Message-ID: <37153asstr$1025676604@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: <mmtwassel@aol.com> From: mmtwassel@aol.com (mat twassel) X-Original-Message-ID: <20020702204321.14651.00001061@mb-de.aol.com> X-ASSTR-Original-Date: 03 Jul 2002 00:43:21 GMT Subject: {ASSM} Mat Twassel: Pump Song (mf rom hot summer evenings) RP Date: Wed, 3 Jul 2002 02:10:04 -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 X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2002/37153> X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com> X-Moderator-ID: kelly, dennyw Dear Reader, If you like this story, please take a moment to examine http://Calendar.atEROS.com A subscription site of very modest cost (about 10 cents a day), Calendar.atEROS features daily pieces of erotica, many of them illustrated, and a weekly story of exceptional quality. Thank you. Mat Twassel *********************************************************** *********************************************************** I am indebted to Teresa, whose comments inspired the title and the core of this story. *********************************************************** *********************************************************** Pump Song by Mat Twassel ============== Evening settled over the southern Indiana countryside. Laura and I sat on our back porch watching our almost three year old granddaughter chase fireflies. Laura and I had been fighting over some little thing--I don't remember what, but now we were sitting close on the porch swing watching little Amy stumble after the glowing bugs. She'd see the blink of one and go after it, but she'd never get there before the bug dimmed, or got too high, drifting above her little arms just out of reach; or she'd get distracted by a fresh light and spin in a new direction, only to topple in the soft high grass, only to get up again immediately, all giggly, her blond head of curly hair bobbing in the last of the twilight. "She's tenacious, isn't she?" Laura asked. "Do you think her arms are too short?" "They're just right," I said. "If she catches one and squishes it, do you think she'll be sad?" Laura asked. "Were you?" "I don't remember," Laura said. "I remember being gentle, and having them crawl on my hand. I remember the tickle of them as I'd coax them into the mason jar with the holes ice- picked into the lid." She squeezed my thigh. "I guess I squished a few in my fingers," she said a moment later. "Just to see." "Just to see what?" I asked, but Laura didn't answer. "Amy, time to come here now," Laura called. Hurriedly and happily Amy came. She nestled in Laura's lap. Laura put her bare heels on the porch and began to rock us. Inside of a minute Amy was asleep. "Should I take her up?" I asked. "Not just yet," Laura said. She slowed the slow rocking of our swing. Over the distant chirp of crickets, we could hear, faint but clear, the squeak and sigh of bedsprings. That was our daughter Annie upstairs with her husband Tom. Their little bedroom was above our porch. I knew what Laura was thinking. I ought to oil that bed, but I didn't mind the sound; I found it comforting, the rhythms now slow and easy, now fast and urgent, then irregular, or rushed, or silent. At one point we heard a sharp giggle, Annie's, and it made my throat catch. Any other sounds were too muffled to come through the walls and window. Tom was working at the quarry now, long hours, hard work-- it'd been six months since he'd been laid off by the tractor place. At least Annie was happy for the moment--she was painting again. Now that it was quiet, just the distant crickets, I said, "Suppose I ought to oil those bedsprings...." "No," Laura said, "It's a good sound, good to hear." I took her hand. We sat for a few more minutes, Amy shifting once easily in her sleep, and then Annie came out onto the porch. She wore a man's white dress shirt, hardly buttoned, maybe nothing else. I wondered if it was one of my old ones. "I just put Tom to bed," she said. "He's a tired boy." "And here's a tired girl," I said, meaning Amy. I got up from the glider and lifted Amy from Laura's arms and presented her to Annie. "She's such a honey bunny," I said. "So sweet." I kissed Amy's head. I kissed Annie's nose. "You're sweet, too," I said. She did smell sweet. Slightly of turpentine, slightly of something else. "Night, Dad. Night, Mom," she said. "Love you," Laura said. "You coming back?" "I don't think so," Annie whispered. "Pretty tired." Annie carried Amy in. I sat back down next to Laura. We held hands for a while. "Why'd you ask that about whether she was coming back?" I said after a few minutes had passed. "Oh, I don't know," Laura said. "It's a nice night, isn't it?" "Yes," I answered. We watched the night, the lawn and sky, the quiet glow almost gone. "It might be a nice night to suck your cock out here, mightn't it?" "Yes," I said again. "But tell me a story first. Tell me a story while I do it." "Marcy-Ann'll whoop the tar offen your boy Charles." The old man spoke low but that's the way the boy heard it. The other old man spat and sipped his beer, and the first old man flicked the blade of his knife against a chubby spindle of soft pine, sending the curl of wood somersaulting through the air. It landed on the bare earth a few feet from the boy's tattered sneakers. The boy knew Marcy-Ann. He was afraid of her, and he was sure she could whoop the tar off of somebody. But why would they have tar on them? Tar, that's the stuff they put on roads, made out of bugs all squeezed to juice in a big black bucket. And who was this old man's boy, Charles? Looking over the picnic grounds, the boy didn't spot any kids named Charles. He saw Marcy-Ann. She was eleven, two and a half years older than the boy. Her daddy had died in the war. Buried at sea, back when Marcy was a newborn, and the boy wasn't anything. It didn't quite make sense not to be anything. Marcy said it was like clouds after the rain. And her daddy was up in heaven. Only his body was at the bottom of the sea, like Grampa said frogs were in winter, only with no hope of ever coming up again. The clouds sat up there, big snow-white ones floating slow. The boy's daddy had died, too, and his mother, too, but not in a war, and Grampa hadn't said anything about heaven. The boy decided Charles might not be a kid at all. Maybe he was a grown-up if his dad was that old man. The boy wondered if Charles might be the new guy, the one who'd hit the softball so far, all the way to the weedy place at the far end of the meadow. Marcy-Ann's mother and the other women had clapped, and one of the older boys, thin as a reed and dark as a cattail, yelled "Dang-nabbit, that's the third and last time--now you all go find it." Right away Marcy and another girl a few years younger, maybe the boy's own age, rushed across the field towards the weedy place. "Watch out for snakes," Marcy's mother had called, but the girls just kept running, their short skirts fluttering in the sun like butterflies. The boy had been hoping he'd have a chance at bat, but with the ball gone, the game had petered out, and so he'd wandered over to the picnic table where these two old men were whittling and spitting and drinking beer from tall brown bottles. "What'cha makin, Mister Brock?" the boy dared ask after watching for a while. "Why this here is a lioness, a lioness lying stretched out and licking her little cub." "Lioness, hah!" exclaimed the other man, the one whose boy might be Charlie. "Looks more like a tent peg to me. Either that or a stiff pecker." Mr. Brock held up the stick. "Right here's going to be the ears," he said. "Everything starts with the ears. Feel these little points? See how they perk up just a little?" The man pushed the pad of his thumb firmly across the tiny bump atop the freshly cut wood. The boy touched the smooth surface. It was slightly warm. He moved his fingertip over the nub. It tickled a bit, made him shiver. "Everything starts with the ears," Mr. Brock repeated. "Still looks like a stiff pecker to me," the other man said. "Now you hush, Joe," Mr. Brock said. "You wouldn't know a stiff pecker if'n it bit you on the nose." The other man laughed and took a sip of his beer, and the two men got up. Mr. Brock stuffed the lioness-stick in his side pocket and they walked over to the horseshoes. The boy wanted to follow, but he'd been warned about getting too close to horseshoes. "What'cha doing?" Marcy-Ann asked the boy. She'd surprised him and he jerked a little. She had the softball in both hands. It was big. Bigger than the head of a broken doll. "Nothing much," he said. "I'd been watchin Mister Brock makin a lion." "What do you mean 'makin a lion'?" the girl who was with Marcy asked. She was definitely younger than Marcy, almost a head shorter, and the boy thought she had pretty eyes, big and brown and interested in him, or at least in the lion. "Want to play catch?" Marcy interrupted. No sooner were the words out of her mouth than the ball was flying at him-- Marcy had pushed it two-handed from two feet away. He wasn't ready for it, and it bopped him hard on the nose, bounced off, rolled under the picnic table, and came to rest in a puddle of something. "He's too baby," Marcy-Ann said to her friend. "Watch, I bet he's going to bawl." The other girl was crawling under the table after the softball. Her little butt was in the air and the boy could see her underwear. He looked away, trying hard not to tear. "Shame on you!" Marcy-Ann whispered. "It's not polite to look when that happens." "I know," he said. The first droplet of blood landed on his canvas shoe. "Then why'd you look?" The boy tilted his head back. White clouds flowed thick and slow. "If she didn't want anyone to see her undiewear, then she shouldn't have worn any." "That's the dumbest thing I ever heard," Marcy scoffed. "And only babies say undiewear. It's underwear. UNDER. Or panties." The blood was coming faster. It felt like floating. "The ball's all wet," the other girl said, climbing out from under the table. "Root beer or something .... It smells like I don't know... like sea." She held the ball in front of the boy's nose. "Ooh, you're bleeding!" "He was lookin at your underpants," Marcy-Ann said. "When you crawled under." "I wasn't," the boy said. "I was just looking at the ball." "You'd better go put a cold rag on your nose," Marcy-Ann said. "Otherwise you'll bleed to death in six minutes. It happens all the time." "Does it hurt?" the other girl asked. She put her finger gently under the boy's nostril. "Oh, yuck," said Marcy-Ann. "I'm going to get help. You comin, Laura?" The boy felt Laura's eyes watching the blood. But then they moved, they moved into his own. "I didn't mean to look at your... at your underwear," the boy said. "That's okay," Laura answered. Then she did a strange thing. She tasted her finger, tasted the finger with his blood on it. And then she said something equally strange. "It's good," she said. "Now we're even. Wait here." She turned and ran off. The boy hurried into the woods, and there as the bleeding slowed, the tears began to come. The boy listened to the clank and clink of horseshoes, iron ringing against iron, or sometimes the chuff of a missed toss landing on nothing but soft earth. He heard the men's shouts as he sat in the shade of a large tree, huddled into the shadow, wiping his eyes, wondering what he'd been crying about. A small ant was crawling up a stem of grass. The boy's nose felt thick, choked with dried blood. He knew if he picked it out, the blood would come again. That was knowledge. Ants never got bloody noses. By now, the boy figured, Marcy and her mom and Laura would have given up looking for him. Maybe they never looked at all. Maybe they'd left him high and dry. High and dry, he repeated to himself as he looked up along the tree trunk, all the way up through the quiet leaves to the very top and beyond. He thought: if only I'd caught Marcy's throw... but then what would I do? Toss it back to her? Throw it so hard it'd boink her nose and make her bleed? Then everybody'd be looking for him, looking to give him a good hard whooping. Marcy'd probably say, "He's just a baby--he didn't know any better," but she'd smile as he got spanked. And Marcy's friend, Laura... what would she think, seeing Grampa pull down his shorts and underwear and paddle him on his bare bottom right in front of everyone? The boy picked the grass that the ant, gone now, had been climbing, and idly he touched it to his nose. As he touched himself he thought about Laura, about the way her finger felt there, and about her eyes as she looked into his. Without thinking about it, he tasted the sprig of grass. Slightly sweet, mostly bitter. How could cows and ants stand to eat this stuff? A few minutes later the boy got up and walked slowly back to the picnic grounds. He might get spanked for running away; he might get spanked for getting a bloody nose, or for splotching blood on his shirt and shoe, or he might not get spanked at all. You never know about these things. At the edge of the picnic ground, centered in a slab of cement stood an old iron pump with a long curved handle. Earlier the boy had been warned not to touch it because it could be dangerous, although exactly what danger there might be was not explained. Some women and kids and a few old men were sitting on the grass in the sun, and the man, the one who'd hit the softball so far, was working the handle, pushing it hard and letting it ease back and pushing it again. The big muscles in his arm bulged and rippled and someone yelled "maybe it ain't primed" and the man just grinned and pumped down again, and then again, each time drawing a squeally creak from the mysterious core of the iron mechanism. Suddenly a slim sound gurgled from somewhere deep inside, a throaty, juicy, croaky sort of sound, and someone said, "Ah, it's comin, I can hear it," and then a trickle of wet seeped out the pipe end, just a drip, and a sputter of air, and then suddenly, magically, a full deep gush of liquid, red as dried blood, splattering against the cement, splattering the shoes and socks of Marcy-Ann and Laura, who were watching and giggling, and they jumped back squealing, and the man smiled big as he continued to work the pump, leaning into it, an easy rhythm, and the water, fresher now, throbs and bolts of it, lifted upon itself and fell back and flowed forward, shooting out now in a nearly steady stream. The man finally stopped pumping and stood there, along with everyone else, watching the water come. Then the man stepped around to the spigot, cupped his hands as he bent forward, gathered the sweet water into his palms, and brought it up to his face. "Ah," he said, "Good, it's good." And then he returned to the pump handle, pumped some more, and the pair of girls timidly stepped forward. They bent from the waist to take turns tasting the water with their tongues. "Leave some for the rest of us," one of the old men called out. "It's so cold," Laura answered. "Come and try it. Come on, Mommy. It's good." One of the women got up off the grass where she'd been sitting Indian style, strode to the pump, cupped her hands, and took a sip of water. "Not like that," her daughter said. "Right from the hole place." The woman leaned in, but the man hadn't pumped while this was going on and the flow had abated to a trickle. Laura's mother had to get really close, but just then the man began pumping again, trying to bring the water up, and it surged against her nose and her eyes, caught her in the face flush and full. She lurched back as if slapped. "Oh," she said. "I'm sorry," the man said. He rushed to her. He held his hands out, helplessly. "You did that on purpose John Paul," she said, and then, almost as if unaware of her actions, she took his hands and brought them to her lips. Maybe she meant to use his fingers as a towel, to wipe the droplets of icy water from her face, but instead she put her lips against his knuckle. Realizing it was a kiss, she backed away. Everyone was watching, and no one said anything. The man and woman turned bright red. The water dribbled to a stop. "Let's have some of that watermelon," Mr. Brock said, after a long moment. The pump was abandoned. But a while later, long enough for the afternoon sun to have evaporated much of the water from the cement block, the boy stepped up to the pump handle. He had to reach up to get a good grip on the iron. He tried to pull it down. It wouldn't budge. He pulled harder, hard enough to lift his shirt out of his pants, to expose his belly button. He pulled as hard as he could. He pulled and pulled. And finally the pump handle moved. Only an inch, but it moved. It moved! I stopped for a while, listening to the gentle slippery sounds of Laura's sucking. She knew how to make it last almost forever. "That was a good story," she said. "Would you like me to finish it... your pump song?" "Maybe we could finish it together," I suggested. Laura smiled and stepped quietly off the glider and in an instant was out of her shorts. Her panties were simple and white and I could see the dark place in front. "Do you like my undiewear?" Laura asked, a grin to her voice. "Very much," I said, moving my hand on the outer front, the dark place, and then down, all the way to the damp. I worked the elusive bump gently through the cloth. "Listen," I said. We listened to the shy squeak of wet skin. A moment later Laura stepped back, freed herself, and then hurried forward into my arms. The swing swung wildly for a crazy moment, chains pulling at the ceiling, and then we settled down as Laura arranged herself over me. She lowered herself slowly, hissing at the succulent give of sweet friction. "Sssh," she said. "Let me... let me hunt you. Let me... catch your cock with my ...." Her eyes were inches from mine. Her lips, inches from mine. I was paralyzed. She smelled of something... of sweat, of sea, of sweetness just out of reach. The swing swayed, but we stayed steady. "Sweet," she said, "Your tip is so sweet. But I won't stop until I have your whole head. All of it. In me. All of you. In me." She touched my lower lip with her tongue. Just the tip. A tease. "A little more," she said. "A little more. The long lovely length of it. Of you. Of it. My sweet long lovely man-cock, all big and hard and fuck-spitty, right to the base of those tawny snug, seed-heavy pods." Next thing I knew she was all the way down. I could feel her little bottom lightly on my upper legs. She rested there a moment, her small supple weight somehow slightly out of reach, suspended in the grip of her grace. "Gonna fuck him, now," she said. "Gonna fuck him sweet and slow and full." She moved up and down on me. Slowly. Steadily. I had my feet flat on the porch to keep the swing firm. After a minute or two I realized something: she was matching the rhythms of the bedsprings upstairs, that sly insistent song which had sprung up as if out of nowhere. Up and down she went, unhurried as the clouds drifting across the moon, but synchronizing our fuck to Tom and Annie's upstairs. The last of the fireflies turned softly on and off, a show of slow serene progress. She stopped talking. She just fucked. Fucked to the squeak of the bed upstairs. It grew more insistent. She matched it. She seemed to sense each small shift of tempo, each extra notch of need. My hands stroked steady circles upon Laura's back. The firm gentleness of her fucking, the sweet slippy up and down of it, gave way eventually to feast, fast, full and furious, drawing me towards the inevitable oblivion. I was on the edge when she stopped. "Is this incest?" she asked, an impish smile playing across her face. "No," I whispered, "No. It's love." The glider swung silently. Laura pushed deep. Not moving anymore, just opening, opening deep and full. We heard Annie cry out, and then the upstairs sounds stopped. Just clouds scraping the night sky. I could feel Laura's hot snug hold-- the love of it. Abruptly Laura kissed me. She bit my nose, a bite soft but gruff, not at all in play, more another way of breathing: she sucked, sucked me with all the lusciousness of her mouth and of her cunt, sucked as if to catch my breath in both places, the breath of my cock, my core, my being. I was so close. She was so close. We were in each other. Not parents or grandparents. Not children. Not people. Only us. Delicious us. Us us us. And then she released me. Expulsing the sweetest sigh, she threw back her head giving me her throat. Her coming was like strong hic-cups, sudden and sharp. Later, we padded through the dark kitchen. "Want some water?" I asked. "Mm," she said. I turned the tap, filled the plain glass half full, handed it to her. She looked out at the dark lawn as she drank. "It's good," she said. She drank some more, holding the glass in both hands, just like a little girl. ============== Pump Song by Mat Twassel ********************************************************** *********************************************************** Mat's Erotic Calendar at http://calendar.atEros.com -- 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> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+