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Message-ID: <38027asstr$1030507805@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Meme Mispelt <meem17@mwmw.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} <*> WWJD? {Meem17} (MF rom oral blasphemous) 
Date: Wed, 28 Aug 2002 00:10:05 -0400
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DISCLAIMER:
This is a work of adult fiction, and is not intended for minors, any 
persons likely to be offended by explicit erotic content, or for 
distribution in any area where possession may violate laws or community 
standards.  
The author retains copyright in this work; you are hereby granted license 
to download, print and/or archive this work for personal use only. 
License is not granted to archive, or publish this work by any means in 
any publicly available archive, or physical form, without the author's 
prior consent.  Please just ask first, okay?
The author loves feedback, criticism and even hate mail:
meem17 at mwmw dot com


Story codes: MF rom oral blasphemous

WWJD?
by Meme Misspelt

WWJD?

Maybe I don't want to examine the reasons too closely, but I really do
like it when you wear that outfit -- the tight white blouse, the plaid
skirt, the knee-socks, your hair up in saucy pigtails.

Or maybe I do want to examine the reasons -- it's not like I actually wish
you were a teenager, for God's sake.  But I do find something undeniably
provoking about the notion of corrupting innocence.  To get all scientific
and clinical for a minute, I read a book once that claimed that the
cultural fetish for nubile young virgins is genetically based: the best
odds for a male to propagate his genetic material are with a female who
has never reproduced.  Maybe; I don't really buy it, but whatever the
reason, it's a kick to think about leading sweet young flesh into
temptation. I like to think about all the words for it: despoiling,
astray, fallen, corruption.  They make my cock twitch in my pants.  

But then, those words do a little something for you, too, don't
they?  After all, love, you're the one wearing the outfit.  Which is
ultimately what makes it all work so well: you may keep your legs pressed
tight together, but when my finger finally insinuates your defenses, I
know how wet I'll find you.  I don't need to worry, like I would with a
real schoolgirl, that my tastes might prove a bit too, mmm,
"sophisticated" for you -- you're just about exactly as much of a
libertine as I am.  Thank God.

So, anyway.  The Bad Catholic Schoolgirl bit has had me throbbing most of
the night.  This evening, uncharacteristically, you've overdone your
makeup a bit, emphasizing the promise of the "bad."  It would be too much
to say that you're tarted up; you've stopped well short of
"slutty." There's still a fundamental innocence about it, as if it's in
imitation of a music video or something, but the eyeliner is just a little
too heavy, and your lipstick is just shy of the blatant smear.  You play
the role to the hilt in the cab on the way home from the club; when I put
my hand on your knee, you slap it away playfully with a perfect coquette
giggle, but in the strobing slats of streetlight, the glint of your eyes
is purely wicked.

We dispatch the cabby.  You hesitate before the lobby entrance.

"Are you going to walk me to my door?" you ask, wide-eyed, with a nervous
catch in your voice.

I slip through the doorway behind you, grab your shoulders, and let my
weight press you against the wall.  I slump just a little bit, so my cock
can press hard between the cheeks of your ass. We're in full view of the
street; you could scream, or struggle.  If you wanted to.

"No," I whisper into your ear.  "You're going to invite me in for a night
cap."

You shiver deliciously.  "I don't think that's such a good idea," you
gasp.

I slide one hand down your front.  Your nipple is swollen hard even
through your bra and blouse.  I pinch it, and twist, just a little
bit.  "I didn't ask you," I say.  "I told you."

You can't quite stifle your moan.  You try to turn it into a protest, but
it would convince no one.  I twist harder.  "Invite me in."

"Please, sir," you manage.  "Won't you come in for a little drink?"

"That's better," I growl, releasing you.  I let you walk up the stairs a
few steps ahead of me, so I can enjoy the view.  I love the muscular bulge
of your calves.

You start to slip out of character just a bit -- you're eager to open the
door, but you certainly don't take the chance I give you to shut it on
me. That's an important part of the game for me -- the seductee can deny
it, but she has to want to be seduced.  

Once we're inside your apartment, you head for the kitchen, to make the
drink you offered me, but I've already had enough to drink; I want
something else from you.  You open the refrigerator and bend over,
probably a bit more than is really necessary to see what's inside.  I
catch your wrists and hold them behind your back with one hand.  I run the
other hand up the inside of your thigh, pushing your skirt up just a bit.

You gasp.  I grin.  I've never known anyone with skin as incredibly
sensitive as yours; it's an endless delight.  I reach my free hand around,
fumbling with the buttons on your blouse.  You squirm just a little bit,
making it just a little more difficult than it needs to be.  "Oh no," you
squeak.  "You shouldn't!"  I have to let go of your wrists to pull the
blouse off, of course.  You turn around, bumping the fridge door shut, and
cross your arms to try to cover your breasts, but it is still obvious that
your bra is black and lacy.

"That doesn't look like something a good girl would wear," I say. I pull
your arms down to your side.

"I try to be good," you sigh, and sorry, darling, no one is convinced this
time, either.

I grab the hem of your skirt and tug it down in one swift motion. 

Then I have to stop for a bit, because it's hard to play the vile rake
when I'm cracking up.  You're laughing pretty hard too, all of a sudden,
and I'm the brunt of the joke.  When I was much younger someone quipped
that "sex is the most fun you can have without laughing," and I feel bad
for whoever that was -- there's always something just a little absurd
about sex, and it doesn't always hurt to realize it.

So: you're wearing white cotton panties, which isn't surprising.  There
are words on them, which is.  They say:

REMEMBER
you pray
with that
mouth!

"Where on God's green earth did you find those?" I ask when I can breathe
again.

"I found them on some web site," you say.*

"Jesus, that's hilarious."  

Impulsively, I drop to my knees, bringing my hands together
mockingly.  You have stepped out of your skirt while I was laughing, and
it's wound up bunched under my knees, making them much more comfortable
than the tile floor would usually be.  

"That's right," you say, in a completely different tone, stern and a
little chilly.  "Worship me."

It's not like I need to count up reasons I love you, but if I did, this
would be one of them: how you slip easily from a submissive role to a
dominating one.  I might think you're just a little more convincing as a
sub; maybe that's because I'm a little afraid of enjoying being dominated
too much, and maybe not.  Mostly I dig the complexity and richness of the
dance. And its surprises.  I like surprises.

It's not as if what you just said was ambiguous, but you clarify it
anyway, mostly, I suspect, because you know how much I like to hear you
talk dirty.

"Worship my cunt," you growl.

A lot of guys, when they are in locker-room bragging mode about what
cocksmen they are, say that they find eating pussy distasteful --
something to be avoided, or a favor to be bestowed reluctantly.  I've
never figured out if that's all macho posing or if I should really be
sorry for those guys.  I've certainly never thought of it as something
that should be rushed through, and although you're calling the shots just
now, you're leaving the details up to me.  Worship?  Baby, I do.  I mean,
I will.

I flick my tongue gently against the backs of your knees. I make little
lines of nibbles up the back of your thigh.  I write in swirly cursive
with a fingernail tip on your leg and you shudder.  I love the way you
whimper "lick me..."

When I'm sure you're good and ready, I gently pull those silly panties
down your hips.  I tease just a little more: a long slow lap up and down
the very top of each thigh before I touch my tongue to your cunt.  I lick
the length of your lips before giving your clit its first little flick of
the day.  You moan.

I slip one finger inside the moist sweetness of you and lick delicate
small circles around your clit.  I pump my finger gently at first, then
harder.  "I want another finger," you say.

I oblige.  I lick harder.  I feel your breathing start to change.  "Oh,
God," you say, after a minute or three, half laughing, "I can't keep
standing up."  I pull away for a moment and you stumble a bit, with the
"REMEMBER" panties binding your ankles, lying down awkwardly on the living
room carpet.  I pull the offending panty over your shoes.  You raise your
knees and spread your legs wide; you look so lovely and so wanton.

"Lick me," you say.  "Eat my pussy and fuck me with your fingers."  Your
wish is my command, lover, and my wish too.  I lap you eagerly, devouring
your bountiful tangy juices.  I suck your clit right into my hungry
mouth.  "Oh, God, yes, suck it hard..."  When I look up, you're tugging
and twisting your nipples.  

When I'm going down on you, I can feel little tremors running through
you.  They build up, and your breathing gets ragged and fast. You clench
hard around my fingers and your clit stiffens, pulses under my loving
tongue. Then you relax a bit, and the tremors subside for a few moments
before they start to increase again. It sometimes seems to me like
breakers on the shore, with each wave a little bigger, higher than the
last. I try to match your rhythm, giving you a little respite, then
gradually increasing my onslaught. 

Even with all those little cues, the forcefulness of your climax almost
always takes me a little by surprise -- if I didn't know you better, I
might thinking you were acting for my benefit.  You scream so that I'm
afraid you're going to make yourself hoarse, and shudder violently under
me.  I press my tongue against you and twist my fingers gently, as deep
inside you as they will go, in the long wonderful seconds it takes the
orgasm to wash over and through you.

I lie there afterwards, listening to your breathing grow steadier as you
come back to yourself.  I give your clit a teasing little kiss and you
writhe under me again.  I slide my fingers out of you slowly, and you grab
my wrist and pull my slick fingers into your mouth.  I love the way you
taste, and it excites me beyond compare to know that you do, too.  None of
my other lovers would ever taste themselves; this is another special thing
I love to share with you,

A kiss now, tender and passionate.  You take the opportunity to clean your
juices from my face.  I fold my arms around you and hold you close.  My
erection still throbs almost painfully in my pants, but I'm not in any
hurry; you know a lot of tricks to make me come so hard I think I might
lose my mind, and they're all well worth waiting for.

And see: "I got you a pair of boxers,**" you say, after a while, after
you're good and ready, and sure I am, too.  "Would you like to see what
they say?"

-- Fin --

* www.jesus21.com/poppydixon/product/panties/panties.html

** artistic license, or a logical extension of the product line? you
decide.


-- Meme Misspelt
-- http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/meme_misspelt/www/

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