index


Message-ID: <31365asstr$994792202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Jesse Grant <raven1@mediaone.net>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Type: text/plain; charset=iso-8859-1
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
Subject: {ASSM} Dreamdance Part 1: The foretelling (Mf rom slow) (Revised and lengthed)
Date: Tue, 10 Jul 2001 15:10:03 -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

Author's note.  Sorry to do this to you, but I found that after I posted
the first part of this that I had more to say. When I wrote the first
part I wasn't sure where the story was going, never having written
anything like this before.  So That being said. I hope you enjoy this,
sorry there isn't much sex in this part, and I doubt there will be much
in the second part either, maybe the third, who knows.

Dreamdance: The Foretelling Part 1
By Jesse Grant

I am standing on a hill, covered in long dewy grass that tickles my
knees and makes me shiver when it slides between my toes. The wind from
the sea where boats play on the gentle waves teases the long strands of
amber hair that float past my face and I know that they are mine and I
marvel at it for a moment, knowing it is strange, but not knowing why.

I feel his presence behind me and I feel warmth deep in my belly. I know
him, but I don't, and again it is strange, but does not worry me.  The
wind is sweet and I can feel the sunlight seeping into the bare skin of
my face and arms.  I feel his hands caress my arms and it sends a
tremble through me. Oh, I almost moan, it feels so wonderful.  I look up
to his face as he stands behind me, he is so very tall.  His features
are shaded by the sun, and I cannot see them, but it is okay, because I
know them, perfectly, deep in my heart.

He moves his hands around to my front and caresses my sides and the firm
swells of my breasts, small as they are, and I catch my breath.  I
shiver all over and lean back against him, feeling his arousal through
his tight pants and my tight tunic, hard against the middle of my back.
I feel his vibrations against me and the warmth in my belly ripples
outward and downward.

He kneels in the tall grass, still behind me, still caressing. I feel
his lips brush against my neck and I gasp at the tenderness and moan
again, softly, as shivers race between my hardening nipples and my
spine.  He holds me close to his strong chest and whispers words I
cannot quite hear into my ear. His breath is warm and it makes me want
to feel more, feel it everywhere.  The sun warms us both, the wind
swirls around us and I shudder as he kisses my ear. My nipples are
pressed against his arm as he wraps it around my chest, hugging me
close. His other hand slips down to caress my belly, and I shiver again
at the feel of warm cotton against my bare skin and know that only a
millimeter of fabric separates me from his touch. The closeness and the
distance are wonderful in contrast. His hand slips down, down, down,
slowly, pausing at my hip to caress, to tease and delight. I want to
melt in his arms and to soar at the same time.  I whimper, softly, as
his hand moves down below my narrow hips and slowly approaches the hem
of my tunic. I tremble, wanting him to touch me more, wanting him to
make me his.

I gasp and release the breath I had not realized I was holding as his
warm, strong hand slips to the bare skin of my thigh, my toes gripping
at the soft earth and tender grass beneath them.  He caresses me gently,
lovingly, and then his hand moves upward once more, lifting the front
flap of my tunic, his hand bringing the warmth of the sun to my hidden
skin.  He lifts me, holding me to his chest as his hand slips closer,
closer, closer, closer. Oh Lords! Oh my lord, my master, my love, Oh!
His hand, like the fires of heaven, caresses, burning, across the flesh
above my secret place. I whine, deep in my throat, biting my lower lip
as his lips caress my neck below my ear. I spread my legs against his,
leaning back into his embrace, letting him take me. His hand teases,
taunts me as it plays with the smooth skin above the place I want it to
be, need it to be.

He laughs when I whimper, almost begging, a crystal note in my ear and I
feel the warmth inside me increase, a raging inferno, yet one as gentle
as the sunlight. His hand moves downward, slipping over the smooth flesh
until he holds me in the palm of his large, strong, smooth hand. He
squeezes gently and I feel the pressure of his finger against the cleft
of my being. He slowly traces my flesh with the tip of his finger and I
almost sob at the sensation. He presses it against my folds, and I cry
out, screaming his name to the wind and the sea and the hills and all
the world as he makes me his. I feel the pleasure and the pressure rise
inside me and just when it seems as sweet as it can get and I feel like
everything is just about perfect, I...

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"Wake UP!"

     Jason Porter, age 16, Amazon High School junior, sat bolt upright
in bed and looked at his room for several confused moments before he
remembered who he was and where.  He gasped for breath and shuddered
violently. He had just been dreaming... hadn't he?  The dream was fading,
fading, gone. What had it been about, he couldn't remember, but he knew,
knew...

    "JASON ALEXANDER PORTER, WAKE UP!!" came the cry again and this time
he recognized it as the voice of his mother.

     He sighed, another wonderful morning in sunny South Lafayette, home
of ... well, nothing really. "I'm awake Mom!"  He hollered.

     "Don't be late for school, Muffin!" came the cheerful cry from
downstairs, followed quickly by the sound of the front door opening.

     "Don't call me Muffin Ma!" cried the boy, to late, as the front
door closed again. Jason blushed and shook his head,  "She still thinks
I'm four years old, doesn't she?" he ask the room in general.

He threw back the covers and hopped out of bed, landing on his
skateboard, the one that should have been leaning against the dresser.
He flailed wildly for a second as he shot five feet across the room and
slammed, crotch first, into the handle of his bathroom door. He fell to
the ground, clutching his bruised erection and moaned softly.  The pain
passed after a few moments and he got to his feet, all right, but a
little shaky.  He looked down at his prick, tenting the front of his
boxer-briefs and sighed, half mockingly, "I guess I know what that dream
was about now."

     He slipped off his underwear and slid into the shower, turning on
the water once he was under the head, the cold water shocking him awake
and helping reduce both the lingering pain and the discomfort he was
feeling.

     Fifteen minutes later, fully dressed, he slipped out the front
door, locked it behind him, tossed his skateboard down onto the
sidewalk, jumped the three steps on the walkway, landing on the board,
and shot off for school, thinking no more about the dream.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

I am kneeling, the wooden floor warm and comfortingly solid against my
bare knees. My gaze is fixed upon the great oaken altar of the
tabernacle, my hands clenched before my breast as I say my prayers in
this house of the gods, yet I am not sure which gods. The air is rich
with the perfumes of incense and cedar pews, the smell of tallow and
clean silken hangings mixes with the clean scent of the wide grasslands
and the sea.

I feel his presence just before I feel his hand gently settle upon my
shoulder, but I do not interrupt my contemplation of the moment and I
finish my devotions before turning my gaze up to him. He half kneels,
one knee behind my back, the other touching the great oaken floor.  I
look over my shoulder into his eyes, so dark, so blue, like the heart of
the ocean, I almost drift into them, almost overwhelmed by his presence.
He smiles at me and I am overwhelmed, my heart dances.

I turn to face him, rising to my bare feet, my face bright with a
rainbow of light from the stained glass, my bare feet making no noise on
the hardwood floor. I fling my arms around his strong neck, overjoyed at
the simple wonder of being with this man who loves me, whom I love so
dearly, and as he lifts me in those strong arms, I bury my face against
the warm cotton of his collar, inhaling his scent.  He smells of jasmine
and horses and rose wine.

I drift, timeless, in his arms as he carries me out of the house of
worship and to his waiting carriage. The sun still shines, and I shiver
as I feel it gently tickle the fine downy hairs on the back of my neck.
I am alive. I am loved. I am...

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"...Awake, Ms. Matthews!"

"I'm overjoyed to hear that mister Porter, but that wasn't the
question," said the gruff voiced old maths teacher, her white eyebrows
quirked in amusement, "Your classmates and I were just curious as to
whether or not star football players can solve trigonometry questions?"

Jason flushed furiously as the class tittered around him. They all knew
he had the highest grades in the class, as did Ms. Matthews, but it was
still embarrassing to be called to task in front of the whole class.
Jason was good, well great was really the word for it, in math and
science, but he lacked in the classroom the confidence that he showed
each week on the gridiron.

His glance shifted from Ms. Matthews wrinkled old face to the problem
written on the whiteboard and thought furiously for a few seconds. It
should have been easy, even though it wasn't from the homework or the
book, but for some reason whenever he thought about it he kept thinking
of the feel of oak under his toes and of rainbow colored lights on his
face.  Most of all he thought of two deeper than deep blue circles that
seemed burned into his mind's eye, if only he could...

He was shocked from his reverie by the teacher's voice again, "Mr.
Porter? Is everything all right?"  he voice had lost the mocking tone
and seemed a little concerned now.  The tittering, too, had stopped. The
big game, homecoming, was tonight, and no one wanted the schools star
running back to be under the weather, especially not considering the
fact that tonight's game was against hated Centurion High's own
Legionaries.

He blinked several times to clear his mind and shook his head, both in
negation and to clear it further. "No I'm okay, Just thinking about the
game tonight, I got a little distracted.  Sorry Ms. M. Did you want me
to solve it, or just get it started?"

"Just get us started, we all know you can do it yourself, but its not
nice to be a ball hog." She grinned at her attempted sporting humor.

"Wrong sport Ms. M." he said with a smile and everyone, including Ms. M,
laughed.  He got the problem started, but as the class began to discuss
it in depth, he drifted into thought.  What were these images that kept
filling his mind? Why did he feel like he was missing something? Why did
his skin feel like it was on too tight?  He sighed softly, must be
pre-game jitters.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

Jason Porter, or as his teammates called him, half-mockingly
half-admiringly, The Dancer, had made the JV team in his freshman year,
playing running back. He had been easily the fastest person on the team,
and had quickly been drafted by the track and field team and the cross
country team. After winning three bronze medals at the state level for
running and rushing 300 yards in a single season, an outstanding
achievement for a JV running back, he had, in his sophomore year, been
drafted to play on the varsity team, where he had been the fastest
still, not to mention the smallest.  The team had gone all the way to
the state finals and, in a very close game, had won on a last second 75
yard, hail-Mary touch down run by none other than Mr. Porter, The
Dancer.  He had gotten the nickname because he always seemed to know
where and how to move so as best avoid the giants that would try and
squash him like a bug each time he carried the ball.  His teammates
thought it was spooky, but who were they to argue with success.

Over the course of the last year, and mostly over the summer, Jason had
experienced a growth spurt, rocketing him up from five foot two inches
to one inch shy of six feet. His coaches had been worried that the extra
height and weight would slow him down or make him clumsy, so they had
worked him extra hard all summer. They needn't have worried. Jason was
now the fastest runner in the state, running the hundred meters in what
was almost Olympic time while in the 1500 meter metric mile he was an
astounding three seconds off the world record time.

There had been newspaper articles and television features about him. He
had even gotten to have dinner with the governor.  Everybody's
All-American, they were calling him. A straight A student, tops in his
grade in fact, champion football player, track star, long distance
runner, and, if he did say so himself, not a bad boarder either.  So why
should he have the jitters, the Amazon's were going to crush the
Legionnaires, like something out of ancient history.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
At lunch, Jason sat outside in the courtyard, enjoying the sunlight. It
was uncommonly clear but not too hot, a comfortable 76 degrees, with a
slight breeze that carried stray cherry blossoms drifting lazily past.
Cassandra, never Cassie or Sandra, Steward-Masters, his best friend, but
not his girl friend they fiercely maintained, sat next to him, her pen
scratching away at the page of her journal.  She went through two of the
two-hundred page books every month.  Jason maintained that if she ever
stopped writing down all the things that poured out of her brain for
more than ten minutes her head would simply explode from the pressure.
Their other friend, Ivan "Just call me Max" Davidovich Yugarov, was
sitting under one of the cherry trees, reading a book, his fingers
sliding along the words making slight hissing noises. His dog, Ginger,
an enormous German shepherd, lay at his side, her eyes half closed, her
harness resting against her master's knee.
The three of them relaxed in comfortable silence, ignoring the other
small crowds dotted hear and there in the wide open courtyard.  The air
was fresh and smelled of autumn flowers and fresh baked bread.
Amazon High had been a kind of experiment. A huge land grant had been
made to the state to be turned into park land and community activity
areas.  The school had been built into the park, its blue and green
buildings tastefully designed to fit in among the trees and flowers
that made the school a botanical garden, at least in the spring and
summer.  The school's lands were dotted with half a dozen ponds and part
of a larger lake.  The school cafeteria was privately owned, and catered
to all the park goers. It had a fully stocked deli and a bakery that
made fresh bread Sunday through Friday.
Jason, his lunch having been wolfed down in about ten seconds, leaned
back in his chair, watching the world unfold around him, dead set on
remaining totally motionless for the next hour and forty-five minutes.
He had arranged his schedule so that he had gym right before lunch, but,
owing to the game that night he was not required to attend, no one
wanted him to be sore for the big game.  Cassandra had yearbook this
hour while Ivan had study-hall, or as the students called it "Study?
Hell no!" so the three of them routinely gathered to spend a quite pair
of hours together.
Across the courtyard a freshman girl, her long auburn hair tied back in
three long intricate braids, was napping, head down, at one of the
mosaic covered stone picnic tables. Jason unconsiously found himself
staring at the top of her head.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"MMM.. tee hee.. That tickles, daddy!"  tinkles a light high girlish
voice.

"Is daddy's little girl being naughty?" comes a gruff, masculine one.

"Oh yes daddy, very naughty!"  replies the childish voice, high with a
teasing quality.

"Should daddy spank his naughty little girl?" comes the gruff voice
again.

"Yes daddy, please, oh please spank me daddy. Daddy use your big strong
hands. Take me daddy" moans the little girl's voice. "Oh..."

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

"...my god!" mutter Jason, his eyes snapping open.

"MMM? What?" came Cassandra's voice, slightly annoyed at the breaking of
the informal silence rule, her pen paused mere fractions of an inch
above the page.

"That girl..."

"What girl?

"The one over at the table with the mosaic of Poseidon."

"What about her."

"I think she's fantasizing about being spanked by her father. "

"What?" came the half outraged, half amused reply.

"I think..."

"I heard what you said, I'm just not sure why you said it."

"I... I... don't know. I think I just saw what she was dreaming about,"
Jason retorted in a quite, unsure voice.

"You were dreaming. I think you are the one having fant..."

"But I wasn't, it didn't feel like one of my dreams, I wasn't... wasn't...
It wasn't me... it was her."

"OOOkaaay... sure."

"No I'm serious... In my dreams, I'm always me. I mean I can feel my body,
I know who and what I am. Its real, and clear...even if I can't remember
what they are about. This was different. It was hazy. Like a badly tuned
TV."

"Cool, you're psycho."

"That's Psychic you illiterate monkey," came the voice of Max, snide as
usual. "And it's not psychic, its tapping into the race consciousness.
We all do it sometimes."

"Max, are you an expert on eveything?" sneared Cassandra.

"Yep!" came the reply, in a cheerful tone.

"Creep!"

"Cretan!"

"Guys!" interjected Jason.

"Commie!"

"Limey!"

"Loser!"

"Hag!"

"Guys!" interjected Jason, a little louder this time.

"Bastard!"

"Writer!"

"Them's fightin' words!"

"Bring it on, Witch!"

"Oh shit, here we go again" though Jason, with a resigned sigh.

"OOOH! That's it!  You have insulted my honor for the last time! I
challenge you to a duel!" cried Cassandra, brandishing her pen above her
head like a sabre.

"Fine! I accept! Choose your weapon!"

"The Word processor."

"Fine! Five thousand words, due monday."

"Done. Lets turn to our pet jock for a topic. Well Jason the Defender?
What say you?

"Don't get me involved in this, its your own madness."

"Come on Jase!" came the voices of other two.  "Please!"

"Don't you two have enough homework as it is?"

"Nooo" replied the two in unison, and laughed.

"Fine. Any topic?" said Jason with a twinkle in his eye.

"Any topic" confirmed the two.

"Fine. How about a detailed story, explicit details, but not smutty,
describing a freshman seducing her father. It must be tasteful, and
contain at least four pages of sexual scenes."  He laughed at the
stunned expressions on their faces.

"You're joking!" choked Cassandra. "I've never even thought...well, I have
though about it, once or twice...but still...I've never written about, you
know, that! You have a dirty little mind Jason Porter."

"Thank you, thank you." Laughed Jason. "But you two agreed I got to pick
the topic. So if you refuse you forfeit!"

"I'll get you for this Jason, and your little dog ginger too!"

Max laughed and mock-growled, "That's My dog Ginger, aren't you girl?"
Ginger ruffed softly. "Fine, I accept, but don't count on a lot of
visuals in mine."

"Okay, but no making either one of them blind Max, that's cheating.  And
Cass, No making either one of them insane, cultists, elves, or
anthropomorphic rabbits, rocks, or trees. Human's only," said Jason with
a smirk.

"You're no fun!" laughed his friends, and that was that.

Stay Tuned for part 2: Games of Thunder.
Feed back appriciated, but its your own fault if I write again without
it.
Post Script: If anyone feels like taking on the challenge set forth
between Max and Cassandra, feel free. Rules are above.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations.         |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+