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Message-ID: <42545asstr$1053457804@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Hammon Wry <hammonwry@nospamyahoo.com>
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NNTP-Posting-Date: Tue, 20 May 2003 08:29:55 EDT
Subject: {ASSM} Hammon Wry's Words of the Day for March 12, 2003
Date: Tue, 20 May 2003 15:10:04 -0400
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Hammon Wry's Words of the Day for Wednesday March 12, 2003

Note: Due to copyright laws, I am hesitant to include the definitions
and pronunciations of the words of the day.  I have provided the
websites for each so that you can look up the words for yourself.  

This is an exercise in writing discipline.  I am trying to get into
the habit of writing something every day.  I figure if I use the words
of the day from two sources in a sexual context, I will have
inspiration and motivation.  

And now, on to Hammon Wry's Words of the Day!
(C) E. Howe   2003
All rights reserved

Dictionary.com's word of the day: immolate
http://dictionary.reference.com/wordoftheday/archive/2003/03/12.html
M-W.com's word of the day: quash
http://www.m-w.com/cgi-bin/mwwodarch.pl?Mar.12

Time slowed to a crawl as he watched her enter the room.  His drink
sat accusingly on the bar before him, a testament to his own fear and
trepidation.  His hands shook a bit as he raised the glass to his
lips.  

Damn her! Why did she have to show up here, now?  And with HIM?  Good
gods, wasn't it enough that she had left him without a word of
explanation?  Now she shows up in town with this man to torment him. 

He'd heard the rumors, the beautiful woman with the soft lisping
accent, the blonde-bombshell on the arm of the famous agitator.  Try
as he might to appear the ruthless mercenary, he had a begrudging
respect for the man.  No one had challenged the usurping regime in
quite the same way her consort had. 

Did she know?  Did she even know where she was, who owned this illicit
watering hole in the back of beyond?  He watched her reflection in the
mirror over the bar.  The man seated her, and for an instant the light
caught a swirl of cigarette smoke above her head and he could imagine
it was steam obscuring her trim, linen-suited form.  

He lowered his face, and took another sip.  He felt himself get hard
as he remembered. 	

She was not so much shy as inexperienced, and her reactions to his
touch seemed to surprise and delight her.  She accepted everything
with a joyful willingness.  He remembered her body wet and slippery in
the shower, steam rising around them as his hands slipped over her
breasts.  The water pounded them as she wrapped her arms around his
neck and pressed her soapy thighs against his.  Her belly was warm
against his rod.

Those days were over, gone like the slip of paper he'd received at the
station from the hands of his servant.  "I cannot go with you.  I
cannot be with you. Goodbye." The gavel came down on his heart, and he
felt the nullifying quash on his emotions.  

The glass was empty.  He stared at it, blinking, eyes aching and dry.
He rubbed them with his thumb and first finger. 

 Why was she here?  Why was she in the company of a man wanted by the
goose-stepping overlords?  Was she here to immolate herself to his
cause? He could not help them.  He was watched himself. He heard a
soft voice speak his name, and turned.  She stood there, her face soft
and questioning.  

"I said hello, Sam."
"Hello, Ilsa.  What brings you to my little gin-joint?"

Hammon Wry
Who else here loves the legend that is Casablanca?

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