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Message-ID: <30614asstr$991728602@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: nickurfe@yahoo.com (Nicholas Urfe)
Reply-To: nickurfe@yahoo.com
Subject: {ASSM} <Dulcinea> Call and Response (MF, oral, rom) by Nicholas Urfe
Date: Tue,  5 Jun 2001 04:10:02 -0400
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Call & Response
[Dulcinea Memorial Festival]
MF, oral, rom
by Nicholas Urfe <nickurfe@yahoo.com> 

She had that wicked look in her eyes. "What," she said, 
smiling, "turns you on?"

Unbidden, a photograph flickered across his mind's eye: 
two girls sitting on a couch, long bare legs drawn up 
to their chests, leaning shoulder to shoulder to 
tentatively kiss. He blinked. No. She put her cool 
fingers on his hips, under the hem of his T-shirt. 
"What do you think about," she said, and her thumbs 
hooked in his front belt loops and pulled him closer, 
"when you come?"

"I," he said, thinking of her sitting on the couch in 
her lazy-day dress, the green one that hung loosely on 
her, with the big wooden buttons he could idly toy 
with, slipping one after another from their buttonholes 
almost without her noticing. Thinking of the rough 
green fabric framing the freckles between her breasts, 
rising and falling with a sudden sigh. Thinking of the 
girl at the airport bar, wearing a midriff-baring T-
shirt, her skin like some hand-rubbed wood the color of 
honey, lathed into the slim smooth curves of her belly 
and hips that shifted in the loose mouth of an 
otherwise impossibly tight pair of faded jeans. As 
she'd leaned forward, straight blond hair slithering 
past her face, those jeans had peeled away from those 
hips a little and he'd caught a glimpse of her candy-
colored thong. He blinked again. "I," he said, "uh."

"What's the matter?" she said. Her thumbs still in his 
belt loops, she curled her fingers over his waistband, 
and he felt them warming against his flesh. He felt 
them toying with the button of his pants as if it were 
a part of him, an odd, distant erogenous zone. "Cat got
your tongue?" They pressed and twisted and he felt the 
sudden release as his button slipped free. "Or," she 
said, grinning mischievously, wickedly, the tip of her 
tongue licking against her upper lip, "something else?"

He felt like one of those hapless sitcom dads who opens 
the hall closet door and is suddenly buried under a 
comical avalanche of shoeboxes, old clothing, broken 
sporting equipment, packing peanuts and wrapping paper. 
The black-and-white photo of the two women dressed in 
old men's suits, cool and severe, their hooded eyes 
lost in each other, their thickly lipsticked lips 
parted slightly. The simple pleasure of lying back in 
bed, naked, watching her undress. That strange, 
confusing afternoon years ago in his then-girlfriend's
overheated apartment, her then-best friend lying back 
in his arms, kissing him extravagantly as he watched 
his then-girlfriend kneel between her thighs, looking 
up to meet his gaze as she opened her mouth. Sneaking 
up behind her as she did the dishes and slipping his
hands beneath her dress to find nothing but skin and 
crisply curly hair and a surprising finger's width of 
slick wet heat. The liquid warmth of her mouth sliding 
around the head of his cock. The girl on the bus in the 
black tank-top, with the sharp glasses and the amazing
tattoos on the backs of her hands and down her calves 
to the tops of her sandalled feet. The look in her 
eyes, here, now. "What," he said, thickly, and he 
swallowed, "what was the question again?" A transparent 
ploy, but she indulged him.

"What turns you on?" she said. Her fingers tugged at 
his zipper, and his distracted senses were heightened 
enough that he could feel the individual teeth 
disengaging. His fly spread open under the insistent
pressure of her fingers, of his cock, swelling, 
stirring, inflating to fill the space she made for it. 
He thought about saying, "You," but didn't. That would 
be trite, and he felt an urge to be honest, to take 
this seriously. But putting into words how what she was 
doing conjured up the image of her lying under him, of 
that moment when she dissolved into inarticulate 
groans, shivering on the edge of coming for what seemed 
like forever, her face screwed up with the effort of
finally--and suddenly tripping over the image of 
whatshername, the pop star, dressed as a slutty 
Catholic schoolgirl, face contorting as her hips 
pumped, her bare thighs flashing between the hem of her
too-short kilt and the tops of her over-the-knee socks-
- How embarrassing. He was left quite literally 
speechless, pawing through the clutter of old porn 
magazines, of impossible movie stars, swimsuit models, 
of girls glimpsed on sidewalks, of old memories and
half-formed desires, trying through all the static to 
find--her. What he thought of, when he came.

What turned him on? All of it did. Why couldn't he just 
say something? She knew how flustered he was--and he 
knew she knew why. He remembered a time when he'd seen 
her this flustered, herself, when he'd caught her at 
the video store, surreptitiously eyeing the Japanese 
bishonen anime, the cartoons about beautiful young men 
in love with each other. How she'd grinned, 
embarrassed, when she discovered he'd slipped the one 
about the two police detectives into their stack of 
weekend rentals. How she'd come to him once, admitting
she'd gone through his briefcase looking for stamps and 
found the magazine, his once-every-couple-of-months 
vice. How she'd asked if she could maybe, you know, 
since she'd never really seen one before. How he'd 
peeked in on her, sitting in her chair in a T-shirt and
panties, her toes curling self-consciously as she 
flipped through the brightly colored pages. Looking at 
the photos of the two girls on the couch, kissing. How 
she'd rolled her eyes at the airport when she caught 
him sneaking yet another glance at the thong curling 
over the ski-bunny's perfectly tanned hip, an irritant, 
almost, that he couldn't stop trying to catch another 
glimpse of. She'd rolled her eyes, but she'd smiled, 
and that night they'd chuckled about it as she wrapped 
her legs around his butt and pulled him in.

He sighed.

"Well?" she said. His fly lapped open, and her fingers 
peeled his burgeoning cock up and out of his shorts.

"All of it," he said. "You. Everything."

She was kneeling before him. "Tell me."

And as she took him in her mouth, he did. Somehow.

----

Later, after, he stroked her flank. She nuzzled his 
neck. "That," she said, "was nice."

"What turns you on?" he asked.

She hiked up then on one elbow and looked at him, and 
reached down and found him somewhat more than soft. 
"Oh," she said, and she lifted her leg and straddled 
him, and he felt her heat against his skin. "Oh," she 
said. They kissed. "That's easy," she murmured, against 
his lips.

ENDIT

=====
-- I love being questionably phrased. You clearly love 
it too.
      Momus, "My Kindly Friend the Censor"

the james sisters and indigo are archived at:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/nickurfe/www

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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