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Message-ID: <30118asstr$988924202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Deja User" <empath69@my-deja.com>
Subject: {ASSM} "Alphabet Game: Trampoline" {Dancer} (m-mast voy)
Date: Thu,  3 May 2001 17:10:02 -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




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<1st attachment, "Tramp.txt" begin>

SUBJECT LINE:
{ASSM}"Alphabet Game: Trampoline"{Dancer}(mast, voy)


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Admonition: This story contains explicit descriptions of 
people engaging in careless and unprotected sexual 
activity.  PLEASE do not emulate these people since they 
are fictional characters existing in a fantasy world where 
sexually transmitted disease and unwanted pregnancy don't 
happen.  You don't live in such a world, so "let's be 
careful out there."

Oh, and minors shouldn't be reading this stuff - if you 
can't place the quote I just made in the last paragraph, 
you probably aren't old enough to be flipping through ASS*. 
Bugger off and watch 'TV Land' instead, so you can bone up 
for little age-testing quizzes like this! :)


Copyright notice: Dancer, the author of this smutty little 
opus, holds all rights of reproduction.  Private copies for 
personal perusal and archives for NON-commercial 
distribution are permitted by her.


Plea for attention: The only reward ASS* authors can expect 
is the joy of sharing their creation with the rest of 
humanity.  But wait - how does that author KNOW if people 
are reading and enjoying his story?  Yep; if you like a 
story posted to alt.sex.stories.*, the fair thing to do is 
email the author and tell them so.  I promise that it'll 
make YOU feel good to send them kudos, after all, Mark 
Twain said, "The best way to cheer yourself up is to try to 
cheer someone else up."  As always you may contact me (and 
my wife Dancer) through my 'legacy' Deja News email 
account:             <empath69@my-deja.com>  
(Wow, I'm not just an author, now I'm an AGENT, too!  ;)


Editor's Note: Here it is - part twenty of Dancer's 
'Alphabet Game'; twenty-six hot, little vignettes she 
whipped out in something like a week or two - Lord Malinov 
eat your heart out with that semi-annual 'story-a-day' run 
I remember *way* back in the 20th century! ;) (Is he still 
around?)

And relax - these stories are all self-contained - you 
don't HAVE to read them in order, or read any of the ones 
that might squick you...

=============

The Alphabet Game (20/26)
Trampoline
Copyright Dancer 2001

The girl next door: every young boy's first fantasy. Even 
thirty years later, I remember my girl next door. Julie 
Carmichael. It was the first day of my three-month summer 
vacation of riding bikes, reading comic books and horsing 
around with my best friend, Billy Simpkins. The day 
gradually grew warmer, about eighty degrees, and I had 
asked Billy to stop by house to read our Man of Vengeance 
comic book collection.

He came by around ten in the morning and we locked 
ourselves in my bedroom. We lounged on a couple piles of 
clothes reading when we heard the giggling. My ears perked 
and I went over to the window. Julie was bouncing on the 
tramp her father set up in their fenced-in backyard and 
laughing. Billy stood next to me, also staring at the girl 
next door.

Julie's budding breasts jiggled unrestrained underneath her 
tube top. Billy and I gaped as her nipples poked through 
the ribbed material before our eyes. I felt a pain in my 
groin and touched a rock-hard bulge in my shorts. I pulled 
the waistbands of my shorts and jockeys away from my body 
and gazed at the size of my penis. It was red-tipped, fat 
and big. "Wow," I said, totally amazed. "I got a woody." I 
glanced over at Billy and noticed a similar tenting in his 
shorts.

Billy pulled his woody out over the tops of his shorts and 
jockeys and started fondling himself. "Try it, Davy," he 
said excitedly. "You'll like it." I followed Billy's lead 
and pulled myself free of my shorts and underwear. It felt 
a little weird to be touching myself there but as I copied 
Billy's moves, the weirdness went away, replaced by 
something I couldn't identify. When he stroked, I stroked. 
"My brother says it's 'choking the chicken'," Billy told 
me. I relaxed; knowing somebody older touched himself and 
actually had a name for it.

We watched little Julie bounce up and down on her tramp, 
her just-there boobs quivering beneath her top. As she 
rebounded into the air, we saw the white skin of her chest 
grow, the mounds spilling over. I stroked my penis faster 
and my stomach knotted with 'something'. The next time 
Julie leapt in the air and she began to descend, those 
newly formed breasts popped free of her tube top. My jaw 
dropped at the sight of her bare bosom and my penis 
twitched in my hand.

Sticky clotted white stuff shot out of the peehole and hit 
the windowpane. "Crap!" I swore under my breath. Mom'd kill 
me if she saw this mess on her clean windows. The slimy goo 
slowed to a dribble, leaking down my fist and staining my 
clothes. Billy shot his stuff on the window, too, and I 
waited for him to tell me what to do about the mess. When 
he was done, he said we needed paper towels to clean the 
glass and we could wash ourselves in the bathroom sink.

We washed our drained penises with soap and water, then 
found some paper towels to wipe off the gunk on my bedroom 
window. Billy asked if he could come over the next day, 
hoping Julie would be bouncing on her trampoline again. 
That's how Billy and I spent that summer: riding bikes, 
reading comic books and choking the chicken over the girl 
next door.

End part 20

=============

Editor's Postscript: "Can't you just hear Rob Reiner 
narrating this?" was Dancer's comment when we spoke of her 
latest batch of stories.  This one has a very 'wistful 
reminiscence' air to it... 



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