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Message-ID: <61097asstr$1302423002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: blue pervina <bluepervina@gmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Crack and Peel - Part 2 {bluepervina} ( MF, exhib, oral, vom )
Lines: 465
Date: Sun, 10 Apr 2011 04:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Teacher and student can't get enough of each other. They cut class and hook
up at his house for vodka and fun on the dirty garage floor.
<1st attachment, "crack_and_peel_2_by_bluepervina_assm.doc" begin>

Crack and Peel 2

( MF, exhib, oral, vom )


by bluepervina,  2011
bluepervina@gmail.com
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/bluepervina/www
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all
rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.

IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF ADULT CONSENT or are otherwise
forbidden by law to access/view erotic material, do not read
anything else in this file.  Furthermore, THIS IS A WORK OF
FICTION.  The following story is not a true account, not based
upon fact, and is not in any way connected with reality.  It is a
fantasy.  Please do not read this story if you cannot or will not
accept that this is purely a work of the imagination.


It was the third day of it, deep into it, deep into her.  

Took me that long to figure out I didn't know her name.  Her real
name.  First, last, "middle i"   the name the ethics board would
know about, one of these days, if we kept at it.  I was a goner
for sure.  

Not that I cared.  A nineteen year-old wanted my cock.  I was
thirty-five, and I wasn't stupid.  No time's as ripe as the right
here, right now.  You know?  

She was fruit on the vine, swollen, sweet, juicy.  And the vine?
Tighter every day.  Rubbing in the right places, though.  A
strange, steady squeeze.  

My head was mush.  I'd gone stupid.  

Well.  Obviously.  

My chest hurt.  Ten times a day I swear I was dying, my heart
stopping, lurching, stabbing.

I knew it wasn't love.  Knew it wasn't even lust.  I had both
with the wife   me for her, her for me.  And plenty.  It was a
little weird sometimes, maybe a little messy, but it was fun. 
Harmless.  Married people in private fucking however, whenever. 
What could be better?  She liked to lose control.  I liked to
take it.  Wife and I, we just fit, just right.

But this girl   what was it about her?  How could she want me? 
How was I that hot?  That cool?  Why, when so many other nineteen
year-old asses had swayed past so many times before, why was hers
the one I finally wanted?  

Hell, I'd already been laid dozens of times before she was even
born.  I'd fucked nineteen already.  Wasn't like it was something
new.  Wife, she was a wild, white-hot thing at nineteen.  God.  I
didn't forget that for a second.  Still saw it in her every day.
Still wanted it.

I'd already had my nineteen.  So why?  Why?

Fuck.

My head fucking hurt.

But it's not like I stopped.  Not like I made her stop.  Stupid,
right?  

Was, am, always will be.  

Blood pumped then just like it does now.  It moves fast, gets in
tight places.  Things move.  Things swell.  The soft gets hard
and the hard questions hide.

So I'll never fucking get it.  Not really.  Not the how, not the
why.  It's in there somewhere.  She'd show me if I looked.  I'm
sure she would.  Women know this shit.  How this game gets
played.  She's got the cheap-ass board, the pieces, the little
tri-lingual fucking rulebook.  I know she does.

But I'm already gone.  Already in.  All in.  

Meet, greet, fuck.  Roll the dice.  Pick up the pieces.  Turn. 
Lose.  Turn.  Win.  

And tie, tie, tie.  


*****


She was texting me nonstop.  Sexting me.  

Yeah.  Suck it.  I got the letters in the line, bitch.  I got the
lingo.  Who's old now?

Sexting.  She to me.  Pussy.  Ass.  Tits.  Repeat.

Pics.  Her cunt in good light, bad light, weird light.  Her
asshole.  God.  Her asshole.  There was one, her anus half-open,
like she gaped it, held a cheek out hard, wide, just to show me
inside.  It was a red, dark little cave.  Wet in there.  And hot.
 Pink and shiny around the rim.  Teensy light-blond hairs here
and there, damp, matted down.  

I licked the screen.  Yep.  Tiny, tiny pixel hole, right on the
tip of my tongue.  

More than once.

Pics!  Her delicious tits in all manner of exposure.  A lot of
shots at exactly the same 47-degree angle, the same slippery
sheen of motion that killed me every time.  I got tons of
bathroom moments.  The ladies room at the end of my hall, a dozen
steps from my classroom door, it was her own little studio. 
There I was teaching only fifty feet away while she fucked
herself in the handicap stall, a foot propped on the rail,
fingers jammed in both holes, her phone cocked just so, her focus
only a little off.  Only a little.

All class long.  Buzz.  Buzzz.  Buzzzzzzzz.  Girls giggling. 
Boys squinting, sly.  They knew.  I had no poker face.  I had no
game.  By the third day the phone was off.  Flat full off and in
my bag.  Her sweet pussy stink practically right there in the
room.

And I was supposed to explain Shakespeare to these snickering
little fucks?  By the second day I could hardly talk.  I was
live-action Elizabethan, my codpiece swollen, my everything so
obvious.  Why should they read and discuss when all they had to
do was show up?  Simply watch professor stumble dick-first into
Act Two.  "Every why hath a wherefore", that's what the old
bugger said.  Here's teacher, now ...here's the rising action. 
You figure it out, kids.  The dude's fucked, but is he fucked?

(Essays due Friday.  Double-space and spell check   please, spell
check!   and it's your asses if you copy/paste, you lazy little
shits!)


*****


So day three.  I get to work, fuck her on the floor of my office,
go see my boss.  I cancel classes.  Again.  Second time in a
week.  Tell the department chair I'm still sick, need another
day.  Cough right in his face when I say it, for added effect. 
He closes his eyes, covers, cringes.  

And I'm gone.

I need a day away from there.  A day at home.  With her.  She's
across campus at one of her classes when I send my own pic.  Cock
in fist.  Great light, flattering angle, no fucking blur.  I'm in
the car about to head home.  I send her three.  Bam, bam, bam! 
Nice pre-cum drool in the last one.  Hardly had to stroke at
all.

I'm fucking ready.

Maybe soon I can manage to come enough.  Finally settle down. 
Settle in.  That's what I wanted.  

In.  In.  In.

Maybe I get in her enough, then I'll be all right.  Maybe I make
it back.  

I'll be able deal with other things.  I'll be able to think and
speak, in that order.  I'll know what I just said.  I'll know
what was just said to me.  I'll see what's happening in the world
around me again.  See more than just her high, full tits.  Her
round, tight ass.  Her wet lips around my cock.  Her hands on me.
 Her hands on herself.

I need to fuck her more.  A whole lot more.  That'll work it
right out.  I'll find the handle for sure.

She gets there almost as soon as me.  Find out later she'd cut
right out of class, ten minutes in.  Got my message, saw my cock,
and she was gone.

I'm in the back of my garage grabbing fresh vodka out of the
freezer, haven't even gone inside yet.  Granny across the street
is watering flowers.  Mailman is two houses down.  A cat's
sitting creepy and still under a bush next door.  And they're all
staring.  And I can't blame them.

She pulls up, jumps out, gets to it.  

Her VW's barely off, and she's barefoot making a bee-line into
the garage.  Coming right at me.  Her skirt is halfway up around
her waist.  Her panties are gone.  Her top, it's in place, more
or less, her tits swaying free beneath it.  She shoves a hand up
her shirt, pinching and pulling.  The other hand's yanking the
skirt, not even close to getting it right while she skips up to
me.  Grinning.  

I smell my own spunk.  It's what, thirty minutes old?  Barely run
out of her yet, not even had time to dry.  I reach between her
legs and feel it sliming the insides of her tight, smooth thighs.
 I pull my fingers up   lick, suck, taste.  She reaches down to
get me more, feeds me glob after glob of my own jizz.  

I open the bottle and give her sips and gulps of Smirnoff.  It's
only nine-oh-what-the-fuck in the morning, and the garage door's
still open.  She doesn't care.

Her tongue in my mouth is so cold.  So perfect.  She undresses me
while we kiss.  I hold the bottle.  Then she drinks a little
more.

Mailman's at the end of my driveway now.  I hear his sissy little
eco-cart pull up, humming.  There's the creak and clack of the
hinge on the mailbox, and still the humming.  He's hanging out. 
Getting an eyeful.  Don't blame him at all.  Granny's still
running water.  Cat's probably licking ass, though.  I would. 

We're on the garage floor in front of the freezer.  My car's a
foot away, between us and our little audience.  The engine's
still hot, ticking down to cool but nowhere near.  We're all
sweat and stink as soon as we're down there.  It's nothing but
grunge and pussy.  Old oil stains, fresh hot engine, and nineteen
year-old cunt.  

My head's spun and rung, just from the odor of it all.  I'm on my
back, on the hard smooth floor, and I'm dizzy.  High on the
fumes.  High on the sight of her cunt coming down on my face, her
mouth around my cock, her hand milking me.

I don't know when mailman leaves, when granny goes in for her
nap, when kitty craps and scratches.  All I know is she's riding
my open mouth and moaning into my nutsack.  She's got me all the
way to the root, working her throat, slobbering all over my
crotch.  I want to fuck up against her face, ram her mouth as
deep as I can, but she's pressing down hard.  She can't take me
any deeper.  

But I have no control.  My hips buck.  I fuck and I fuck and I
fuck.

She hunches my face in painful, sudden thrusts.  Shudders. 
Heaves.  I hear the rasp and retch and gurgling mess of it all
only after I feel it, the warm liquid evidence of her stomach
having fits.  But she stays on my cock, her throat still working,
tongue still sliding, head still grinding her face down, down,
down.  And that's what makes me come.  Sends up one cocktail so
she can swallow down another.  

How could I resist?

Then we're laughing.  Well, at first that's just me.  For her
it's mostly coughing.  Hands flutter to her hair and back down. 
Floating.  She's with the ghosts of vodkas past and all that.  I
love how she grins and looks me right in the eye.  The lopsided
mouth, the smeared makeup.  

She sits beside me, facing the freezer.  I'm facing the
bug-splattered grill of my shitty little compact.  My feet are up
under the engine, heels in a grease stain.  She's got wet, red
eyes, a busted blood vessel right up against the blue on one
side.  Snot and vodka leak out both nostrils.  Her chin, her
cheeks, everything's either slick with saliva, sticky with semen,
or both.  Little rivers mix together and run down her neck, onto
her chest.  Her wet tits bounce as she coughs some more, tries to
wipe her face without heaving again.

Classy little thing.  

And I'm getting hard again.  

I hold out the bottle.  She swipes it like a pro, gulps down
hard.  Three giant mouthfuls, the last a swish-and-gargle job. 
Part of me is worried.  A very small part.  A girl that small
drinking that much, that easily.  Fuck.  Maybe she's not so
different from the wife after all.  

The puddle I'm sitting in is like oozy, gelatinous water. 
Nothing solid.  Not even weird colors.  I wonder when's the last
time she ate.  A small part again, worrying.  And then, no.  Do I
have to be her dad every other damn second?  No.  No.  

Fucking no.

So what if she starves herself?  So what if she's got some
problems?  She's screwing a random teacher at her school   one
who's never even had her in his class, who doesn't even know her
proper fucking name.  She's got problems.  No shit.

But doesn't everybody?  Somehow?  Some way?

Damn straight.  I congratulate myself.  Conscience cleared.   I
drink the rest of the vodka myself, grateful for the cringe and
gasp at the end. 

"Jeez, Mr. Ferguson," she smirks, squinting at the empty liter of
liquid Russian love.  "Save some for lunch."

I'm not about to try talking yet.  I can barely breathe.  I shrug
and smile and put the mouth of the bottle to her slimy nipple,
rocking it back and forth, watching her flesh harden inside the
glass.  Her breath catches.  She's watching her tit, too. 
Watching me use her a little.

"You make me so fucking hot," she whispers.  

She's sitting cross-legged, fingers working at her pussy, one
hand opening, the other sliding, strumming.  Her nipple pops free
and puckers as I move the bottle to her other tit, twisting and
flicking the smooth glass mouth over and around her slick
aureola.  She's in a trance, staring down at herself... left,
right, left, right.  Her hands move harder.  She's panting. 
She's gorgeous.  

She gasps for air as I pull the bottle away, set it down beside
us.  "I had almost nothing to do with that," I chuckle.

"Fucker," she flips me off, then rolls her eyes.  Smiling. 
"You're hilarious, mister."

I realize something.  "Why don't you just call me Daniel?"

"What?"

"Daniel.  It's my name.  Not Mr. Ferguson."

"Oh.  Daniel."

She runs her hands over her stiff nipples, staring down at my
half-hard cock.  Her chest and neck are flushed.  Her eyes don't
focus too well as she looks into my face.  She's fucked up.

"Um..." she starts.  Blinks.  Recovers.  "Danny.  Is Danny OK?"

"Yeah.  I like that."

"OK.  Danny."  She's pinching her nipples, pulling down on them
hard, harder than I'd ever do to her myself.  Her eyes close. 
She slowly leans until she's flat on her back, still playing with
her breasts.  

"I'm Missy," she slurs.  "But you already knew."

Well.  Yeah.  That's what she's called.  I know that.  Her friend
Jenny calls her that.  Boys in the hall talk about hot-assed
Missy and all the dirty things they want to do to her.  Missy
with the tight, incredible body.  The short skirts.  The high,
round tits.  

Whatever else she's called, though, I have no clue.  I only know
her by her body.  Her bits and pieces.  Their feel, their flavor.
 I only know what she's done with me.  For me.  To me.  What she
makes me want to do to her.  On her.  In her.  It bothers me a
little.  I admit it.  Three days of crazy and I got barely even a
name.

"Short for, what?  Melissa?"

She chuckles.  What a slickster I am.  Perfect moment for the
small-talk.  Right.

Her eyes are still closed, hands roaming all over.  Her hip is
against my hip, her feet pointing the opposite of mine.  Her head
is almost completely underneath the front bumper of my car as she
lies there, gently running her fingertips all over herself.  I
study her shaved, swollen pussy.  She's pink.  Leaking.  

"Nope," she finally mutters.  "My grand-dad used to call me
'Little Missy'....  After a while I was, you know... just
'Missy'."

"Oh," I'm mumbling, stupid.  Her pussy is so close.  So wet. 
"OK."

She shifts a little away from me, raises her legs up and out. 
Her knees bend.  She rests one of her thighs across my lap, her
calf hooking my waist.  She reaches down with both hands and
spreads herself wide open.  Her eyes still closed.  

"Go ahead," she whispers.  "Go on."

I drop one hand, that's all it takes.  Crook my elbow a little,
work my fingers in.  Two in each hole.  My thumb for her clit. 
Time to fly.

She mews and rolls her head from side to side, works her hips in
a little circle, pushes against me.  We work out this nice rhythm
that makes her ass dance on the concrete floor.  All I can hear
is her moaning and the squish and suck of her wet holes against
my hand, around my sliding, wiggling fingers.

"Oh!  Oohhhh!  Yeah, mister!  Yeah!  Yeah!  That's it, right
there   don't st- don't stop!"  

She comes, her cunt and ass both clamp hard on my fingers, her
hands at work again on her red, heaving tits.  She's so fucking
brutal!  

Me, I'm hard again, pushing up against the underside of her
thigh.  Who needs a hole?  I'll take whatever I can get.  But I
don't get far enough.  Not before she's done.  

Her hands fall to the floor.  Her mouth is open.  She's breathing
deep.  Smiling.  

She unwinds her leg from around my waist.  Straightens out with a
little moan.  Stretches long and hard, arms above her head.  Her
pits are smooth and sopping wet.  There's a sheen all over her. 
She's a slick, tired, drunk little slut.  Grinning at me.  Her
eyes aren't focusing, but she doesn't care at all.

"You did it again, mister," she teases.  "Mister Danny."  Her
hand sneaks down, dips, and comes up to my mouth.  I'm licking. 
Sucking.  Half-drunk on the vodka, half on her.

Fuck.  Time for a little ride!  I deeply, truly, immediately need
to finish.

But of course not.  Hell no.  Suddenly she's just a girl.  Her
nose wrinkles.  Her face screws up.  Her hands push me back. 
Fuck and fuck.

"Let's take a shower," she mutters, staggering upright, crashing
against my freezer.  Then she's slowly off toward the kitchen
door.

There's dried, dead grass   from the lawn mower, I guess  
somehow stuck all over her back and ass.  Her hair is matted
against her head.  Every inch of her skin is wet, some parts more
than others.  The soles of her feet are almost black.  I can
barely stand it.  She's wild, nasty, beautiful.  It's all I can
do not  to knock her down and fuck her right there on the
threshold into the house.  

But I let her go.  I sit there on the floor of my own garage and
watch her perfect dirty ass wobble on into my kitchen.  My cock
is killing me.  I let it go and take a breath.

A shower.  That's fine with me.  The wet's just going to get
wetter, at least if I have anything to do with it.  So don't
fucking start without me.

I stagger to my own two feet and nearly crash into the freezer
myself.  Damn slippery floor.  

-----
by bluepervina,  2011
bluepervina@gmail.com
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/bluepervina/www
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all
rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.

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