaped like a solid cylinder, the second exactly like a phallus,
and third a tapered finger. It seemed like the end of a trident,
but one more likely to be used by Pan than Neptune.
"That's not mine," Rod said.
"Of course," Mel said, still staring at the three-way tool.
"Where would you put it?"
"I'm so embarrassed."
"What is it?" Mel asked.
"It's a clingon."
"A what?"
"A clingon. That's what the catalog called it anyway."
Mel stared at it some more. Was this the cause of all that
screeching? Was this the Secret of Apartment Six? She had come
this far. She had to know.
"Can I borrow it?"
Rod's eyes jumped through their sockets to a point about an inch
away from the tip of his nose. "What?"
"I guess that is kind of rude," Melanie admitted.
"No," Rod stammered. "I mean..."
"What if I used it here?" Mel asked.
Rod's jaw hit the floor. That wasn't so bad, really. That way he
might use his tongue to catch his eyes if they fell away from
their spot in midair.
"That's rude, too, isn't it?" Melanie asked. "I guess I should
offer to let you use it on me."
Rod would have fainted and fallen backwards, but the weight of
his strong jaw resting on the ground kept him fixed in place. It
didn't help his speech any, however. "You...here...want..."
Melanie did the only thing she could with a tongue-tied boy. She
untied it with hers. Their lips pressed firmly before parting. It
seemed the kiss helped restore much needed oxygen to Rod's brain.
"Why don't we move over to the bedroom," he said.
"Why don't we?" Melanie replied. She grabbed the clingon from the
closet.
There was a mad flash of activity to separate Melanie from her
clothes. Call it unsynchronized undressing. Rod did it in world
record time, however. Definitely worth a medal or something. Just
as quickly, he pressed his face to her snatch. He inhaled her
scent and delved his tongue inside her quim. Mel rested on her
back: knees in the air, and legs parted, with Rod's mouth working
on her twat. He was talented. Mel could believe he could get a
girl to scream this way. But looking at the toy in her hand, she
knew what the source of all the moans really was.
"I think this thing might be a little cold," Mel said.
Rod took his face away from her crotch for the briefest of
moments. "Give it to me." Rod tucked it up under his shirt and
assumed a prone position. He resumed licking Mel's pussy while
his body heated the clingon.
In anticipation, Mel's thoughts drifted to the toy resting under
Rod's chest. She enjoyed the feel of his tongue circling her
clit, and thought about those three shafts sliding inside her.
Three. "Oh, Rod," she said. "I think we may need a little lube or
something."
Again, Rod interrupted his tonguing for a split second. "Gotcha."
He slid his hands over to her knees, and shifted to rise to his
knees. The clingon slipped out from under his shirt and fell to
the bed. Instead of going to get the lube as she expected
however, Rod took hold of her thighs and flipped her over.
"I see," Melanie said.
"So do I," Rod said. He admired her round bottom before putting
the clingon back under his shirt, and sliding back between her
legs. Rod hooked an arm under each thigh, pushing Mel's legs
apart with his shoulders. His tongue met her rosebud, and soon he
coated the outside of her ribbed ring with a generous coat of
wetness. He squeezed her buttocks and darted his tongue into her
tight hole. The acrid, salty smell filled the air close in around
her ass. Soon the tight dot of muscle was as wet as the slippery
slit that Rod could feel against his chin.
Rod moved away and took hold of the warmed clingon. "Roll over,"
he said. Mel complied, and after she flipped her hair away from
her eyes, she saw Rod positioning the toy against her crotch. She
spread her legs to accommodate him, and enjoyed a moment of
lip-licking expectation just before the glass tips pressed
against her glistening pink flesh.
"Here goes," Rod said, and with one motion he thrust two shafts
inside her, and slid the third between her cunt lips and against
her swollen clitoris. He was clearly well practiced with this
piece of equipment.
"Ohhh," Melanie moaned. It may have been a shriek, but she
couldn't tell. She couldn't really feel anything except the
sensations from below. She was completely filled, and even as one
small muscle twitched to accommodate the toy, it pulled other
pars of her more in contact with it.
"Roll your hips," Rod instructed.
She did. It didn't help. It only seemed to increase the presence
inside her. She arched her back with the same result. Soon she
was convulsing in an escalating spiral of penetrative pleasure.
She couldn't stay quiet, either.
"How's that?" Rod asked, torturing her. She could only moan in
response. An orgasm was coming, and she knew it. It was so
sudden, but there was no stopping it. It was like a mudslide, and
try as she might to jerk her hips away from it, it rolled over
her body with awesome speed and pressure. Melanie howled.
"Nice," Rod said. Melanie sought release, but Rod placed the butt
of his palm against the clingon and kept it in place. "Kinda
fills you up, huh? Every hole, right to the brim."
"All but one," Melanie said. It was a monumental effort to speak.
"Gimme your cock."
Rod grinned with glee. He stripped out of his pants, tossed off
his shirt and threw them to the floor. Melanie opened her mouth
to accept his turgid member. Even as his cock entered her mouth
she emitted one last long moan. Abruptly the sound ceased and was
replaced by slurping.
Melanie was too far-gone for active cock sucking. Rod took it
upon himself to buck his hips and fuck her mouth as Melanie
writhed on the bed with pleasure. Now it was his turn to moan. He
pushed ever deeper into her mouth, and all Melanie did was grasp
onto his buttocks to steady his wild thrusts.
Melanie rocked her hips back and forth. She heard Rod's moans
grow louder. She felt the quivering of his cock just as the first
jets of hot come splashed inside her mouth. She succumbed to a
second orgasm herself listening to Rod grunt with pleasure as his
prick twitched against her lips.
It was over as fast as it had begun. Rod and Melanie got up from
the bed. And started to sort out the pile of clothes on the
bedroom floor.
"What's that?" Melanie asked.
"My mobile phone," Rod said indifferently before realizing what
had happened. "Oh, shit..." Melanie's laughter was short lived.
Rod held up a set of keys. "These wouldn't be your apartment
keys, would they?" he asked mockingly. "I'll bet your roommate
was home, too," Rod said.
Melanie smirked. "Right. And you only have beer in the
refrigerator?"
* * *
"You just missed it," Jennifer said as her roommate entered the
apartment. "They were at it again down there. Only this time she
shut up midway through and then he started groaning."
"We really do need to have a talk with him," Melanie said.
"You think?" Jen asked.
"Absolutely," Melanie said with an exasperated look on her face.
"And if you won't go down there, I will."
END
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/
"My words fly up, my thoughts remain below."
- Claudius in Hamlet (III, iii, 100-103)
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