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Subject: {ASSM} Only in Atlandrea, ep01 (revised)
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<1st attachment, "Atlandrea, ep01, revised" begin>
{ASSM} Only in Atlandrea, ep01 (revised). {Codes for the intended
series: mfMF(various numbers & combinations) bi cons exhib preg
lac ws enem toys veg}
Preface to this revised first episode:
We thank Jeff Zephyr (excellent discussion, Jeff), cmsix, Denny
Wheeler, Shadow Wolf and some e-mailers for their useful and/or
entertaining responses to our appeal for help with storycodes
(see the thread <{ASSD} Storycodes for "Only in Atlandrea":
suggestions, please>, which we started on 10 September in
relation to our posting of a week earlier headed <{ASSM} Only in
Atlandrea: 1st (pilot) story of a series?>).
Remembering the current a.s.s.d thread that mentions the seminal
importance of _research_ in the writing of fiction (because
research extends our _knowledge_ and so supports the adage that
it's generally a good policy for us to write about what we _know_
even if parts of a story are aimed at being impossible fantasy),
we must admit that we've corrected the pilot edition's
representation of a certain element of Atlandrean law by boning
up on the country in an encyclopedia (we found nothing in the
internet), because we realized that we should get the facts right
lest a walking encyclopedia of a reader feel compelled to correct
us. QED (no, that's not a storycode).
We now know that Atlandrea's age of consent, with some
qualifications and exceptions that we needn't go into now, is
thirteen rather than twelve.
And---whoopee!---it so happens that the correction of that
factual error will allow the _Only in Atlandrea_ series to
embrace a.s.s.m's official storycodes {m} and {f}, even though
cmsix's intelligent piece on 2 October headed "{ASSD} Anyone else
hate these", about clunky spoilers by the author in the first few
words of the body of a story, might just as well have been
talking about storycodes (that fact was recognized in Bramble's
prompt and laconically wise reply to cmsix).
We've made the correction despite the major shortcoming of the
minuscule {m} and {f}: the tendency of a large minority of
authors to burgle all meaning out of them by using them with
impunity as synonyms for the majuscule {M} and {F}.
We never wanted the Atlandrea stories to enter {b} or {g}
territory, because we always intended them to depict only those
people who were sexually, intellectually, morally and emotionally
competent and emancipated and who'd been taught how to recognize
when it was safe to take the initiative in lovemaking and in
exhibitionism and in discussion of their sexuality. So it's just
as well that we eventually discovered the truth about Atlandrea's
age-of-consent law.
Seriously, though, the stories will be pure fiction for the sake
of the ordinary law-abiding man's or woman's right to have a
therapeutic escape to an idealist's fantasyland, and so no
reading between the lines should detect a real-world
sociopolitical or law-related agenda. The stories are "what-if in
a perfect land" rather than "what-should-be in the imperfect
lands we're lumbered with".
And the stories will chronicle no sexual activity of people
called "young girls" or "young boys": no character in the stories
will be under thirteen, which as girls and boys go is well past
middle age and which in Atlandrea is the age of consent provided
that the adolescent and the parents or guardians agree that the
relationship in question involves no power-gradient, no coercion,
no emotional manipulation, and no behavior that's intrinsically
unsafe---such as rockclimbing without ropes, or bicycling (or
even heterocycling) without a skid-lid.
Please compare Atlandrea with any country in the _real_ world
(but Atlandrea _is_ real---our encyclopedia _says_ so!), where
there are oppressive and sometimes criminally abusive
power-slopes in relations between schoolteachers and their
students, between clerics (including female ones) and their
juvenile flock, between sports (or unsporting) coaches and their
juvenile charges . . .
And if an Atlandrea episode labels someone as a "girl" or as a
"boy" then the character really _is_ a girl or a boy, in other
words below eighteen---except that the few students at the
Atlandrean International Secondary College of Terpsichorean,
Thespian and Gymnastic Arts who've said goodbye to their
eighteenth birthday are called girls and boys in the context of
the college, because that's the convention at the college.
The episode below is the only sheaf of our Atlandrea jottings
that we've knocked into shape enough for the eyes of the readers.
If we feel moved to do some more knocking then other sheaves will
follow---herventuallee, as Manuel from Barcelona said. In the
meantime . . .
"Atlandrea?" we hear you cry. Ah, all right---you were away from
school on the days your classmates were taught about it.
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
----------Only in Atlandrea----------
Episode 01 (revised): Encounter 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 a
splendid amphitheatre in an Arcadian-gazebo-inspired wooden
building complete with a rambling ablutions-and-sauna annex, is
surrounded by liquidambar trees in the grounds of the Atlandrean
International Secondary College of Terpsichorean, Thespian and
Gymnastic Arts, and has been the venue for many an
exhibitionistic encounter---a release from the pressure of the
college's vocational and academic curricula.
On my left thigh, near my hypersensitive thirty-three-year-old
clitoris, lay my hypersensitive one-year-old audio-recorder
discreetly playing its secretarial role in the article I was
writing for the winter edition of _The Atlandrean Quarterly_, a
tourism-oriented magazine (not the one I asked about in my first
paragraph) that showcases our idyllic island nation of four and a
half million people in the Atlantic Ocean about seven hundred
kilometres south-southwest of the Azores. A copy of the magazine,
cheap at twice the price, can be bought over the counter for
three Atlandrean ducats (the ducat's value nowadays hovers around
1.9 euros, 1.2 pounds sterling and 1.8 US dollars---the
enterprising Atlandreans, who sell their wares and their
expertise all over the world, have neither the desire nor the
need to join the European Union).
Like the Azores, the three islands that constitute Atlandrea
(pronounced "atLANdrea" by English-speakers) 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 seersucker gowns 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 thirteen to nineteen, the Icelandic actor
Gunilla Gustafsdotter and her devilishly handsome Atlandrean
hockey-player husband George Jensson displaying their shared
sexual joy with the help of an eighteen-year-old male student of
drama and a fourteen-year-old female student of gymnastics and
dance. I was one of three in-loco-parentis adults the college had
appointed, in accordance with Atlandrean law, to sit in the Oval
Room's gallery during that particular retreat and keep a watchful
ear and a listening eye on the proceedings.
As a dramatic, romantic and comedic icon of stage and screen
Gustafsdotter, known affectionately around the world as Gussy
(the "u" is pronounced as in---ah---"bush"), is one of the
world's few top-billing mainstream actors who have deleted the
divides among high culture, popular culture and high erotica,
thus helping to knock the bottom out of artless sidestream porn.
The moviegoers, video-hirers and video-buyers around the world
have been subtly and overtly pressing the porn machine to up its
production standards, but mainstream continues to learn more from
porn (in the way of so-called explicitness) than porn has ever
learned from mainstream (in the way of plot, suspension of
disbelief, ability to act, technical values, and so on).
The number of _female orgasms_ in the gallery during the
presentation by the focus guests (the focus guests are those
who've been invited to exhibit themselves erotically in deeds and
in words) was much higher than the number of _females_, but a
convention of the retreats is that each _male_ spectator delays
his orgasm till the focus guests have finished their sensual
show. Then follows a soft-pedaled moaning and groaning and
gasping among the male spectators, and their viscously jetting
white relief is augmented by those female spectators who are
still coming quietly.
The college mounts two or three such soul-baring and hole-baring
gatherings per term---occasionally not in the Oval Room but
during an escape to Chamis (pronounced "charms") Castle, the
college's stately outpost in Mainlandia's central lake district.
Or sometimes a group of clean-mind-in-clean-body truth-seekers
journeys in a pair of all-mod-cons four-wheel-drive motorized
caravans to one of the squeakily pristine quartzite beaches of
Atlandrea's internationally renowned honeymoon islands
Communicado and Absentia. They're the most advanced retreats I've
ever come across.
Each retreat, whether at the college or not, is witnessed by a
rostered batch of students (known as the gallery) and by anything
from one to four beguiling focus guests (usually including at
least one student) of various ages, walks of life and degrees of
fame. Each student spectator wears just an anonymous-looking
untailored flowing white cheesecloth gown with a gently
elastic-gathered neck, except that each female student is free to
choose whether to wear knickers or not. The purpose of the gown
is to allow its wearer full access by hand to his or her
erogenous zones without stealing the limelight from the focus
guests and without distracting the focus guests from each other
too much.
****************
"All kinds of things," said the delectable William in answer to
my question. During the five months since his thirteenth birthday
he has been choosily exercising, with the permission of his
parents, his legal right to initiate sexual intimacy with people
of various ages.
The Atlandrean International Secondary College of Terpsichorean,
Thespian and Gymnastic Arts, commonly known as Aiscottaga,
provides full academic, vocational and recreational curricula for
students in grades eight to twelve. It accepts only those
suitably talented ones who've reached their thirteenth birthday
and whose parents or guardians have expressed agreement with the
college's ethos about the social value of 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 sexual activity among thirteen-ups of any age
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 forbid sexual
activity between an employee or proprietor 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 photographic, videographic, cinematographic or
othergraphic productions that are classed as "erotica" (the
flavor of the roles and the productions is defined remarkably
precisely by the statutes) must be held in trust by accredited
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 such nest eggs, and big
financial penalties are exacted on parents or guardians who are
found to have accepted or agreed to 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 the exhibition of
sexual activity or sexual words or sexual thoughts.
The nation's statistics for the incidence of sexual assault and
any other kind of criminal violence or nonconsensual
exploitation, and for the incidence of any kind of sexually
transmitted disease, are the world's lowest, but the world's
critics of the comparative freedom of sexual expression and
sexual behavior that reigns in Atlandrea are famous for saying
that in Atlandrea someone can be a _victim_ of contact or
thoughts or attention to do with their genitalia or their other
sexual paraphernalia, inter alia, even if they don't _recognize_
that they are. And some brighter but nevertheless misinformed
critics denounce the laws as evil but cutely add that Atlandreans
are so preoccupied by the predictably unpredictable weather that
they never think of sexually abusing anyone, let alone minors.
Thus the debate continues around the world.
The fact remains that Atlandrea is the world's safest place for
children of any age and for females of any age. Here, as opposed
to almost any other country in the world, a girl or a woman can
walk along any street at any time of the night or day and not be
verbally or physically accosted or importuned. Here females are
allowed to own their nights and their daylight hours as much as
males are allowed to own theirs.
The stiff but rarely needed penalties for the sexual coercion or
vicious manipulation of minors mean that no sexual activity
during Aiscottaga's retreats is participated in or invigilated or
even witnessed by an employee of the college, or by anyone who's
in the habit of visiting the school for the purpose of teaching;
but any member of the staff is allowed to accept invitations from
students of certain other secondary and tertiary academies in
Atlandrea that share Aiscottaga's philosophies to participate in,
invigilate or merely witness similar expositions organized by
those academies. Such cross-fertilization of emotional and sexual
catharsis is possible only by invitation to particular trusted,
relaxed and unspooky staff, which usually means _any_ member of
staff, because the awkward or spooky ones don't survive at any of
these academies for more than a trial few weeks---they soon learn
that their place is in one of the more straitlaced educational
environments.
****************
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
seventeen-year-old thespian colleague with the back of his head
resting against her palely freckled and finely furred thighs.
Beaming out across the top of his head from the northern
outskirts of her pubic Amazonia was the magenta and dark-green
temporary-tattooed message "Tattoo your tum for _Tushia_".
Catriona had told me that many other people who'd appeared in the
magazine had displayed similar messages on other regions of their
proudly bared skin for the eyes of the world.
Laying 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 his suckfuckmate and mentor had
kookily planted in his clean, smiling 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 moist, frizzy, black hair. The clean white string of
a tampon dangled from between her red-forested and intricately
sculpted variegated-fuchsia-colored labia. She's a household name
in several countries for advertising her favorite brand of
tampon, Jantodec, in broadcasting, in glossy magazines and in the
internet.
"Well," said the almost impossibly 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 'thirteen-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 'thirteen-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." She tilted her head down towards William. "You and I
were incredibly harmonious when we were making love with each
other in front of the camera. Weren't we, pet? Doesn't 'harmony'
just sum up you and me?"
She leaned over her grade-eight partner in prime, tweaked his
left nipple between right thumb and forefinger, then moved her
other hand to his right armpit and tugged the adolescent wisps
that were starting to colonize that inviting dell of delights.
Her heavy bosom brushed his forehead. He tilted his head up and
nuzzled her edible-orange-painted thimble of a left nipple (in
one of her more adventurous ads various parts of her person,
including her perky pillboxes atop their bulgingly conical
areolae, make 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, now stirring from its torpor, was slowly
peeling its velvety sheath back. "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 navel,
and---"
"And his prick and his balls found a place against my arsehole,
and my---"
"And her tongue found a place _in my_ arsehole." William
illustrated that scene by laying his left middle finger against
his anus and palpating the steamy, palpitating place where the
sprig of parsley was rooted in his fundament.
I wanted to kiss him and suck him there, and to tonguefuck him,
and to roll his big balls around in my mouth, and to bite his
cushiony perineum, but I make a rule of not getting _quite_ so
involved with any of my juvenile interviewees---not even when
their parents have already given their written permission to me
off their own bat, as did Catriona's and William's when I was
arranging the present meeting.
"What a fucking wonderful arsehole it is, too," said the
seventeen-year-old. "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."
"Ah, Enemarvel," I said. "A darned fine device. One of
Atlandrea's most successful exports."
"And after the Enemarveling our chaperons used Magilube 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 ad goes," said William, " 'An Enemarveled bottom by any
other name would smell and taste as sweet.' "
"Yes," 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."
"Catriona," said William, "tell Audrey about that company when
you were fourteen. They wanted you for some ads, or something,
and you didn't like the words."
"Ah, well, the architectural-hardware manufacturer MacSanita
offered me an initial six thousand ducats to appear in some of
their ads on television and in newspapers and things, but I
turned 'em down, and so they eventually made an agreement with an
even more buxom thirteen-year-old native Atlandrean. They wanted
the ads to make a visual pun to do with the word 'knockers'. I
wouldn't have been naked or anything, but the audience would've
made the required connection. How tacky!"
"Like my tits at the moment," I said, lifting my leaking bubs in
my hands. "I've been marinating myself in my milk."
"Mmm," said William, noisily miming a sucking kiss in my
direction. His wet penis quivered. "One of these days you're
going to cradle me in your lap and let me suck your milk out of
you." He rapped his knuckles on the bench. "Touch wood."
"Sorry, cuddles," I said, "you should banish that thought from
your mind."
"Now," said Catriona, "I think those ads eventually _were_
naughty, in the nudge-nudge-wink-wink way, compared with the
perfectly wholesome girl-nextdoor photographic subjects in the
tamest of the world's erotic magazines that are hackneyed enough
or guilt-ridden enough to _call_ them 'naughty'."
"That word has all the hallmarks and earmarks of clich," I said.
"It's easy to be a chauvinist about Atlandrea when comparing such
humdrum wording with our homegrown, guiltfree, good-clean-fun
magazines, where the only erotic sort of difference among
so-called 'erotic magazines' and so-called 'women's magazines'
and 'lifestyle magazines' and 'celebrity magazines', and all the
other kinds of magazine, is a difference of focus, and where the
only so-called 'men's magazines' published in this country are
those that deal with men's political issues and stuff, and with
various hobbies that are mainly of a masculine bent."
"And many overseas magazines even call their smashing, charming
subjects 'sluts'!" she said. "I wouldn't be seen _dead_ in a
magazine that called me a slut!"
"Nor would I," said William. "And most of them call their female
subjects 'young girls', or even 'little girls', when they're all
adults! Talk about false advertising! Sometimes you read the word
'young' five or six times on a page! It's a fucking fraud!"
****************
My eyes were now beckoned by a twitching in William's flagrant
anus, and with each twitch the fragrant bouquet of parsley
trembled. I wondered whether he was doing it on purpose.
"Gosh," I said, "you can _pout_ so, can't you? Shall I compare
thy bottom to a summer's day?"
"That'd be nice," he said. "Thanks."
"He has one of those bottoms 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 obeyed, 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 through it. Speaking to it in
tongues. Fucking him with my tongue. William's heavenly hole."
"Some of my best friends are heterosexual," said William.
"Make that a sort of _lapsed_ heterosexual," said Catriona. "You
should hear the thoughts I'm having about _Audrey_ right now. I
would fuck you _so well_, Audrey! I would have you _licked_."
****************
Several times during this meeting in the Oval Room William had
gazed at my ballooning tummy---great with my second child---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."
"Four 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." She spread her legs and
twanged her cotton lanyard.
"There is _that_ advantage, I suppose," I said. "But I shouldn't
think your friends mind."
"Not bloody likely," 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
_vagina_; and a squirt of barbecue sauce from a fastfood shop
doesn't taste half as good as a fleck of the blood of a good
friend. And I _love_ barbecue sauce."
"Out of the mouth of very babes and sucklings," I said. "Well
said, William."
"And more likely than from the average cock," said Catriona. "But
I feel like a wounded puppet on a string. Sometimes this
Thunderbird pilot feels as if she doesn't want to 'go'
_anywhere_. It really pisses me off."
"I want to listen to _your_ babe," William told me. "Can I,
please?"
"Go ahead, my sweet. Here---" I nodded towards the vast
airmattress that was on the revolving stage of the Oval Room
"---I'll lie down on that. 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 over the hum of the
climate-control beast that's behind that wall."
"And," Catriona went on to her pal, "if she lets us then I'll
position you so that your cock swings over her mouth and caresses
her face, so that she can suck you and drink you and cuddle your
bits and pieces."
"Um---you'd better not," I said. "I've already _told_ you my
rules. I'd like it very much---look at the way his plummy glans
is glistening with his mixture of liquids---but it'd sort of
break the rules that I've set for myself while I'm interviewing
people your age."
"Okay," he said. "I don't mind. Can I piss on your tummy,then?"
"That'd be nice, love, but you'd better not. Instead I'll be
happy for your both to continue fucking and sucking me with your
eyes. Fuck me silly with your eyes."
"Tell us which bits of you we can fuck silly with our eyes," said
Catriona.
"My cunt! Fuck my _cunt_ with your eyes."
"Where else?" asked William.
"My tummy! Fuck my _tummy_ with your eyes."
"That sounds dangerous," said Catriona. "Where else?"
"My teats. Fuck me between them with your eyes. And ask them to
suckle your eyes."
"We love you exhibiting yourself like this, and talking like
this," said Catriona. "It's so honest. No restraints. You're
being yourself."
"Since when have I been anybody but my fucking self? That's what
exhibitionism is---being penetrated by people's eyes, for
instance when I put my whole hand in my vagina---like this." I
moved the recorder from my thigh to the bench, topped up the
galactic lubrication of my right hand, craned my arm and buried
my hand in the place from where, a month from now, my baby would
soon emerge to greet the world.
"All power to your elbow!" said Catriona.
At this juncture she and William jumped over to me, caressed my
tummy with their fingertips and gently pulled on its pelt of fine
hair. William knelt reverently between my spread legs and stroked
my forearm with his fingers.
"You're so beautiful, Audrey," he said. "So fucking beautiful.
Look, my cock is completely stiff again." He jerked his hips, and
I gazed at his thrusting boy-pride, its pulsingly pure glans now
denuded of its prepuce.
"It's so fucking stiff," I said. "What a fine fucker it is."
"It's stiff because I'm here looking right into your crotch and
smelling your sweat and everything. Oh, you smell so good."
"Lovely cock," I said. "Lovely boy. So kissable. Catriona and
your other friends are so lucky to be allowed to make love with
you. Anyway, after you've both listened to my baby why don't you
have a big squishy whoosh on Catriona? I'll love watching you
emptying your bladder over her."
"Yeah, I'll do that! I want you to watch my piss squirting out of
my slit!"
"Great!" said Catriona. "On my face and in my mouth! Then I'll
squirt it back at you. And, Audrey, you can put it into the
article thingy you're writing for your magazine."
"I thought you told me yesterday," said William through a smile,
"that you wouldn't subscribe to any magazine that would have you
as a subject of an article."
"Top marks for that one," I said.
"And," said Catriona, "use that bit about William's 'plummy
glans' and his 'mixture of liquids'. I love those words of yours.
His penis _is_ glistening---it's coated with his precome, his
semen, my fuckjuice, my saliva, and his piss and mine, all mixed
up together. It'll be so good!"
"Don't put my actual _water_ into the article, though," he said.
"The pages will get all soggy."
Laughter all round, spreading to undulations all round my
exuberantly all-round belly.
"I'll enjoy the feel of your ears on my tummy," I said.
"Meanwhile you can both watch me rubbing my milk all over my
breasts and making a lake of it in my navel. I'll adore doing
that in front of you---being made love to by your eyes again. And
later you can watch me masturbate to orgasm while I rub myself
all over with my milk and my piss, and with the juice from my
cunt."
"And get your orgasms on the tape," said William. "Make them
fucking noisy, please---so noisy that they shake the wall murals
onto the floor."
"Shake the _what_ murals?" I asked.
William grinned sheepishly and said, "Ah, yeah!"
"Won't you be in danger of bringing on your labor?" asked
Catriona with furrowed brow.
"No---I don't work like that. Every day of my pregnancy with
Samuel I had at least one orgasm, and he arrived three days late
at three point nine kilograms. My doctor joked that it wasn't
premature to say I'd go the full distance with my second
regardless of the size or frequency of my orgasms. Oscar is so
gentle when we fuck when I'm pregnant, but he gives my clit a
right old tonguelashing. It's the tonguelashing that gives me the
biggest, noisiest orgasms when I'm pregnant."
"I wish Oscar were here," she said. "I loved seeing Alma Wedmann,
the gorgeous Alma la Douche, sucking and drinking him beside the
lake in that film---er, _Divinity in the Dark_ or something---and
seeing him dripping off her nipples when the pair of them were
silhouetted against the sunrise, before they bade each other that
temporary but heart-rending prenuptial farewell. He fitted so
well against her and into her---absolutely skewering her and
shoving her with his penis so that she was sort of shuddering and
jerking all over, and her tits were flying all over the place,
and he was showering her with his liquid love for her. And there
was that fantastic line of hers, something like: 'Cock me! Cock
me! Fucking well cock me up, darling!' "
"And that time in the film when he was on hands and knees,"
William chimed in, "and she was kissing him all over his buttocks
and his penis---"
"---and his tight scrotum and his thighs," said Catriona.
"---and she was telling him what she thought of him, and his
sweat was rising in kind of clouds of vapor against the
sunset---God knows how the special-effects people managed
that---she said something _so_ priceless: 'Since when have you
smoked?' "
At such evocative prompting from the enchanting pair of lovers I
suddenly wondered what my husband was doing now, and whether he
was thinking of me. I vowed that when I got home I would order
him to gently punish me to within an inch of his wife.
"Alma _smolders_," I said. "Like Carolina Bachsen in _How the
East Was Lost_, or like Katharine Tandro in _Romance on Sloane
Street_."
"Or like Marguerite Annersley in _Knowing Camilla_," said
Catriona, "or like Andrea Benet in _The Acting Deputy Premier of
Atlandrea_."
"And," I continued, "when a lover's piss or semen or cuntjuice is
evaporating from Wedmann's Mona Lisa smile she seems to smolder
even more."
"Oh, fuck," said Catriona. "Those nipples were so _enormous_ on
her tiny, pointy tits in _Divinity_. 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 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 any other bits of me that you tell me to fiddle
with."
"Be our guest," he said. "Will you wear one of your yummy Minoan
dresses? One of the ones that sort of lift your breasts---" he
cupped his hands under his femininely prominent nipples---"and
make them jut out like torpedoes?"
"Mmm. I have three Minoan-style ones that bare me and lift me, as
if I'm offering myself---my breasts---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
or lacy 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
earth-motherly left nipple to her mouth for a suck of her
orange-flavored Buddypaint.
"Your wish is my command, my love. 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. It's different from anything else in
my wardrobe."
"Wear that dress!" said William, fingering his nipples and
squirming so much on his bench that his parsley tail was doing
semaphore. "Is it the one where the short bit at the back can be
drawn aside like a curtain?"
"Yup. The words 'subtle' and 'bashful' aren't in my dictionary,
_are_ they. I love wearing the dress among friends when we're
going to make an exhibition of ourselves to each other."
"Will you wear it without knickers for us?" William asked.
"If I wear knickers to begin with then I can always take them
off, can't I?"
"Course you can," said Catriona, who was now caressing her own
humidly tumid nipples, perhaps in me-too response to William's
earlier narcissistic demonstration. "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."
(I've been persuaded to wear such clever underwear by the
ingenious but ever so simple unisex pissoirs that started to be
manufactured in Atlandrea in the early 1980s and that have since
spread around the world in houses, flats, hotels, hospitals,
schools, colleges, universities, stadiums and so on.)
"I'd love you to piss into them," said William, "and then hand
them to us so that we can chew them."
"Um---we'll see. That idea reminds me that I haven't had a drop
of alcohol since missing my first period after conceiving this
present bundle." I patted my tummy. "I love to piss with Oscar
when we're both as pissed as parrots, so that we can drink each
other into our stomachs as if it's nothing but water."
"Which it is, just about," said Catriona. "I would love to drink
your recycled booze straight from your piss-hole, and press your
tummy with my hand to make it come out even faster and break the
world's pissing-distance record."
"I don't think so, darling. And I know you're jesting, but I
can't piss anywhere _near_ the world record---five metres
something, isn't it? set during the Atlandrean International
Erotic Games about ten years ago? I can piss only four and a bit
metres along the regulation horizontal surface---as opposed, of
course, to the greater horizontal distance we can all achieve
from a high place such as a clifftop. Anyway . . . Hey, William,
I wish my doctor would let me bite that shrubbery out of your
bum. I'm partial to parsley---I can eat it the way a horse eats
grass---but she says it doesn't agree with pregnancy. Damn!"
"My doctor says it's good for my red days," said Catriona. She
tugged her sweating nips out towards me and jiggled them in small
circles.
"So does mine, but I can barely remember any of _my_ red days.
Anyway, I'm ready for your ears now, my dears. Watch me waddle
over to the stage."
"We want to make love to you," said Catriona. "We want to suck
your tits, and drink your milk and your piss, and suck your
mouth, and lick your teeth, and kiss your eyes and your fingers,
and winkle the sweat from between your toes with our tongues, and
whisper unspeakably delicious obscenities into your ears. And I
want to suck William's spunk from your armpits and your anus, and
from the nape of your neck."
"Oh, no," I said, having happily waited for her to pause.
"And we want to cradle you in our arms," said William.
"And put our thumbs in your bum," said Catriona. "Thumb-bum,
thumb-bum! Audrey's thumb-bum!"
"Definitely not," I said. " None of the above. Not never nohow.
I'm adamant about that, and I've never changed my mind about
anything in my life."
"Oh, all right," said Catriona with a giggle while she cupped and
jiggled her friend's testicles in her hand. "See if _we_ care,
eh, William?"
"Please can I judge which of you has the hairier bottom and
crotch?" he asked. "And whose pubes spread the furthest down the
insides of your thighs? Would you both like to get on your elbows
and your knees on the airmattress, side by side, and spread your
legs really wide, and make your bottoms and your cunts really
shine at me? Then I'll judge?"
"That sounds good," I said. "That won't break my rule. Right, m'
shipmates---we've lain here long enough for one stretch, so let's
stop sitting on our haciendas. But before we get under way with
our piece of theatre on the revolving stage we should swab these
gallery decks so that our fluids don't dry on the timber. Them's
the rules of the house, I've been told: clean up as we go, so
that each area is made immaculate and ready for the next group of
people. We've made a _terrible_ mess."
"Yeah, okay," said the thirteen-year-old as he clambered with
dancing genitals up the tiers of the gallery towards one of the
four hose-reels. "I wonder how many times I've done _this_ chore
in the few months that I've been at Aiscottaga."
"And---um," I said, "instead of making the stage our next port of
call, why don't we go to one of the saunas? It's quieter
there---it doesn't have that damned noisy behemoth of an
airconditioner. Let's build up a head of steam---a good
fug---while the pair of you prick your ears for my my baby and
while William inspects our undergrowth."
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
(C) Sam & Shanna Deevning, 2002.
The act of publishing this episode in
alt.sex.stories.moderated means we claim the rights not only to
the episode's overall wording, events and geopolitical setting
but also to the tradenames invented by us and mentioned in the
episode: Tushia, Jantodec, Buddypaint, Enemarvel, Magilube,
LubeJube and MacSanita. We've done our best to ensure that those
names haven't already been invented independently elsewhere, but
we're willing to be corrected on that point.
Our declaration of those rights is, of course, not aimed at
preventing anyone else from making incidental use of those
tradenames, or the geographical names we've invented, in ways
that preserve their context and their meaning and that implicitly
acknowledge their source but without adding defining details that
we haven't yet supplied in the _Only in Atlandrea_ series of
stories.
An example of legitimate incidental use of someone else's
invention of a proper noun in a particular context is our
allusion, in dialogue in this revised first episode but without
adding defining detail, to the revered real-life (?? well, you
know what we mean) television series _Thunderbirds_.
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
"We shouldn't write fiction unless we can
recognize the facts about ourselves."
---Persefone Immacolata Santa Sylvina
(1853-1951), Argentine
novelist.
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
17
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