Message-ID: <41575asstr$1049206204@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
X-Originating-Email: [empath69@hotmail.com]
From: "just empath BJ" <empath69@hotmail.com>
X-Original-Message-ID: <F43y9K15Q93c1FzOdDx0002782c@hotmail.com>
X-OriginalArrivalTime: 27 Mar 2003 15:05:08.0690 (UTC) FILETIME=[41C87320:01C2F472]
X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Thu, 27 Mar 2003 11:35:08 -0330
Subject: {ASSM} "Dream Maker" {Dancer} (MF rom slow) [4/5]
Date: Tue, 1 Apr 2003 09:10:04 -0500
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/Year2003/41575>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, dennyw
Warning: "This [work of prose] contains scenes of
nudity, sexuality and coarse language.
[Reader] discretion is advised."
(I.E. If it's illegal/dangerous to read/possess
pornography where you are, don't bother.)
Disclaimer: Dancer - the authoress of this work -
and Empath - its 'publisher' - take no
responsibility due to any harm or
misfortune that befalls someone from
reading or possessing this work.
Copyright: This work of prose is the intellectual
property of Dancer, and is protected by
the Berne Convention. *Unauthorized*
publication or redistribution is
prohibited.
{Non-legalese translation: if you want to put this
on a web site, just drop us an email; we'll probably
say yes. :)}
Bonus Question: Where is the quote in the 'Warning' from? :)
_________________________________________________________________
The new MSN 8: advanced junk mail protection and 2 months FREE*
http://join.msn.com/?page=features/junkmail
<1st attachment, "Dreamkr4e.txt" begin>
Dream Maker (4/5) (no-sex, humor)
Dancer 2002 (c)
I woke up a while ago but I needed extra time in bed
to get myself geared up. I didn't have that 'I don't
know where I am' feeling. I knew I was in Oklahoma and
staying at science fiction author, Maxwell Stone's
house for two weeks to get the 'feel' of the Southern
state for my latest manuscript. I stretched out my
legs and wiggled my toes under the blanket, slitting
my eyes open against the sun. Which should've been
streaming through the window facing me but it wasn't.
In fact, the window wasn't even there. Frowning, I
rolled around. This was weird. The window was set next
to me on the opposite wall from where it belonged.
"Maaaax!" I yelled as I bolted upright.
He came into the room as soon as I called, panting,
"What?"
"This window," I said, pointing at it. "Moved from
there to here."
"Amanda, relax," Max told me and perched himself
beside my covered feet. "The window didn't move. You
spent the night in my bed, not the guest one."
"WHAT!?" I yelped and quickly scooted away from him.
He held his hands up and explained, "No, no, nothing
happened. We didn't do anything last night...okay,
there was that thing in the hall but forget that for
the moment. You fell asleep in my office and I carried
you to the nearest bed which happened to be mine."
"Oh, God," I cried and threw the covers over my head,
remembering. He'd asked me to help him work out a
scene in his book. We'd gotten hot and heavy against a
wall outside the library and if he hadn't been fully
clothed, this would be the 'morning after'. I suppose
in a weird sense it was. I curled up into a ball,
totally mortified.
"I slept in the guest room, if that makes you feel any
better," he said to the huge lump of me hiding under
the blankets. He patted me lightly. "I didn't want to.
Discretion is the better part of valor."
I shifted the blankets down and peeked over the edge
at him. "What does that have to do with anything?" I
asked, narrowing my gaze to bring his blurry image
into focus.
"Nothing, I guess," he answered and laid next to me on
his stomach. "Seemed like the appropriate thing to
say." He smiled lazily as he looked down at me.
"What?" I demanded.
The smile broadened and he turned onto his left side
so he could face me. "You look...very pretty right
now," he replied, reaching a hand out to touch my
hair. "I like how your hair is all tousled and
staticky. And your eyes, mmmm. Don't get me started."
His voice was all low and sexy sounding, giving my
insides good reason to be mushy and my brain screamed
for me to get him started. His fingers brushed back
the hair from my face, then slowly trailed along my
cheek to my gaping mouth. Stroking a fingertip across
my lips, he said, "Don't look at me like that,
Amanda."
"Like what?" I breathed, wanting to shift myself
closer but afraid he'd stop touching me.
"You know," he answered huskily and cupped my jaw.
"All women do."
"I'm not 'all women'."
"I know you aren't. That's what makes how you look
even more dangerous." He licked his lips and moved his
hand away, rolling to sit up on the edge of the
mattress. "Why don't you clean up and dress? I'll be
in the kitchen if you need anything." I sighed and
watched him walk away. I kicked the covers back with
my legs and sat up, feeling lethargic and achy.
Yawning, I pushed myself onto my feet, scratched my
itchy belly through my nightshirt and toddled to where
my glasses lay on an end table between the two
windows. I hooked the bows over my ears, blinking with
exaggeration at being able to see clearly. I stumbled
sleepily through Max's office, down the short
corridor, around the corner and into my bedroom.
I headed for the dresser and pulled out some clean
undies, socks and a bra, then bumped my right hip and
closed the drawer. My next stop was the closet where I
removed a pair of loose fitting jeans and the saffron
blouse. Dropping the fresh laundry onto the bed, I
grabbed my toiletry bag and walked into the washroom
next door. I threw down my bag, got out my toothpaste
and brush and began brushing my teeth, thinking. Max
was attractive but too old to fall into the cute
category. Handsome, definitely handsome. And a
gentleman. I wouldn't give up my bed to an almost
complete stranger for nothing. Well, maybe some cold,
hard, American cash but just as a nice gesture, no
way! He was a decent kisser, too, not pushy or greedy
but, well, gave as good as he got I guess. I wouldn't
mind starting my day with one of his kisses like the
one at the bar last night...or ending it, or as a
midday snack about three-thirty.
Leaning forward against the counter of the sink, I
continued to clean my teeth and think about Max. He
liked to banter and could laugh about himself. He
jokingly called my four novels in his library his
'porn stash,' which didn't bother me. I knew a lot of
romances contained soft-core love scenes, keeping out
the slang terms and letting the reader use her or his
imagination. They centered more on the emotions of the
characters and less on the act itself, saying things
like, 'made her his woman' or 'branded her with his
sensuous touch'. I wrote like that sometimes. It
depended on the mood of the story as to how down and
dirty the sex would be. In my first novella, 'Catching
the Rainbow', I cut away from writing actual
intercourse, scared the editorial staff would have a
heyday slashing and deleting with their blue pencils.
But I learned that there was a market out there for
wordy descriptions about love making and some people
needed to read the details of how the man 'made her
his'. Max was one of them.
I spit out the glob of toothpaste into the bowl of the
sink, turning on the cold-water spigot to wash it down
the drain. I ran the bristles of my brush under the
flow until it was clean, then shook it and placed it
off to one side while I stuck my head in and rinsed
out my mouth. I heard Max running around the house,
calling my name in a loud, worried tone. "Amanda?
Amanda, are you all right?" He burst into the
washroom, breathing heavily. "Oh. My. God." he stated
in shock. I glanced up at him in the mirror above the
sink and noticed his gaze was directed at my butt.
"What? What's wrong?" I asked, turning around to face
him. He swallowed, his eyes staring at my bared legs.
His face had paled and now I was really concerned. I
glanced down and raised the hem of my shirt, finally
seeing the smears of blood across my skin. "Well,
fuck," I growled and threw my shirt down angrily.
"That's it?" Max ground out passed his clenching jaw
and began to gesticulate wildly. "It looks like the
Manson family murdered Sharon Tate in -my- bed and all
-you- have to say is, 'fuck'?!"
I jammed my fisted hands hard along my hips and yelled
in reply, "I got my period and I flow heavy for the
first two days!"
"You did?" he said, taken aback by my tone of voice.
"YES!" My hands flew up to my hair and started tugging
it while I growled. "And I didn't bother to pack any
tampons! That's what the 'fuck' was for!"
=======
"Oh," he said and ruffled his hair with his right
hand. "Your period. Not a massacre." He sagged against
the doorframe with relief and exhaled a long breath.
"I went to change the sheets and saw this gigantic
stain-" he held his hands out about two feet apart.
"It wasn't -that- big," Amanda argued.
Max shot her a look. "Who's telling the story here,
you or me?" She rolled her eyes with a sigh and
offered him the palm of her hand. "Anyway, I saw the
blood and thought...maybe...you were injured or
something." He cast her a boyish smile and tapped his
fingertips together. "Do I get credit for coming to
save you even though you didn't need saving?"
That did it. She smiled back and combed her hair down.
"Yeah, you do. I guess I'll have to shower now and
wait to dress later." She tugged on her shirt, trying
to hide the blood painting her thighs. "I don't
suppose you have anything I could use...?" she asked
shyly and turned her eyes toward the floor.
"No," he answered, hating to say it. "The best I can
do right now is a hand towel and a pair of my boxers.
Will that work?"
Nodding, she replied quietly, "Thanks...and sorry
about messing your bed up."
"It's okay. I understand. It comes with being a
woman." He backed out of the doorway and kept his gaze
above her shoulders. Anything lower than that brought
the dark stain on her shirt into view and made him
queasy. He'd been around other women when they were
having their monthly, his two sisters included, and it
didn't bother him, but jeez! None of them had bled so
profusely that he thought they were -dying-. "You go
ahead and hop in the shower. I'll get the stuff
together and leave it on the toilet for when you're
done."
He snagged the doorknob and closed it quickly. His
legs ate up the carpet as he strode away to his room,
holding a hand over his mouth and nose to block out
the coppery smell.
Once in his room again, he kept his back to the bed
while he dug through his underwear for a couple of
ratty pairs of boxer shorts. The elastic was pretty
stretched out and the leg holes were tattered as the
seams were coming apart. He hoped they would do until
he could drive into town for what she needed. One was
a dark grey and the other was formerly white but
tinged pink after getting mixed-up with a red flannel
shirt. He sighed. Laundry day wasn't going to be as
much fun as he wished.
Last night all he could think about (after listing all
the prime numbers he could remember) was Amanda's
panties and brassieres swirling with his boxers in the
washing machine, caressing and teasing them until they
got thoroughly tangled up in each other. Then in the
dryer, his would chase hers while the barrel tumbled
for an hour and they'd fall in an exhausted heap when
the timer buzzed. Max thumped his forehead lightly
against the flat of his dresser. The scent of her
period wasn't upsetting his stomach anymore. His
rampant erection took his mind off that immediately.
His cock had seized control of his thoughts briefly,
turning them onto the fact he and Amanda could have
sex and not worry about birth control.
"Stop it," he groaned to himself. He inhaled several
times until he felt more in control, then strolled
back to the bathroom. He listened before knocking and
didn't hear water running. Rapping his knuckles
against the center panel, he called, "Amanda, I got
two pairs of shorts for you. Is it alright if I come
in?"
"Yeah," she answered, her voice muffled. He turned the
knob, started to push it open and heard, "No, wait."
The door opened partway and he shot a glance into the
mirror. His eyes widened. She was naked and leaned
herself against the door to keep him out. A hand
darted around the edge and through the crack. "Pass
them to me," she said, wiggling her fingers.
He raised a tawny brow in appreciation of the image in
the mirror, wishing she'd placed her back to the door.
She had a nice, rounded behind with a small mole
dotting the indentation of her spine just above the
cleft. "You have a cute little...freckle...on your
back," he informed her and grinned at the mirror.
"I do n-" she began, craning her neck around to look
behind her and saw his reflection. "You cheater!" She
slapped a hand over the mark.
"Your bikini must be very low cut for the sun to hit
you there," Max noted, harking back to the teasing
last night. "Or do you tan in the buff?"
She poked her head out the door, correcting him, "I
wear a one-piece, not a bikini, and that's a mole, not
a freckle!"
"More news from your doctor?" She opened her mouth to
say something, then snapped it shut and snatched the
clothes from his hand. The door got slammed in his
face and he heard the telltale click of the lock being
turned. "There's towels under the sink!" he shouted
through the closed portal.
"THANK YOU!" she hollered back.
"I'm going into town to the drugstore," he yelled over
the shower. "Can you tell me what to get you?"
The door unlocked and opened, Amanda poking her head
out. "A box of tampons extra-absorbent, a box for
light flow days and a package of maxi pads for
overnight." She bit back a grin as she watched him
repeat the list silently. "I'm sure one of the ladies
will help you if you forget."
"Shhh, I'm thinking," he told her and repeated the
list. "Extra-absorbent and light flow tampons and
overnight maxi pads. I got it. Take your shower." She
closed the door and locked it again while he walked
away. He went into the kitchen to get his grocery
list, added Amanda's feminine hygiene products and
tore the paper off the tablet, folding it into squares
and slipping it inside his front hip pocket. He passed
by the bathroom, knocked and yelled, "I'm leaving now!
I'll be back in an hour or so!" He went through his
office, turned right out the opposite doorway, grabbed
his denim jacket from the closet and headed outside to
the garage. His truck was parked out already, so he
decided to take that vehicle. The wind blew and
swirled his hair around, lifting up the hem of his
coat as he climbed into the cab.
The drive into Tulsa took fifteen minutes and wasn't
much fun without Amanda riding shotgun. He wheeled his
pickup into a parallel parking spot a few blocks down
from the market. He hopped out, stuck two quarters
into the meter and strolled up the street to the
grocery. He needed just a few things here; a small bag
of potatoes, a loaf of wheat bread, a gallon of milk
and some frozen pizzas. He checked out, paid for his
purchases and carried them out to his truck. As he
walked along the sidewalk, he noticed the wind blowing
harder and shoving him forward. It tossed grit in his
face and he shielded his eyes with his forearm,
glancing up at the darkening sky. Clouds gathered and
rolled high above him, blocking out the sun. He knew
the signs. A tornado was brewing and his inner voice
pleaded with him to hurry, hurry, hurry home.
He literally threw his bags on the floor of the cab,
then raced down to the drugstore. He ran along the
aisles toward the hygiene department, snatched what he
needed and rushed up to the check-out counter. The
clerk rang up his purchases. He paid, tapping the toe
of his shoe on the floor as she took her sweet time
bagging the three boxes. As she handed him the plastic
sack, the shrill siren echoed through town, telling
the citizens a tornado had been spotted and was
coming. Even as Max wrapped his fingers around the
handles, he realized he was too late. He prayed Amanda
would be safe.
=======
It felt great to be clean. I finished showering and
blotted a towel carefully across my upper thighs,
relief washing over me when I looked at the towel. No
blood. I tossed it onto the floor and pulled open the
double doors of the sink cabinet, spying the extra
towels Max mentioned. I grabbed a light blue one, laid
it on the counter and folded it into thirds. Moving
quickly, I pressed it between my legs and held it
there with my left hand while I reached for one of the
boxer shorts. My knees locked together and I stepped
my feet through the legs, working the soft material
upward to my waist. After I got it up, I adjusted the
makeshift sanitary napkin until it felt comfortable
and I was sure it covered me from mound to halfway up
my crack. "How did women do this before the invention
of adhesive strips or those stupid, hooked belts?" I
wondered out loud. I rolled my eyes. "They laid in bed
for a week is what they did." Now I knew the reason
behind eighteenth and nineteenth century women having
so many babies. It wasn't for extra farm hands or the
high infant death rate. Oh no. They hated having their
periods and the only way to prevent it was to get
pregnant.
Mmm, promising, very promising...except I didn't want
to get pregnant just to take a ten-month break from
the rag. I'll come out and admit it. I want to be
married (or at least in a stable relationship) to a
man who adores me. I want the 'happily ever after',
the loving romances I write about, the whole nine
yards. But the only men in my life were my pet rock,
Stuie, and Max Stone.
"Although I don't know if Max considers himself 'in'
my life right now." He was a great prospect, though,
with his considerate and sweet personality, income and
owned his own home.
I kicked myself. Thinking like that will get me in
trouble and guaranteed heartache. I reached inside my
toiletry bag and withdrew my hairbrush. I leaned
forward and started brushing out the tangles, snags
and knots from the recent shampooing.
A low rumble sounded and I halted my activity. I held
my wet hair in one hand and cocked my ear, listening
for the sound again. There it was. I set my brush next
to the sink, grabbed another towel and wrapped it like
a turban around my head. After opening the washroom
door, I padded down to my room and threw on my blouse.
The first thing I noticed was it had gotten dark while
I showered. The sunlight wasn't streaming in the
windows anymore. I walked over to the closest window,
drew the curtain and shade aside and looked out. The
sky overhead was black as night with purplish-grey
storm clouds boiling across it. I gulped, sensing
something big was coming and that I wasn't going to
like it. "A thunderstorm maybe," I told myself in a
hushed voice. I dropped my hand and headed for Max's
office to unplug all the computer equipment. I found
the surge protector outlet strip resting behind his
desk and crouched down, working all the grey, pronged
plugs free of the sockets. I placed the strip far away
from the cords in case the storm caused an arc of
electricity. The wind howled outside, circling the
house and rattling the windows.
Everything went quiet suddenly and the tiny ringlets
of hair brushing the nape of my neck straightened. My
skin itched. I touched my nape, feeling goose bumps
around the hair roots. Shivering, I decided to follow
the example of the good, old ostrich and hide where I
couldn't see - the basement! It wouldn't have any
windows!
I dashed out of his office, down the short hallway and
rounded the right corner. I jerked the basement door
open, groped along the wall just inside, discovered a
switch and flipped it up. Light flooded the stairwell
and I stepped down, shutting the door behind me. I
counted sixteen steps as I walked down to the concrete
floor, and hopped on tiptoe due to the coldness
seeping out of the floor. Other than that, it was okay
temperature wise.
There were two rooms to my right and I peeked in each,
seeing they were used for storage by the stacks of
boxes and rubber containers piled waist high against
the walls. The washer and dryer were in a small room
beside the stairs and a long table sat opposite them,
presumably for folding the laundry. My feet were
freezing cold, the table looked very inviting so I
decided to climb on top and wait out the storm raging
above ground.
I sat down cross-legged on the scarred, brown top and
scanned the area. The washer and dryer were across
from me. I smiled as I spied a large, red, plastic jug
of detergent and a yellow box of fabric softener
sheets, both the same brands I used back home. It
seemed Max and I had more in common that just writing
books. Those two things were on a shelf above the
machines along with some really ratty, holey towels
and a cardboard box marked 'supplies'. Hmm, supplies.
I hopped off the table, stretched my arms up and
grabbed the box. It was heavier than I expected and I
jiggled it around with my fingers to pull it closer to
the edge of the shelf. With a quarter of it hanging
over the edge, it dropped toward me and I managed to
get both hands on it before it crashed into the dryer
below. I carried it over to my seat, set it down and
resumed my earlier position with the box next to me.
Opening the folded flaps, I hissed, "Yes!" Obviously,
these were disaster supplies. Inside was a silver,
portable radio; a box of wet/dry matches; two dozen
utility candles and three holders; sweatpants; socks;
a cable-knit, green sweater; granola bars in a plastic
baggie; a hammer; a gardening trowel; a hunting knife
with sheath; and two quilted blankets. I'd hit the
jackpot.
I pulled the socks out first and put them on my feet.
Next, I took out the radio and turned it on. It was
tuned to an AM station and getting some reception,
mostly static, but I could just make out a man's voice
reporting the weather around the Tulsa area. His voice
faded in and out as the static overwhelmed the
broadcast but I did hear a tornado had been spotted
touching down five miles east of the city limits.
I chewed my bottom lip, trying to bring up a mental
map of where Max's house was located. All I could
'see' was the geography of where Tulsa was in
Oklahoma, like on a big atlas in my head, which wasn't
any help. I'd never been good at directional finding.
Now I wished I'd honed my internal compass more. Oh
well. On the plus side, I wouldn't starve with twelve
granola bars handy and I had some clothes and quilts
to keep me warm.
"What in the hell is that?" I whispered, cringing and
hunkering down to escape the loud growling and
whistling overhead. At first, I couldn't identify the
sound, then I realized it was a train. And then, I
wondered aloud, "What dumb-ass is running a train
through a tornado??" My inner voice told me no one
would and I whimpered like a kicked puppy. Yanking one
of the quilts out of the box, I wrapped it around me
and over my head and tucked my face between my crossed
legs. My throat closed up with a lump a fear. I rocked
back and forth, truly afraid. "Don't panic, don't
panic," I whispered to myself, forcing the words
passed the huge lump. "Remember 'Places in the Heart'?
If hiding in a basement was good enough for Sally
Field, then it's good enough for me."
Then I realized she didn't hide in a basement - she
hid in the root cellar away from the house. "Oh God,
oh God," I mumbled and curled up in a tight bundle.
Max was out there in this and I prayed he had enough
sense to find a place to hang tight and wait this
mother out.
The floor under me caused the table to sway, I swear!
The wind literally howled a keening moan through the
house and I heard some stuff crash above me. My first
and only thought was that the computer monitor had
tipped over and got smashed against the floor. Then I
blanked everything out except the fear washing over me
in great tsunami waves. My face was wet with tears and
my glasses coated with the salty liquid. I snuffled
and wiped my nose with a piece of the quilt, knocking
my glasses askew. I wanted Max and right fucking now!
I wanted him to put his arms around me and tell me
everything was going to be okay. Time ceased to exist
for me. I was cocooned in my own little world where
tornados weren't real and I could return to Toronto
just by wishing.
I don't know how long I sat on that table in the
basement, crying into my fists and slowly rocking my
body back and forth before I finally listened to the
shouting upstairs. I poked my head out of the blanket
cautiously.
Nothing had changed. The washer and dryer still sat in
front of me and the table was still standing. I gulped
several times, my throat sore and scratchy from
bawling. I blinked, not quite understanding the
darkness shrouding me. The basement light had winked
out, either on its own or because of a power outage.
The door above me slammed into the wall as it was
thrown open forcefully and I shrieked hoarsely,
clinging to the protection of the blanket around my
shoulders. "Amanda!" Thump, thump, thump. "Amanda! Are
you down here!"
"Max," I murmured softly, barely hearing my own voice.
He heard though and whipped around the corner, finding
me. My hero. When he opened his arms to me, I threw
myself hard into them and buried my face against his
right shoulder. "I was so scared," I whispered as I
knelt on the table with my arms wrapped around him.
He tore the towel covering my hair away, let it fall
to the floor and started stroking my hair. "It's okay
now," he soothed, running his hands over my back. "The
storm's passed and I'm here, honey." He continued to
tell me everything was okay and gradually I accepted
his words as truth. "It's okay to be scared, honey,
but the tornado's gone and the world is right again."
I merely nodded, easing my head off his shoulder. I
tugged off my glasses and pushed the quilt away from
my body. He plucked my glasses from my limp fingers,
saying, "Here. Let me clean those for you." He lifted
the hem of his shirt and rubbed the material across
the lenses, smearing the tear puddles around until
they soaked into his shirt. He carefully slipped the
bows over my ears, adjusting the bridge with a thumb.
"Better now?" he asked, offering me a shy smile.
"Yes, thank you," I answered. "I...I heard something
break upstairs..."
"The bookshelves got knocked over," he replied, then
hoisted me up in the safe cradle of his arms and
carried me upstairs. "And all the back windows got
blown out. So no walking around back there for you."
He patted his left hand against my bare calves,
reminding me I wore no shoes. I snuggled closer into
his chest and tucked my feet in against his ribs as he
turned sideways to get through the basement door. Max
carried me directly to his room, deposited me on the
rumpled bedclothes and tucked me in. "Stay put. I'm
going to see about cleaning up the broken glass and
boarding up the windows." He dropped a brief kiss on
my lips and started to leave me.
I dug my fingers into the fabric of his shirt and
refused to let go. "Max, don't go," I begged, knowing
the fear I still felt showed on my face. "The last
time you left me-"
"Okay, okay," he said, shushing me softly. "I won't
leave you but you have to let me go so I can take off
my shoes." I sniffled and nodded, unclenching my hands
from his shoulders. He moved away and sat beside me,
untying his shoes and placing them on the floor along
with his white socks.
He crawled over me and settled on my left side,
sliding his feet and legs beneath the covers. For a
while, the two of us lay on our backs with our heads
propped against the pillows and the blankets tucked
midway up our chests, saying nothing.
My body was surging with adrenalin from getting the
crap scared outta me and I grew restless. I twisted
toward him and he reached for me, both of us moving
automatically. I lifted my head up. He slipped his
right arm under it. I draped my right hand over his
ribcage, rubbing my palm along his upper chest.
He wrapped his arm around me and pulled me flush
against his side. I saw him smile as he removed my
glasses, asking, "You don't need these, do you?"
"Only to see," I replied.
"Close your eyes, Amanda. I'll see for both of us," he
stated and rolled us over, bending his head down and
brushing his lips across mine.
=======
more to come...
<<token speling error>>
<1st attachment end>
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
Notice: This post has been modified from its original
format. The post was sent as an email attachment and
has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software.
----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------
--
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> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+