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From: Alexis Siefert <ealexissiefert@yahoo.com>
X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Sat, 30 Nov 2002 07:47:17 -0800 (PST)
Subject: {ASSM} {SONG} Free Time (F-solo) (Alexis S)
Date: Sat, 30 Nov 2002 23:10:02 -0500
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<1st attachment, "Free Time.txt" begin>
Author: Alexis Siefert
Title: Free Time
Keywords: F-solo
This is a work of adult fiction and should be read only by
adults. It is also my work. Although I receive no compensation
other than your comments, it is still my work. Please respect
this and do not repost it somewhere else without talking to me
first about it.
If you are not allowed to read works with sexual content, either
due to your age or by virtue of the laws in the geographical
location in which you reside, please do not continue.
Enjoy, and if you're so inclined, please let me know what you
think.
Alexis
(ealexissiefert@yahoo.com)
~~~~~~~~~~~
Free Time (F solo)
She sighed deeply and let her body sink into the water. The
bubbles tickled her nose, but she didn't bother raising her hand
to flick them away. As her ears dipped below the level of the
water, she could hear the water rushing through the pipes. There
was a rhythmic 'swish-swish' somewhere in the house, telling her
that the washing machine was filling, or perhaps the dishwasher
had moved into its rinse mode. Whatever. Just so long as it
didn't require her to get up.
The wind was beating against the window above the tub rapping
incessantly like a jealous neighbor, begging to be let in the
house. She giggled softly at the thought of the anthropomorphic
wind knocking at the pane of glass. An image sprang unbidden to
her mind of the wind in human form--a lovely Native woman, full
breasts and hips, fertility personified. Her dark hair blew
wildly around her face as the breeze whipped playfully through
the black tresses.
She let her mind drift, her thoughts fading as the steam,
pregnant with lavender scent, surrounded her face and filled her
nostrils. The sales clerk swore to her that lavender was
relaxing, "aroma therapy" the clerk called it. She didn't know if
it was the scent, the steam, or just the knowledge that she had
an hour to herself that was relaxing her. It didn't matter. Her
brain shifted out of conscious thoughts into a series of images,
drawn out of her body by the beckoning wind.
She floated above the water, looking down at the body below her,
critically examining it in a detached manner. She knew she was
looking at her own form, but it seemed foreign. The body below
her looked so lovely, so womanly, not at all how she pictured
herself when she peered into the mirror every morning. The woman
in the tub had long legs; long for her height. Her hips were
softly rounded, framing her concave belly. Perhaps a bit too
sharp in her hipbones, she knew that she needed to put on another
few pounds or so, but the effect was still pleasant.
Her eyes traveled upward, tracing the delicate ribcage pausing
briefly to watch her pulse beat in the hollow below her sternum.
The skin of her breasts was flushed with the heat of the tub and
they bobbed gently in the water in time with her slow, relaxed
breathing. Around small shoulders, her pale hair floated, softly
swaying, swirling around her face. Her lips were full, which had
been a point of contention with her until it became fashionable
and the superstars were injecting their thin mouths to change
their shape. She had heard men snicker when looking at pictures
of these full-mouthed women, referring to their "dsl's." It took
months of discreet eavesdropping for her to finally overhear the
phrase "dick-sucking-lips" instead of the cryptic abbreviation.
She knew at that moment that she had a mouth designed to frame a
man's cock, lips meant to nestle a cockhead between, and
suddenly, in spite of herself, her mouth was beautiful to her.
She reached down with her mind's fingers, imagining their touch
on the pale skin of the body in the water below her. The body
responded with its own fingers, brushing a fingertip over those
red lips, and she was pulled back into herself. She shivered a
bit and parted her lips to push her finger between her teeth,
over her tongue. She felt her teeth scrape along her skin, and
her nail drew an invisible line over her dark red tongue.
She sucked softly, teasingly, imagining her finger as a cock,
pulsing between her lips. As she sucked her fingertip, her other
hand fluttered over her neck, feeling her pulse pick up as her
breathing quickened. Her fingers wrapped around her tiny throat,
pressing slightly, wondering what it would feel like to have a
man's hand wrapped there, cutting off her wind as his body
pounded into her. The CD player mounted to the wall clicked
softly as the CD ended and started its loop again. Soon soft
strains of Franco Corelli's lamenting tenor aria from 'I
Pagliacci' filled the room. The mournful, insistent tones reached
under the water, vibrating against her belly and the stroking
touch of her fingers quickened to meet its rhythm.
Her fingertips brushed over the tops of her breasts, leaving warm
trails on her heated skin. She was slightly surprised to find
that her nipples were already hardened, erect, pushing away from
her small, round breasts as if they were straining towards her
lingering fingers. She pinched her nipples gently between her
thumbs and forefingers, working both breasts in tandem. Twin
sparks shot through her body from her breasts to the center of
her sex, and she gasped. Her fingers tightened their grip on her
sensitive peaks, twisting her nipples more forcefully.
She drew her knees up and her thighs spread, coming to rest
against the tile sides of the tub. The contrast between the
warmth of the water and the cooler air of the room served only to
heighten the feelings building so strongly within her. One hand
left her breast and drifted down, stroking lightly over the taut
skin of her belly, hovering over the small tattoo at her hip--a
Celtic harp--the only remnant of her brief rebellious period. Her
fingers found the cleft of her sex, and she paused, hovering just
at her opening, hesitantly stroking her outer lips. This was not
an act she normally found comfortable, never mind exciting.
Despite being growing up in the enlightened 70's, her
conservative father and stiffly-proper mother raised her to
believe that pleasure was not the purview of a woman; she was
supposed to 'close her eyes and think of other things'.
The butterfly flutterings in her belly forced the reservations
from her mind, pushed her past her 'moral' protests. Her fingers
began, for the first time, to truly explore that most secret
place within her. As her fingertips parted her lips to dip into
the slippery moisture there her thumb grazed lightly over the
swelling button above. Her breath caught in her throat, and her
clit twitched under her touch. The music lifted and swelled
through the room, shaking the glass in the window as the tenor's
voice drew her further into her own passions. Her fingers dug
insistently between her pussy lips, no longer hesitant and unable
to fight her natural instincts. She felt her inner muscles clench
around her fingertips as she pushed one, then two fingers deep
inside her pussy. A moan escaped her lips as she stretched her
fingers, opening herself wider, feeling her body respond to the
intrusion. Her thumb stayed perched atop her rock hard, swollen
clit, rolling it in hard circles against her body. Water swirled
around her as her hand began to move faster, thrusting deeply
into her soaking pussy. The water flowed into her opening with
each thrust, filling her further. Her body began to shudder, her
hips bucked up against her hand. She gripped the tile side of the
tub with her free hand, gasping for breath as her face slipped
below the water again and again. Her body tensed, muscles
spasmed, wracked with her orgasm.
It was the sound of her own voice that called her out of her
reverie. A soft moaning reached her ears under the water, and she
caught her breath. Her fingers were still buried deeply between
her shaking legs, and her body quivered in seismic aftershocks.
Slowly she allowed the warm water to calm her again, and she
slowed her breathing until she felt confident enough of her own
strength to stand. Stepping from the tub, wrapping the towel
around her dripping body, she moved to the bedroom, taking note
of the luminescent glow of the clock on the wall. Half an hour
before she could expect to hear the familiar crunch of her
husband's truck tires on the gravel walk in front of the house.
Half-an-hour until the smells of dinner and the raucous noises of
evening life consumed her thoughts and her energy. Half-an-hour
to bask. Half-an-hour to be herself before she became mother,
wife, cook.
It was enough.
<1st attachment end>
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