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From: RAM <R_A_M@bigfoot.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Sunflower Alley: Intermission - Slaughter on Tenth Avenue
Date: Sat, 16 Jun 2001 07:10:03 -0400
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Comments may be sent to R_A_M@bigfoot.com

This story is an excerpt from Sunflower Alley.
The entire Sunflower Alley series may be found at:
  From the Corner of 1st & Rowan to Sunflower Alley,
  http://www.bigfoot.com/~R_A_M , a non-commercial site.

-----------------------


Intermission - Slaughter on Tenth Avenue  
(c) 1998-1999 by R.A. Mendoza

  
"Would you like me to play Slaughter on Tenth Avenue?" Alma doesn't wait
for my answer; she walks to the piano and sits down. Her hips flare out
on the piano bench. She sets out the sheet music I gave her on her
birthday, two days before I left for Basic Training. She's had five
months to practice the piece.   

"Yes, I'd like that," I say.   

For a moment, Alma stares at the open score; then she lowers her head
slightly and moves her hands to the keyboard. She begins to extract
clusters of dramatic notes from her piano. I am taken back to the time
when I first noticed her young Susan Hayward face over the top of the
baby grand piano, tentatively pressing out chords to stale church hymns.
She was ten, then. Now, a confident sixteen, she is moving through the
piece, thrilling me with bold sounds.   

Her mother steps into the doorway. "I'm leaving," she calls out. Alma
stops playing; she turns her head to look at her mother. "I'm going to
see Raul," her mother says. "You kids behave!" Alma's mother smiles at
us; then she opens the front door and steps out, shutting it firmly
behind her, leaving us alone, again.   

Alma looks over her shoulder at me. She stays perched on the piano
bench.   

"Can you play it again?" I say.   

Alma returns to the task, caressing the keys; the notes flow. I want to
touch her while she is playing. I stand, walk over behind her and place
my hands on her shoulders. She continues to pump the keys as I tug the
zipper at the back of her dress, pulling it clear down her back, below
her waist, exposing white panties. I slide my hands under her arms.
Fingers still pressing keys, Alma raises her elbows to permit me access.
I slide my hands under her dress and cup her bra-covered breasts in my
hands. She continues, squeezing magnificent, thick gobs of juicy chords
from the black wood and wire instrument.   

"Can you stand up?" I speak into her ear.   

Alma stops playing. She rises. The air is still. I pull her dress down.
It swishes, crumpling at her feet. I pull her panties down; they fall to
her ankles. Deftly, she kicks both items away; she sits and resumes
playing.   

The room fills with sound. I stand behind her, my hands on smooth skin
of bare warm shoulders. I marvel at my good fortune, admiring her
flawless white teenage back. Except for brassiere, she is totally naked.
As she finishes the piece, she turns her head to me. "What shall we do
now?" she asks.   

"On the couch," I say.   

We sprint, three steps. She lies on her back, a beautiful vision of
flesh. I sit on the edge of the couch. I insert my forefinger into her
pussy and do what I know she likes. Her warm lubrication coats my
finger.   

I stand up and pull off my clothes, tossing them to the floor at the end
of the couch. I glory in my nakedness, looking down at her on the couch.
Do I like her naked better than I liked her with her dress up around her
waist, like she was when we first fucked? I sit, next to her prone body.
With one hand, I play with her pussy; with the other, I caress her
stomach. I should get on top of her, I tell myself; I should get my fun
before her mother gets back. With a flash of inspiration, I say, "You
get on top this time."   

She grins at me, a look of delight. She gets up off the couch allowing
me to take her place. I lie down where she has been, luxuriating in the
residual warmth of her body. She settles over me, balancing on her
hands, like she is doing pushups, and spreads her thighs. I reach down
and insert my rigid cock easily into her; she settles down on me, her
bra against my chest; my ankles hook with hers.   

Pubic hair meshes; the wet warmth of cunt encases hard throbbing cock.
She pumps her hips at me, kissing me passionately. If she keeps this up,
I know that I am not going to last. "Slow down," I say.   

She fucks her hips at me, pausing on the down stroke. That is her slow
down, the pause. Then, it is a fast hip pull-back, then down again,
pinning me to the couch, and another excruciating pause at the bottom. A
sweet sensual smile covers her face.   

"I never thought of doing it this way," she says. "It's really good!"
She humps her hips up, then down, up-and-down, and up-and-down.   

"Yes it is," I gasp, enduring the stabs of her brassiere into my chest
with each piston stroke of her fucking hips. I love her fucking me like
this, controlling me, but still wearing her bra. I gush into her. She
stops, her head sags onto my shoulder, I am pinned to the couch like a
defeated wrestler.   

My breath returns. "Let me take off your bra," I whisper.   

Alma lifts herself from me; my cock, slick with our love juices, slips
out of her pussy; the wonderfulness of her warm bare stomach pulls away
from mine. My sticky cock makes a delicious plop sound as it emerges
from her tunnel. She sits up, on her knees, her ass riding my thighs.
With both of her hands, she feels herself.   

"God, there's so much," she says sweetly, seemingly pleased. I peer at
her bush. Although inwardly embarrassing to me, I have this desire, to
see her pussy bathed in my semen. I blink my eyes; all I can see is the
whiteness of her hands against the dark V of her pubic hairs.   

"I have to get a towel," she says. She pulls her leg up from the floor,
passing a foot in front of my chest, then places both her feet firmly on
the floor. She stands, quickly. Holding her pussy with her hands,
apparently to staunch the flow, she scoots rapidly toward the
bathroom.   
"God, Rick, I'm so wet!" she calls in a soft voice to me from the other
room. I imagine her hands, sticky with our love juices as she wipes them
clean.   

She emerges from the bathroom, hair recombed, still wearing her bra. She
barefoots over to me, sits at the edge of the couch and smiles down at
me. "That was really good!" She puts her lips to my cheeks; she
whispers, "I really liked it! I really did!"   

She sits up, reaches behind her back, quickly unhooks her brassiere and
lets it drop to the floor. She wants more; I don't think that I can do
it again. I sit up; I put my feet firmly on the floor. "Sit on my lap,"
I say. I reach for her hand and tug her onto my lap. The warmth of her
ass settles onto me. I circle my right arm around her waist and rest my
hand on her hip. With my left hand I stroke her bare breasts. She rolls
her ass on me, from side to side, enabling me, with just the slightest
penetration of my half-hard cock, to insert the head just inside her
squishy pussy. I suck her left nipple into my mouth. I keep my eyes
open, admiring the expanse of white chest, a vision of Eden, a tactile
paradise in my hands. I am buoyant, floating in a sea of psychological
bliss; I rise to the pale blue sky and exult in the miracle of Heaven.   
Knocking at the door shatters my bliss. "Alma, open the door!" It's her
mother's loud but muffled voice. Alma stays on my lap; it seems that she
is just going to continue sitting there and we will be caught totally
naked.   

Finally, Alma scoots her nakedness off of my lap. "I'll be right there!"
she yells at the door.   

Beautiful ass hurries from the living room into the back room. Crashing
chords of Slaughter on Tenth Avenue race through my brain. I face
reality. Stepping quickly to the end of the couch, I grab socks and
shorts and pull them on. T-shirt and denims rapidly follow. I slip into
shoes, stuff my shirt in, buckle my belt, and am dressed in record time
as Alma comes tearing back, her hands at her waist, knotting the belt of
a terry cloth bath robe, obviously, totally naked underneath, and
unlatches the front door.   

Alma's mother and her boyfriend, side-by-side, stumble and bump
nervously through the doorway. They are not angry, but they do look
mildly, perhaps even amusingly, suspicious. They both stare at Alma's
bathrobe. "At least he's clothed," it looks like they are thinking.   

"Why are you wearing a robe?" Alma's mother speaks. "You weren't wearing
one when I left." Good question. I look at Alma to see what she will say
to get us out of this.   

"Mother! We were just getting ready to go to the movies when you came
home and I was just changing my clothes."      


(c) 1998-1999 by R.A. Mendoza


This story is an excerpt from Sunflower Alley.
The entire Sunflower Alley series may be found at:
http://www.bigfoot.com/~R_A_M

Some stories. Some almost true. Boring if you don't like my thoughts.
But, what the hell, it's my page, I can do (almost) anything I want.
Stories, nostalgia, about GIs, their life, their women, in the Cold War 
Era, c.1955. From East LA to Japan. The way it was, way back then.
Maybe these tidbits, these spicy morsels, will jostle your mind. 
Maybe they'll give you some joy, I hope. 
                                          RAM

  From the Corner of 1st & Rowan to Sunflower Alley
  http://www.bigfoot.com/~R_A_M 

-----------------------

  From Celestial Reviews 317 - February 28, 1999

"I'm never really sure how far afield I should go when I look for 
stories to review. I suppose if I can't even keep up with the stories 
that are posted on a.s.s. and a.s.s.m. I shouldn't waste my time 
tra[i]psing all over the place looking for even more stories. But this
excursion wasn't a waste of time. One of Mendoza's lead-ins caught my
attention, and his home page roped me in. This is good stuff. It 
doesn't run as a continuous story, but the deliberately disjointed
presentation is highly effective." 

"I encourage you to take a look"  

Ratings for "Sunflower Alley" 
Athena (technical quality): 10
Venus (plot & character): 9
Celeste (appeal to reviewer): 10 

Celestial Reviews 317 - February 28, 1999 

-----------------------

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