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Message-ID: <30214asstr$989525404@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Sam Cornell" <cornell525@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Ashes (FF)
Date: Thu, 10 May 2001 16:10:04 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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If you don't want to read this - don't
If you shouldn't read this - don't
If you want to make money out of this - don't


The Ashes

by Sam Cornell

(with Alessia Gerini)

I need to write this down while the memory is still fresh. The trouble is, 
my hands are shaking so much, it is difficult to hit the right keys on my 
laptop. Shaking. Maybe there's a little fear in there, but mainly it's 
excitement. The adrenalin just keeps coming, surge after surge after surge. 
I've been home thirty minutes, I've smoked four cigarettes, drunk two large 
glasses of wine, and I've barely started to come down. If I carry on at this 
rate, I'll be unconscious by the time my husband gets home.

I'm not sure what he'd make of what happened. Maybe that's why I'm writing 
this, hoping he'll snoop on my private files and find out what his lovely, 
innocent wife gets up to. Maybe he'd get off on it. Everyone knows men love 
a bit of girl-girl sex. But when it comes down to it, when he sees it in 
black and white, reads the sordid experience his wife has just been through, 
how will he react? Screw the living daylights out of me, or walk out the 
door? So maybe it's best if this is between me and the computer.

I'm still shaking. And I've just realised how much of my body is sore. Not 
screaming bloody agony, just had-a-good-seeing-to throbbing. Naughty, a 
little nasty, but nice. Time for another glass of wine.

So I'm married. To Tom. Three years, and I love him dearly. Which fits a 
little awkwardly with what's just happened to me.

On and off, since adolescence, maybe before, I've thought about women. I 
think most girls do. Not, on the whole, explicit thoughts of gaping gashes, 
more dreamy images of vestal virgins in shimmering white satin. Procul 
Harum, that sort of thing. And, I'll admit, once in a while, in a changing 
room, I've let my eye linger a little bit longer than is polite on some 
athletic body. At the same time I've felt the blood perking my nipples up, 
and the beginnings of dampness between my legs. There's no doubt that, at 
some level, it's a sexual attraction.

If asked (Tom has asked) I'd say I'm ninety per cent heterosexual, ten per 
cent gay. I'm sure I've read somewhere that none of us are a hundred per 
cent anything, that we're all a little bit bi. I truly think I am, but I'm 
not sure if Tom would get off on a big thick dick up his ass. Have to try it 
some time.

The thing is, I've never done anything about my ten per cent. Maybe I didn't 
want to find out it was actually a fifty per cent. Or more. Plus, it's not 
the easiest thing in the world to do. I don't know (or rather, I didn't 
know) how a woman who wants to experiment with lesbian sex goes about it. 
I've seen ads in magazines "Bi-curious WLTM similar", but I'm not even sure 
what bi-curious means. And the lonely hearts really isn't my scene.

And although I'm quite pretty (five-nine, slim, dark hair, nice pert ass, to 
get the vital statistics out of the way) I've never been chatted up by a 
woman, and, let's be honest, wouldn't have expected to be.

All of which has left me curious. Still enjoying, loving, sweaty sex with 
Tom, but always wondering what a bit of the other would be like. Once in a 
while, when Tom's been away with work, I've lain in bed, and, almost without 
thinking, I've found myself stroking my quim, my fingers gently teasing 
along my lips, all the time imagining that it's some nameless faceless lady 
that's doing it to me.

Also, like most married couples I guess, we have a small collection of porn 
videos. I suspect there's never been a porn video made that doesn't include 
a spot of girl-girl (gay male stuff excluded of course). And again, when 
Tom's away, I've found myself clicking a tape into the VCR, and 
fast-forwarding to the lesbian scenes. It always gets me hottest, two women 
making love. Funnily enough, what I find sexiest isn't pussy-licking or 
finger-fucking, it's a long, apparently genuine kiss, all sloppy tongues and 
stuff. The sight of a girly snog is always enough to get my clit throbbing, 
and it doesn't take long for me to bring myself off imagining one of the 
girls is kissing me.

So this was my dream, fantasy, world of a lesbian encounter that I honestly 
never thought would happen. I'd certainly never done anything to make it. 
Until today.

I'm not shaking as much now. I must be calming down. Either that or the fact 
I've got through two thirds of a bottle of burgundy.

Of all places, it started on the tube. No wonder it had never happened to me 
before, I was looking in the wrong place.

I was heading for a meeting with a client - most people get a cab, but I 
think it's a waste of money, and given the traffic in London these days, 
you're usually quicker underground.

So I'm standing on Baker Street tube, eastbound, no sign of Sherlock Holmes 
but just to my left I do notice an attractive woman. It isn't particularly 
the fact that she's attractive that draws me to her, it's the fact she has a 
tan. It's April, we last saw the sun in September, so she stands out, more 
than a little. Also, using powers of deduction Dr Watson would be proud of, 
she didn't get her tan on the ski slopes. How so? Elementary - she's wearing 
a white t-shirt, her arms are brown, so unless she's a masochist she got her 
tan sunbathing. So she's either rich or foreign, or quite possibly both. I'm 
also drawn by the fact that I can see, underneath that white t-shirt, she 
has a really nice pair of breasts. In short, it's a bit of a locker room 
moment again, and I can feel that familiar trickle between my legs. Tom's 
said he'll be late tonight, and I can already imagine a relaxed diddle in 
the bath, the tanned lady nuzzling at my breasts until I come.

The dream's getting so good I don't realise that the object of my fantasy is 
looking at me. That brings me out of it good and sharp. She has shoulder 
length brown hair, a pretty face, and, it turns out, a nice smile.

I smile back, more than a little embarrassed that I've just mentally had 
this poor stranger naked in the bath with me. She keeps on looking, keeps 
smiling. Definitely foreign.

I look away. This isn't the way to prepare for an important business 
meeting. A Circle Line train rattles in, and the tanned lady gets in the 
same carriage as me. The train's pretty empty, a rare enough occurrence in 
itself, but she sits herself directly opposite me. She's wearing a 
multi-colored skirt, all red green yellow and blue, to just above her knee, 
and, again, without even thinking, I clock the fact she has nice legs. 
Tanned, muscled, firm. Sexy.

It's funny how, on the tube, it's easy to lose yourself. Forget that other 
people are really there. I'm quite comfortable looking at her legs. Maybe it 
just seems I've got my head down in the familiar "I'm minding my own 
business" London way. Then I notice, or I think I notice, that her knees 
aren't quite as close together as they were before, that the hem of her 
skirt is a little further above her knee.

I look away, pretend not to notice, but I've got a powerful urge to look 
back, make sure I wasn't imagining it. And check out the tops of those legs. 
I'm not wrong, the skirt is halfway to her waist. Nothing indecent in that, 
you see plenty of shorter skirts every day. Slightly less decent is the fact 
there's now a good few inches of air between her knees. I can see the tops 
of her stockings. No garter belt, tho', so they must be the elasticated 
type. A nice contrast, the tan of her legs, the dark line of the 
stocking-top, then her bare skin. If she keeps it up I'll be able to see her 
knickers. The thought sends a flood between my legs. What am I doing, eying 
a young woman up on the tube? (Then again, what's she doing, opening her 
legs for me?) I don't dare make eye contact, she must know the way I'm 
staring.

The skirt is up to the top of her thighs now, and I actually catch the 
moment when I first see her knickers. White, pure, cotton, just like her 
t-shirt. They're in shade, of course, but I think I can make out the swell 
of her mons. My heart is pounding at this extraordinary exhibition, and I 
can feel my lips are dry.

Suddenly I here an insipid female voice saying "the next stop is...Barbican". 
They've got recorded announcement systems on most tube lines now, and the 
woman on the Circle Line is so irritating. As if she's about to cry - it's 
only a tube station, for heaven's sake. This time my irritation is 
multiplied by the fact I have to get off, leave my own little piece of 
theatre.

I get up, avoiding any eye contact, still unsure what to make of what's 
happened. But I can't help noticing she gets up too, and I get off the train 
just ahead of her.

"Excuse me." I hear a female voice from behind, English speaker, not 
English. I wonder for a horrified moment if the flood between my legs is 
visible on the back of my skirt.

I turn. I look. She smiles, a cool relaxed smile. Butter isn't melting in 
her mouth. I try to smile back, but I'm shaking like a leaf.

"Could you tell me the way to the Museum of London?" she asks. Australian? 
Or maybe a Kiwi? That explains a lot. But not everything.

If my mind wasn't in a complete daze I'd notice that there are signs 
everywhere pointing to the museum, but this girl has got me well flustered. 
"Yes," I say, "it's up the stairs..." I pause. I know how to get there, but 
telling someone is different - left turn here, jog back there. "I'm going 
past there myself," I find myself saying, "why don't you follow me?" What am 
I doing? Yes I am going near there, but a minute ago this woman was flashing 
her panties at me.

Of course she doesn't follow, she walks alongside. We get to the ticket 
barrier, and she makes a complete hash of it, putting the ticket into the 
left hand slot, which opens the gate to the left of the one she's standing 
by. I'm through already, and I find myself waiting for her. I'm making 
myself late for a meeting for a complete stranger - a pervert at that.

"Australian?" I ask. Some conversation seems necessary, and I can hardly 
start with "Do you show your knickers to everybody?"

She nods. "Uh huh. Just over for a week." Seems a long way to come for a 
week, particularly when her main hobby could just as easily be enjoyed on 
the trams at home.

We're at the entrance to the Museum. "Here's you," I say.

"Thank you," she says. "Do you know a good place for lunch around here?"

"You could try Smiths," I say. "It's down by the market."

"And what's the best time to get there?" It's an odd question, but I can 
hardly leave it unanswered.

"Just before one, usually."

"I'll go there then, then. Thanks for you help." She smiles and she's into 
the Museum. I stand there for a second, puzzled, then I suddenly work it 
out. She's just offered me a date.

***

This isn't the way to conduct a client meeting. They want to know figures, 
statistics, and all I can think about is firm muscled tanned legs leading up 
to white cotton knickers. A tight t-shirt holding in the ample swell of sexy 
tits. For the whole meeting I can feel that my panties are damp. Not wet, 
not soaked, just a constant trickle of honey to indicate what ten minutes on 
the tube has done to me. Along with the electric buzz that keeps shooting 
round my body, and the fact that my nipples keep blossoming into erectness. 
Lord knows what the client makes of it.

A whole part of the thrill is the simple question - do I go there? Do I meet 
her for lunch? A part of me says I'm mad, that I shouldn't even contemplate 
lunch with a flasher. But the other, less rational, part, simply thinks 
about those legs, those knickers, and wonders, just wonders, what it would 
be like to see white cotton sliding down tanned legs. By the end of the 
meeting, I pretend I'm fudging. I'll go to Smiths just before one. She 
probably won't be there. If she is, it probably isn't going to lead into 
anything. Let's be honest, without a little bit of self-deception we'd 
probably never do anything interesting.

***

Of course she's in Smiths. Sitting by the window, in case I couldn't notice 
her. Drinking a glass of clear, bubbly liquid. Vodka, water? She smiles as I 
walk past the window. I come to join her, forgetting that, formally, this 
isn't planned and it's apparently a chance encounter.

She smiles. "Hi."

I smile back. I'm about to say "Fancy meeting you here!" when I pull myself 
back from the brink.

"Join me?" she asks, tactfully getting me out of all sorts of stupid 
explanations.

I smile. Of course I'll join her.

***

We share a bottle of Riesling. A close cousin of the infamous seventies' 
Liebfraumilch. Which, if my German doesn't let me down too badly, means 
"female love milk". And we nibble at a bit of food, but I'm way too nervous 
to eat. There's only one reason I've come here.

She tells me she's from WA. Western Australia. On the Swan River. Named 
after the black swans on it. Which is cool, because in a slightly 
imperialistic way I've always assumed that swans are English, and white.

We're well through our bottle of Riesling, and it's as if it's the most 
natural lunch in the world. Except we don't even know each other's name. To 
admit as much would be to admit the reason why we're both there.

Perhaps surprisingly, it's me who breaks through this barrier. "I don't even 
know your name," I say. The alternative, of god knows how long being too 
polite to ask, is too much to bear.

"Alessia," she says. As with everything, she is relaxed and cool. So 
Australian.

"I'm Sam. Samantha. Most people call me Sam."

"Hi, Sam." She smiles, a confident, slightly knowing smile. She pauses. I 
think she is wondering whether to take the next step. "So, Sam, do you like 
looking up women's skirts on the London Underground."

Although I know that, in essence, this is the whole reason why we're here, I 
still feel I'm being accused of some perversion. I can't answer.

Alessia senses my discomfort. "Don't get me wrong," she continues, "I wanted 
you to look. It felt good. Didn't it?"

I can't look at her. It's as if we're on the tube again. My heart is 
pounding, but I feel more than a little out of my depth.

She gives me one more try. "You did want to look, didn't you?"

At least I don't have to speak. I nod my head. Yes I wanted to look. Yes, 
Alessia, I wanted to look up your skirt, wanted to look at your panties, 
wanted to see the way your pussy looked under the white cotton.

"Would you like to look now?" she asks. I'm a little dumbfounded. Is she 
suggesting we leave? I risk a look up and I realise that she wants me to 
look under the table.

I ease my chair back. It feels like what I'm doing is incredibly obvious to 
the rest of the restaurant, but I can't stop now.

She's been quite careful. On the outside of both her legs her skirt remains 
almost as normal, halfway down her thighs. But in the middle she has lifted 
the hem almost to the waistband, and I get a full view of the crotch of her 
knickers. Once again, the pure whiteness stands out against the multi-colors 
of her skirt, but as my gaze remains fixed I can see there is a little drop 
of moisture seeping into the material. I have made her feel like that. I 
have made Alessia wet.

Up until now I'd say my main feeling has been anxiety. But now I find my 
reaction is becoming increasingly sexual.

"Tell me what you think," Alessia says, pulling her skirt back down to her 
knees. "Tell me what you just thought."

I swallow. This isn't going to be easy. "I thought about your...pants," I say. 
"And what's in them."

"How did you feel?" she asks.

"It turned me on."

"How?"

She wants me to say. She wants me to be explicit. "I got wet."

"What did?" She wants to hear everything. Explicitly.

"My...pussy...got wet. I looked at your knickers and my pussy got wet." This is 
no time to be in a restaurant.

***

We get a cab to Alessia's hotel. Not for the first time I realise how lucky 
I am to have a job that allows me to be mistress of my own time, although I 
never expected to use the opportunity for a sexual tryst, let alone with a 
woman. The journey is silent, but not awkward. Both of us have committed to 
this course of action.

In the lift on the way up to her room I expect her to embrace me, to give me 
my first kiss. But she remains silent. Maybe she is nervous, too.

As we walk into the hotel room, I feel as if I'm entering into another 
world. Alice through the looking glass, narnia through the wardrobe, 
whatever, the world will never be the same again when this door closes.

I hear it click shut.

I turn to face Alessia. I still find it difficult to look her in the face. 
Her hands reach out to my hips. I stand stock still, uncertain whether with 
any movement my body will betray me.

Her hands rest lightly on my hips. I have talked to her about my pussy 
getting wet, but this is our first physical contact. She moves in. I am, 
once again, conscious of that t-shirt, those lovely breasts, and the fact 
that in a second or two they will be pressed against mine. It feels like I 
have wanted it for a very long time.

The first contact is, indeed, our breasts. It is a softer sensation than 
anything I have ever experienced before, because, I think, there is no part 
of a man's body that is so gently yielding as a boob.

Her face is so close to mine. My first impression holds. Smooth, serious, 
humorous, sensual, a sexy attractive face that I want to feel pressed close 
to mine.

The first contact is, I think, our noses, a brief joust and then Alessia 
presses her lips against mine. I melt. Tom's lips, men's lips, are so thin 
and mean. But Alessia's are full and fleshy, and they yield and respond as 
she brings her face against mine. My anxiety is gone now, replaced by a 
pure, sexual thrill. I am kissing a woman.

I feel Alessia's tongue run along the gap between my lips, a slippery tease. 
It is a cue for me to slip my tongue out, as if by chance our tongues 
collide, and they are licking, curling, searching, passionately exploring 
each others mouths as we become more bold.

At the same time our bodies are pulled close together, Alessia's arms 
clutching me tight around my waist, mine hanging a little awkwardly by my 
side. An embrace is a little more than I can manage right now. But it is 
wonderful, our bodies connecting along their full length, as we draw 
ourselves tightly together.

Maybe it is because her confidence has grown, because she knows I'm not 
about to start screaming rape, but Alessia's hands have started to roam, 
mainly running tracing patterns over my ass. It feels so good, and I press 
my crotch closer in against Alessia's. I rest my hands lightly on her ass. 
It feels good, and I risk a little squeeze.

Alessia's hands move down my skirt, and I feel her reach for the hem. Then, 
in one swift unexpected move she hikes my skirt over my ass cheeks so it is 
bunched around my waist. She slips her hands down, feeling my ass through my 
panties and pantyhose.

I'm not ready to try anything similar, but Alessia takes matters out of my 
hands. She pulls back, ending a delicious five minute kiss that was every 
bit as good as the ones I'd imagined.

"Strip for me," she says. It makes sense. I know I want to be naked next to 
Alessia, and at the moment it feels like we are wasting time with adolescent 
fumblings. I tug at the buttons of my blouse, all the time her cool eyes 
upon me, upon my body, and then it is on the floor.

What to take off next? I can choose between my pantyhose or my bra. I go for 
the pantyhose, sliding them slowly down my legs. (Long legs as it happens). 
So I am standing in front of her, standing in front of my lover in just my 
knickers and bra. I reach behind my back, my nipples stiffening with the 
knowledge that they will soon be bared before another woman. Then, my bra is 
dropped too, and I even pull my shoulders back more, pushing my tits towards 
Alessia's gaze.

The last step is simple. I slip my hands inside the waist of my knickers, 
ready to display everything, show my whole body to her. I might have felt 
self-conscious, but instead I delight in my nakedness, and I tremble even 
more as Alessia's gaze drops to my dark triangle.

Time to open another bottle of wine. Hmm, looking back it doesn't read too 
bad. How I'd have predicted my first lesbian encounter to be. Of course I 
didn't know what was coming.

I decide to sit back, naked, on Alessia's bed. She is still fully clothed, 
but I can see that her nipples are poking at her t-shirt. She is still 
looking at my bush, and I open my legs, a little bit, to let her see. I can 
feel that my lips are swollen with my excitement, and that they must be 
glistening with my honey.

"Your turn," I say, surprisingly confident. I almost shudder at the 
expectation of this beautiful voluptuous woman undressing for me. Beats the 
hell out of porn videos.

Alessia pulls her t-shirt over her head. She is wearing a simple white bra. 
(Reading back I've noticed I seem to have a thing about white cotton. Never 
realised that before. Still, I guess it's better than red rubber). She is 
grinning as she unclips the bra, and then her breasts are free. They are, 
truly, beautiful, everything I could have imagined from the moment they 
caught my eye at Baker Street. I know busts come in two sizes - too big or 
too small (mine are too small) - but Alessia's really do fit the description 
"just right". Ample, pert, but not in any sense overwhelming. And two lovely 
chocolate brown nipples, again quite large, but beautifully chewily erect 
for me. Alessia's tits are lightly tanned too.

The skirt undoes easily and drops to the floor. Then her stockings. Alessia 
is now naked apart from those white cotton panties that I so enjoyed on the 
tube and in the restaurant. As I'd imagined from the beginning they make a 
beautiful contrast with her lean honey-coloured body.

My eyes are on Alessia's crotch, waiting for sight of her pussy, but it is 
not to be. She walks to me, her tits jiggling nicely as she moves. She is 
lithe, athletic, like a cat.

She stands in front of me. Her tits are just in front of me, and I am about 
to take one of those chocolate nipples into my mouth when she reaches out to 
my shoulders and gently pushes me back onto the bed, my feet still on the 
floor. Then she climbs onto the bed, one knee either side of my body, just 
beneath my armpits. I am almost unable to move, her muscular thighs trapping 
my body. My vision is filled with the sight of her white panties, and the 
way her mons gives them a gentle, suggestive bulge. I can see a thin 
vertical line of moisture where Alessia's honey has leaked onto the 
material.

As I look up, I can see her tits jutting out above me, her nipples sticking 
proudly out, still crying to be chewed. But I can barely move.

Alessia slips her right hand inside her pants, and her whole body shudders 
as her fingers make contact with her sex. Through the fabric I can see her 
stroke herself lightly.

I am enjoying the view when she moves her knees forward, trapping my arms 
underneath them. She takes her weight on her knees, so it isn't painful, but 
I am now completely pinned to the bed. The crotch of her panties is only a 
couple of inches from my face, and as her fingers move inside the material 
it almost brushes my nose.

I can also smell her musk, a rich tangy aroma. This is not a complete 
surprise for me, because I like to smell my own fingers after masturbation. 
But it is different to mine, the smell of another woman's sex. I wonder 
whether to bring my face against the crotch of Alessia's knickers, rub 
myself against her.

"Mmm I'm wet," she says, her voice a little husky. "I love the feeling of my 
wet panties." She is frigging herself a little more vigorously now. "I could 
make them really wet if you like." She pushes herself out, her mound only an 
inch or so from my face. If she wants to, she can do anything she likes - I 
can barely even move my head.

Alessia reaches down with her left hand, and pulls the crotch of her 
knickers to one side. Her lips are swollen, pink, and covered with the sheen 
of her honey.

"Lick me," she says. "Lick me." She is so close I only have to reach out my 
tongue to touch her. It is not a straightforward moment for me, licking 
another woman's genitals for the first time, but the perfume and the sight 
of her sex drives my doubts from my mind. I run the tip of my tongue up the 
slickness of her slit, my taste buds tingling as they experience her salty 
honey.

The she gently grinds her pussy against my mouth, frigging herself off 
against my tongue. My chin is wet with her juices.

Alessia lifts herself up, away from my hungry mouth. I am so transfixed by 
what we are doing that I do not move an inch, so it is easy for her to turn 
around, her legs still pinning my arms, but this time she is facing away 
from me, and I am looking up at the panty clad globes of her ass.

I like asses. I think this is partly because, although I am slim, I know I 
have a nice pert one. When I'm naked in front of the mirror, I like to rub 
my hands over my cheeks, luxuriating in my firm curves.

Alessia slips both her hands inside her panties, her fingers clasping and 
squeezing her butt cheeks. Then she eases her knickers down, slowly, oh so 
slowly, revealing her ass to me, till they are resting around her thighs.

Mmm, an all-over tan. The honey flesh of her ass is divided by the dark line 
of her crack. Alessia starts running her fingers up and down her crack, just 
teasing the gap. She is so close to me that, even if I wanted to, I couldn't 
look at anything other than Alessia's display of her ass.

Then her fingers dig into her cheeks and she pulls them wide apart, opening 
her valley for me, exposing the neat little ring of her asshole. My breath 
literally catches in my throat. I like bottoms, yes, but I have never 
examined one, male or female, in this way before. I like what I see, I like 
the fact that this is the one part of Alessia's body that's normally hidden, 
a secret, and yet here she is offering it for my pleasure.

She rocks back slightly, half an inch maybe, nothing more. Her ass is very 
close to my face. "Stick your tongue out," she orders.

I can't believe I am doing this, offering my tongue to Alessia's asshole. I 
stretch it out, reaching desperately until I can feel the strain on my 
muscles. The anticipation is almost unbearable. Alessia eases back another 
inch, and we make contact. I am licking her ass.

This is not something I have done before, to a man let alone a woman, but I 
enjoy the feeling of my tongue rubbing around her crater. The firm muscular 
resistance of Alessia's anus is so different to the soft fleshiness of most 
sex organs, the hole itself such a forbidden entrance, and the whole 
sensation is deliciously, wickedly sordid and dirty.

Alessia wriggles, encouraging my tonguing of her ass. Then I feel her reach 
forward, her hands slipping under my thighs, lifting my legs up, up, then 
pulling them back down so they are bent back over my prone body, my knees 
near my aching tits, my feet pointing almost to the ceiling. I couldn't be 
more exposed, and I know that her eyes are devouring the view, my neatly 
trimmed triangle of dark pubes, my slim pussy lips which by now must be 
sticky with my musk, and down below my dark little asshole.

Alessia isn't in any hurry, and as throughout she remains completely in 
control. It feels like I am exposed for ages, while all the time I am 
kissing her ass. Finally I feel her body moving down, her gorgeous tits rub 
against my tummy, and then I feel her breath on my quim. Even now she 
pauses, drinking in, I guess, the aroma of my sex. Then her tongue touches 
my clit, my nerve endings jangling and I jump what feels like a couple of 
inches off the bed. She is delicate, tender, then when I am used to her 
attention she starts exploring, her tongue running along the creases of my 
sex.

She moves her body again, taking her ass away from my hungry tongue, and 
once again I find my mouth against Alessia's quim. She is flooding now, and 
I am almost drinking her honey down, as she is doing mine. I feel a slim 
finger slide into my pussy, a slight, welcome presence.

I'm feeling a little naughty, so I slide a finger up her quim, lubricating 
it with her honey, then press the tip against her asshole. Her ass is still 
wet and sticky from my licking, and my finger slides around a little bit 
before resting on her  her crater. I push lightly, I ran the the tip around 
and around the muscle of her anus  tickling her.  I'm sure she enjoyed it as 
she wriggled her ass just slightly while I continued having my first touch 
of a woman.  My god, it is my first real touch and I'm licking a pussy and 
tickling her asshole; what's more my pussy is being tasted, being tongued.  
The sensations are absolutely delectable, Alessia's eroticism has taken me 
way beyond my fantasies.  Yesterday, if anyone had suggested that I would be 
doing this this afternoon I would have had them certified. Alessia's tongue 
on my pussy has been feather light at all times, and she has kept me turned 
on but sufficiently distant from coming for an early orgasm not to be a 
distraction.

Alessia touches my clit with her tongue, her mouth against my pussy, and 
then I am exploding in my orgasm, all the muscles of my body stretching in 
ecstasy as I cum in wave after wave of uncontrollable spasms. I'm thinking 
only of myself, but as a reflex I thrust my finger right up inside Alessia's 
cunt, and I feel her shudder violently, her pussy pressing down hard against 
my aching tongue, and I know that she too has enjoyed a powerful cum.

I delicately remove my finger from her sloppy pussy, and she flops onto her 
side, those damned white knickers still bunched around her thighs. I can see 
her face. She is still smiling.

As my pulse slowly calms down I look at my watch. Three o'clock. I don't 
have to leave for another two and a half hours, at the earliest. Alessia 
lazily strokes my inner thigh. What on earth are we going to do to fill the 
time?  Alessia knew and now look at me only four and a half hours later, 
another good slurp of this smooth burgundy and I'm getting light-headed.  I 
idly inspect the label, "Produced in Australia": I giggle out loud.

The end, for now.

Feedback, as always, is very welcome. My e-mail is cornell525@hotmail.com 
and Alessia's is alessia@37.com

_________________________________________________________________________
Get Your Private, Free E-mail from MSN Hotmail at http://www.hotmail.com.

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