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From: Bud Red <redbud@inbox.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Redbud - The Second Sex (F/M)
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Date: Tue, 27 May 2008 06:10:01 -0400
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Redbud - The Second Sex

(As always, forgive my typos, poor grammar and poor editing.
Enjoy. I may make changes & hopefully improve. Might write a
sequel. A reader has offered to tidy up my ASSM pages containing
my other stories. I've also started collecting the same stories
on a blog - so they'll be easier to find(?) & hopefully enjoy.)

	He rounded the corner like he always did.
	And she was there, like clockwork. He jogged this same stretch
of road for two years. through two girlfriends - no, three
girlfriends - and she was the most dependable. Sometimes he
reached the straight stretch first, sometimes she did. The
stretch of road was kept on both sides be neat lawns, hedged
sidewalks and perfect, clapboarded ranches tucked one next to the
other. They would run down the road, onto another, and then
another until, after two miles, she would turn right and he would
turn left.
	He liked following her - slim and athletic. He liked how her
hips moved so differently, a woman's musculature, and the
muscular round of her swelling butt that always seemed to arch
behind her, and her narrow shoulders. His cock would unbend and
harden when he followed her.
	They never spoke.
	Sometimes he would pass her. Sometimes she passed him. Her hair
was black. She had Asian features that he liked. She might have
been half Asian. Her long black hair was braided and cinched with
a bright red hair tie. His own hair was curly and dark brown. His
father was from Mexico. His mother was from Minnesota. He knew
that the young woman watched him, sometimes.
	He didn't know much about her.
	He had asked another jogger once. She was a researcher; had been
dating a doctor, broke up, was an over-achiever, reading when she
was 3, brilliant. He was watching her now, her narrow hips and
body as she ran ahead of him. A sheen of sweat covered the bare
skin of her back between her sports top and shorts.  Her youthful
slenderness thickened and lengthened his cock. He liked the
feeling - of his body doing two things at once. He ran faster,
timed his breath with his footfall and caught up to her.
	She heard him. She must have. They didn't look at each other.
	He could smell her sweat, mixing with the oily smell of asphalt,
humidity soil and leaves. Spring. He picked up his pace. She
followed and passed him. He could hear her breath, regular,
rhythmic and constant. Her stride didn't pound the road. Her pace
was light. Quick. She was a slight woman. His own stride was
heavier. He was hard. He ran faster and passed her. He could hear
her behind him.
	He could hear the timbre of her voice in her breathing and he
wondered if she sounded the same when she was being ridden or if
she was riding. Instead of the light rhythmic fall of her feet,
the rhythmic fall of her lean body on his. The perfect repetition
of her fall, legs open, divided by the cock between her and
inside her. He imagined her ass, muscular and jouncing with every
stride, jouncing as he took her from behind, muscular but soft,
firm but round, strong but penetrated, feminine and wet with
arousal, and sweat.
	She didn't slow. Her breath was even. She was passing him. He
didn't look at her and she didn't look at him. She was faster
than he was. He tried to keep up and pass her again. He couldn't.
He ran harder. She ran harder. She was faster. She was better.
They were nearing the end of the straight-stretch, the first
corner. She was ahead of him. He pushed to pass her. She slowed,
leaned, pushing him against the curb. He fell. He caught the
first stumble with a left hand, the second with a bloodied right
knee.
	He looked up. Furious. She was several paces ahead. She had
stopped, bent over, hands on her knees. She was catching her
breath, staring down at the pavement. But there was something
else in her posture, when she turned to meet his gaze, for an
instant - something about the way she was bent over, the way her
back arched, the way she spat before she turned and began running
again. He pushed after her.
	He would catch her - ask her what the hell she was thinking, ask
her who the hell she thought she was. But there was another
emotion that mixed with his anger, seeing  her slender legs, her
narrow waist and bare spine. Her hand had brushed his cock before
he fell. It wasn't an accident.
	She turned. Where was she turning? The woods? He followed. She
was on a path. She was off. She was running too fast. She had
speed. He had stamina. She finally fell to her hands and knees in
a clearing, then quickly leaned back, hands on knees, breath
ragged. He passed her. Stopped. Bent over, facing away from her,
catching his own breath. He had to stand up. He forced himself to
stand, turn, and face her. He went to her. He wanted to speak but
he had nothing to say. He didn't have anything to say. He had
something to do.
	And she didn't meet his gaze. She was staring at his crotch,
still hard. He pushed down the front of his shorts. His cock was
full and pressed against his abdomen. He pushed it down, stepped
forward, a hand behind her nick, the other on his cock, and
pushed the tip into her opening mouth. He moved back and forth,
feeling her tongue and mouth around his sensitive bulb. He was
the man. She was the woman. She grabbed his ass. She sucked. Her
beautiful lips, just as he had always imagined, stretched around
his cock. The soil under her was rich the smell of growth and
moisture. He needed this.
	He cried out.
	She had bitten him, not hard, but enough. She stood, snarled her
fingers in his hair and kissed him, urgently, violently. Then
pushed him away and she was running again. He would take her. And
she would let him, but on her own terms and he knew it. She was
faster, she was better, but he was the male.
	She ran until he could hear her high pitched voice in her
exhalations. She ran to a tree, and stopped. She turned, her
hands back against the sides of the tree. She met his gaze. She
watched him. Her breasts heaved. Her nipples strained against her
sports bra. She didn't move her hands as he approached her, but
she gripped the tree.
	He didn't stop until he was almost leaning against her.  She was
tiny compared to him, tiny, wiry and tough. She stood on her toes
and licked his throat. He pushed up her sports bra. Her nipples
were like the rest of her - tiny, firm, little firecrackers. She
pushed him away, hard, but didn't move from the tree. He pushed
down the front of his shorts again, tucking the banding under his
balls, freeing his cock. She moved her hands back to the sides of
the tree behind her.
	He was on her again, pushing the crotch of her shorts aside,
guiding his cock.
	"Huh!"
	Her cry was like short, like high water, or a bird - an
acknowledgment. She had been penetrated. The heavy bud of his
cock was just inside her, the lips of her sex stretched around
the stem. His hands moved over hers, holding them to the tree.
She gazed at him, mouth open, sweating, legs opening.
	"Huhn!"
	Now he sunk his length inside her.  He had never felt so full or
heavy - no woman felt so tight. If he looked at her belly, he
expected he would see the bulge of his cock inside her. He didn't
look. He withdrew and thrust up hard. She gasped, another
admission, and she flinched. She tried to move her hands. He held
them, and thrust again, again, again. She was breathing hard.
Whether from running, or being fucked, this is what he had wanted
and imagined countless times.
	She felt good.
	She was pushing her shoulders against the tree, her opening
toward him.  She made little cries, fluttering cries that
inflamed him. Her hands slipped out from under his. She was fast.
She half pushed him, half pulled him. She was trained. She could
fight. He recognized her moves. He fell onto his back and she
landed on top of him, her fists wrapped tightly in his top. She
gave a short, hard grunt as her knees landed on either side of
his hips, as her unprotected belly took the length and width of
him, and more, driven by her own weight.
	She stopped, as if the breath were knocked out of her.
	New shoots, crumbling leaves, and damp roots pressed into his
back. He arched, enjoying the hot wetness inside her. She gasped.
Then she was fucking him. He reached for her nipples. She pushed
his hands away, held his wrists above him, against the damp April
soil. Her rise and fall was light, quick, rhythmic, like her
running, her breath pitched in a soft counter-rhythm. He could
see the bulge of his cock inside her muscular abdomen. She was
enjoying the girth of him stiffly filling her- the pleasure of
him slipping out of her, but not quite, then filling herself
again, then rising quickly until her lips just kissed his tip,
only to engulf the length of him.
	She fell and rose quickly. Her breath grew halting, starting and
stopping, out of sync. He recognized the arch of her eyebrows,
her mouth opening, her slight body to hardening and stiffening
even as she continued to slide up and down his sex.
	No.
	He freed his wrists and grabbed hers.
	She struggled to free herself even as she continued to grind her
sex against him. He forced her hands behind her. Her wrists were
tiny. And then he had her, both wrists in one hand. Maybe she
could have freed herself, but she didn't. She forced him to hold
her wrists tightly. He pulled them down, between his knees and
toward her ass, forcing her to groan and tightly arch her back,
thrusting her breasts and nipples upward, her head back. She
struggled to grind against him but the more she tried the harder
he pulled her against himself, the more she arched and stretched
her taut stomach and breasts.
	She stopped moving, legs wide, sex penetrated, tits upward and
abdomen stretched. That's right, he thought to himself. I'm in
charge. You can be faster, smarter, more successful, but when I'm
fucking you... She struggled. No. He forced her arms back, her
breasts heaved and she quietly groaned. No, when I'm fucking you,
you are the woman, I am the man. You are there for me. Your legs
will be open when I want them to be open.
	Jesus, she was beautiful.
	He cupped her cheek with his free hand, then pressed his thumb
to her lips. She opened and he pushed his thumb inside her mouth.
She bit down, tried to grind against him. He held her. She bit
harder. He shook his head at her. She bit harder. Her nostrils
flared. He refused to clench his jaw. The pain was searing.
Still, she bit harder. No! God damn - the pain! But he shook his
head, not quickly, but with determination. He was going to break
her, Jesus! - he was going to break this woman.
	She stopped grinding.
	She stopped biting and the pain of stopping was worse than
biting.
	But the look in her eyes changed and slowly, she began to suck.
She slid her mouth back and forth over his thumb. And she didn't
move. His first thrust was hard and made her grunt. She let out a
long moaning exhalation but continued to suck, gazing at him,
waiting. He sat up, brought his knees under him so that she was
impaled on his lap, her wrists still held behind her, her back
still arched. He took her right breast into his mouth, all of it,
and sucked. She took some quick breaths through her nose. Her
breast, the part of her that was soft and delicate, that always
would be, that was her womanhood, tasted of salt and another
scent - maybe perfume. He let it slide out of his mouth until he
only sucked on the nipple. He pressed it between his teeth.
	She sucked, she moaned, and she ground herself around his
penetration. He held her nipple between his teeth, not hard, but
painfully. She continued to struggle, then quieted, stopped,
tongued his thumb. He let go of her nipple and she whimpered. Her
nipple was distended, red, aroused. That's it, he thought to
himself, little woman - you know your place.
	He thrust again, still holding her wrists, forcing her to arch
and present her tight belly and nipples. He thrust hard, holding
himself deeply before he thrust again, hard and deliberate. She
sucked his thumb again, her head moving back and forward. She
gazed at him as he thrust, the look, he knew, submissive. Each
time she began to move, he shook his head.
	"Suck," he whispered.
	She did. He thrust into her. He could see the bulge in her
belly, the nub of his cock far up inside her. He thrust again,
again. She was stiffening. Her slight frame was arching further,
if that were possible. She was cumming. She had stopped sucking.
	"Suck," he whispered again, as he thrust into her.
	She sucked. Her eyes rolled. And then she snapped and pulsed. He
held himself deeply inside her, without moving. She sucked and
convulsed around the maleness imbedded inside her. He could feel
her, every spasm, every time her small opening gripped his cock
and released. She wasn't breathing. She didn't make a sound. She
sucked and she came. And then, with a long groan, she grew still.
	He withdrew his thumb, the base was swollen, marked with her
teeth. Saliva dripped down her chin. He let her sit up, still
holding her wrists. She gazed up at him, then licked his chin,
licked his neck and the hollow of his throat, tasting sweat and
maleness.  She was slight. He stood up easily, sliding his cock
out of her, now wet and glistening with her breaking. He still
held her hands behind her, by the wrists. She gazed up at him,
waiting.
	He looked at her, looked at her tits, at her narrow waist and
hips, and let her know he was looking, possessively, lasciviously
 - a male. He took hold of a tit and squeezed, pulled it, her
eyes fluttered. So she was an over-achiever? She was
accomplished? She was smarter and more athletic? He yanked down
her shorts, down midway around her thighs, staring at her narrow
hips and the tuft of her pussy. He turned her away from him, took
hold of her unraveling braid, pulled her head back - his other
hand still holding her wrists - and pushed her to her knees,
bending her over.
	"Huh!"
	He sunk himself in her upturned opening. She gasped, back
arched, mouth open. He arched and sunk his full length, his
width, his engorged arousal  fully into her taut abdomen. She let
out a keening breath, back arched, ass up, facing away from him.
He fucked her. He fucked her until she grunted with every thrust.
She was brilliant?  He fucked her upturned belly. She was a
woman. He fucked her sex and held himself insider her, bursting,
filling her womb with spurt after spurt of his juice.
	He fell forward over her. Her check fell into the rich, back
soil. The smell of cum, earth, torn leaves and streaked thighs
laced their breathing.
	They stayed like this, her ass jutting upward, his body over
hers, until his cock finally slipped out of her, languid and
soft. She turned to face him. They kissed, tenderly, without
speaking. She licked his lips, he licked and kissed hers. Then he
stood and she did. She pulled up her shorts, making no pretense
to clean the fluids between her thighs and inside her; then
pulled down her jogging bra.
	This was what she had wanted, but had never found.
	And this is what he had desired, but no other woman had wanted.
	He glanced back at the way they had come. The fresh shoots
around them were matted down and driven into the soil. It was
spring. The forest smelled of fecundity. He began the jog back to
the road. She followed, then passed him. She was the more
graceful, the more talented, the more athletic, but maybe she was
his. Now, when he watched her slender hips and waist, he knew the
fluids of his arousal were inside her, mixing with her lithe
motion. He had proven himself.
	They reached the road.								
	She continued to run ahead of him, faster and fitter. Then, at
corner, this time, she turned left.
	She slows.
	She waits for him to catch up - smarter, faster, more talented -
the woman.
	

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