Message-ID: <35482asstr$1014955805@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: <mmtwassel@aol.com> From: mmtwassel@aol.com (mat twassel) Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit X-Original-Message-ID: <20020228201206.16971.00001262@mb-bg.aol.com> X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 01 Mar 2002 01:12:06 GMT Subject: {ASSM} Mat Twassel and Lorrin Murray -- Calendar Date: Thu, 28 Feb 2002 23:10:05 -0500 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 X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2002/35482> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: kelly, hecate calendar by Mat Twassel and Lorrin Murray ================================ Feb 16 Flow Gently, Sweet Afton Late afternoon, shadows of tall trees cross the stream. On the near shore a dead limb stretches over the water, its bark worn away, its wood weathered smooth. Straddling this thick branch, the boy and the girl face one another. They have just kissed for the first time. In a moment they will kiss again. For now they are breathing the moment between. Beneath them, caught in the strong current, a small dog, maybe a dachshund, glides forward, his nose up, his leash trailing behind. On the dirt path which runs alongside the stream, an old man hurries. Feb 17 Elevator Music He is kissing her hard. She is in the back corner, her throat exposed, her legs around his, the near one in the air, straining to get higher. The shoe has fallen off. A pear-shaped breast is free of her red gown, and the man's hand wants more. In the center of the compartment the well-dressed woman stares straight ahead. Feb 18 Just About Bedtime The flicker and flare of a long kitchen match shows her bent forward, creamy shadows between her bare breasts. The candle is fat and red and upright as an erect cock. Feb 19 Nothing to Do but Fish and Fuck Dawn. Beneath a layer of sun-burnished mist, the rowboat glides upon water smooth as ice. Where the oar has touched, the water creases and begins to spread. Shafts of wan sunlight, thin as fishing line, pierce the gauzy haze, dusting the boy's body with gold. Already the burn-off has begun. It's going to be a hot one. Arms crossed, the girl has gripped the bottom of her tee shirt with both hands and is about to lift it over her head. Feb 20 At the Zoo It is one of those old-fashioned zoos with iron bars thick and heavy. Pressing against the outer rail, the two little girls peer solemnly up into the dark cage. The sign on the front of the cage says "Mastodon." The next cage, just a few steps away, awaits them. "Masturbation." Feb 21 Freestyle The concrete bowl curves orange and steep and smooth into sheer blue air and the stark sun which backlights her crouched body. Lean and tight and supple as the wind, the girl soars upward. We wouldn't know she is naked except for the fragile wisps of pussy hair silhouetted in the space between her slender thighs. Feb 22 Strawberries We see her hands, the firm grip of her slender fingers, the pad of her thumb upon the top of the paring knife as she cores the strawberries. The blade gleams with juice. Feb 23 Hotel Bathroom We can see him thrusting into her from behind. We can see her bent forward over the sink staring into her eyes in the mirror. His eyes are closed. He is about to come. It won't be long now. She can feel the final fattening. She prepares to brace herself for his weight. "Oh, baby," she'll say. That should put him over. Then he'll jerk and quiver and empty. When he pulls out he'll barely be able to stand. And some of the juice will drip. She'll sit quickly on the toilet and pee. "Come here," she'll say, and she'll kiss the tip of his penis, then take him into her mouth briefly, enough to taste herself. Slide her tongue around. Maybe give him a playful nip. Then they'll shower and dress for the opera. But first he's got to come. "Oh, baby." Feb 24 Rest Stop Tall pines surround a small sunny clearing. Upon the plain green picnic table the pair rest lengthwise. They are on their backs, hands at their sides, heads on opposite ends, eyes open, staring up at the sky. She is naked. He is wearing but a pair of red nylon running shorts. There is an inch or two of clear space between them. But if he were to roll over on top of her he could fuck her face, or if she were to roll over on top of him she could suck his cock, though in either case someone would first have to remove those running shorts. Or she could mouth him through the fabric, making him stiff, and then slip the material aside. Either way, her pussy would be eaten. It is so quiet that we'd easily hear his tongue sluicing the juicy furrow of her sex. But for now they are resting, and the small wedge of winged shadow coasting across her tummy is the only hint of motion. It might be a hawk circling. It might be a private plane coming down from Marquette. Wave. Feb 25 Honey Buns He has a cup of coffee in his hands. She is about to bite into a cinnamon bun. They are seated at an outdoor caf , and the breeze is blowing. A honeybee is crawling on the pastry. "Oh, oh, oh!" she exclaims as the bee flies off into the wind. "Oh!" and she lets the cinnamon bun fall from her hands. "What is it?" "A bee. Didn't you see? I almost ate it. Why didn't you warn me?" "I didn't know." "You did! I can tell by the way you look. And my mouth feels so strange." "Strange how?" "Funny. Full and tingly. Like the first time you came in me there." She shivers. "But you liked it. You like it now." "You should have warned me." "Do you want me to buy you another roll?" Or maybe the bee flies away without her noticing. Feb 26 Yoga This is the half-moon. Earlier was the pigeon, the child, the chair. The dog with one leg raised, and then the other. After will be the camel, the squat, the squashed bug. The bridge, the wheel, the plow to shoulder stand. He likes the half- moon. The curve of bottom, night sky brushed by perfect light. Her mop of hair wild in its stillness. Her pale skin smooth and serene. He likes the half-moon, but he likes them all. He likes her. He loves her. Earlier was the triangle, the skydive, the stretch. Later will come the cobra, the cat, the kiss. He loves her. Feb 27 Nothing to Do but Fish and Fuck Except when it rains like this. Sheets. Cats and dogs. Buckets. Then there's nothing to do but fuck. If it keeps up like this they probably won't even go out, he told her. Then he stepped into the shower. She finished brushing her teeth and then she made coffee and made the bed and now she watches him shave. She likes the way he tilts his chin as he maneuvers the razor. 'Want some coffee,' she asks him, and he grunts yes, and she goes to pour it. In the little kitchen she pours the coffee and watches the rain rattle the window. She wonders what it would be like out on the boat in rain like this. It might be fun. No way to fish in this stuff. Maybe they'd fuck. That might be fun. So far they haven't actually fucked on the boat, but she'd like to try it sometime. Lots of kisses and hugs, lots of touches, sexual touches, once so much of it that she came, a breathless gasp of coming which made her feel like she was falling overboard, but his finger had her hooked, slippery though she was, and afterward, after she had calmed down from that startlingly quick plunge into ecstasy, she thought, if he keeps this up I'll come again, and a moment later she felt the wiggle, it caught her cunt just right, and she was lost. Wave after wave of coming. Once she tried to suck him. She had his shorts unbuttoned and his cock out, and the bobbing of the boat made his cock bob, or so it seemed, and when she tried to kiss it, when she tried to capture it in her mouth, she missed, and he laughed and turned away and buttoned up, saying let's catch some fish first. They'll be plenty of time for that later. But on the way back in they only nuzzled, sipping beer and holding each other while he steered. It wasn't a really big boat, the Jenny II, but it was a big sea, and when they were way out they often didn't see anyone--not another boat anywhere. That's when she got a little scared. How good was this boat? How good was this guy? How well did she know him? Better than he knew her, she hoped. Way out, that's when she wanted to fuck the most. 'Who was Jenny?' Katherine had asked him on the drive down from Minnesota. She knew his wife's name had been Jean and that Jean had died about a year ago, a few months before Katherine abandoned UM and her graduate degree for tiny Elbow and a waitress job at Pete's where he came every night for a sandwich and sometimes a single beer. It was in Alabama and there was a bridge out sign, and he'd glanced in the mirror and laughed. 'Jenny I or Jenny II?' he'd said. 'Either.' 'Neither,' he'd said. 'Just the name on the boat when I got it.' 'Can't you change it?' 'I kind of like the mystery.' 'Okay, who do you think this Jenny was?' He'd chuckled at that and confessed that he'd thought about it sometimes. 'But now that I'm here you don't have to think about it, right?' she'd said, poking him in the ribs as he drove the detour. 'Right.' He was smiling, and she'd wondered whether he knew she knew more about these Jennys than she was letting on. She liked sucking him. Usually it happened in the shower at the condo after they'd gotten in and he'd taken care of the fish. The shower was small, but there was enough room for the two of them, and the water stayed hot. She'd put a towel on the tiles and after any number of kisses she'd slip down. He'd always be hard. For guy in his 50's he was in good shape, lean and hard, and she'd hold his buttocks as she mouthed his cock, and his buns would be firm and tight in her hands, just like his cock was firm and tight in her mouth. It was cozy, the warm water streaming all around like some tropical waterfall. Sometimes he'd rest his hands at the sides of her face, and she could feel the care in them, though she knew it was also a signal that he was eager to come, or on the verge of it but wanting it to last. Mixed feelings. Sometimes she'd tease him then, let him go and look up through the streaming water and give him a little smile. A mischievous smile. A lewd smile but with a little girl-next-door at the edges. A hint of that "you want to come in my mouth, don't you, mister?" And then she'd take him back in, as slow and deep as possible, still looking up at him, and those were just about the sweetest sucks, when she could tell how thankful he was, when she could feel him building against the roof of her mouth, the back of her throat. She probably didn't need to do it, but usually she'd carefully work her finger into his asshole anyway. It was always soapy-slippery back there, and she could ease through the tightness without too much trouble. Ah, the feel of the throb, the throb back there and the throb in his cock. It never took long after that. Sometimes she'd let him free while he was spurting. She'd look up, but his eyes would be closed, the water would be rattling against his face, and she'd feel like rain. She'd clasp him to her, making sure to catch his cock before the last spurt. Oh, the sweetness of his release. Then they'd clean up and towel off and dress and he'd cook the fish while she made the rice and the salad and set the table. After eating and dishes, they stroll along the docks and he'd tell her about the boats and she'd make up stories about who was on them and what kind of dogs and kids they'd left back home and where that was. Then back to the condo for bed. While he was fucking her she'd think about everything, even the truck tire which had killed his wife and daughter, and she'd smile at him and squeeze her cunt and say, "Mm, you're so good. You fuck so good." It was true. So long and slow and sweet he'd do it, fucking her, until she couldn't think anymore, she could only moan and cry and come. "Oh, sweet," she tried to say, as the orgasm threatened to take hold of her body. "Swee..." And the orgasm would tug beneath her clit, pulling her hard, pulling her under and up and inside out. "Oh, swee," she'd say, struggling, trying to stay up. She'd thrash and buck and writhe, but she couldn't escape. The orgasm was his weight. The orgasm was him, working his weight, pushing her into it, plunging and plundering until her cunt would go crazy. "Fuh," she'd say, the "ck" not coming out. "Fuh..." and she'd reach for it, she'd reach with her cunt, with her whole body, and it wasn't there, and then it was. Oh, sweet, sweet fuck. Still, she'd like to do it on the boat sometime. Rain or shine. Feb 28 Coral "It's my turn!" "It is not. I still haven't done mine yet." "You kids quit fussing. That camera is not a toy. And the balcony is not a place to play." "She had her turn. Those birds." "I did not. I aimed at them but I didn't take them. They were too far." "I heard it click." "Did not." "Well, hurry up then." "Okay, okay. There. Are you happy?" "What did you get?" "I don't know." Through the patio window of the condo next door, the photograph will show the woman in a white top and navy sweatpants sitting back on the couch reading a paperback book. Gloria. Her bare feet are up on the glass- topped coffee table, crossed at the ankles. Her toenails have been painted. Coral. The man next to her has his head on her shoulder and his hand trapped tight between her legs. Probably his fingertips can feel how hard her clitoris is, but that, of course, doesn't show up on the digital photograph any more than does the hue of the woman's swollen clit. Coral. ================================ calendar by Mat Twassel and Lorrin Murray Mat and Lorrin would be happy to hear your comments. Write Mat at mmtwassel@aol.com Write Lorrin at LorrinMurray@aol.com Earlier calendars at: http://members.aol.com/mmtwassel/index.html -- 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+