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Subject: {ASSM} [wedding] rp Expanding Julie's Sexual Horizons (MF oral anal toys voy <*>) {Father Ignatius}
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<1st attachment, "Expanding Julie's Sexual Horizons.txt" begin>

Expanding Julie's Sexual Horizons (MF oral anal toys voy <*>)
by Father Ignatius 
FatherIgnatius@ananzi.co.za
Original (C) September 2000


My friend Jim is a shit-stirrer who doesn't know when to keep his mouth
shut. When I first introduced him to Julie he made some witty little
comment to me under his breath about "Mud-wrestlers always did do it for
you, didn't they?" Julie has excellent hearing, so it wasn't far enough
under his breath. She didn't let on, though. With a completely neutral
expression on her Victorian porcelain-doll face, she made as if to shake
hands with him. When he put his hand in hers, she dislocated his thumb. I
found this both scary and a major turn-on.

Okay, Julie's a meaty girl. She won a lot of swimming trophies at school
and anchored the freestyle relay team. She has big, full, swimmer's
shoulders; a broad, firm swimmer's back and her narrow waist flares out to
wide, womanly hips and muscular buttocks above long, powerful legs.

And she has large, business-like breasts. She characteristically wears a
sports top as well as a bra to give them extra support. They get most
distractingly--and not only for her--in the way when she's working on a
drawing board. "Thank God for CAD stations," she says, through her curved
Cupid's-bow mouth. I said she looks like a Victorian porcelain doll, and
she does--complete with brown, old-fashioned bangs, a snub nose, and laser-
like, icy-blue eyes that might have been made of glass. Eyes like that
make a man want to do things for a woman. That and not getting his thumbs
dislocated. When she walks into a room, people notice. I was completely
infatuated.


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

The first time we had sex I discovered she wasn't shy to tell me what she
wanted. We spent Saturday afternoon together and were fooling around on
the sofa after dinner. I had unbuttoned her shirt, revealing her ample
frontage, and was kissing her neck and the upper slopes of her breasts.
When I started tickling their under-sides, she came to a decision and
stood up, lifting me to my feet. She shrugged her shirt onto the floor,
took me by the hand and, reaching up behind her back to unhook her bra as
she walked, led me into my bedroom. She dropped the bra on the floor and,
turning to me, pulled me onto her front as she lay back on the bed.

I burrowed like a happy puppy into her abundance and, in the following
ecstatic minutes, worked my way from her glorious mouth down to her navel
and below. Rubicon time. Thinking prudently of my thumbs, I edged the
waistband of her tracksuit trousers down a cautious, gentlemanly half-inch
and licked politely. I felt the firm fingers of her firm hand close round
the top of my skull. She pushed my face down her belly and ground it into
her. She lifted her buttocks off the bed. I straightened up to draw the
trousers down to her thighs and she lifted her feet off the bed to let me
pull them off entirely.

I bent down again to business, to her pale yellow lacy panties that half-
revealed the whorls of brown pubic hair pressed back behind that dainty
barrier. The hand appeared on top of my skull again, and I felt my nose
pressed firmly into service. We started by going slowly side to side.
Then--after a sudden, sharp gasp from Julie--we went more gently up and down
for a while. Finally, the team worked out, by experiment, to a little
circular motion one way round for my face and the other for her pelvis,
making her breathe deep and fast while I cautiously breathed through my
mouth.

Abruptly, she caught her breath, lifted my face from her and again lifted
her buttocks from the bed. I pulled the stained, soaking panties down her
legs, leaving a trail of moisture down one thigh, past her ankles and
heels, and tossed them aside. I bent again to her crotch but she grunted,
"Mm-mm," closed her legs, took my cheeks and jaw in her two hands, and
pulled my face up to hers. My eager cock, straining inside my jeans,
ploughed the furrow between her thighs until the tip butted into her curls
while she pulled off my tee shirt.

I felt her hands push in between us, beneath my belly. Her fingers slipped
under the waistband of my jeans and met inside my underpants on either
side of my frantic, imprisoned cock. I felt her thumbs undoing the single
metal waist-button and then her thumbs clamped her fingers through the
cloth. She brutally ripped my zip open by yanking apart the fabric on
either side and she pulled my underpants and jeans down around my thighs.
My cock flopped eagerly out and burrowed into her crotch. I felt her
thighs open under mine, felt her belly muscles contract under mine. Her
pelvis swivelled and her hands, under my buttocks, pushed me firmly into
her. "In," she said. I did it.

Her thighs gripped my pelvis and she set the brutal rhythm she wanted.
"Harder," she grunted, teeth clenched. I did it. I gripped her shoulders,
swung back, swung forward and thrust hard into her. She pushed me back and
together we swung me forward again. I reverted to wild, uncontrolled,
back-to-teenager thrusting, revelling in the honey feel of my cock
sweeping roughly back and forth up her toned, gripping cunt, rushing and
tumbling towards a hasty, inelegant, glorious, animal explosion of
pleasure.

That zip was never quite the same again. I replaced the jeans and learned
to get them off quickly myself when she got that look in her eye. But we
always did much the same thing, in missionary position. Eventually,
keeping my thumbs carefully out of harm's way, I plucked up the courage to
make an elaborately casual remark about expanding her sexual horizons. She
didn't say anything but looked thoughtful and uncharacteristically uneasy.
I should have been uneasy too.


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

My casual remark had been catalytic, I discovered the next time I went to
her flat in Green Point to collect her for movies. I rang the bell a few
times without getting any response. I eventually delivered a brisk, last-
try rat-a-tat on the doorknocker. The door swung violently open and there
stood Julie. She was naked except for stereotype-teenage-fantasy black
fishnet stockings, a stereotype-teenage-fantasy suspender belt and
stereotype-teenage-fantasy strappy, red high-heels. I could only gape.

"Don't just stand there!" she snapped. "Do you want the whole
neighbourhood to see me like this?"

Her hand shot out. Two powerful fingers dug into the waistband of my jeans
behind my belt-buckle and she yanked. I disappeared, pubis first and still
gaping, into her doorway like... like... Well, not a cork into a bottle.
But you know what I mean. The door slammed behind me.

The whole neighbourhood, at my guess, would have been just fascinated to
see her. While I carried on with the gaping, my cock got into the business
of reacting to Julie's movie-going outfit. Her fingertips noticed my
response and she smiled fondly and cupped her other hand under my balls,
encouraging further action unlikely to lead to the movies. This made me
nervous, as she doesn't do fond smiling. She was acting a little bit off
in other ways, too. She gave me a sweet, sweet smile--the first on
record--and a deliciously memorable kiss, gentle as cigarette smoke. She
usually kissed me as if she was attacking grapefruit. I noticed when she
did it that we stood exactly eye-to-eye because of the high-heels.

She smelled nice, not of perfume--which she didn't wear--but of something
fruitily familiar and half-remembered, redolent of cosy comfort, like your
mother's home cooking when you're nine years old and never not hungry.
Blood transfer was affecting my thinking and I made the mistake of pushing
this minor mystery to the back of my mind.

She backed down the passage into the living room, pulling me by my belt-
buckle and, well, my balls. By the time we got there, my cock was once
more trying to get out of my trousers. Mere movies, I hoped and prayed,
were off the agenda. She yanked the end of my belt out of the buckle and
got down to dragging my nether clothing off.

"Shoes off," she said. I did it, standing on the back of one with the toe
of the other foot and wrenching my feet clear, the way it freaked my
mother out when I did it on her budget as a child. My jeans and pants were
shackling me by the time I was barefoot and I stumbled out of them hastily
as Julie pulled my tee shirt over my head. There was another whiff of the
familiar, elusive odour. In no time, I was bare as a babe with my eager
cock questing hungrily around, dragging me behind, in the direction of
Julie. "Eager-beaver," said that little, irreverent internal voice that
got me into such trouble before I learned not to let it out of my mouth.
Hey, where'd she go?

She hadn't gone anywhere. She had turned her back on me to bend forward
over the back of the armchair, gripping the arms in her hands, hair
flopping down and obscuring her face. The high-heels lifted her just to
the right height to allow her to do this, and her lower belly nestled into
the crumpling antimacassar.

"I've been thinking about what you said about expanding my sexual
horizons," she said, in a slightly muffled voice. I leered at the marble
roundness of her buttocks, the dark anal cleft, the suggestion of an anal
opening, the glimpse of labia, the roughness of brown hair; the long,
strong legs held straight and plunging into the whore-sandals. "Start at
the left."

Left? Left what? There was a startling array of objects on the table next
to the armchair. A can of Crisco, courteously opened, standing on a
housewifely Kleenex. A thin, round bridge pencil. A regular, hexagonal,
wooden pencil, red-and-black Stędtler HB. A quadrangular ballpoint pen,
slightly thicker. A tiny little dildo--pre-pubescent, I guess. I didn't
know they came that small. A trainer dildo? Then a somewhat larger dildo,
a gap, and finally, a notably large dildo. "To dream the impossible
dream," hummed the internal voice, half to itself. And, finally, a whole
box of Kleenex. All in a row, ends all lined up, equally spaced (except
for the gap) in textbook anal-retentive fashion.

Anal-retentive? In a flash, I realised that the gap was where my own cock
fitted into the series and understood what Julie expected of me. She was
mysteriously patient and quiet. Looking back on it, that should have made
me nervous, too. As it was, the bit I was thinking with was straining with
renewed excitement and my brain only caught up much later. I dipped the
toothpick into the Crisco, twiddling it in my fingers to get it thoroughly
coated and bent to those wonderfully round, firm buttocks.

I eased them apart with thumb and forefinger. They tensed and resisted. I
felt Julie's effort of will that relaxed them and allowed me to part them,
revealing the puckered little rosebud of her ass-hole. I blew gently on it
and watched it pull in and then relax like a sea anemone when a diver
swims past. A warning growl from the front of the armchair hastened me
forward to my duty.

I slowly introduced the toothpick a careful half-inch into her anus. It
was too small for her to resist. I twiddled it. A little gasp floating
round the side of the chair. I transferred it from anus to Kleenex,
generously Crisco'd-up the thin, round bridge pencil and pushed its
hemispherical end into the trying-not-to-resist rosebud. Twiddling it did
nothing--it was too round-- so I moved on up to the hexagonal Stędtler. This
time, twiddling produced a squeal and Julie's full hips writhed around on
the back of the chair. Her knees bent for a fraction of a second and then
resolutely straightened again.

The quadrangular ballpoint pen was an even greater success.

It was dildo time. The trainer dildo took much more encouragement to go in
than the writing implements had needed. Once it was in it, though, was
obviously doing a much better job. I experimented for the first time with
a back-and-forth motion. I had to put a hand on Julie's back to steady her
but she writhed around so distractingly that I decided to skip the next
dildo and get into action myself. I straightened and pressed my straining
cock against the rosebud, holding her by the hips. She tensed and I felt
the buttocks clamp closely and forbiddingly round the top of my cock.
Encouraged, I pushed harder but, with a flicker of annoyance, she clamped
harder. I'll bet you didn't know buttocks could clamp with a flicker of
annoyance. Well, they can.

"Crisco," growled Julie. Ah, yes. I did it, my cock luxuriating in the
lubricated touch of my fingers and palms. This time, I pressed firmly and
patiently. Eventually the relaxation came and I was able to force my cock
slowly in. The tight band of her sphincter dragged down my cock until it
firmly clamped the very root. Eyes closed, head flung back, naked toes
sliding slightly on the carpet, Crisco'd fingers slipping as I grasped her
hips, I strained to get one more millimetre further inside her.


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

At this point, I later worked out, she must have fallen asleep. The
intensely pleasurable enclosing sensation around the base of my cock
transformed into a painful and much more powerful grip.

"Ow! Ease up!" I said.

No response.

"Please?"

"Please! Julie! You're hurting me!"

No response. A gentle snore--yes, by God, a snore!--drifted around the
armchair. And there I stood, trapped. Lust drained away but the blood in
my cock didn't; it had no way to get out. As the minutes ticked by, it
seemed to me that my trapped cock grew within her and pleasurable tingling
gave way to painful throbbing. Julie gave a little grunt and made a
turning-over-in-bed motion. For the sake of my yet-to-be-conceived
children I grabbed her firmly, Crisco-slippery, and held her onto the top
of the chair. The hideous force of the clamping band eased for a brief
moment but, before I could react, clamped down again double hard. She slid
further forward and raised me helplessly to tiptoe. I started to sweat. I
grabbed the chair either side of her hips, heedless of Crisco marking the
fabric, grateful for the greater friction to hold her steady.

"Julie! Julie! Wake up!" I prodded her butt frantically. Not a hope. She
was completely unconscious, drugged almost. How could this be?

I braced my knees and pulled, trying to walk backwards on toe-tip. No
change. I tried harder, recklessly throwing my torso back to get a bit of
momentum. Ow! Don't try that again. I pulled back as hard as I could
without jerking. The chair slid back across the carpet, loaded legs
digging into the pile. Great.

I put the heels of my hands on the back of the chair and pushed back,
doing vertical press-ups on the chair-back. Nothing. Nada. I tried harder.
Julie slid a little bit over the chair, back to her original position.
This was progress; I could get my heels onto the floor again. With a
little sigh, she slipped back again, remorselessly pulling me to tiptoe
once more. Damn and blast.

I looked about for inspiration and caught sight of myself reflected in the
living room's picture window that used to look out over Table Bay. I
looked ridiculous: obscured (mercifully) from pubis down by Julie and the
chair, I stood teetering with arms thrown back for balance and looking
worried. I looked exactly what I was--a man with his cock trapped up the
butt of a slumbering Juno. Well, at least things can't get any worse, I
thought, as I reflected on the tragicomedy.

At that point, things got worse. My gaze travelled through my reflection
and focussed on the newer block of flats that is the reason Julie's flat
doesn't look out over Table Bay any more. And there, on the external
walkway and gazing slack-jawed into Julie's front window, stood a family
of up-country tourists from Gauteng. They'd caught sight of us on their
way from the lifts to the kitchen door of their hired holiday home. On the
other side, it looks out over Table Bay but, right now, they were finding
me a lot better value than the view they'd paid for. "Vanderbijlpark can't
offer anything like this," you could hear them thinking. Well, I should
bloody well hope it can't.

As I watched, aghast, the mother indignantly chivvied the under-age
daughter through the kitchen door, followed her in and banged the door
virtuously. The father and the near-grown-up son continued to be rivetted,
with idiot grins pasted over the front of their moron heads. After the
briefest possible interval, the net curtain of a bedroom window flicked
aside and the wide-eyed daughter returned unimpeded to her gaping. The
mother, for her part, materialised discreetly in the kitchen, thin-lipped
with self-righteous, wouldn't-miss-it-for-the-world disapproval. Her
Gauteng neighbours were certainly going to get chapter and verse on life
in the decadent Cape when she got back home.

And every second that passed, my poor captured cock got more and more and
more painful. I was trying not to think about huskies in Alaska gnawing
off their legs to escape bear-traps when Julie snorted, raised herself up
on her arms and looked about her, dazed. She obviously had no clue where
she was.

"Julie! For God's sake...!"

She didn't seem to hear me. But, at least, she stood up. My heels greeted
the floor again, with affection.

"Julie! Hey, Julie!"

No dice. She shook her head, as if to clear the sound of dream voices, and
obviously regretted it.

"Ooooh, shit," she said and, gripping her head in her hands, strode off
down the passage to her bedroom. She walked in such a way, I have to tell
you, that I formed the opinion that she'd completely forgotten she was
wearing unaccustomed high-heels. And me. And me? Guess where I went?
Yelping in pain and in horrible anticipation of pain, I had an instant
crash course on how to march in lockstep with stumbling stiletto heels.
All in all, I did well: I only got a stiletto heel--driven by the full
weight of this mysteriously groggy, stumbling hefty woman--onto my instep
and toes three times. At my three corresponding screams of agony, she
gasped in pain and clasped her head afresh but otherwise behaved as if I
wasn't there. Rather an insult, really, I've since thought, when I had
leisure to consider.

She dragged me into her room and, like an exhausted long-distance swimmer
who has gone out too fast too soon, she "dragged the piano" (i.e. me) into
the final lap and gratefully threw herself face down onto her bed. I was
painfully yanked with her and flipped forward as she crashed. Ow! And a
split-second later, the teeth of my upper jaw met her skull with an
explosion of blinding pain. Double, triple ow! Jesus bloody buggering
Christ! Pity my top lip was in the way.

"O, aarde!" There was a spatter of applause and a derisive cheer from
outside the window. When I could again open my tear-spurting eyes I dimly
saw the Gauteng contingent, like good tourists, had repositioned
themselves so as to follow the next act of our little improvised street
theatre. The daughter was now in the next bedroom, the mother was in the
bedroom the daughter just vacated and the two men had moved along the
balcony. They rested their elbows on the parapet, hands hanging, watching
the afternoon's entertainment as placidly as if it were a circus act on
television. I hadn't much control over my life at that point but, at
least, I could thwart them. I reached over to the bedside table to snap
off the light and saw on it a near-empty bottle of sherry. I pressed the
switch and a cheated chorus of "Aaaaaaah!" floated over from the next
building as the room went dark.

That sherry on the bedside table--she'd won it in a raffle. Didn't drink
the stuff. It had been standing around unopened for months. At last, I
identified the elusive odour Julie was putting out: Bertram's Extra Dry
Sherry. Julie, normally abstemious, had most of a pint of sherry in her.
Calming herself to expand her sexual horizons, no doubt. Pity her anal
sphincter obviously wasn't calmed enough to expand. Hell, blast and double
damnation. No wonder she was out. She was going to have the mother of all
hangovers when she eventually came round. Serve her right, the bloody
bitch, I thought vengefully. Me and my big mouth. I wasn't in a position
to do much but at least I could kick myself, which I did.

The pain in my cock was now beyond unbearable, to say nothing of my other
wounds. I lay on Julie in what, normally, would have been a highly erotic
position--nothing is sexier, I believe, than firm, round buttocks nestled
into the lower belly--wondering frantically what to do. I wasn't icily calm
but eventually I thought of the shower. An icy cold shower was exactly
what we both needed, in the worst way. Particularly the innocently
slumbering Julie, I thought bitterly. It was only a matter of getting
there. I lay there contemplating a variety of bizarre ninja manoeuvres to
achieve this. Eventually I realised that it was a choice of carrying this
Juno into the shower or dying of blood loss--merciful, merciful blood
loss--following the regrettable explosion of my cock.

If I could slide her gently half-off the bed, get her knees on the floor,
I could get enough leverage to lift her and all would be well--relatively
well, anyway. If she slid past to the point of no return, though, and
flopped onto the floor then I might as well be nailed to the floor by my
scrotum until dead.

I pulled experimentally. Ow, ow, bloody ow. That wasn't going to work. I
rolled her to one side, got one arm around her waist, rolled back, pushed
up with the other arm and, in exquisite agony, anti-humped her--you should
pardon the expression--slowly backwards towards the edge of the bed. She
slumberingly resisted every inch of the way while I sobbed and swore and
gritted my teeth. When her knees went over the edge of the mattress, she
suddenly went of her own accord. My fingernails clawed at the bedclothes
like a cat being Velcroed off the sofa. I was desperate to stop her before
she pinned me to the floor for the rest of my short, unnatural life.
Stiletto-stamped toes shrieking in protest, I stopped her at the last
moment. I took a deep breath and uttered a brief prayer (for God to have a
sense of humour). I braced myself on my wounded feet and, clasping her
with both arms, humped her--this time you need not pardon the expression--to
the door of the shower. God, she was a weight.

The bathroom door faced the window and, as we reeled through from the
darkened bedroom, my shoulder struck a light switch. A fluorescent light
flickered horrifyingly to life. A crow of delight and some spontaneous
applause indicated that we were silhouetted for the further entertainment
of the Gauteng Fan Club. I was beyond caring now. I staggered grimly
forward on my very last reserves of strength and lifted Julie triumphantly
over the sill of the shower cubicle. God--who does, it turns out, have a
sense of humour--arranged for her heels to catch and over we went, twisting
as we fell. Always the gentleman, I broke her fall with my body, smashing
my head gallantly on the tiled wall in the process. Appreciative whistling
came from the balcony opposite.

When the flashes of light behind my eyelids eventually flickered out, I
fought to roll Julie over on her front. As she hung from my poor, abused
cock, I kneeled and wrenched the cold tap with all the force I could
muster. Freezing, stinging water deluged us both. Julie screamed angrily
and threw her head back. My lower lip paid the price this time and got
between my teeth and her skull.

"Fuck!" she screamed, not knowing where she was.

"Fuck!" I mumbled resentfully, clasping my abused face.

She realised fast enough that someone naked was lying on her nakedness,
though, and briskly smashed her elbows backward at me. The anal sphincter
crushed me tighter than ever and I felt ribs crack before I could grab her
arms.

"Jesus, Julie, it's me! Relax! Stop!"

She swung her head round as far as it would go and recognised me. She
didn't seem to take it as good news.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she screamed.

"I'm expanding your fucking sexual horizons, you dizzy bitch. Now let me
go."

"Let you go?" I saw her on her face the reflection of her physical
stocktaking. Sexual horizons?

"Oh." She blushed, for the first time on record.

"Do it, dammit. Let me go. I'm dying here."

Pause

"I can't."

"You can. Bloody do it."

"I can't."

Then the bloody woman started to giggle helplessly. I was about to get her
attention by the famous hangman's-noose-executed-with-soap-on-a-rope trick
when, at least, the giggling allowed her to relax and the horrible
clamping eased up. This time I didn't wait but wrenched myself free,
sobbing with relief. My cock was unrecognisably huge, shaped and coloured
like an aubergine. I lay and cried while the cold water beat down on my
distressed manhood.

"Oh, God," said Julie, "I feel sick." And she vomited copiously onto the
shower floor. The sweet, sick smell of half-digested sherry chokingly
billowed out through the shower stall.

"Ag, sies!" cried the peanut gallery, fascinated and affronted.

Time and water eventually helped. Julie, staggering to stand and see
straight, tried to be solicitous but spoiled it by giggling and the turned
worm drove her away with harsh words.

Much, much later I got dressed again. My cracked ribs hurt damnably,
putting on my underpants was exquisitely painful--but marginally better
than the prospect of zipping my cock if I didn't--and I couldn't get my
damaged feet into my shoes.

Julie tried to get me to stay but I wanted to get medical attention for my
skull, my teeth, my ribs and my feet. Driving was horribly painful but not
as hard to bear as the appreciative whistling and applause I got from the
Gautengers as I limped across the car park. They playfully tossed me a can
of Castle lager, as a sort of street-theatre tip, I suppose.
Unfortunately, I was looking shamefacedly down, not up at my third-floor
tormentors, didn't see it coming and did not attempt to catch it. It
ricocheted off the bonnet of my new BMW and cracked the windscreen.

"Ag, kak! Sorry, hey, man," came a Gauteng voice, followed--not a moment
too soon--by the sounds of hurried withdrawal.


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

And yes, when the doctor saw my other wounds, he suspected I'd been
mugged. He suspiciously insisted that I strip completely. And yes, he then
insisted on a full and complete explanation of my swollen, plum-coloured,
sorry-for-itself penis. And yes, he then failed in his manful struggle not
to roll around on the floor laughing. He nearly made it but made the
mistake of catching the nursing sister's eye and then they were both off.
They kept snorting and trying to say, "I'm sorry" and then giggling off
again while I stared patiently at the wall, praying unsuccessfully for the
ground to open up under me.

The news spread through the hospital like wildfire. I was escorted off the
premises by a goggle-eyed escort of wheel-chaired and ambulant patients
and every member of staff who could find an excuse for walking,
whispering, behind me--about a hundred per cent of them, I judged.


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

The zip on those jeans was never the same again, either. And, if I ever
get another erection ever again (and I'm not betting on it) and it isn't
exquisitely painful (and I don't believe it won't be) there'll be no more
expanding of sexual horizons. It's the missionary position for me,
preferably with someone the size of Allie McBeal. And I'm never eating
aubergine again either.


_________________________________________________________________________

I would be pleased to hear from you, at FatherIgnatius@ananzi.co.za, about
whether or not you liked this story, and why.

   Thanks to DrSpin for the editing, advice and encouragement and to Denny
for meticulous proof-reading.

   The original version of this story was written in six hours as a Write
Club duel with Jack of All Trades.  Rui Jorge was the referee.  Thanks,
Jack; thanks, Rui.  
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