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From: Vivian Darkbloom <vdkblm-OBLITERATE-SPAM!-@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Cinema Sin (Mgg)
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Date: Fri, 22 Jul 2005 16:10:02 -0400
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                                Cinema Sin

                          by Vivian Darkbloom

   It was one of those unpredictable, tormenting delays,
   finger-drumming irritation behind half-reflecting
   sunglass-screens in the sweltering sauna of summer, the sticky
   sweatfulness of global warming that fanned to a white ember the
   single eye of the sun glaring down from the zenith, watching the
   guzzling humvees huffing and puffing by on the cement city street
   ugly with buglike shiny vehicles spewing heat and fumes into the
   atmosphere, while standing in line at the drugstore awaiting the
   cashier's attention to complete the purchase of mouthwash, held
   up by the insufferably inept fumbling of a dumpy middle-aged
   woman with angry dark circles under her eyes as she rummaged for
   a dogeared checkbook with which to pay for her cigarettes and
   tabloid, across from the sweet sycophantic beautifully adorned
   teen girl in braces behind the counter, who patiently waited with
   no complaint.

   Yet, minus the delay, I might never have met Ozzia. For it was
   the exact timing of arrival that determined my position in line
   immediately behind the group of girls she was with, and the
   chance glance in impatience and anticipation of blindingly
   splashed summer escapism in the cool darkness of the theatrical
   mindlessness that caused her to turn, smiling, and say "Hi."

   It caught me by surprise, the simple word. It blew apart my
   reverie, severing my solitude with the sonic insertion of a
   simple syllable, forced me to remember that others existed apart
   from me, and in particular a very beautiful other standing in
   line in front of me, slender in her tenderness of time, breasts
   yet unformed on her young skinny torso clad in white Bob Marley
   T-shirt and draped with shiny Mardi-Gras beads, grinning with the
   carefree glee of youth as the threads of our lives briefly
   connected.

   "Hi," I said back. Her grin widened even further at my response.
   "What are you seeing?" impulsively I blurted, immediately
   regretting my forwardness.

   "Spy kids," she replied. Her friends glanced askance at our
   unconventional conversing.

   "Me too," I mumbled, aiming to drop the subject before it strayed
   to the sexiness of the female lead.

   "Kewl!" she semi-spoke, semi-squealed, then turned back to her
   friends, as they exchanged a few words and chattering giggles.

   I fidgeted, bumblingly fumbling through my pockets for the
   dollars I would soon need to surrender.

   I thought our conversation was done, but she turned back and
   popped her soft, smooth innocent moist smile back into intimate
   presence inches away from mine. "They want to know if you've got
   a date?" she asked.

   Right. The perfect movie to take a date to, with a sexy
   pre-pubescent female lead any reasonable adult female would be
   sure to scorn.

   "No," I replied, then foolishly blurted "Do you?"

   "No," she said, turning back to her friends, nervous giggling now
   with a more pointed edge.

   The line moved, the gears turned, a conversation with a
   uniform-clad teen girl inside a glass box, barely audible
   responses strained by the funnel of a little speaking-hole as she
   sat lazily, nonchalantly behind her cash register and punched
   buttons on the console in front of her to spit out little pieces
   of colorful paper, and money changed hands in exchange for paper
   tokens of entertainment value with logo on front and words of
   disclaimer in tiny print on the back, which no doubt would have
   informed me (had I bothered to read them) that the theatre would
   not be responsible should someone chatter during the intense
   silence of the climactic scene, nor would they refund my
   hard-earned cash should the plot lines fail to impress or the
   dialog fall flat.

   Meanwhile, a database tallying the totals of millions-sold
   silently acknowledged the transaction, collecting statistical
   news eagerly awaited by director, producer, and CEO, to be
   gloated over or mourned the next morning from home over gleaming
   espressos while scanning the internet by robe- and slipper-clad
   rival colleagues in parallel roles.

   Glancing at the slim margin of minutes remaining before the film,
   I strode with brusque impatience to the next obstacle standing
   between me and my escapist entertainment, the queue awaiting the
   tearing of tickets by a bored teenage lad outfitted once more in
   the inevitable conductor's uniform composed of fabric somehow
   reminiscent of a sofa lining.

   At this juncture I would like to clarify point in defence of my
   innocence, namely that when, in my impatient stride I overstepped
   slightly, and gently bumped into the girl with whom I had been
   conversing, it was entirely an accident. One inclined to Freudian
   analysis might argue that the "accident" had some overtones of
   Oedipal aggression, or that some stage of obsession had not been
   fully met during my younger years, analyzing fully the oral or
   otherwise directed libidinal forces governing the dark recesses
   of subconsciousness dwelling in the deep temples of psychic
   catacombs.

   For a fraction of eternity, I felt the soft gentle curve of her
   buttocks against my upper thigh. Hastily regretting my unintended
   incursion on her personal space, I withdrew by a half a pace. She
   turned, smiling, and leaned towards me, as if the tsunami of my
   touch had unleashed an undertow in the opposite direction, and
   she had fallen into the orbit of my gravity in the microscopic
   nano-space of milliseconds, and she fell briefly brushing her
   chest against my upper arm as she emitted a charming little sigh.

   Marley's ghost gazed with Reggae pensivity under shiny beads,
   from over her untouchable and unnecessary brassiere, amid the
   sensory assault of mixed aromas of popcorn with the brassy scent
   of fresh ink on larger-than-life cardboard standups, mixed with
   the dusty smell of cheap washable nylon carpeting, which fused
   into the timelessly accidental perfume that universally triggers
   anticipation of clicking sprockets and flickering images flitting
   across the great silver screen.

   Amid that tumultuous assault, my subtle psychic sensibility
   detected faintly another element, the sweetness of her budding
   rose, a deliciously driving scent of young femininity,
   accentuated by the black underliner as she gazed, eyes moist,
   sadly smiling in my direction, oblivious of her friends'
   oblivious chattering.

   "Come sit with us," she chirped, as the tearer of tickets tore
   mine, returning the mutilated stub with a mumble of "third door
   on the left."

   Noncommittally I followed the gaggle, hurriedly making our way to
   the entrance, and hesitated once more as we plunged like rolling
   stones into the mossy artificial air-conditioned blackness of the
   already-begun trailers ahead of the main feature, in a
   split-second making the critical decision that would shape the
   future for aeons to come -- should I now part ways with this
   awkward interaction, or sheepishly follow in hopes of. . . in
   hopes of what? The whole thing was pointlessly absurd. I would
   find my own seat on the other side of the theatre, and in a few
   hours the girls would lose themselves in the mingling crowd
   swarming the exits, and that would be the bittersweet end of it.

   She glanced back to be sure I was following, and beckoned with an
   encouraging smile.

   I sat down next to her, hesitating for a moment in decision
   whether or not to leave an empty seat between us, but finally
   sitting in the seat immediately adjacent to hers.

   Eyes glued to the screen. Doors of perception connected through
   the air-tight runway tunnel of Dolby and Technicolor to universes
   of emotion and sensation controlled by bloated executives in the
   gleaming skyscrapers of Hollywood, the human being reduced the
   function of a single battery powering the dim lightbulb of
   corporate creativity.

   Like Neo in "the Matrix," I felt a tug gently unplugging me from
   the mindlessly scripted roller-coaster -- the gentle touch of a
   slender hand resting lightly on top of mine on the armrest. Was
   she unaware of our co-occupation of the shared chair-space? I sat
   still, observing.

   Thin fingers gently clasping between my own. I glanced over, and
   sensed the batting of eyelashes invisibly in the darkness.

   Intuitively, I turned over my palm facing hers, and we were
   holding hands. My heart raced. Once more I heard her sigh almost
   inaudibly.
     ____________________________________________________________

   Here was I, at the edge of a precipice, still early enough to
   turn back and forget about the whole thing, but only at the risk
   of slamming the door on a whole wondrous spectrum experience -- a
   door which, once locked, would retreat to remain forever out of
   reach.

   In the meantime we held hands. She seemed unfamiliar with
   technique, so silently, with loving gesture, I became her
   guardian angel. I instructed her with my tender caress in the
   subtle art of imparting tacit tactile messages of lust and trust.
   Trysting digits, touching fingertips, the miniscule skin-surface
   contact carrying urgent missives of longing, and silly Cinderella
   fantasies of lifelong happily ever-after, flitting imaginings of
   our bodies lost in the entwinement of absurdly mismatched but
   seamlessly united abandonment of passion, playing in deep-running
   underscore to the proscribed dramatic projections before us, as
   we let our fingers do the talking.

   Euphoria crept up from behind with the stealth of a comic-book
   superhero, a caped sensation striking unseen and overwhelming
   with giddiness while I watched my onscreen heart-throb -- Spy-kid
   Carmen -- endlessly plummeting in the manner of the Carrollian
   Alice. . . falling down, down, down . . .how deep does the rabbit
   hole go? How tiny, (the hole) yet how fulfilling would it be to
   fill it with my fullness?

   Carmen -- my heroine, my true love, my larger than life, onscreen
   preteen supermodel darkskinned beauty (and her naughty little
   evil twin robot -- ah, to think of having the two of them
   together. . .) looming gigantically projected above us, entwined
   with the fingers of my tiny true-to-life lover in the sofette
   adjacent, as flaming imaginary bodies merged and parted like
   clouds in the moonlit sky of my burning imagination.

   In the darkness I felt a moment of panic -- I tried to remember
   the face of my real-life beloved with whom I was manually
   entwined, and it was just a blur. The dreadful thought of losing
   her in the summer movie-theatre throngs caused me to grip more
   tightly the precious softness of hers, like downy feathers or a
   tiny squirming newborn dove cupped in the palm of my loving hand.

   She squeezed back, perhaps sensing my fear of loss, and pulled me
   over to her side of the armrest, so that the back of my hand now
   rested on the soft skin of her hot slender tender upper thigh.

   At this point that I noted that she was seasonably attired in
   skimpy white hot-pants. In the periphery of my vision her skin
   flamed luminescent against the darkness, pulsing with the flush
   of innocent lust, and my fingers collectively dreamed of
   wandering the few short inches up the cute little thigh now flush
   against my still and silent extremity. If her girlfriends next to
   us noticed our intimacy, they discreetly looked the other
   direction.

   As the beautiful Spanish Gypsy Carmen loomed over us, dark curly
   strands of hair wisping gently in the breeze, my love like a
   little bird leapt out to soar the skies to the sensuous tune of
   Bizet's Havanaise. Only except, in place of the fatal
   love-triangle of the famous opera, my insanely fanatic fetish
   fantasy placed me between the two beautiful vixenettes, (one
   real, the other onscreen) the two of them loving each other with
   tongues inserted between lips, me inserted in and between them.

   And rather than ending in death, we reincarnated to climax in
   countless diverse postures of multiple orgasms, re-inventing ad
   infinitum the Kama Sutra, in our own particular edition yielding
   to inflation in body-count (factoring in the onscreen evil twin
   as desired) as we drifted off into the fading sunset, living
   happily ever-after in the naked golden starlight of carefree
   summer meadows.

   She sighed yet again in the dark beside me, clasping my hand
   tighter still, skin between them now oozing with sweat, drawing
   me closer by a dangerous half-inch to the edge of her precipice,
   as the ocean waterfall cascaded over the end of the earth,
   thundering in my ears as my eagerly pounding pulse, and my
   clipper-ship sailed forward toward its unknown destiny, sails
   straining the lines as they fully puffed out with brisk fresh
   ocean breeze across still waters captain with spyglass straining
   to envision what calamity or wonder might the future bring.

   Sails straining the lines, which brought to my attention another
   member straining its bounds, brought standing to attention by the
   euphoria of petite femininity adjacent in the mossy nylon cavern
   of darkness surrounding.

   Soon the world was saved, the onscreen pop-tart did her sexy
   little dance, and credits were rolling to the customary
   contemporary exit-music beat. With the impatience of youth, her
   friends stood up to leave, and my little friend and I reluctantly
   parted our tender grasp. The sudden void of touch left orphan
   endorphins aching in its wake, she with a shy glance my way
   before she turned back to her friends.

   I discreetly wiped the sweat from my hand onto my shorts, too
   bashful to stand immediately, lest the change in posture reveal
   my outstanding response to the theatrical experience.

   "Guys, let's do mall," I heard one of the girls say.

   "'K," said my sweet-heart next to me, perking up.

   "Do mall?" I mused, thinking of mal as bad, or perhaps naughty.
   The girls were going to get naughty? Cool.

   "Come on," my sweetheart pleaded to me, leaning in close, then
   whispered in my ear: "I'll meet you at the waterfall."

   "The rainforest mall?" I asked.

   She solemnly nodded. Then I looked around and they were gone.
     ____________________________________________________________

   One of the girls in her group must have been old enough to drive,
   as the "Rainforest Mall" was a bit too far for walking to.

   As I emerged into the harsh light of summer sun reflected off of
   rough pavement, I saw families, harried-looking fathers and
   mothers being dragged along by children in inanely sloganed
   T-shirts. Normal people, nobody I knew, but people with ordinary
   lives and marriages that they loved to complain about.

   The haste of eagerness to pursue this absurd tryst made me fumble
   and drop my keys on the griddle-hot pock-marked pavement outside
   my car door. Waves of heat blasted upward as I bent over to
   retrieve the jingling metal, kicking up another layer of sticky
   sweat into my already damp clothes, melting any remaining shred
   of ambition I might have possessed into a fused a solid useless
   mass like a murky puddle of mud-brown candle-wax.

   Soon I had parked once more and was pondering the irony of the
   "Rainforest Mall." It was all done up in faux-Frank-Lloyd-Wright,
   featuring indoor atria of live plants decorated with tiny
   Christmas-tree lights and wacky stuffed rainforest animals
   (donated by one of the department stores which also featured the
   same for sale as souvenirs). The central thematic object was a
   recirculated chlorine-smelling river that ran through it, the
   headwaters of which was an enormous waterfall overlooking the
   food court, which the river ran on both sides of like a moat.

   As I sat at the foot of the falls, inhaling the atomized droplets
   chlorine and washed-off grime from the pennies tossed into the
   fountain, I gathered that I had been the more impatient of the
   two sets of travelers in arriving.

   The girls were yet nowhere in sight. Perhaps they had changed
   their mind, altered course, and bounced like mirrored silver
   pinball-machine marbles off into some other direction, with the
   fickleness young girls are known for.

   Still, it was peaceful in the wake of the artificial plashing
   sound, as I wondered how many forests had been drowned by
   hydroelectric dams needed in producing the wattage that kept this
   enormous place so cool and refreshing.

   Or how many acres rainforests had been decimated so that fat
   slovenly Sunday-afternoon shoppers could gobble their greasy
   burgers and fries at one of the fast food chains conveniently
   located here at the center of the mall.

   A thin, familiar softness embraced my hand.

   My heart skipped a few beats ahead of time, pounding so heard I
   was afraid it would drown out the gentle horrid music that
   trickled echoing through the waterfall crashing, so loud that I
   was afraid everybody in the mall, skateboarders, sales people,
   real-estate agents, janitors, all alike would stop what they were
   doing to look around and wonder what that deep resonant drumming
   was, shaking the walls, causing an earthquake.

   Then all eyes would be fixed on me, and I would stutter an
   inarticulate explanation: "I-i-it's only my heart, beating like a
   bass drum, the way hearts beat in those sappy old love songs, or
   a tale by Edgar Allen Poe."

   I looked around, and immediately her presence of perfection
   overwhelmed me, as she slid closer and our bodies made contact.
   The touch of her soft, pliant slenderness filled me with the ache
   of delicious longing. Stealing a few glances around, I determined
   that she was alone.

   Her face engraved itself into my memory, the lovely dark blonde
   curls gathered in a white headband, the Bob Marley T-shirt
   stretched across with shiny golden beads resembling pinball
   marbles, the white hot-pants, the white stockinged feet in
   sandals, something casual yet formal.

   And her beautiful unending smile, her perfect, soft smooth skin,
   glowing with ephemeral youth.

   "Where are your friends?" I murmured.

   "Oh, shopping." It wasn't important.

   The gentle warmth of her unknown beauty calmed me. Complete
   strangers, absurdly mismatched, yet it felt so natural, so right.

   "Let's go shopping!" she exclaimed, jolting upright, standing in
   front of me.

   "Shopping? I'll just follow you."

   "Come on!" she eagerly bounced, eyes alight, grabbing my hand and
   dragging me to standing.

   "Do you have a name?" I asked as I followed the simmering
   skipping steps, my ordinary pace seeming ponderous by comparison.

   "Ozzia," she turned and said.

   I made her spell it.

   "Do you have a name?" she asked.

   "No."

   "Uh huh," she argued. "Everybody has a name."

   "Not everyone," I replied.

   "Alright then, who? Who doesn't have a name?"

   "I would tell you, but I can't remember. . ."

   ". . .Remember what?" she demanded.

   "His name."

   "Silly. How could you remember it if he didn't have one in the
   first place?"

   "Pretty difficult," I agreed. "But not impossible."

   "How could you remember something when it doesn't even exist in
   the first place?"

   "You just have to concentrate really hard, like this. . ." I
   pretended to concentrate.

   "So what's your name then?"

   "I'm trying to remember."

   "What does it say on your driver's license, then?"

   "I don't know."

   "So just look at it!"

   "I forgot how to read," I said.

   "Psh. So tell me your name?"

   "Hal."

   "Really? Hal?"

   "That's it, I'm afraid."

   "Hal. . ." her face lit up. "Halleluiah!"

   "Thank you," I replied. (better than `halitosis,' though I was
   having second thoughts about the all garlic I had on my sandwich
   at lunch).

   "Like the HAL 9000," I offered.

   "What?"

   "You know, the talking computer in the movie 2001."

   "I might have seen it once at my Dad's house."

   "So how did you get a name like Ozzia?" I asked. We were entering
   a typical generic shopping-mall clothing store, and the smells
   shifted from chlorinated penny-grime to neatly pressed synthetic
   fabrics and dyes.

   "My mom's really weird. Plus she's always gone at her
   boyfriend's, so she leaves my dorky sister in charge of
   babysitting me."

   I liked the sound of that. "Do you have many brothers and
   sisters?" I asked.

   Her tone belied typical sibling annoyance. "Just one sister, as
   if that isn't enough. And she's always bringing her dorky
   highschool girlfriends to sit in our hot tub, as if she were miss
   ultra-cool super-dyke or something." She had led me over to the
   swimsuit section, and was impatiently squeaking coathangers
   around the circular rack, in search of something she found
   appealing.

   I filed a mental note to pursue this line of inquiry in a more
   private location. "Need a bathing suit?" I inquired.

   She grinned, making eye contact and winking. "Sure." She pulled
   out two or three hangers of fluorescent skimpy little string
   bikinis at random.

   A girl approached in official-looking apron. "Can I help either
   of you find anything?"

   Ozzia swiveled toward her. "Padded bras?"

   The girl smiled, as secret gears started spinning inside her
   head. "Sure thing. Right over here," as she led us to rack
   further inside the store.

   "Is Maureen working today?" asked Ozzia.

   The girl fidgeted. "Um, she's in back right now."

   "'K."

   The girl half curtsied, excusing herself. "I'll be over at the
   counter if you need me."

   When she had left, I asked, "Why padded? I like yours just the
   way they are."

   Ozzia gave me a look, pulling out a frilly black thing. "You're
   not one of those perverts, are you? The kind that likes
   flat-chested little girls?"

   I blushed. "My goodness, no. Not one of them. Those darn
   perverts!"

   She leaned in close and whispered in my ear. "Too bad. I was
   starting to think you were kinda cool."

   She leaned back and grinned, beckoning me with her eyebrows.

   I followed her to the dressing rooms in back. The counter-girl
   appeared once more. "Need any help with those?"

   "I'm fine," replied Ozzia pulling me along by the hand, "I can't
   decide, so he's going to help," she explained.

   The girl stepped back silently, with a curious glance.

   Ozzia led me to a spacious little mirrored room in back, and set
   down her things, (both her and her twins reflected all around)
   closing the door.

   As I sat down on the bench, she executed a flash disrobing, and
   by the time I leaned back was entirely naked, facing me, coming
   closer and widening her legs to straddle my lap.

   As her mossy-soft buttocks settled on my bare knees (I was
   wearing shorts) she asked: "So, which do you want me to try on
   first?"

   "Um," I couldn't help but find my eyes fastened to her bare tiny
   labia, lower lips that had been invisibly present all along, now
   visible, were now casually resting in full vivid color and sweet
   softness only inches away from my swelling desire.

   They were just kind of interesting to look at. After all, how
   often do I get to stare at such features up close?

   "Outfit," answered. "Actually, I kinda like just what you're
   wearing right now."

   The presence in the mirror of her evil twin felt real, and with
   big-brotherly love, in the multitude of mirrors, I watched her
   doppelganger, (quadroppelganger?) reflected from behind, the sexy
   twitching of her tight little buttocks as she did a little
   rock-and-roll dance in my lap, as she closed in on my heightened
   member.

   I reached up and caressed her peachy-soft cheek.

   "You don't mind garlic, I hope?" I asked.

   "Love it," she said, breathing heavily.

   I leaned forward and brushed my moistened lips against hers.

   She reacted with a foolish grin, then leaned back towards me and
   returned the favor, only more slowly, luxuriatingly.

   I held her to me with both hands feeling enormous on her tiny
   back, crushing her hot, naked body against my clothed one, as our
   tongues eagerly sought out each other, eagerly engaging in
   passionate play.

   She leaned back again, now my soaring angel, indescribably
   beautiful in the love-light that filled my eyes, burning with the
   ache of longing to complete the gesture, my pelvis involuntarily
   twitching, pressing my clothbound stiffness against her soft
   naked lips, as she responded in rhythm.

   That went on for awhile, then she leaned back again, reaching
   over to get the frilly black padded bra from the nearby
   coathanger. She put it on around her, and to be a good sport I
   helped her fasten it. (That was a challenge -- for some reason, I
   find it much easier to un-fasten. . .)

   "What do you think?" she said, picking her nose.

   "Lovely," I replied. "Still, I simply adore your breasts just as
   they are."

   "Pervert," she lovingly grinned.

   "Why, thank you."

   Suddenly there a rapping-against-glass from behind the mirror
   startled me nearly out of my skin. I heard a girl's muffled
   voice: "Ozzia, you slut. Get your tiny little butt back here this
   second. And don't forget to bring your friend."

   She smiled, leaping up. "Maureen."

   To my alarm, she leapt up and opened the dressing room door,
   half-clad as she was, and I followed her behind a curtain to
   another door, slightly ajar, held open by a darkskinned hand for
   us to pass through and close behind.

   And lo and behold, from dimly lit, tiny room we now found
   ourselves in, we could see through half-mirrored glass the very
   dressing-chamber we had recently occupied, only a few seconds
   ago.

   And there she was right in front of me, in real life --
   resembling in almost exact detail my heroine heartthrob Carmen!
   My poor heart raced yet again.

   The two girls immediately sprang together in a juicy embrace,
   kissing with nearly violent aggression. In the meantime, Ozzia's
   naked buns pressed against my fullness, rhythmically rotating
   against it. The aroma of feminine longing sprang up to fill my
   heart with craving.

   "Keeping an eye out for shoplifters?" I guessed casually, once
   they came up for air, following the example of keeping my voice
   quiet.

   "Yeah, our boss is really paranoid, so he makes one of us sit
   back here on weekends. I wish he'd just get cameras"

   "So much for civil liberties, I murmured."

   Her eyes kept wandering below my belt, until they just stayed
   there. She must have been about thirteen, breasts in the pert
   springy perfection of recent emergence.

   "What have you done to this poor man?" asked Maureen, placing her
   hand on my stiff upright.

   "Maureen likes to give head," explained Ozzia, grinning.

   "Mind if I take a look?" asked Maureen, slipping her fingers
   between my elastic waistband and the skin. The whites of her eyes
   flitted like tiny ghosts in the darkness below me.

   "Um, I guess," I replied, too stunned to think.

   Before I knew it, she had my shorts down, and was kneeling in
   front of me.

   Meanwhile, I watched through the half-mirror as two girls, both
   about twelve years old -- and each one cute as a button -- enter
   a dressing room next to the one we had been in, and begin to
   disrobe. Then they began to kiss.

   "Um," I motioned in their direction.

   Maureen shrugged. "Oh, those two. Yeah, they're in here all the
   time like that." She turned back to me, gently stroking
   underneath my testicles with loving attention.

   She reached out her tongue, and I watched the tip close in and
   make contact along my shaft, as she gently ran up and down it,
   triggering a surge of trembling longing.

   The girls in the dressing room were making out now, taking turns
   putting fingers inside the other's panties, as the one being
   stimulated tossed her head back in oblivious abandon.

   Maureen's mouth closed around my tip, and I could hear little
   smacking sounds inside her mouth as she began in earnest,
   continuing with the hand-stroking beneath.

   I let out a moan involuntarily, reaching down to hold her head,
   pull her to me.

   Ozzia watched in fascination, as I lost touch with reality. Now I
   was a monk climbing up harsh rocky precipices, making my way up
   the mountain to the temple of miracles, braving chilly breezes
   that cut like icicles through the thin fabric.

   I looked across the chasm of darkness at Ozzia, spaced out with
   rapture. "Kiss me," I whispered, reaching out to her.

   She drew closer, until her tiny naked labia were pressed gently
   against the back of Maureen's skull, vaginal fluids moistening
   the roots of her friend's luxurious curly black hair, and she
   could feel my thrusting against her, into her girlfriend's mouth.

   Ozzia leaned forward and we gently pressed lips again, she still
   adorned an that silly black frilly bra, except its silliness
   faded into erotic beauty, as did every elegant fold of her soft
   skin, as our kisses gained in passion.

   Periodically I would catch a glimpse with Orwellian delight at
   the two girls through the mirror, now both lost in passion, both
   having lost their panties, taking turns tickling clitorii with
   tongues.

   Meanwhile, the monk made his way up the steep path carved into
   the mountainside, surrounded by patches of snow. The first
   sparkle of the gleaming golden temple came into sight, nestled
   amid the formidable slopes, opening into an embrace as he drew
   closer.

   Intricate designs of tantric sculpture and inlaid sacred gold
   writings and patterns, eternal knots and twinings of signs grew
   as he approached, until he stood at the foot of the stone steps
   that led up to the enormous threshold, gaping upward in awed
   amazement at the spectacle.

   My lips and tongue once more roamed with loving sensuous longing
   the beautiful lips of my thin beloved, while my member rested
   comfortably in the merciless grasp of her friend, the two girls'
   mouths on me both busily exploring, tenderly loving.

   One of the girls behind the mirror let out a whimper of lustful
   ecstasy as her friend meticulously tongued.

   Ozzia's lips against mine drew forward my desire, as my nasty
   member in her friend's sweet mouth began to vibrate with larger,
   growing waves of the building eruption.

   The monk ascended the stone steps, one by one, the doors opened,
   and he entered the welcoming warmth and musty hush of spiritual
   stillness, vibrations of compassion and profound peace cultivated
   through centuries of devotional chanting. The air was thick with
   the scent of incense and flickering butter-candles. Holding the
   end of the long taper to the flame, he watched it catch fire, and
   carried the fire to light his own candle, where he watched the
   wick slowly come alive with flame, deep in the inner recess of
   the temple.

   The sexual waves grew and grew until finally the end was
   inevitable. Maureen sensed what was about to occur, and renewed
   her grasp, right about as I sailed over the edge of the world,
   thrusting deep and hard into her face as the drops shot through
   me onto her eagerly waiting tongue, one after the other in a
   seemingly endless series of pulses, like shiny mardi-gras beads,
   until they gradually faded away. I heard her lips smacking as she
   swallowed.

   "Ah! I love that taste!" said Maureen, circling the tip once more
   with her tongue to be sure she had gotten all of it.

   Ozzia grinned, moist pussy straddling the back of Maureen's head.
   "Isn't this romantic?" she whispered.
     ____________________________________________________________

   ADULTS NOT ALLOWED
   UNLESS ACCOMPANIED BY CHILD



   She read aloud the civically syntactic sign on the playground
   fence, as we both tottered, tightrope-walking along the curb
   alongside the path.

   "Why do you suppose it says that?" I asked in mock innocence.

   Her ever generous smile widened. "'Cause you guys need us to show
   you how to have a good time. Otherwise you just blow it and make
   everything dull, dull, dull."

   "Ok, you're on," I replied. "I think you better show me."

   "OK!" and she was off running. Next thing I knew, she was
   swinging around inside a half-sphere constructed of metal bars,
   each one painted a different circus-color. "Come on!" she yelled.

   "I can't squeeze through there," I protested, instead climbing up
   to the top of it.

   I watched her swinging around below me, until finally she popped
   up her head and shoulders next to me, holding onto my thigh for
   support. She smiled, panting sweetly, face flush aglow with
   exercise endorphins.

   "Uuup. . ." she said, swinging the rest of herself up to join me,
   and collapsed against me, hand deliberately placed in my lap.

   "On top of the world," I remarked.

   "Yes," she sighed, kneading my lap with her palm. Now my
   endorphins began to kick in.

   "The meek shall inherit the earth," I remarked.

   "The meek, or the merry?" she replied.
     ____________________________________________________________

   to be continued. . .




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


  For more stories, visit our site on asstr-mirror.org 
  http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/VivianDarkbloom/www/



  

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reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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