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From: "Sam & Shanna Deevning" <deevning@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Only in Atlandrea: 1st (= pilot) story of a series? {spqr, epns, pdf, ttf
Date: Wed,  4 Sep 2002 11:10:05 -0400
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ro-ro, LCD, pdq, vtol, e&oe, NKVD, 4wd, zpg, MBA, gnp, OGPU, sfx, html, 
imho, SOS, rpm, CBD, XPT, fob, pmt, HMO, qv, PTA, vhs, ENS, rsvp, etc . . .}

            ---------Only in Atlandrea---------

First (= pilot) episode: Interview in the Oval Room

                   By Sam & Shanna Deevning

"What does the magazine's title mean?" I asked William and Catriona, who 
were sprawling as nakedly as I was on the warm wooden benches of the tiered 
gallery in the Oval Room.

This climate-controlled space, which is less a room than it is a 
free-standing Arcadian-gazebo-inspired wooden building complete with 
ablutions annex, is in the leafy grounds of the world-famous Atlandrean 
International Secondary College of Terpsichorean, Thespian and Gymnastic 
Arts (commonly known as Aiscottaga), and has been the venue for many an 
exhibitionistic encounter---a release from the pressure of the school's 
vocational and academic curricula.

On my left thigh, near my hypersensitive thirty-three-year-old clit, lay my 
hypersensitive one-year-old audio-recorder playing its secretarial role in 
the article I was writing for _The Atlandrean Quarterly_, a tourism-oriented 
magazine that showcases our three-island nation of four and a half million 
people in the Atlantic Ocean about four hundred nautical miles 
south-southwest of the Azores.

Like the Azores, the islands that constitute Atlandrea---Mainlandia, 
Communicado and Absentia---are swept from the west and the southwest by 
stroppy winds, but unlike the temperate climate of the Azores the climate of 
Atlandrea is closer to warm-temperate and in the lee of the mountains even 
subtropical, and its substrata and the lie of its land tell geologists that 
it has suffered no significant volcanic activity for hundreds of thousands 
of years.

A month ago in this cosy theatre-in-the-round, during what the college coyly 
dubs a "retreat", I was wearing one of my Minoan-style bosom-baring 
ballgowns when I gave myself three sotto-voce unh-unh oh-gosh-oh-fuck 
orgasms while wetly witnessing, with about twenty-five quietly appreciative 
students of various ages from twelve to nineteen, the Icelandic actor 
Gunilla Gustafsdotter and her Atlandrean field-hockey-playing husband George 
Jensson displaying their shared sexual joy with the help of a 
seventeen-year-old male student of drama and a fourteen-year-old female 
student of gymnastics and dance.

The school mounts three or four such retreats per term---occasionally not in 
the Oval Room but during an expedition to the school's magnificent arcadian 
outpost in the central lake district of Mainlandia or to one of the famous 
white-quartzite beaches on the world-famous honeymoon islands Communicado 
and Absentia---each attended by a rostered batch of students and by anything 
from one to four famous guests. They're the most advanced retreats I've ever 
come across.

"All kinds of things," said sweet William in answer to my question. During 
the five months since his twelfth birthday he has been choosily exercising, 
with the permission of his parents, his legal right to initiate sexual 
intimacy with people of various ages.

Aiscottaga, which provides a full academic and recreational curriculum and a 
vocational curriculum for students in grades eight to twelve, accepts only 
those suitably talented ones who've reached their twelfth birthday and whose 
parents or guardians have expressed agreement with the college's ethos about 
the social value of fantasy-enacting shared sexual catharsis.

Atlandrea's laws about sexual behavior, a logical and troublefree extension 
of the laws of such nations as the Netherlands and Denmark, allow consensual 
sexual activity among twelve-ups provided that no participant in the 
activity is in an institutionalized position of power over a participant 
who's under eighteen years of age, and provided that participation by anyone 
under sixteen years of age has the blessing of the person's parents or 
guardians. Furthermore the laws bar sexual activity between an employee of a 
secondary educational institution and any student at the same institution 
even if the student is over eighteen. And all payments made on behalf of 
under-eighteens on account of their roles in sexually oriented productions 
(the flavor of the roles and the productions is defined remarkably precisely 
by the statutes) must be held in trust by financial or law institutions 
outside the families, but in the participants' names, till they turn 
eighteen. The parents or guardians never have a legal right to any such 
money, and big financial penalties are exacted on parents or guardians who 
are found to have accepted sub-rosa payments. Tennis parents have more 
influence over their little tykes' dedication to their activities than do 
the parents of the adolescents who are protected by Atlandrea's laws 
relating to intergenerational sexual activity.

The nation's statistics for the incidence of sexual assault and any other 
kind of criminal violence or nonconsensual exploitation are the world's 
lowest, but the world's critics of the comparative sexual freedom that 
reigns in Atlandrea are famous for saying Atlandreans are so preoccupied by 
the predictably unpredictable weather that they never think of assaulting 
anyone and that someone can be a victim of sexual contact even if they don't 
recognize that they are. Thus the debate continues around the world.

The stiff but rarely needed penalties for the sexual coercion or moral 
manipulation of minors mean that no sexual activity during Aiscottaga's 
retreats are participated in by an employee of the college or by a regularly 
visiting teacher, but any member of the staff is allowed to accept 
invitations to participate sexually in similar encounters organized by 
certain educational institutions in Atlandrea that share Aiscottaga's 
philosophies. Such interschool participation is possible only by invitation 
to particular trusted and popular staff.

Oh, yes, back to my interview assignment in the Oval Room: This 
caramel-colored Adonis, an Atlandrean student of dance and gymnastics, was 
reclining on the slatted bench below his eighteen-year-old thespian 
colleague with the back of his head resting against her pale, finely furred 
legs.

Draping itself languidly and lengthily over the edge of his bench was his 
darkly engorged but postorgasmically relaxed penis, cushioned against the 
oiled Nordic white spruce by a long and bushy sprig of parsley that Catriona 
had planted kookily in his clean, twitching bottom in front of my eyes.

"It can mean anything nice that you like," he continued through the aromatic 
droplets of Catriona's springwater-fed piss that were still evaporating from 
his lips after the demonstration of ultimate intimacy that the 
pulchritudinous pair of students had bestowed on my eyes and my nostrils and 
my ears half an hour earlier. "_Tushia_ [he pronounced it to rhyme with 
"bushier"] is all things to all people."

"Such as?" I asked.

Catriona cupped William's head in her hands and ran her fingers through his 
mop of frizzy black hair. The clean white string of a tampon dangled from 
between her red-forested and intricately sculpted labia, and its end rested 
on her bench. She's famous around Atlandrea for advertising her favorite 
brand of tampon, Jantodec, in broadcasting, in the press and in the 
worldwide web.

"Well," said the ridiculously pretty Scot, an occasional actor in arthouse 
and mainstream movies since she was three, "when the magazine showed William 
and me making love in this room we were telling each other that we were 
sharing heaven, and so we decided that to us 'Tushia' should mean 'twelve-up 
shared heaven in Atlandrea'."

"That's a lovely meaning," I said. "Was it your own invention?"

"No," she said. "Course not. "The inside front cover of every edition of the 
magazine has a whole list of possible meanings, and that's just one of 'em."

"What are your other favorite meanings?"

"I like 'twelve-up sexual happiness in Atlandrea'," said William.

"Or 'harmony'," said Catriona. 'Harmony' is such a good word, isn't it, 
Audrey? Sexual harmony. I like that word, and that phrase. We were 
incredibly harmonious when we were making love with each other in front of 
the camera. Weren't we, pet?"

Catriona leaned over her grade-eight schoolmate, tweaked his left nipple 
between thumb and forefinger, then moved her other hand to his right armpit 
and tugged his adolescent black wisps. Her heavy, sweating bosom brushed his 
forehead. He tilted his head up and kissed her edible-orange-painted thimble 
of a left nipple (she's an exquisite billboard for Atlandrea's Buddypaint 
brand of bodypaint), and she buried her lips in his topmop.

"We were obscenely harmonious," she said ebulliently. Now each of her hands 
was caressing William's sandalwood-oiled torso and armpits, and his penis 
was stirring from its torpor. "Disgustingly harmonious. Everything fitted. 
Every part of each of us found a place to belong inside or around or on a 
part of the other. William's spunk found a place in my cunt and in my mouth 
and in my armpits, and his---"

"And my water found a place between her teeth and in her belly-button, 
and---"

"And his prick and his balls found a place against my arsehole, and my---"

"And her tongue found a place _in my_ arsehole," said William, who 
illustrated that scene by using his left middle finger to palpate the 
steamy, palpitating place where the sprig of parsley was rooted in his 
fundament. I wanted to kiss him and suck him there, but I make a rule of not 
getting _quite_ so involved with my interviewees, not even when they invite 
me to.

"What a fucking wonderful arsehole it it, too," she said. "A darling hole. 
We'd each had a special half-hour session with one of the college's 
Enemarvel machines, just as we did before you came along for this interview, 
so we were clean all the way up our insides."

"Good old Enemarvel," I said. "One of Atlandrea's most famous exports."

"And after the Enemarveling our chaperons used special syringes to put 
organic edible lubricant into our bottoms, just for the fun of it while we 
were being photographed and sketched and videoed making love with ourselves 
and with each other. We ended up with strawberry-flavored LubeJube all over 
our faces."

"The spiel goes," said William, " 'An Enemarveled bottom by any other name 
would smell and taste as sweet.' "

"Yeah," said Catriona, "but even though everyone hears or reads me saying 
those words in my Enemarvel ads I don't think it's the best line the 
manufacturer could have dreamed up."

"Why not?" he asked.

"Well, it's ambiguous. By 'name' "---at that word her fingers made 
quotemarks in the air---"does it mean 'bottom'? Or does it mean 
'Enemarvel'?"

"Who cares?" he said with a shrug. "It probably means both."

"I think you're right," I said. "There's no need to be so analytical. Let 
the listener or the reader decide whether it means one thing or the other or 
both."

My eyes were now beckoned by a twitching in William's fragrant, flagrant 
anus, and with each twitch the parsley bouquet trembled.

"Gosh," I said, "you can make your bottomhole _pout_ so, can't you?"

"He has one of those arseholes that pout and smile at the same time," said 
Catriona. "Pull it in, darling. Whatever will Audrey think?"

William grinned proudly, and obeyed the instruction.

"Now make it pout again, for Audrey."

He again complied with his chum, thus opening a caldera surrounded by a 
circular ridge where for a few seconds there had been just a neat conical 
asterisk.

"Gorgeous," I said. "You must love kissing his anus, Catriona."

"And pushing my tongue right into it. Fucking it with my tongue. Buggering 
him with my tongue. William's heavenly hole."

Several times during this meeting in the Oval Room William had gazed at my 
billowingly pregnant tummy, and at the delta of malt-colored fuzz that 
ascended from my overgrown pubes up the lightly tanned mountain to my navel.

"How long to go now?" he asked.

"I've heard of editors-in-chief," said Catriona, whose final-year academic 
subjects are journalism and European literature, "but you're a 
writer-at-large."

"Three weeks," I said. "I can hardly wait. It's a bloody nuisance."

"Don't say that," said Catriona. "At least it stops you having to put up 
with _this_ bloody nuisance. I feel like a wounded puppet on a string." She 
spread her legs and twanged her intimate cotton lanyard.

"There is _that_ advantage, I suppose," I said. "But I shouldn't think your 
friends mind."

"No fear," said William. "What kind of clot is afraid of a bit of already 
clotted blood? We're more likely to catch a germ from the average _mouth_ 
than we are from the average _cunt_."

"Out of the mouth of very babes and sucklings," I said. "Well said, 
William."

"Can I listen to _your_ babe?" he asked.

"Go ahead, my sweet. Here, I'll lie down on that king-size plastic 
airmattress on the turntable stage. Or would you like to lie down, and I'll 
hang my tummy over you?"

"Let's do it both ways," said Catriona. "William, I can easily hold you in 
the air and move you around carefully so your ears can listen all over 
Audrey's tummy."

"Lovely," I said. "And you can both listen."

"Can I _piss_ on your tummy as well?" he asked.

"Um. You'd better not. I'd like it very much, but it'd sort of break the 
rule that I've set for myself while I'm interviewing people your age."

"Okay. I don't mind. I'll save it up a while longer."

"After you've both listened to my baby, William, why don't you have a big 
squishy whoosh on Catriona? I'll love watching you empty your bladder."

"Yeah, I'll do that."

"Great!" said Catriona. "All over my face and into my mouth! Then I'll 
squirt it back at you, and Audrey can put it into the article thingy she's 
writing for her magazine."

"Don't put my actual _water_ into the article, though," he said. "The pages 
will get all soggy."

Laughter all round.

"And while I enjoy the feel of your ears on my tummy you can both watch me 
rubbing my milk all over my breasts. I adore doing that. And later you can 
watch me masturbate while I rub my milk and my cuntjuice and my piss all 
over myself."

"And get your orgasms on the tape," said William. "Make them fucking noisy, 
please."

"I wish your husband was here," said Catriona. "I loved seeing Irma Wedman 
sucking and drinking him next to the lake in that movie, and seeing him 
dripping off her nipples when the pair of them were silhouetted against the 
sunset. Oh, fuck, those nipples looked so enormous on her tiny, perky tits. 
Anyway, Audrey, I would love to see _you_ sucking and drinking Oscar here."

"You will, Catriona. You will. One of these days---after I've got rid of 
this beautiful burden. But not necessarily here. I know that _Oscar_ wants 
to guzzle _you_. And _you_, William, so long as it's okay with your parents. 
I'll be happy to watch, while I fiddle with my dribbly nips and my clit and 
my bum and wherever."

"Be our guest," said William. "Will you wear one of your Minoan dresses? One 
that sort of lifts your breasts---" he cupped his hands under his 
nipples---"and makes them jut out like torpedoes?"

"Mmm. Those dresses are nice. I have three Minoan-style ones that bare me 
and lift me, as if I'm offering myself---my teats---to be sucked by 
everyone. I sometimes wear that sort of thing to the right kind of party or 
dance. But I wonder whether, instead, you'd like me to wear one of my 
dresses whose bodices cover my breasts but have embroidered holes for my 
nips to poke through."

"Wear one like that!" said Catriona. "Please! And will you wear Buddypaint 
on your poking-out nips?" She lifted her own tumid left nipple to her mouth 
for a suck of her orange-flavored Buddypaint.

"Your wish is my command. And the flouncy dress that I have in mind is 
ankle-length at the front but is cut out squarely at the back so that it 
only just covers my bottom. I sometimes wear it at social occasions."

"Wear that one!" said William, fingering his nipples and squirming so much 
on his bench that his sprig of parsley was doing semaphore. "Without 
knickers!"

"But if I wear knickers to begin with then I can always take them off, can't 
I?"

"Course you can," said Catriona. "Don't take any notice of William. Wear 
whatever you like. We'll enjoy you in _anything_, even if it's a Father 
Christmas suit. It's _you_ we want. Any garment you happen to be wearing or 
not wearing is a bonus."

"I'll wear one of my snap-crotch pairs of knickers. They're my favorite when 
I'm exhibiting myself. Anyway, I'm ready for your ears now. Let's move to 
the airmattress."

--------------------------------------
(C) Sam & Shanna Deevning, 2002.
--------------------------------------

If more than a couple of people tell us via a.s.s.d or e-mail that we're on 
the right track (such feedback will compensate us for the transpondal 
arguments we've had with each other about vocabulary, spelling and 
punctuation) then we'll post some further vignettes of life in Atlandrea.

We thank S from T, and M from I, for unwittingly giving one of us a few 
years ago the idea for a country like Atlandrea. We hope they're still 
enjoying themselves.




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