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Don't
All stories on this web site are purely FICTIONAL. The people depicted within these stories only exist in someone's IMAGINATION. Any resemblence between anyone depicted in these stories and any real person, living or dead, is an incredible COINCIDENCE too bizarre to be believed. If you think that you or someone you know is depicted in one of these stories it's only because you're a twisted perverted little fucker who sees conspiracies and plots where none exist. You probably suspect that your own MOTHER had sex with ALIENS and COWS and stuff. Well, she didn't. It's all in your head. Now take your tranquilizers and RELAX.
Archive-name: dont
Don't say it. Not even too sure that she knew how she meant that at the
time but we all learn soon enough. Don't say it because that means admitting
that it's worth risking rejection and embarassment; don't say it because if
you do it's not just a matter of fucking, it's a matter of promises. And
promises can be painful to keep. Sexually they teach it in the classroom now,
but emotionally it's on our own that we learn about protection. Better a
hastily broken hymen between classes than a slowly, langorously, beautifully
broken --
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I remember some others, particularly the ones I was cruel to. The summer
after; a few times I went to visit her. I'd walk semi-announced into the
cramped little box of a house, crane my neck around as I clambered up the
stairs, tentatively call out her name, then her mother's. Usually no answer;
usually I'd wait an hour or two.
Once I walked in, walked up the stairs, heard bedsprings creaking, heard her
moving and keening, couldn't stop myself rounded the corner: She was up on
all fours on the bed by the window ass held high head held high back arched
between the two like the cables of a bridge but this bridge was moving, moving
back and forth, cables flexing, head tossing, arms and hips giving a little,
tension, compression, torsion all driven from the rear legs spread wide thighs
pressed apart secretions running down action and re-action the force providing
the accelleration applied through a driving rod like the side-rods on a steam
enging this penis this flesh-piston appearing and vanishing as its owner knelt
behind her working her back and forth with one hand held around pressing at
her crotch from the front, fingers running back and forth over her clitoris
and labia as if working at the keyboard of an organ flesh-piston legs spread
wide stomachs clenching breasts swinging back and forth mad ecstatic bridge
the air in the room smelled like cunt and semen thirteen or fourteen I think
he looked, she liked them younger and older it was maybe twenty seconds I left
before they saw me watching but she'd known of course I'd be there.
Flesh-piston back arched breasts swinging fingers working at her crotch cunt
and semen six hour drive home without the courage to skid off the highway and
be a statistic, a statistic with one hand on my cock and Schubert on the tape
deck but back home of course one can always find a party and a girl who'll go
after innuendoes it was a quick one that night and she said she liked it rough
quick to the bolts in the bedframe quick to the teasing and the tasting and
the denial quick to the whip and the wax and the brink of the safeword and
back again she had never been to these places before I didn't get off, not
with my cock, she was useless for that but the pain, flowing from me to her
and as I tore at her body my load was lessened the pain: therapy for me,
self-realization for her. And inevitably she thought she'd fallen in love
when it was all over the light was coming up glaring into my eyes over the
curtains I hit her one more time not gently and saw the expectation rise in
her eyes like nectar in a wineglass "Look, just get the fuck out, you're
worthless." Nectar from the eyes falls easily. On her way out "You bas--" the
command look; she will wish she did not need it so. "Don't" say it.
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