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Message-ID: <30712asstr$992049002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: RevCottonMather@excite.com (Reverend Cotton Mather)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 8 Jun 2001 20:31:03 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Hard Promise (1/13, plus P.S.) by Reverend Cotton Mather
Date: Fri,  8 Jun 2001 21:10:02 -0400
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
Welcome to the Church of The Right Reverend Cotton Mather. This story is
the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or downloaded for
the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for anyone to download 
or copy for their personal pleasure or use, as long as there is no 
intent to charge money or barter for the privilege of acquiring this 
material.

(copyright 2001, Rev. Cotton Mather)
------------------------------------------------------------------------


HARD PROMISE
by Revernd Cotton Mather


- 1 -



It seemed like such a good idea at the time.  Our anniversary was 
coming up in a few weeks, and I had found a great deal on a vacation 
to Bermuda that I knew my wife would really love.

You see, six years ago, for her high school graduation, her 
parents gave her a trip to Bermuda.  She traveled with three of her 
high-school buddies, and it was one of the highlights of her life, she 
says.  Now, for our second anniversary, I was going to surprise her 
with another trip to her dream destination, a place she calls the most 
romantic place on earth.

It's a lot easier, according to some of our friends who have 
already started having their children, to just pick up and go when you 
aren't tied down with familial obligations.  I guess that's true, 
because the deals I see for people who can travel on short notice to 
vacation spots are very good, indeed.  And this deal was better than 
even those, provided we leave in two days.

Naturally, I couldn't reach her by telephone, so I left work 
early to try to catch her before she got too busy.  She usually got 
home from work around 4:00, relaxed for awhile until she knew that I 
would be on my way home, then start to make dinner for the two of 
us.  We would eat around 6:00, and she would run out the door right 
after dinner, leaving me to clean up the dishes.  She's studying at 
night to be a chef, so our dinners tended to be on the elaborate 
side.  My wife loves to cook, and she considers it her sacred duty 
to make sure that everything she prepares is done just right.  The 
result?  I've gained 10 pounds since our marriage.  My work is 
sedentary, shuffling paper at a big insurance company, and I try to 
exercise when I can, but my battle of the bulge is a difficult one.
I still tend to eat like I'm still playing football, as I did in 
high school, and our large dinners and changed lifestyle have conspired 
to change my profile.  I do try to work it off a few times a week doing 
horizontal aerobic exercises, if you know what I mean, and my little 
sweetheart is always very cooperative, and even enthusiastic.  And I'll 
tell you, her efforts in the sack must give her an even greater workout, 
since she's exactly the same size now that she was when she was 
leading the cheers for good old North High.
	



It was her cheerleading, actually, that first made me notice her.  I 
loved seeing her in those tight letter sweaters and short skirts, 
shaking and jumping all over the football field.

I was a junior playing on the football team, and I loved watching all 
the cheerleaders.  I had a lot of trouble concentrating on the game when 
I got to watching their backsides on the sidelines.  Every time one of 
them would jump up in the air, I would catch a glimpse of white ruffled 
panties.  Drove me crazy, they did.  Of course, all the cheerleaders 
were gorgeous and athletic, and a common conversation among my fellow 
players when we were at practice or on the bench during a game was to 
rank the cheerleaders (and all other good-looking girls at school, of 
course) in the order in which we would like to bop them.  All during the 
season we would revise our lists, taking into account changing tastes, 
how a particular girl dressed on that particular day, or whatever rumor 
about a girl's reputation might be running through the school.  We based 
our rankings on such things as "boob-alicious-ness", how a girl used a 
straw or ate a banana, how easy we thought she might be, if we thought 
a girl might be a screamer or a moaner, her reputation in the school at 
large as well as in the locker room, or any of a dozen other crude 
evaluation criteria.  Over the course of the football season my list 
changed according to my mood: sometimes it was Lisa, a varsity 
cheerleader who was a junior and arguably the hottest girl in the 
school, who was at the top of my list; sometimes it was Micki, a petite 
freshman with big, pouting lips who, it was rumored, was trying to earn 
her way onto the varsity cheerleading squad by bedding any member of 
any varsity sports team in school; sometimes it was Nicole, a senior 
who was on the yearbook staff and had been a member of the student 
council since her freshman year who, according to my buddies in the 
locker room, gave her dates exquisite hand jobs on the third date - 
and no more, ever; but always, among the top 3 on my list, was Melissa, 
a sophomore cheerleader.  No "bad girl" rumors ever surrounded her, no 
innuendoes about her sexual prowess (or lack thereof), nothing but a 
general admiration for her All-American good looks and her quiet 
pursuit of excellence in all she attempted.

So there we all were, week after week, struggling through a mediocre 
season on the football field, celebrating wins and consoling ourselves 
on our losses in the same manner by converging as a group at Fabrice's, 
a local pizza parlor that catered to the high school crowd.

So there is where we all went after the game.  We would all be hanging 
out at the local pizza joint, the team and its hangers-on around one 
group of tables, the cheerleading squads around another, and a whole 
bunch of other students who had gone to the game all around us.  And 
there Melissa would be, sitting with her friends, always nearby, 
always out of reach.  She had to have known that I was attracted to 
her.  All my friends on the team knew she was always high up on my 
list, and they would certainly never let a teasing opportunity go by 
without taking as much advantage as I would let them take.  And she 
would always play it coy with me.  Looking at our table out of the 
corner of her baby-blue eyes, swishing her long blonde hair off her 
shoulder, crossing and uncrossing her long legs, leaning back and 
laughing at some clever thing one of her girlfriends said and 
pressing her sweater tight against her boobs, all the time knowing 
that my friends and I were over there drooling over the vision of all 
that lovely cheerleader poontang sitting there, not being used 
properly (in our sophisticated opinions anyway), and hoping that, 
eventually, Fortune would smile down on us and grant us a precious 
evening alone with the girl of our choice.

Okay, I admit it, we were young and foolish.  And stupid.  But Fortune 
did indeed smile upon me one glorious fall evening that year.

(Continued in Chapter 2)

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-- 
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