index


Message-ID: <42644asstr$1053983403@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
NNTP-Posting-Date: Mon, 26 May 2003 07:38:43 -0500
From: Rachael Ross <rache18us@yahoo.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Subject: {ASSM} Rachael in the Key of F (rache18us@yahoo.com) M/F, Romance, Slow
Date: Mon, 26 May 2003 17:10:03 -0400
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

Disclaimer. This is a story about writing a story. They're both true
really. One minimalist, the other romanticized. This story may be
reposted in part or whole with props given to me, Rachael Ross,
without commercialization - Don't make money from it. Intended for old
people, not young people. Minors should be protected at all costs.
Look around and see what happens when we fail.

Written in Seattle 2001

***Warning: There is a snuff fantasy sequence in this story***
(but noone really dies)

--------------------------------------

An evening with Paul
by Rachael


Friday night and everything is quiet. Wrapped in a towel and feeling
nice, warm all over. Paul is in the kitchen, Daddy's in Montreal, and
I'm right here. Looking through things I've done, smiling sometimes,
frowning a little, but enjoying the memories.

================================================================================

Rachael in the Key of F
by Rachael

Hell isn't a bad place to be. Not really, it's not even a place at all
is it? Only the absence of heaven. And even that's not so bad, unless
you've actually seen heaven. It's that awareness that's torturous.
Like a desperate yearning that will never be satisfied. The knowing.
The evil unforgiving knowing. That's what's bad.

================================================================================

"What'cha doin?" Paul's behind me, rubbing a cold glass of ice tea on
my bare shoulder. It makes me jump, not only because its cold and
unexpected, but also that I didn't know he was there. He likes to
sneak up on me I think.

"Just looking at some stuff, I feel like writing." I take the glass
and set it on my little desk. This isn't my room, it's community
property, but Daddy doesn't use it too much. I'm a little spoiled.

"Really?" Now his hands are on my shoulders, massaging me. "Rachael in
the Key of F? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Doesn't mean anything." I tilt my head all the way back, as far as it
will go between his arms, his hands on my shoulders, looking up at
him. "Its just words I like. I'll find a place for it"

He slides his hands down to the towel, down to my breasts. I put mine
on top of his and together we squeeze me through the rough-soft
paradox of my towel.

"You should have left the rings in your nipples." He looks down at me
and smiles. "The holes have probably closed up already."

"I was worried about my doc."

"Yeah, well, it's a free country, right?" He leans down to kiss me;
it's a nice weird kiss, upside down and facing opposite directions.
His tongue fills my mouth and I suck at it.

"Yeah, free country." I sigh and we're kissing again until finally I
have to breathe. "That's enough! I really want to write something,
just go and sit down or something, watch TV."

"I'd rather watch you!" Another smile and I pull his hands away from
my body. But I don't really want to. I sip my tea while he gets a
chair and slides it over.

"What are you doing?" I ask, a little annoyed, a little amused.

"I'm gonna watch you. Maybe I can help?"

"Yeah, I don't think so. Just don't say anything okay?"

"Gee whiz! Okay!" A little pout, pretending to be hurt. I laugh and
it's all okay. I start typing, just letting it flow out, forgetting
he's there until I feel his hand on my bare thigh.

================================================================================

And so here I am, riding bus number 666. Hell has mass transit, it's
so crowded. And the music never stops, even on the bus. Not harps like
in heaven. Oh no! Down here it's bagpipes. An endless dirge of
Scottish sorrow that seeps into your soul until it vibrates. After a
little while you don't hear it so much, but on the bus it's loud and
clear. It makes normal speech impossible; the people only stare at
each other with narrow eyes and cracked lips, judging. An old man is
watching me, wondering what I might have done to deserve this.
Wondering if I'm the reason he's here; everyone is innocent in hell.
Today, now, for that withered old man I am his excuse. He's sure of
it. I've seen that look before, he will comfort himself with it, cloak
himself in my guilt.

For others, for myself, we look out the window. Watching as people
shuffle back and forth. Passing us and being passed on our seemingly
endless journey. Oh, it stops eventually. The doors will open for me
at the top of the next hill. I'll have to pass the old man and he'll
want to reach for me, to kill me for making him suffer so. But he
won't. He'll keep his old gnarled hands in his empty pockets clutching
at the blackness. Another person, a woman older than me, stares at
him. She has the look. Like she might scream, trying to be heard and
understood and somehow forgiven. Some people scream all the time and
some people never. I wonder why I didn't notice her before; she's old
enough to be my mother. I hate her. I shouldn't be here and now I
can't tear my eyes away from this woman.

The bus stops and doors open with a blast of hot air. The bagpipes dim
mercifully and everyone's shoulders fall a little, a collective sigh.
I keep watching the woman, knowing it's her fault. All of this only
created for her. I have forgotten the old man; I think I should grab
her as I pass. Rip her to her feet and scream "she's the one!!" but I
cannot. I keep my hands in my empty pockets and trudge by. The voice
in my head commands me to move and so I do. Leaving the bus behind.

================================================================================

"Do you really think you're in hell? Bagpipes?" That makes him laugh
out loud and I do too. But I move his hand away, putting it on his
lap.

"Yeah, bagpipes! I was thinking of you!" Paul puts his hand back on my
thigh, but I don't mind. I start typing again, trying to recall
memories and feelings. All this has been in my head for a month and
tonight I want to get it out.

================================================================================

There are birds in hell. Sparrows, crows, robins. Even geese high
above, their calls lost to the pipes. The birds watch, they sit on the
thin branches of dead trees and clean their wings and flutter off
unexpectedly. But most of all they watch. I've heard they are the
souls of children unborn. It seems cruel to me and I hate the people
who say that. I walk past their uneven stare, afraid to look.
Sometimes I'll feel their eyes on my back, staring into me, and I'll
turn suddenly and clap my hands. When they fly off I'll smile and say
they're only birds after all.

The sidewalk is gray and stained dark by the shadows of passing
moments. I look down and see my own shadow, turning gray to dark and
dark to black. Eclipsing time, if only for a second. Sometimes a
shadow is all I have to remind me I still am. That I still exist and
breathe and move and think.

There are places, terrible horrible places, where the din of despair
is such that everyone must cover their ears and close their eyes. I
have bitten my tongue in such a place, deeply if only to feel the pain
and taste the blood and find something to distract. I am coming to a
place like that. I can see sometimes the shallow furrows of the heels
which have been dragged across the soft green grass, the last remnants
of a victim unwilling. Those people are the true martyrs, spoken of
not at all. But I am willing, I give myself to this place, a sacrifice
pleasing unto God that I may one day leave hell. There is no certainty
and many have called me a fool for even thinking such a thing. What
has God to do with this? The human condition is proof enough of the
absence, so they say. But I say the human condition is only proof of
humanity.

================================================================================

Paul's hand moves inside, touching the very soft pale skin. He pushes
my legs a little wider and I just keep typing. He has a story of his
own he's trying to write. I feel the soft touch on my sex, near the
top where my clit hides. He's trying to make her stir and it's
working.

"I like that sidewalk thing, kind of..." He leans close to my ear as a
finger slides along my slit. "...Poetic." He kisses my ear and takes
my earlobe in his teeth, pulling it and nibbling until I have to pull
it away.

"Stop that! Behave or you'll sleep on the couch!" But my voice has a
small quail in it, a warble which means I like it. I want more. Paul
put his lips to my neck and sucks gently, working harder and harder to
give me a hickey. It's not an unpleasant feeling and his finger is
deep inside me. Making me squirm as I try to type, faster and faster,
to get the words out while there is time.

================================================================================

A smile for the woman. Nice and calm we are, but I can feel the
vibrations stirring in my soul. Humming endless. She sits behind her
desk protected by it, nothing can pass, and no madness dares intrude
on the reason of her being. Hell is full of bureaucrats. They are the
organizers of our demise. I stand there wanting to rip her throat out
but my hands do not move. As much as I will it they cannot. This place
now is a prison, confining me to observe but I'll remember, oh yes.
Later, when I am alone I'll record these many thoughts, as I have
always done and so understand it. But for now, I smile and say hello.

I have to wait, the impossible task. Sometimes a picture is painted of
torturous and meaningless mind-boggling tasks to be performed over and
over by the residents of this place. But it is not so. It is waiting
that is the punishment. Sitting in a room of clean pastels, pictures
of flowers and rolling seas. Gentle thoughts to cloud our minds, but
always it's the wait. I tap my foot, faster and faster, my knee is
rising in a pyroxis of nervous energy. Another person, a man, waiting
like me, can't help but watch. He gives me an apologetic smile, as if
it's his fault that my leg won't stop. He flips the pages of a
magazine with no words. Only pictures of butterflies, dead on film.
Caught forever as they moved from flower to flower.

The nurse. So kind and friendly. She is here calling my name. Outside
it would be a screech and I would bash my skull to make her stop, but
in this place it's cool and comforting. I am known, I am called.
Walking down the hall, peach and cream and bright. Into a room and on
the table. I have to undress while she watches, but I don't care
anymore. This woman knows all the secrets of my body; there is nothing
I could hide. Nothing I would hide. Blood pressure, weight, a cold
stethoscope, a tap on my knee, a new cut. Two thin lines of crusted
blood above my belly button. She notes them with clinical precision.
Laceration, 2 inches, mid-sternum, horizontal...Laceration, 3 inches,
mid-sternum, vertical.  "What was this honey?" Razor blade. She clucks
her tongue. But not too much, it's been a good week; I made the sign
of the cross.

================================================================================

Paul's chin is resting on my shoulder, reading as I type. Catching up
with me. He's stroking my sex softly, making me want to purr. I move
my knees in and out, squeezing and releasing his trapped hand.

"How come they don't lock you up? Doing that to yourself, don't they
care or what?" He cares, but he knows me as well as anyone. Which is
to say not at all. I decide to type the answer, a note from the
editor.

================================================================================

(You may wonder, because sometimes people do, why I could cut myself
with a razor blade? No, wait. That's not the complete question is it?
How could I do that thing and not be locked away? Held in restraints?
The danger to my person apparent without apology, I walk around
freely. I will tell you the secret. Hell is too full. There isn't
enough room for us all anymore. It's psychological triage with a
hidden line between freedom and imprisonment. If I had that same scar
on my wrist, I would not be telling you this now. If they were any
deeper, any less superficial, I would be a very sick person. As it is,
my little thin red lines are a merely a curiosity, an accidental plea
for help. My doctor will decide whether or not to displace someone who
is truly a danger to society, with me, just an anxious would-be. - R)

================================================================================

I turn and look at Paul. Neither of us says anything, I've already
told him what happened this week and why we're not playing. Time to
show your love. He kisses me and says "I bet you kick ass on crossword
puzzles." Perfect.

================================================================================

My favorite part. She puts on her gloves and gets her stick. I like
the yellow ball today and I squeeze it when she tells me, feeling the
rubber around my arm. Two little vacuum tubes of red. The color of
life. Not green, who says green is the color of life? They don't know
the truth. She pushes a ball of cotton on the pinprick, puts her stick
in a red box called sharps. She tapes me and hands me a collector and
some handy wipes. Into the bathroom I go, exposing myself, pulling my
labia apart. Cleaning and voiding and cleaning again. The mechanics of
confession. THC? Positive, as always. But nothing else. I know the
result already, she should just ask. But then I might lie and waste
all this money. 

Question time. Another favorite. She's a polygraph machine, this
woman. Not a fake one, no wires or buttons or funny lines tracking up
and down the valleys of fear. No, she is the real thing. Always a
challenge, I have to be sharp, I have to be a stick.

I feel downhearted, blue and sad...How true! "No"

"Rachael? That's no way to start honey." Why does she ask if she knows
the answers? You fill it out, I say and she laughs. I hate that laugh,
because it's genuine. She likes me and I want to hate her.
 
Morning is when I feel the best...."No"
     
I have crying spells or feel like it..."Yes"

And so it goes, down the list. Not always the same list, there are 4
different ones. I know them all by heart and my answers change only
rarely. All the way until...

I feel that others would be better off if I were dead...."No"....We're
on that list!

"Are you sure honey?" and I know I caught her today. I want to leap up
and dance like a caveman who killed a saber tooth tiger. I smile and I
tell her I'm sure and she doesn't believe me. But it's the truth.
Inside I know, they asked the wrong question. I feel that I would be
better off dead...Oh Yes. But I only ask and answer to myself. I have
no fear of that one. I love that question. It gives me victory.

And finally, meds check. I dig out my bottles. Everything I take is in
a pill and it comes from a list of cans and cant's. What I've brought
are on my can list. Prozac, Desryl, Vitamin C, Bayer Aspirin. It's
show and tell, sometimes she wants to count the pills, today she
doesn't. I pack them all back into my purse and we're done. She puts
her arm around me, giving me a little hug. She'll see me next week, a
promise that can't be broken. No more cuts she says, I'm too pretty
for that. I think my cut is beautiful, but I don't say it. She has a
nice smile.

================================================================================

"Let me see your cuts." He says, pulling his hand away from my growing
wetness. Paul undoes the towel at my back and unwinds it slowly.

"You can't see them anymore, I think. They were just scratches." I'm
naked, sitting there. My nipples hard and goose bumps on my skin. My
legs are spread and the warm pink of my sex glistens.

"Where was it?"

"Here, like this." I point to the place, there's nothing there." Paul
kisses my stomach, just above my belly button, around my pointing
finger. And then he takes my finger into his mouth, sucking on it.
He's moving my chair, turning me to face him.

"Oh no, please...Let me finish this, okay?"

Another petulant look up at me and a final kiss. "I'm gonna have a
smoke, come on...take a break."

I'm not so sure, but he pulls me to my feet. I need to stretch a
little. I grab the towel and wrap it around me again, following him
into the kitchen and out to the patio. It's a clear warm night and I
sit in a chair, pulling my legs up. Paul gets his cigarettes off the
breakfast table and something else.

It's still light enough outside not to turn on the lights. Paul sits
down in front of me, on the red brick tiles, he has a knife. A sharp
little paring knife and he hands it to me. "Show me."

No one can possibly see us, but I look around anyway before moving my
legs and unwrapping the towel. I stretch my legs out, straightening my
body and I press my left hand flat against my tummy, pulling down. I
look at Paul as he sits there smoking and cut myself, a thin red line,
straight and narrow left to right.

I'm holding my breath as blood seeps out, it's beautiful in the
twilight, not even really red anymore, almost black. I don't look at
him; I have to do it now. Another incision, just cutting the skin from
top to bottom, a straight line to complete my cross. The pain is
hardly felt; it's nothing for me. This is a visual experience, seeing
the knife and watching it move.

Paul smokes his cigarette while I masturbate with one hand and rub the
new wetness across my body with the other. I wish it would bleed more;
I'd cover myself with it if I could. But I dare not cut myself deeper.
I am cumming before Paul has even finished his smoke. It's a private
show and he knows better than to try and touch me. This is my thing.
When I finish it's as if I've returned from someplace else, it almost
surprises me to see him.

I wrap the towel around myself again, staining it. I wash my hands in
the sink and bring a wet hand between my legs, washing myself there in
the kitchen with one foot on the counter. Paul watches me.

================================================================================

Into Room 101. Do you know what's in Room 101, Winston? Everyone
knows. It's the worst thing in the world. When I was 14 I read 1984. I
took my magic marker and I crossed it out and I wrote 1996 on the
cover. The very first sentence said the clock struck 13 and so I knew
something was wrong. Right from the beginning. I fell in love with
Winston, I imagined myself as Julia and I called myself that for a
week. Never answering to anything else, signing all my homework Julia.
I put a note on my Daddy's bedroom door. It said Room 101 and when he
took it down I made another one. It said Ministry of Love. And when he
spanked me for it I called the belt Winston. I made love to that belt
and after it was done I stood up and looked at my Daddy's flushed and
angry face and I told him "We are the dead."

MiniLove, that's where I am. Into Room 101 and the receptionist smiles
and holds the door for me. I have to squeeze by her, holding my breath
in case we might accidentally touch. Dr. Harmon is different, he
embraces me, wraps me in himself. Non-sexual, non-threatening, like
he's been doing it all life. It makes me feel better immediately. Even
the bagpipes stop when I'm in here. I sit in the lazy-boy. There's a
couch and another something to lay on, if I wanted to. But I like the
big overstuffed ugly chair. I pull the lever and feel myself falling.
I can close my eyes here; it's okay. I feel my whole body light and
relaxed, it is as if I've somehow found my rightful place. 

================================================================================

"Nineteen eighty four must have been a bitch for you, huh?" He asks.
"The words 'Big Brother' repeated over and over?"

I give Paul a look that says 'shut the fuck up right now.' and he
does. He looks away and apologizes to the wall. I go back to my
writing, but it's useless now. I've lost my train of thought and the
path that was so clear is gone, lost suddenly. I just sit there and
stare at the screen, fixing one or two little mistakes, searching for
the words to continue.

================================================================================

What happens in there I cannot say.

================================================================================

"Let's put your rings back in." Paul says, suddenly. A hopeful bribe
to get out of the sudden purgatory I put him in. I like it, clarity is
what I need. Pain might help me forget, even a little. My pins are in
my bag, an old purse where I keep the things I don't want anyone else
to see. They are long and beautiful, I bought them in Vancouver. In
Chinatown, they are acupuncture needles and I love them. Most of them
are very thin, almost delicate in appearance, as if I'd be afraid to
push them into my body. But several are thicker, hardier, perfect for
my nipples. They have a thin red silk ribbon around the end, so it
doesn't hurt to push them in. Or maybe it's only there to just make
them look nice.

Paul does it for me, as he did before. Carefully, slowly. This time he
kisses at the blood, tasting me. I hold my breath, but this pain is
nothing. I ache for more, but I can't have it. We both understand. 

I'm wearing my pearls now, gold hoops through my nipples. I won't take
them off now, I'll show them to the nurse and to anyone else. They are
mine a part of me now. I'm back at my computer and Paul is outside
smoking. I'll just end it here, I think. Just like this, it's enough.

================================================================================

Dr. Harmon hugs me again when I leave. He smells like Old Spice. He
puts his hands on my shoulders and looks at me. Exacting promises. I
speak the words and I mean them, but we both know my promises are
worthless. I forget things, quickly, easily, conveniently. No more
razors. He makes it sound so easy, so reasonable. And in this room it
is; it's an unbearable sanity. Like heaven. I'd almost forgotten that
hell was even out there. But when he opens the door I can hear the
pipes, filling me with that terrible knowing. I am the same,
unchanged. Unworthy. I have to leave, but he understands my reluctance
and doesn't push. But the invitation to stay is like a vapor, ethereal
and imagined. I look through the doorway and I'm afraid, trembling. I
close my eyes and move my feet. And now you know the worst thing in
the world: The sudden knowing that when I enter this place, I'm not
entering Room 101; I'm leaving it. And now I have to go back.

The end
Rache18us@yahoo.com

================================================================================

Paul has returned. "Ended it pretty fast there, didn't you?"

"It happens, some stories end happily, some sadly, and some...Not at
all." I look at him, surprised I'm crying a little. I kiss him and
it's okay, I'm just glad it's done. It was choking inside me, but how
could I explain that?

"Why don't you tell me one now?" Paul asks. He's undressing, slowly.
Removing his shirt and then his pants while I watch.

"Hmmm....Did I ever tell you the story of the 'Full Monty'?" I laugh
and he just shakes his head.

"I couldn't understand what those guys were saying." Paul's penis is
hard; he's stroking it for me. Pulling my hand so that we're together,
kissing. I can feel his hands around me and we move to the floor. He
sits and lays and pulls me so we're lying together on the thick soft
carpet. My back against his chest, his face in my hair. "Tell me
Rache, a little bedtime story for me."

I lift my leg and feel him moving his hardness with his hand, rubbing
the head across my sex. I lay there, impatiently waiting. I want to be
filled.

"Downstairs, in the basement where the house is unfinished..." His
cockhead spreads my labia finally and he pushes slowly inside.
"...There are rafters, thick beams of wood crossing the ceiling high
above our heads."

"Mmmmm..." Paul murmurs, moving his hips slowly, letting me get used
to him.

"You've tied my hands, like before, behind my back. And gagged me with
my panties and tape. I'm naked as you put the....Ohhhh..." His cock
fills me completely and I feel my vagina tightly around him, gripping
him, letting him slide only reluctantly through my growing wetness.

"You're naked, beautiful...waiting..." Paul whispers and fingers move
to pull the ring in my breast, tugging it and I feel the small sharp
pain.

"Yesss...Naked and you put a noose around my neck, tossing the rope
across the beam above me...Ahhhhh...You pull it, pull it tightly and I
feel it stretching my neck, stretching my back and legs, lifting me
and I can't breathe..."

Paul squeezes my breast hard, shoving himself inside with long slow
strokes, enjoying it. The simple pleasure of just making love. My hips
are moving of their own accord, I'm powerless to stop it. The feeling
and the vision of describing my own best fantasy are going to be too
much too soon. I bite my lip and twist my head to kiss him.

He pulls my tongue in his mouth, and then fills mine with his. My
right leg is crooked over his thigh, pressing my foot against him,
urging him to fuck me harder, deeper, faster. I'm cumming, a rush of
pleasant heat and Paul breathes my deep moans as he holds me trapped
to his lips.

As it passes I try to continue. "You're stretching me, lifting me to
my tip-toes, my chin up, staring at the rope above me. I can't see you
anymore, but I can still breath, barely...Uhhhhmmm..." Moving so that
I'm on top of him, rolling him onto his back. My palms on Paul's chest
as I move my body against him, not so much up and down as it is in a
nice smooth circle. 

I look down at him and feel his hands on my ass, guiding me as he
pushes into me gently. "I'm hanging...helpless and you tie the rope
off, my legs ache with the strain of standing like that, keeping
myself alive for you. I feel the first sting of your whip, a sharp
caress of fire and it nearly knocks me free, my toes slipping. You
whip me hard, the crack of the whip across my ass and thighs."

"Ohhh yes Rache..." Paul leans up to kiss the tops of my breasts for a
moment and I lean forward, trying to get my sore nipples against his
mouth. His cock springs free of my pussy and I reach back to fit him
once again inside. The wetness is hot and sticky and I lick it from my
palm.

"My body shakes, quivers as you strike me, my nipples harden and my
breath becomes short, ragged and filled with muffled screams cut off
as the rope burns into my neck. Lines of fire criss-cross my ass,
welts and bruises and blood flows while you torment me with your whip.
Talking to me...What are you saying? I can't hear it...Only the blood
rushing in my head, my heartbeat pounding in my ears...ohhhhhhh...What
are you saying to me...Paul?...Ahhhhhh!"

I'm jamming myself against him, impaling myself on his cock over and
over, I'm cumming again, a better one, roaring through me and crushing
me...My eyes are shut and I collapse on Paul's chest. His cock still
hard, still buried inside my body."

"I tell you how beautiful you are, bound and whipped...helpless and
writhing on the end of your rope...Mmmmmmm...Your long neck stretched
so I can see your heartbeat pushing at the skin, the streaks of blood
spilling down your legs..."

I hold that image in my head as I learn to breath again. Paul has
stopped moving and only when he feels my body start does he begin
pushing and pulling with the rhythm of passion. I've barely caught my
breath, plunging on, gasping as I whisper.

"You approach me, holding the whip, coiling it. I can barely stay
awake, how do I stay on my toes? My legs are gone, useless. The pain
is a brightness that obliterates me, like falling into the sun. My
body burns and I can only writhe in the flames...."

"Mmmm....You're a poet Rache..." Paul is starting to fuck me harder,
holding my hips and driving into me. I hold myself, or try to, making
only small movements. I want to concentrate on the vision inside, I
want to hold it and see it complete before my body's need steals it
away.

"You push the handle of your whip between my legs, spearing me with it
and I can only moan, my body too weak to twist or turn or even stand.
I sink and the rope tightens, strangling me while you stroke your whip
in and out of my body. The wetness of my pussy runs down the hard
black handle, across your fist...Mmmmm....Ohhhhh!"

Paul is digging his fingers into my body, into my narrow hips ramming
himself into me from below. My tits bounce slightly, the shifting
weight feels so nice. I grip the small gold rings in my fingers and
pull them, pulling my nipples out and up as I rode his driving cock. I
am close to cumming again and so is he, I straighten my back and push
my ass against him, letting him guide me with his hands.

"Ohhhhh...." I'm moaning, thrashing on his wonderful hardness as it
swelled inside me. "I'm hanging....My face burning my tongue
thickening pushing through my blue lips as you...Fuuuuck
meeee!...yesss....Pushing the whip into me, jamming it hard... making
me cum as my lungs strain for life...I'm...OHHHH!! GOD! I'm
dying...Pauuul!!"

And then I fall, collapsing on his strong body as his cock fucks deep
into my womb, flooding me with his sperm, mixing with me. We are one
being, locked together and he holds me, his arms around my back, his
hands on my shoulders. My mouth finds his and I moan into him as the
warmth of his seed spreads through me. Everything else is forgotten
and there is no more story I could tell.

The end.

-- 
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>      |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+