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Message-ID: <29592asstr$985734604@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: One Gallus <onegallus@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Signals Part 1 (inc, Fm, mf)
Date: Tue, 27 Mar 2001 18:10:04 -0500
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<1st attachment, "Signals 1.txt" begin>


Note:  This story contains graphic sexual 
descriptions and should not be read where it 
is illegal or by people under the legal age 
under their local laws.

Note:  This story may not be changed or 
posted or otherwise used without permission 
from the author.

SIGNALS
Part 1
By OneGallus


I don't know if this is true of every male or 
not, but to me, there are females in this world 
who become the object of my strong desire, not 
through any physical or social charm, but 
through some delicious peculiarity.  This quirk 
of mine has both plagued and comforted me 
through adolescence and into adulthood.  In the 
seventh grade, I was hooked on my social studies 
teacher who was tall lanky and stiff-necked.  
She held her head awkwardly, shifting from one 
odd angle to the other.  She had small eyes, 
rimless glasses and a hardness around her lips. 
Frequently she would clear her sinuses with a 
kind of closed-mouthed snort.  She wore a yellow 
Eagle Number Two Pencil inserted into a gray 
curl, jutting forward at a forty-five degree 
tilt and sharpened to a deadly point.

In my vision, she has assigned me special 
tutoring.  As instructed, I go to her home for 
this extra attention.  It is a Victorian two-
story home, built in the 1920's.  I enter the 
front door as instructed and hear her call me 
from her room upstairs. I ascend a dark paneled 
staircase and open her door.  She is sitting up, 
naked in her bed. A red social studies text 
rests on her lap.  Her tiny breasts barely 
jiggle as she lifts her arm and says, "Come, 
Wayne, we shall now discover in what 
governmental body that power is concentrated." 


So, you should not be surprised at my quirky 
attraction to Sonia.  She, was nearly my age, 
fifteen, almost sixteen.  Her last name was 
Matthews, but even then I thought her family 
must have changed its name.  At first, I thought 
she had a Mediterranean, look about her.  The 
not unpleasant aroma of curry eddied about her.  
Her skin had a dark cast to it and a slight fuzz 
on her upper lip.  Her arms were also hairy, but 
not with fuzz.  Long black swirls of hair grew 
upwards on her arms, though I saw nothing on the 
backs of her hands.  Apparently she shaved her 
legs religiously, because I never saw a hint of 
hair below the modest skirts she wore.  A few 
days before, she had kicked off her shoes in 
history class and I completely missed the fall 
of Ft. Sumpter.  Her feet were small but her 
toes were long and the fluted depressions 
between the foot bones showed darker than the 
surrounding skin.   I fantasized those feet 
caressing the calf of my leg as we lay side by 
side.  I know this is an unconventional 
attraction for a WASP, but that is my point.  
Perhaps it will help you understand my story 
better.  

I desperately wanted to ask this girl out.  Yet, 
I had little experience with girls.  There had 
been adventurous touchings and kissings at 
parties and school outings, but nothing really 
focused.  I wasn't sure if I could work up the 
courage to actually request a date.   And if I 
somehow made myself do it, and she accepted, 
where would I take her?   Would a girl like her 
enjoy a movie?  A dinner?  A play?   But then, 
how would I get her there, since I couldn't 
drive?  Take a bus?

"What's wrong Wayne?" my mother asked "You look 
like you're gonna cry," She was preparing supper 
and I was sitting at the table, staring off into 
space, contemplating my problem.

"I don't know, Mom, I want to be friends with a 
girl, but I'm shy, I guess.  I feel so stupid 
when I get around her, I can't talk."

"Well, what do you like about her?"

"I don't know, maybe just her looks, she's 
different somehow.  She's quiet, kind of shy, 
but she's nice.  She's got kind of a dark 
complexion, foreign, I guess, speaks with an 
accent.  Uh... no, that's not exactly true 
either, she just sounds different somehow."

"Is she pretty?" Mom asked, turning to face me 
and leaning against the counter, crossing her 
arms.  I had never thought much about Mom apart 
from her maternity.  Her question seemed to 
force me into an unexpected comparison between 
her and Sonia.  Mom was forty-three and had not 
yet drifted away from the narrow willowy figure 
she was to carry for many years.  Sonia was 
dark, fifteen and petite.

I laughed, "Not half as pretty as you."  

Mom threw her head back and sighed a delighted 
smile.  She kept her almost-blonde hair short 
and wavy.  Her face was a graceful oval and she 
wore only the slightest suggestion of a 
hereditary double chin. Of well-known actresses, 
she probably most closely resembles Glen Close.  

"Ahhh, what a sweet boy you are!  What's this 
girl's name?"  

"Sonia.  She's just, well-nice, and I'd like to 
take her out."  I rose and walked to the sink 
and stood in a slump beside Mom, gazing out the 
small window and into the back yard.  My mother 
was only slightly shorter than my own six-feet-
two.  I opened the cabinet and extracted a glass 
and filled it with cold tap water.  

"Do you talk with her at school?"

I turned the water glass up and drank it all the 
way to the bottom, burped quietly and answered,  
"Not much.  I don't know what to say."  I had 
tried, and Sonia had smiled and responded 
graciously, but her very friendliness left me 
tongue-tied.

"Talk about something she's interested in," Mom 
said.

"Gosh, I don't know what that would be," I said, 
turning toward her.

"Find out!"

I shrugged.  "If I asked her out, how would I 
take her anywhere?  I can't drive."

"Take a cab?  Or let me drive you?"  Mom said 
immediately.  She smiled mischievously, slipped 
her arms around my waist and pulled me to her. 
"How would that be, loverboy?  I could keep an 
eye on you that way, keep you out of trouble."  
Her face was almost level with mine.  Both her 
eyebrows were raised in amusement.

"I don't know enough to get into any trouble," I 
said, feeling genuinely sorry for myself and at 
the same time liking the proximity of my mother.  

"Oh, that kind of knowledge will come naturally, 
too naturally!" she said and hugged me tighter. 
I have since observed many mothers reacting to 
their sons in exactly the same way.  I have 
noticed that mothers are especially solicitous 
of their sons in this regard.  They love their 
daughters and have their own unique way of 
relating to them, but they especially monitor 
the development of their sons.  They feel their 
sons' emotional hurts far more sharply than they 
do their daughters'.  Perhaps this is because, 
being females, they know what women can cope 
with. They may be more uncertain of the 
vulnerabilities of their boys.  

Certainly physical demonstrations with sons are 
more evident; the feeling of the male biceps, 
the patting of the boy's chest, the hugs and the 
kisses, they're all there with boys and not so 
much with girls.  This is what I presumed I was 
now experiencing as my own mother held me.  
However, as I felt her thighs and pelvis against 
me, the sensation was unusually pleasant.
My groin felt far too content, nestled as it was 
against Mom, and I knew I needed to retreat.  I 
kissed her on the forehead and pulled back, 
turning to the sink again.  I made a show of 
filling the water glass a second time.  However, 
Mom was not finished with her affection.  She 
encircled me from behind, the side of her face 
ruffling the back of my hair and sniffed loudly 
at my neck.  Her belly was now pressing against 
my butt, her hands were running over my chest.  

"Would you like me to teach you how to treat a 
girl sweetheart?" she asked in a bantering tone.

"Somebody better give me lessons," I said in 
exasperation, at the same time, my mind was now 
drifting away from Sonia's feet and nearer my 
mother's abdomen.

"I could teach you how to ask a girl for a 
date," she said, her hands still moving on my 
chest.  "I could teach your how to dance.  Tah-
tah-tah-ta-ta-dah."  And she swayed a bit to the 
tune she was toodling. I felt her pelvis up 
tight against my ass, moving.  My cock was 
stiffening and I was afraid to turn around.  She 
pulled me around anyway, stepping back just a 
little and searching my eyes.  "Have you ever 
kissed a girl?" Mom asked.

I felt myself blush.  "Only when I was twelve, 
at that birthday party, pretty stupid, huh?" I 
shook my head in disappointment.  "Then, at the 
Christmas party, under the mistletoe."  I puffed 
the air, "Stupid!"

"Don't you dare say that!" she said, a little 
anger flaring. "You are the best looking boy at 
school." and she pulled me to her, pressing into 
my erection.  We swayed a moment.  Then she 
stilled her movement and we stood there, belly 
to belly.  I felt a kind of gathering pleasure, 
like when I was a little kid and had climbed and 
clung to the clothesline pole.  I remembered 
that Mom had called me in several times before 
finally I dropped to the ground, my skinny legs 
trembling.  Now, it was not the clothesline pole 
but my mother's long body against which I 
pressed, and for the moment, she held herself 
there for me.

Almost reluctantly, she said, "Maybe you'd 
better work on your homework a while before 
dinner."  She stepped back and let me go, still 
smiling but her eyes were conspicuously on mine.  
"We'll talk some more later." 

I turned immediately, taking advantage of the 
few inches clearance between us and headed for 
the bathroom.  I carefully locked the door, and 
hurriedly pulled down my pants and released the 
pressure against my jeans.  Sitting there on the 
toilet, with my penis in my hand and Mom's long 
body in my mind, I pounded myself to release.  
Where, in my mind, had Sonia gone?  I finished, 
trying to cover my deed with the sounds of a 
toilet flush, a hand washing and a swish of 
spray from the room deodorizer.  I checked 
myself out in the mirror and then turned, 
unlocked the door, and opened it.  Mom was 
standing there.   

She put an affectionate hand on my shoulder, "I 
thought you were doing your homework," she 
smiled.

"First things first," I said, quoting my old 
social studies teacher.  I smiled back, trying 
to look innocent, feeling the heat with my ears.

"Me too," She said with a giggle, and brushed my 
shoulder as she entered and I exited the 
bathroom.

I continued down the hallway to my bedroom, 
where I took my history book from the night 
stand and sat back on the bed.  I turned to 
"Sumpter's Fall." and began to read.  What was 
it she had said? "Me too."

I put my history book aside, and walked out of 
the bedroom and into the hallway.  The bathroom 
was the next door down, and it was still shut.  
I looked at my watch. Five minutes had 
transpired.  I crept toward the door and stood 
very silently in front of it, my ear slowly 
coming up against it.  I could hear nothing at 
all, for the moment.  Then came a definite 
breaking of breath, a loud exhalation.  Such a 
sigh could mean a number of things, especially 
in the bathroom.   I pressed closer to the 
bathroom door.  

"Wayne?" Her voice startled me.

I froze. I took a step back from the door and 
answered softly  "Yes, Mom?" and wondered if 
she'd ask me what I was doing at the bathroom 
door.

"Would you check and see if the potatoes are 
boiling over?"  

"Will do," I said, trying not to sound too 
close, and walked past the bathroom and into the 
kitchen.  The potatoes were boiling vigorously 
and slopping water over onto the electric burner 
of the stove, making sizzling sounds. I took the 
lid off and turned the heat down.  Mom came in 
while I was setting the burner.

"I don't like to leave things cooking on the 
stove like that, but, `first things first,' you 
know. She smiled and bumped me with her hip.  I 
smiled back and went back to the bedroom.

Was Mom only joking about the call of nature? Or 
did she suspect I had been in the bathroom 
masturbating?  Had she been in the bathroom 
masturbating? The first question I took in 
stride.  The second question embarrassed me.  
The third question blew the top of my head off. 

Did Mom think she could banter with me about 
masturbation with no more effect than with my 
father joshing me?  Most emphatically, the 
effect was different.  On the other hand, Dad 
would have never joshed about masturbation (and 
little else) so perhaps she was trying to 
compensate for a camaraderie he was not 
providing.  Whatever, it jacked up the sexual 
tension in my body in addition to what her 
touching had already done.

That night, Mom and Dad and I sat around the 
dinner table.  Until August, Ken had been here 
but he'd gone off to OU in Athens, majoring in 
computer science.  If Ken had been here, I could 
have talked over Sonia with him, asked him for 
some pointers, but that's the price you pay for 
having the place all to yourself.  I had traded 
bedrooms with him, moving my stuff into his 
nicer room downstairs and piling his stuff 
upstairs.  He hadn't minded, was completely 
agreeable to it.   I enjoyed the convenience but 
I missed my brother.  

I looked across the table at Dad.  He wasn't 
going to be of any help with Sonia, or with 
anything else. He had a well paying supervisory 
job at JEEP and there simply was not time for 
other things.  Once I asked him how he liked his 
job.  He said, "The bastards over me are biting 
off my head and the bastards under me are biting 
off my balls." 

My father worked hard and was constantly tired.  
He rarely got home by six in the evening, but 
usually it was seven or after before he came 
through the door.  Dad gulped a final draught of 
iced tea and pushed his plate back.  Without a 
word, he got up and shuffled to the bathroom. I 
knew the drill: A shower, a sleepy hour or two 
in front of the TV and then off to bed for a 
four-thirty rise in the morning. 

Not much conversation passed between Mom and 
Dad.  In fact, as I sat there, picking up Mom's 
delicious green beans with my fingers and eating 
them one by one, I realized that not much had 
occurred between them for years.  Dad almost 
seemed to be an appendix to the family.  
Certainly, he was the breadwinner, since Mom 
only worked sporadically.  If he was anything, 
he was breadwinner.  If he was anything else, I 
failed to see it.   Because of his commitment to 
work he had forfeited direct participation in 
the family.  My problems were clearly not 
serious to him.  Thus they had been delegated to 
Mom.  What mattered was JEEP.  I knew he didn't 
want to talk about it, because his attitude was, 
"You just can't know what I have to put up 
with."  



Dad and I were in the living room, he in the 
recliner and I on the floor.  The TV was turned 
to Monday Night Football.  I was on my stomach, 
my elbows crossed over an oversized cushion 
which Mom had sewn herself.   I was in my 
stocking feet, raising and kicking them gently 
against the couch behind me, finding a rhythmic 
pleasure in the exercise.  Dad was gazing at the 
TV through half-closed eyes.  He was already in 
his pajamas and robe though it was only nine-
thirty.  Mom was in the kitchen, putting the 
finishing touches on the clean up there.  I 
heard the light click off and her bare feet 
padding down the hallway.  

"Whew!" she said as she dropped onto the couch.  
I looked back over my shoulder and saw she was 
sitting with her long legs and slender feet 
straight out, wiggling her toes.  Her faded 
housedress was knee length, but it had ridden up 
just above her knees. 

"You tired?" I smiled. 

"I'll be OK in a minute.  Is there anything else 
on?"

I looked at Dad.  His eyes were all the way shut 
now.  In a half-whisper, I said, "I think it'll 
be OK to change channels in a minute."  

When the next commercial hit, Dad ratcheted down 
his Lazy Boy and stood up, swaying.  He yawned, 
looked at his watch and said to himself, 
"Sheesh, four-thirty comes early," and he 
shuffled toward the door.  

"Wait a minute Harold, you're boy needs a little 
advice," she said, surprising me as well as Dad.

"What's that?" he said, looking at me, his eyes 
bleary.

I opened my mouth but Mom spoke, "He's got a 
problem." 

"What's the problem?" he asked me, exasperated.

I had not anticipated this, so I didn't how to 
respond.  As it turned out, I didn't have to.  
It occurred to me that Mom was making a point.

"There's a girl at school he wants to take out, 
but he doesn't know how to go about it," Mom 
said.

Dad, looked at my mother a long moment, then 
shut his eyes and shook his head very slowly 
from side to side.  Then he shuffled off to bed.

"And there you have it!" Mom said sarcastically,  
"The Harold Renfro solution to all problems."

"Long hours, I guess." 

"Yeah," she said,  "I have long hours too, my 
feet are killing me."

I handed Mom the remote and smiled, "The TV's 
free.  Get what you want."  At the same time I 
shifted so that I was sitting in the floor with 
my back against the front of the couch.  Mom's 
legs were beside me.  I reached over and took 
her narrow foot into my hand, wrapping my 
fingers around it so that my palm was over her 
instep and my fingertips on her arch.  I began 
to knead.  

"Ummmm, um," Mom said.  "That feels great, can 
you do both at once?"

"Sure," I said, getting up and sitting at the 
end of the couch and shifting myself at an angle 
toward Mom.    I patted my lap.  "Let's have 
`em."

My mother pivoted and put her two feet into my 
lap.  I resumed my ministrations, using both 
hands on her feet.  She purred like a kitten.  
As I flexed her toes back, stretching her arch 
and pulsing my thumb into their bottoms, she 
said, "Well, if you ever get Sonia's feet into 
your hands, you won't have any trouble getting 
to know her."

"Really?  Maybe I should be a masseur."

"Oh baby!  Your book would be full!"

Inspired by her compliments, I began to encircle 
her ankles and rub up into the calves of her 
legs.  

"Ummm" she said, sliding down toward me a 
little, flexing her legs and giving me better 
access.  When she did this, her heels came to 
rest directly on top of my penis, the only 
things between were my briefs and jeans.  Since 
I was soft, there was really nothing for her to 
distinguish.  However, I felt that clothesline-
pole-feeling gathering in my groin.  

"I think I need some lotion," I said, thinking I 
could break the spell by getting something from 
the bathroom.

"Don't you dare leave me now!" Mom said.  

"But my hands don't slide along very well, I 
need some oil."

"Spit on them," she said.

"Spit on them?" I asked, incredulous.

"Sure, spit makes good lubrication."

"But Mom, spit?"

"Trust me."

I spat on her feet, and she jumped a little and 
laughed.

"I meant your hands, silly!"

"Oh! I'm sorry!" 

She rubbed the spittle, one foot upon the other.  
"Mmmm, maybe this is better." she mumbled.

I resumed my massage and rubbed the saliva into 
the backs of her feet, particularly along the 
sides of the heel pad where there was a slight 
callus.

"Rub around my knees."  She opened them 
slightly, then closed them.

I followed her directions; she cooed and sighed 
when I touched the backs of her knees.  The 
trouble was, her heels were digging into my 
crotch and I was beginning to grow.  I was 
becoming increasingly nervous, not knowing how 
to end the session without calling attention to 
what was rapidly becoming apparent.  

"Use more spit," Mom said.

I spat on my hands, rubbed them together and 
began massaging around her knees.

"Does Sonia act like she might go out with you?"  
Mom asked.  Her forearm was over her eyes.

"Well, she smiles at me when I see her, and she 
speaks to me all the time."

"What does she say?"

"Hi?" I laughed.  As I rubbed under Mom's knees, 
her heels increased their contact with my penis.  
I couldn't really tell whether I was 
intensifying the contact by my movement, or if 
Mom herself were pressing into me on the down 
stroke.  The very thought of it tightened my 
prick. I did not let up.  

"Does she ever, you know, come on to you?" Mom 
asked.

"What does that mean?" I asked.

"Well, does she flirt with you?"

I paused a moment and thought.  However, the 
gentle movement of my mother's heels against me 
did not pause.  She moved them over my erection 
with a kind of grazing motion. Did she know she 
was doing it?  I looked at her closely.  She 
appeared to be preoccupied.

"I guess, I don't know," I said.  

Mom then seemed to realize that she was the 
giver and I was the receiver and she pulled her 
feet out of my lap.  Then she pivoted around and 
sat with her feet on the floor, slightly 
crossed, looking down at her wiggling toes.  
"Why don't you ask her to a football game?"

"No car."

"I'll give you cab fare.  Ask her tomorrow, OK?"

"She doesn't like football.  I've never seen her 
at a game.  She's from-somewhere in the East."

"Whatever, take her to a show, rub her feet, 
she'll like that!" Mom looked at me and grinned.

I laughed, and took Mom's hand.  "I love you 
Mom, thanks."

I leaned in for a kiss and Mom pulled me to her 
and made an exaggerated pucker with her lips and 
smacked.  I kissed her on the lips and she held 
me to her for a moment and then said, "Well, I 
could teach you to dance."  

"I don't think so."

"Stand up."

Reluctantly, I did, conscious that my erection 
was now protruding, but not knowing how to hide 
it.  Mom, nevertheless, stood and positioned my 
arm around her waist and my other arm flexed to 
the side and joined with her hand.  She hummed a 
few notes and I tried to follow.  However, I was 
mainly concentrating on the increasing friction 
her body made against my prick.  She was 
undeterred, though I know she must have felt me 
nudging into her belly; she pulled me even 
closer and we moved in time with her self-made 
music.  

After a few turns around the floor, we paused, 
still in our embrace.  She smiled at me and 
said, "Maybe that's enough for tonight.  You've 
got a lot to learn, but you'd better take care 
of first things first."

I felt myself boring into her belly.  Not far 
below that was forbidden territory.  She didn't 
move.   I smiled.  "You know Mom, there's nobody 
else like you!"

Her eyes sparked and she smacked me on the lips 
again, held her head back and looked at me.  
Suddenly she firmed her lips and thrust her hips 
into me, delightfully mashing my cock against 
her pubic bone.  "You'll make a great dance 
partner for Sonia," she leered. Then she turned 
and walked back to her room. 

I hurried to the bathroom and unzipped my jeans, 
exposing my cock and thinking I had never seen 
quite so big.  I stood leaning over the sink 
pumping myself almost to an orgasm, then holding 
back.  I dribbled puddles of pre-ejaculate onto 
the porcelain surface.  As I masturbated, very 
lightly, I pictured Mom sitting over there on 
the toilet, her legs akimbo and her fingers 
working busily between them.   

An old movie that we once rented came to mind.  
Mom, Ken and I were watching, "Being There" with 
Peter Sellers and Shirley McClain.  Sellers, 
practically a mental zero, had somehow been 
taken for a wise and discerning man.   McClain's 
car had slightly injured him and he was invited 
to McClain's elegant home to recover.  In her 
own mistaken perception of Seller's wisdom and 
sensitivity, McClain  was attracted to him.  
Unable to resist his appeal, she visited him in 
his bedroom and threw herself at him.  The 
simpleton did not understand what was going on, 
though she thought he did.  She asked him what 
he wanted from her.  He said, "I like to watch,"  
referring to his compulsion to endlessly watch 
TV.  She took this to mean he was some sort of 
intellectual voyeur and wanted her to masturbate 
as he watched from his perch on edge of the bed.  
This, she was more than willing to do, rolling 
around on the floor under his dangling feet, 
caressing his leg as she groaned and writhed, 
stroking herself into glorious climax.  I 
remembered laughing along with Ken and Mom, but 
my mother was the most affected.  She had 
laughed so hard we had to stop the tape to let 
her get it out of her system.  Tears were 
running down her cheeks.  Finally, she calmed 
and we restarted the movie but all through 
remainder of the film, she kept breaking out in 
giggles, her mind obviously on the scene.  

Had my mother been writhing under her own hand 
in this very bathroom, over there on the toilet 
today?  As I visualized that possibility, I 
became Peter Sellers, "Chance, the gardener." I 
was I who was sitting with my feet dangling off 
the bed.  It was my mother whose hand was 
feeling up into the leg of my pajamas and 
rolling in the floor under me.  I violently 
expelled the remainder of my cum into the sink 
and shuddered as Mom's sinuous body twisted 
provocatively in my mind. I could feel my pulse 
pounding in my ears.  

I washed my penis with soap and water, dried it, 
and fastened my pants.  I then took the bar of 
soap into my palm and washed my hands.  As 
washed, I looked up into the mirror, and found 
myself smiling.

End of Part 1
Go to Part 2


OneGallus@yahoo.com

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