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Message-ID: <44934asstr$1066893002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: anais ninja <anais_ninja@hotmail.com>
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NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 22 Oct 2003 21:39:21 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Dreamtime (Mf Ff Mb inc group caution)
Date: Thu, 23 Oct 2003 03:10:02 -0400
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Dreamtime
(Mf Ff Mb inc group caution)
 
 
(c) 2002, 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html 
 
In March 2002, I posted the first chapter of _Wanderings_, a novel
based on my childhood and early adolescence.  This was followed by
_Exile_, an account of my year spent on the streets of Boston as a
runaway and teenaged prostitute.  Now comes _Phoenix Rising_, which
details my reunion with my estranged father. 

In all three of these stories, I have drawn heavily from journals I
kept when I was younger.  It was my habit to write down my dreams each
morning, especially the more vivid ones, the dreams that seemed to hold
special significance or symbolism.  It was part of my search for
meaning in a world that seemed meaningless at the time. 

This story consists of excerpts from these three pieces, just the
dreams that I've included in _Wanderings_, _Exile_, and _Phoenix
Rising_.  As surreal as my dreams might seem at time, the difference
between these and my waking life has been one of degree, not kind. 


                             * * * 

_Wanderings_ and _Exile_ can be found here:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/wander/index.html
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/exile/index.html

_Phoenix Rising_ has not yet been posted to my web site at asstr-mirror.org
but will soon be here: 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/phoenix/index.html 

 
                             * * * 
 From _Wanderings_:


I had a bizarre dream that night.  I was back at Bradley and Helen's 
house, laying spread-eagle on a padded table in the living room, my 
arms and legs bound with silken sashes, surrounded by a crowd of 
people.  Brad was on top of me, his hard cock pumping in and out of my 
pussy, beads of sweat forming on his forehead.  When he erupted inside 
me, everyone applauded.  He pulled out of me and rotated the table so 
that all could see the semen oozing out of my slit. 
 
Then it was Del on top of me, fucking me, filling me with his seed, 
another round of applause when he finished.  Then Brad's father, his 
big cock stretching my sex as he entered me, then Ramon, his fat cock 
feeling even larger than usual.  Rob followed, inhaling a line of coke 
from between my breasts as he pounded my twat.  Then the bartender.  
Then one of the men I'd seen in the pool.  I looked past him and saw a 
line of men formed behind them, all of them waiting their turn, 
waiting to fuck me, waiting to fill me with their seed. 
 
"Where's Paco?" I cried out. 
 
Then I realized that I didn't have my diaphragm in me, and I began to 
worry that I'd get pregnant and I wouldn't know who the father was 
with all these men spurting their cum inside me. 
 
"Don't worry, dear," Julia said, stroking my hair as another man 
climbed on top of me, his throbbing cock disappearing between my legs. 
"We'll take care of it." 
 
I didn't know what she meant by that, and I wanted to ask her, but 
after the man came and climbed off me, Helen stepped forward and 
lowered her face to my sex, drinking from the river of semen that 
flowed from my pussy.  Then she stepped aside and Julia took over, her 
tongue scooping the sperm into her mouth, her hands on my breasts, her 
eyes looking into mine. 
 
And then I woke up and felt a tongue inside me and hands on my 
breasts.  I looked down into Julia's eyes, and she stopped licking me 
and smiled. 


                            * * *

 
I always had strange dreams, even before my mother was killed.  That 
night I dreamed that I was back in the hotel in Boston, the Ritz-
Carlton, laying naked in the big comfortable bed.  I wasn't alone.  
Julia was with me, as was my mother, and they were naked, too.  They 
were both holding me, cradling me in their arms, petting me and cooing 
over me as if I were a newborn baby.  Margaret, the little girl from 
the sex shop was there, sitting in a chair facing the bed, dressed 
only in her little white cotton panties with the cartoon character 
print.  She smiled at me as her fingers slipped beneath the waistband 
of her panties. 
 
And then Ramon was kneeling between my legs.  I looked down and saw 
two penises hanging between his legs, a pair of thick, hard cocks 
pointing at my sex.  He penetrated my sex with one, my bottom with the 
other, and when he leaned over to kiss me, there was a third penis 
where his tongue should have been, not a fat cock like the ones 
between his legs, but a smooth little boycock like Paco's.  I sucked 
it as his hips began to move... 
 
"Papi!"  His name was on my lips as I bolted upright in bed, wide 
awake.  The sun was up and the birds were singing in the trees.  My 
heart was pounding as I glanced at the clock.  It was just past six. 


                            * * *

 From _Exile_:


I had been dreaming about Julia.  We were making love in her garden, 
sipping white wine as we kissed and caressed, a gentle summer breeze
our only garment.  Her roses were in bloom, and the fragrance was like
a drug, the petals so soft, the buds so pliant.


                            * * *


That night I dreamed that I was in the cathedral, lying naked on the 
red-carpeted altar.  Father Ken stood over me in a purple and white 
cassock, sprinkling some sort of liquid on me from a silver chalice, a 
sticky white fluid that pooled on my belly.  The boys from the shelter 
were all there, dressed as altar boys in white robes trimmed with gold 
fringe.  Father Steve was there as well, holding a silver plate with a 
pile of little round wafers on it.  He knelt next to me and placed a 
wafer between my labia, all the while murmuring something in Latin.

Then the boys, lined up in order of height, walked over to where I was 
laying.  Chris was the first in line, his rosy cheeks free of tears,
his unruly mop of blond hair neatly combed away from his cute face.  He
knelt between my legs and bent down, pulling the wafer from my lips
with his teeth before standing up and taking a seat in the front row of
pews.  Father Steve, still kneeling next to me, replaced the wafer with
a fresh one.  The edges were rough and felt scratchy against my clit as
he slipped it into my pussy, leaving just enough exposed so that the
next boy could grab it with his teeth, just like Chris had done.

When all of the boys had partaken of their wafers, Father Ken loosened 
his cassock.  He was naked underneath, and his cock looked bigger than 
ever.  He knelt between my legs and entered me.  Then Father Steve 
slipped a cushion behind my neck, tilting my head back.  I could see 
that his cassock was open as well, revealing his stubby cock and 
pendulous balls.  I knew my part in this ritual, as if it had been 
rehearsed many times, and I opened my mouth to accept his penis.

As the two priests began to fill me with their hard meat, the boys, now
naked, filed up from their pew and surrounded us, reaching for my body 
with their hands, guiding my own hands to their eager young cocks.  A 
couple of the younger boys squirmed to the center of the circle and 
began rubbing their stiff peckers on my thighs, humping me while Father
Ken and Father Steve took their pleasure in my mouth and pussy.  The
two priests looked upon their young charges with smiles of approval.

Suddenly I was awake.  It was still dark outside.  Images from my dream
began to fray like an old sweater, but something lingered, something 
real, the feeling of something rubbing me through the slippery satin of
the chemise.  Chris, who was still asleep, had his legs wrapped around 
my thigh.  His jockey shorts had slipped down around his knees and he 
was unconsciously humping my thigh with his little stiffy.  I wondered 
if he was having the same dream as mine.  I gently rolled him on his 
back.


                            * * *



That night I had the strangest dream.  We were on Ramon's boat, Megan 
and I, just the two of us, drifting in the middle of the ocean.  It was
sunny, but the waves were enormous, towering over the fishing boat and 
tossing it up and down.  We were huddled in the forward cabin, where
Del and Paco slept, listening to the waves crest and splash against the
hull.  The boat reeked of diesel fuel and rotting fish, but somehow I 
wasn't sick, despite the heavy seas.

We were wet, our clothes were soaked, and I was helping Megan out of
her dress and underwear, drying her off with a towel that bore a Ritz-
Carlton monogram.  Then it was my turn to undress.  I was wearing my 
long peasant skirt and the wet fabric clung to my legs.  After I
stepped out of the wet clothes, I pulled off my panties and looked
down: I had a penis.  It was small and smooth like Billy's boycock,
devoid of hair.  I looked back up at Megan, who was lying on the
cushioned bunk.  She spread her legs and looked up at me with an
expression of anticipation, a strange lust in her eyes.

Without a word between us, I lay on top of her and we began to kiss,
not the motherly kisses I'd given her before, but passionate kisses,
intense kisses, lovers' kisses.  Megan looked down between her legs and
then back up at me and she nodded.  I pressed my hips forward, feeling
my dream cock press into her folds, inside her, through her cherry. 
Megan winced slightly as I tore through her hymen and then she smiled
again and started sucking her thumb.  I began to thrust.



                            * * *


Megan was lying on Father Ken's desk, naked except for the frilly 
ruffled panties that held her ankles together.  Father Ken stood by her
head, Mr. O'Hare at her feet, both of them holding her down,
restraining her squirming body.  I was sitting in one of the chairs, an
unwilling observer.

As is often the case with dreams, I wanted to scream but I couldn't, I 
wanted to run away, but I couldn't, I wanted to close my eyes, but my 
eyelids were made of glass and I couldn't look away.  I sat there, 
paralyzed, as Mr. O'Hare took his thick club of a cock and pressed it 
against Megan's puffy lips, pushing, pushing, pushing his way inside.  
As Megan began to bleed, dark red fluid gushing from her slit, she 
looked at me, her eyes pleading for me to do something, anything.  She 
opened her mouth to say something but Father Ken stuffed it full of 
cock.  Her cheek bulged and she twisted her head back and forth, trying
to dislodge the invading member.  Then Mr. O'Hare pulled his bloody
cock out of her ruined cunny and he and Father Ken flipped her over on
her tummy.  O'Hare pressed his cock against her tush, trying to shove
his enormous member into her tight little bottom.

That's when Megan screamed.

That's when I woke up.


                            * * *


 From _Phoenix Rising_


We were flying in my dream, in the bomber from "Dr. Strangelove". 
Robby was at a radar console, calling out the range of incoming
missiles.  I was on the floor of the cockpit, holding on for dear life
as the plane jinked and banked between mountains, dodging missiles that
looked like rocket-propelled telephone poles.  Major Kong was at the
controls, and he turned his head and barked an order to me,
incomprehensible words, a jargon I couldn't understand.  Somehow, I
knew what I had to do. 
 
I was in the bomb bay of the airplane, kicking at the clamshell doors, 
climbing on top of the nuclear weapon and reaching for a severed wire, 
brilliant blue sparks flying past my head.  I could smell the acrid 
stench of burning hair from where the sparks landed on my shoulders, 
barely able to reach the two parts of the wire and twist the ends 
together. 
 
And then I was falling, falling, falling, my legs clamped around the 
bomb, dropping towards the tundra below.  I clung to the weapon, and 
suddenly the cold white-painted metal became skin, bumps and veins and 
follicles, warm and soft and hard at the same time.  I opened my mouth 
to scream... 


                            * * *


It was a strange dream, precisely because it wasn't strange at all. 
Its logic wasn't inconsistent with the waking world.  My surroundings
were unfamiliar, but only until I remembered where I was, Dana's
bedroom, Phoenix, night. 
 
My father stood over our beds.  His pants were down, his cock was out, 
and he was stroking himself, a look of lust and hunger in his eyes. 
The sheet that had covered my body had been pulled down, and my chemise
was bunched up around my waist.  I looked over at Dana's bed: she was 
asleep, but her nightie had been lifted over her slim hips and her legs
were spread. 
 
"Daddy?" I whispered.  Even stranger.  In some of my dreams I wasn't 
able to speak, unable to scream if I had to. 
 
"Shhhh...," he said.  "It's just a dream." 
 
"It's not a dream," I said.  "My dreams are weirder than this." 
 
"Shhhh...," he repeated.  "Go to sleep."  I was groggy, and I started
to close my eyes, but I heard him gasp and hold something white over
the tip of his penis.  He wiped himself off with it and dropped it on
the floor before leaving.  I wanted to get up, to see what that white
object was, but I was too tired.  I closed my eyes and the dream faded
into nothingness. 


                            * * *


I dreamed about Daddy.  He was giving me a bath, just like he used to 
do, except I wasn't three years old anymore.  Just as in my memory from
a dozen years earlier, he was naked and wrapping my fingers around his 
erection.  This time, however, I knew what to do. 
 
And then we were on a bed, in a room that resembled the one at the Ritz
in which Julia and I had stayed, that first time she'd taken me to 
Boston.  I was laying on my back, my father stretched out on top of me.
 I looked down and saw that I was wearing a wedding gown, puffy
sleeves, a low cut bodice, voluminous skirts of organza and crinoline
bunched up around my waist.  My pretty white lace panties were pulled
aside and my father's hard cock was pressing against my sex.  He
grunted as he entered me, and I felt a sharp stabbing pain as he tore
through my hymen. 
 
There was blood, so much blood, flowing out of me, staining my lovely 
white dress, the bed, his penis.  My vision faded to crimson, wine,
then black. 
 
And then I woke up. 


                            * * *


"Sweet dreams," he'd said, my father's words echoing in my mind.  Sweet
indeed, though my dreams were as bizarre as always.  I was in the
dining room of this house, lying naked on the table, atop a delicate
lace tablecloth.  Someone was holding my wrists and ankles, not a tight
grip, a gentle one, just enough to keep me open for someone.  I looked
around, left and right, up and down, trying to see who was restraining
me. 
 
And there was Julia, and Helen, and Mia.  And my mother.  Each one had
a wrist or an ankle, all of them beaming down at me, smiling as if this
was a special occasion, a special day.  There were candles lit on the 
side board, and a cake, and tall flutes of champagne.  Then I saw my 
father. 
 
He was wearing a long red silk robe, edged in black, tied with a black 
sash, some strange embroidered crest on the breast in gold thread, a 
dragon or snake.  He opened the robe and stood between my open legs.  I
looked down and saw his cock begin to rise. 
 
My father's penis was huge, enormous, like the idealized members in a 
Japanese woodcut, as thick as his thigh and bulging with veins and
folds of skin, the head flaring to an almost sharp edge.  I wondered
how I would be able to take him, and I began to panic.  He was too big;
he'd tear me in half with his hardness.  He pressed his massive organ
against my cleft, and I tried to cry out, to tell him to stop, but I
couldn't utter a sound. 
 
"Don't worry, baby," my mother cooed, tenderly caressing my cheek.  "It
won't hurt.  Trust me." 
 
My father began to enter me, and I tried to cry "Mommy...", but the
pain I expected to feel was absent, replaced by an intense wave of
pleasure as his giant cock began to fill me.  I looked down and saw my
tummy begin to bulge, swelling up as my father plunged his member into
my cleft.  As he started to pull back, I saw that the swelling in my
belly wasn't going down.  Instead, it began to fill, taking on the
shape of an egg. 
 
I'm going to have a baby, I thought.  This is the reason for my special
day.  My Daddy's going to put a baby in me.  That's why everyone is 
here, to watch, to help. 
 
"You look beautiful, darling," Julia said, stroking my arm as she held 
my wrist.  I wanted to thank her, to tell her how much I loved her, but
I still couldn't speak.  Then I wondered how I could be pregnant in the
first place.  My father hadn't put his seed into me yet.  Could it be 
someone else's?  Perhaps Ramon, or Bradley, Mr. Sheffield, Mr. 
Antonelli, or even Father Ken.  I looked around for them, but there was
just the six of us here, six seats at the table, six glasses of 
champagne, six plates of angel food cake. 
 
And then my father came, a tremendous gusher, filling me, his hot fluid
 oozing out of me.  Mia let go of my ankle and collected the semen that
dripped from my pussy in a stainless steel bowl.  I could hear each 
individual drip go "ping...ping...ping..." against the metal.  My
father pulled out of me and then a steady stream of cum began to pour
out of my sex.  Mia collected it all in the bowl and then held it in
front of me.  I felt my mother and Julia let go of my arms and help me
sit up on the table.  I took the bowl from Mia and sipped.  It was
thin, watery, like the fluid that had spurted from Schultzie's cock
when he was humping Dana.  I sipped some more, swallowing the bitter
liquid, and then I handed the bowl back to Mia.  She took a sip and was
handing it to Helen when I woke up. 


                            * * *


If it had been all a dream, then I was having a dream inside a dream 
now.  I was in the clubhouse locker room again, wearing just the
ruffled tennis panties that Mia had lent me.  There was the sound of
running water coming from the shower, and steam drifted out of there,
wafting over the rows of lockers.  I stepped into the tiled room,
seeing a couple of figures in the fog, one standing, one on his knees. 
I quietly approached, trying to make out their faces. 
 
It was Jean-Paul, standing under the rushing water while David knelt at
his feet, sucking the tennis pro's glistening cock.  I watched, unable 
to speak at first, but somehow I found my voice, unlike most of my 
dreams where I was rendered mute. 
 
"No, you mustn't," I cried out.  "David, no!"  He looked at me and 
smiled, Jean-Paul's hard meat stuffed in his mouth, making his cheek 
bulge. 
 
"He is mine, Anne," Jean-Paul said. 
 
"No, David," I said, rushing to his side, pulling him back from the 
man's groin.  I took Jean-Paul in my mouth instead, licking and sucking
his long veiny shaft, but he began to wilt. 
 
Then we were in the locker room, David lying on one of the benches, his
legs spread, his hard cock bobbing above his crotch.  Jean-Paul was 
behind me, pulling down the tennis panties.  I looked down and saw that
I had a penis, thick like my father's and fully erect.  I squatted over
the bench and pressed it against David's ass, entering him as he
reached up for my breasts. 
 
"Now you are complete," Jean-Paul whispered in my ear.  I could feel
the tip of his cock pushing against my bottom, filling me as I slid
into my stepbrother's tight hole.  He began to thrust, each stroke
pushing me deeper inside of David, as if Jean-Paul was using me, my
body, my cock, to fuck my stepbrother.  I could feel my pleasure
rising, but it was different, not the gradual approach I was used to,
but a quick sensation, not as intense but pleasant all the same.  And
then I was coming inside David's bottom, feeling my semen flow through
my cock, the strangest sensation of all. 
 
And then I woke up. 


                            * * *


It was rare for me to recall my dreams after smoking pot the night 
before, but this one I did remember, vividly.  Maybe it was the
cocaine, maybe it was everything that had happened that day. 
 
I was with Krystle, and we were in a big, brightly lit room, like a 
gymnasium, a high ceiling above us, dozens of bright lights beaming
down on us.  I was lying on top of her, face up, and she had her hands
on my breasts, her thighs between mine, holding me open the way she'd
done during that afternoon tryst with my father, at the model home at 
Corazon.  She was inside me, too, in my bottom, and it felt hard, like
a strap-on, except I could feel her throbbing with every beat of her 
heart. 
 
And then my field of vision expanded, the way it sometimes does when 
you're just waking up, just becoming aware of the world beyond your
soft pillow and warm blankets.  I could see the rest of the room, clear
plastic sheets covering the whole floor, all the way to the white-
painted cinder block walls. 
 
We were surrounded by men, naked men, strange men, faces I'd never seen
before, at least a hundred of them.  Krystle released one of my breasts
and reached down between my legs, spreading my lips, rolling my clit 
between her fingers, exposing me to all of these men.  As if on cue, 
they began to urinate, aiming their steaming streams of piss at my
slit, wetting me, making me moan and writhe on top of Krystle's soft
breasts.  When one man was done, another would take his place, and the
urine began to pool around us, collecting in the folds of the plastic
tarpaulins. 
 
Then the piss became a thick white fluid, more like heavy cream than 
semen, great streams of liquid that clung to our skin, covering us.  
Krystle kept manipulating my button with her fingers, and I felt 
ashamed, that I didn't want these strange men to see me in the throes
of an orgasm, but I couldn't help myself.  She cooed in my ear, telling
me to let myself go, and I did, feeling a tremendous climax take hold
of my senses.  The white fluid began to rise, a flood of milky liquid
that rose past the men's ankles, and I began to worry that we might
drown. 


                            * * *


I was riding a horse through the rust-colored wasteland, a stallion, a 
mottled palomino.  No reins, no saddle, nothing between me and the 
horse's scratchy hide but a fringed red loincloth cut from some
animal's tanned and dyed skin.  The movement of my mount's muscles
reminded me of something sexual, but I couldn't quite place what it
was.  As in most of my dreams, that feeling of uncertainty would stick
to the back of my mind like a burr.  I held on to the horse's neck as
we galloped between boulders and brush, the hills a blur as we moved
swiftly through the desert, the warm wind caressing my bare breasts. 
 
We arrived at a place I'd never seen before, yet it seemed familiar all
the same, a rock-strewn box canyon with steep sides.  The horse slowed 
to a walk as we picked our way around the rubble, and then he stopped
of his own accord, at a place where the canyon walls were dotted with
caves and grottos.  As he ducked his head to chew on some weedy grasses
that grew on the canyon floor, I dismounted, patting his flanks,
feeling the warmth that radiated from under his skin. 
 
There was the smell of a cooking fire coming from somewhere nearby.  I 
sniffed at the air and followed it, my stomach rumbling as if I hadn't 
eaten in days.  Then I spotted the smoke, wafting from one of the
caves, a black hole about thirty feet up from the canyon floor.  There
was no path up there, just a rocky outcropping below the cave mouth.  I
began to climb up the rocks, trying to find a foothold in the crumbling
stone, sharp edges scratching my hands and feet.  I felt a wetness
between my toes, my own blood, but I kept climbing until I reached the
cave. 
 
He sat behind the fire, just beyond the reach of the shadows.  His eyes
were closed until he heard me approach, and then he looked up at me, 
holding his arm out and motioning for me to sit down on a woolen
blanket across from him.  We sat there, only the crackling of the fire
breaking the silence.  He had the high cheekbones of a Native-American,
but his wrinkled skin and long hair were a delicate shade of white,
almost translucent.  I thought he might be a ghost, but his eyes were
as red as the glowing embers.  An albino. 
 
"Katsinme na'am hoomay aw hikwsut pu'aq," he said in a low, droning 
voice.  "Katsinme homna'angwu."  He reached into a pouch tied to his 
belt and poured a fistful of yellow cornmeal into the fire. 
 
"Pay katsinam piw yep itawuy taawiy aq hikwsuntiwisa." 
 
As he uttered a language I'd never heard before, two figures emerged 
from the shadows, two women, their skin the color of the hills, dressed
in dark blue woolen cloaks.  They flanked the pale man, squatting next
to him as he spoke. 
 
"Pangso hak ahoy nimangwu," he said.  "I'hakiy qatungwu'ata." 
 
I felt this must be some sort of ritual, sacred words, and I bowed my 
head in reverence, seeing for the first time that my blonde hair was
now black, thick, with bangs cut low on my forehead. 
 
"Niqa apiynipa hik'wsi aniwtiqaa." 
 
One of the women stood up and came over to me, handing me an ear of 
corn, perfect, unblemished.  She returned to the fire, stirring 
something in the pot that was suspended over the flames. 
 
"Pam hapi sutsep qatungwu."  The old man threw another handful of 
cornmeal into the fire.  It crackled, sending a cloud of smoke and 
orange sparks up to the roof of the cave. 
 
Now the other woman stood up, tying a string of turquoise beads and 
animal teeth around my neck.  I looked up at her and saw that she had 
the sharp features of a man.  She smiled, revealing some missing teeth,
reaching out to gently caress my cheek.  Then she returned to the pale 
man's side, sitting cross-legged on a folded blanket.  There was
silence again. 
 
"You bring the rain," he said.  I heard drops begin to fall outside the
cave, the sound of distant thunder. 
 
"Yes, Makya," I replied.  I knew his name, and I didn't know how I
knew.  I just did. 
 
"I show you this, so you will know," Makya said, reaching into another 
pouch tied around his waist, sprinkling a copper-colored powder into
the fire.  There was another gout of sparks, green and blue this time,
and I saw a room in my mind's eye, a bed, a carpeted floor, the body of
a young man.  I couldn't see his face, but there was something familiar
about him, a memory of someone I'd known, though I couldn't remember 
exactly who it was. 
 
"Who?" I pleaded.  "Who is he?" 
 
"He weighs on your heart," Makya said. 
 
"Tell me who," I cried.  "When?  Where?" 
 
"There is no when," he said.  "There is only now."  The woman who had 
handed me the ear of corn got up and stirred the cooking pot again, and
then she ladled some of the contents into a gourd and handed it to me, 
along with a spoon carved from old silvery wood.  Despite all the 
questions I'd had, the answers I needed, I was ravenously hungry, and I
began to wolf down the food.  It was a savory stew of beans, chunks of 
squash, kernels of corn, and some gamy, stringy meat.  I used my
fingers to scoop the last morsels from the gourd and looked up again,
intending to ask for more.  But there was no one there.  They'd
disappeared, leaving me alone with the fire. 
 
And then I was riding again, clinging to the horse's wet hide, the rain
falling in big drops that turned the sandy floor of the canyon into a 
muddy quagmire.  There was a flash of lightning and a second later a 
booming peal of thunder, and then I heard it, a wall of water, a flash 
flood pouring through the box canyon, coming closer, gaining ground on 
us.  I spurred the horse on with my heels, urging him to gallop faster,
to outrun the deluge behind us. 


                            * * *
 
(c) 2002, 2003  Anais Ninja  anais_ninja@hotmail.com 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/anais_ninja/index.html

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