Message-ID: <5332eli$9710312240@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/Year97/5332.txt> From: "Mark Bastable" <markb@aboy.demon.co.uk> Subject: Alphabet Stories: C - Requested Repost Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-ID: <878342731.27951.0.nnrp-05.9e982592@news.demon.co.uk> Catalyst -------- "You want to, don't you?" I could tell she did. I'm fluent in body language. As she stood there talking, her bent knee tended toward the desired object. She kept fluffing her hair - an unconscious gesture, but one that emphasised her desire. (The flop of blonde curls; the shoulder pulled back to thrust the breasts forward; the climax-echoing tilt of the chin). All the malleable bits of her body were pointing the right way. It had been a very average party and I had wandered amongst it for a good hour before I happened upon her. She was, oh, nineteen perhaps. Blonde, slim - I don't care much for such tangible details. What interested me was her sublimated desire. She may as well have been waving a placard reading I WANT THAT MAN. But she didn't know what to do with it. She suffered - so many do - from First Move Syndrome I defy any of us to deny that we've experienced it. It involves an internal monologue along the following lines:- Is he looking at me? I think he's looking at me. He thinks my teeth are crooked. He thinks my jeans make me look fat. They are, they do. Will he ask me to dance? He could ask me to dance. Be real, why would he ask me to dance? Look at the competition. Suzy-Anne with her tits and curls. Rachel with her pussy-pelmet skirt and spoil-my-lipstick pout. I'll have to get there first. I'll have to walk across, slaloming through these dancing bodies, and ask him to dance. I must. Here I go. Here I go..... Oh, God, I can't go... I could read all that in the set of her feet, in the angle of her torso, in the strobe flicker of her eyes. So I talked to her. Small talk. It's a necessary evil for one of my particular kink. She's a freshman - oh, really. She's taking biology and genetics. Uhuh. And me? Oh, I'm a post-graduate. Sociology, psychology. Wow - so you know what I'm thinking, right? They all say that. And I do. Here's what she's thinking. She's thinking, "Will it be tonight? Will I finally shake off the hometown girl I am? Will I - oh heavens, I can hardly think it - get a man to put his thing in me?" Well, yeah - if I have anything to do with it, the thing is going in - no problem. The object of her desire, I should tell you, is not bad at all. Muscular. Gristly, even. Perhaps a little over_confident, cocky. As they say in the Thames Estuary vernacular, 'well hard'. Frankly, I'm a little obsessed myself. So - here's the challenge. Here - if we are honest - is my kink. How do I persuade her to accept the desired object? And, indeed, how do I inviegle the desired object within the object I desire? And how do I get to see it? Cunts is what it come down to. Forgive me the grammar, but it's a collective noun for me. There's something about the unfolding, stop-frame beauty of a cunt that fascinates me. They uncurl like a well-constructed plot, like a perfect animation. Yeah - that's it. What they do looks like a computer program, something that's never so perfectly glistening, symmetrical, subtly shaded in the real world. Except that this *is* the real world and that's - Jesus, think about it - that's what they're *really* like. This freshman's cunt - Janine's - is going to look like Disney on E. I know it is. It's going to be the pinkest, gashest, splittest, ripest... Wait. Wait a minute. I'm losing the story. Let's recap. I'm talking to this pale virgin Janine and I can see she's unconvincingly eyeing up some standard-issue hunk across the room. Hang on - you didn't think it was *me*, did you? Christ, no. She'd never go for *me*. No - she's after the unimaginative Grease-extra with the ecologically- disastrous quiff. It's a James-Dean thing. Pale virgins from the boondocks are always crazy for that oily, dumb garbage. "Hey," I tell her, " see that guy? He's cute." You can practically hear the squelch as she turns to look - like she wasn't looking sidelong already. "Yuh," she admits. "He's okay." We'll cut it short. I tell her that I know him - this is a lie - and that I'll introduce them. I go over and talk to him, and bring him over. They're tentative. I mean, they're obviously both thinking the same thing - When? How soon? Where? - but they're kids, and they have absolutely no clue. This is as expected. I invite them both back to my place for a drink. They're both impressed by my apartment, and so they should be at a grand a month. I ply them with Chablis - this is so easy it's ridiculous - and then I get a headache. Would they mind if I went to bed? They can watch TV, use the stereo, whatever. It's too late for them to go back to the dorms, so - do I mind if they stay over? Hell, no. One of them can sleep in the spare room and the other can sleep on the couch. I retire to my room and wait about twenty minutes. Then I get out of bed - naked of course - and flick the switch. Four cameras - tiny and variously concealed - zip the monitors to life. He has one hand inside her blouse. She's rubbing the front of his jeans. Jesus - she's moving faster than I'd estimated, the slut. She unzips him and, with a fetching unaccustomedness, pulls his cock out. I can really pick 'em - she's a natural. Slow strokes - not too frantic, not too gripped. Just sliding the skin along the hardness beneath. He's panting like a dachshcund in a heatwave and for a horrible moment I think he's going to lose it. But no - he pulls her hand away and pushes her back on my PVC couch. He unpops the buttons on her 501's and peels them down. She's balanced on her heels and neck, wiggling out of that denim. Her panties are blue - sky-blue with (oh, yes) a sea-blue smear at the crotch. He runs his tongue along the damp patch, and hooks his teeth on the waistband, on the elastic, pulling it forward. He's teasing her. Teasing me. Then, he pulls them down. I reach for myself, ready - but his shoulder obscures the view I need from the camera in the house-plant. I can see her knees, wide, dimpled, and the back of his Rebel-cut head. But he's in the way. I can't see the split. The righteous, rosy, ready split - and that's what I want. He can fuck her every which way. He can take her tits or her mouth or her earhole - I don't care. I just need to see that needing gash. I need to see a suppurating pussy waiting for that itch to be eased. The stupid bastard is licking her thighs now, still with his head in right in front of the camera. He thinks he's so caring, thinks he's juicing her up - but I want to see those pink lips, that bud, that fuzzy hair. Move you, idiot. Act like the dumb man you are. Move up and make her suck your cock, make her slobber on the head of it. Just get out of the fucking way! Suddenly, he rolls to one side, yanks at his jeans - and there it is. Eyes fixed to the monitor, I pull the focus in with my left hand. Oh Jesus. Dark blond hair framing the tightest, wettest, openest snatch I've ever caught on vid. It's pulsing like a runner's heart, like a some marine plant feeding. The moisture is like condensation, beaded, glistening, free. I freeze the frame. I touch my clit. I'm home. -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/> .../assm/faq.html> /