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From: Lingua <lingua@acay.com.au>
Subject: Shish Kebab, version 2.
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                                                               Shish Kebab
                                                       A likely (short) 
story
                                                                  Version 
2
                                                                 By Lingua

"Shish-kebab me," I say. "But don't let any of that sand get onto the 
travelling-rug. There's no knowing *where* it'll end up."

"Get fresh with me," you say. "Thread yourself around me."

"Do me like a dinner," I say. "Let me soak up your heat."

As Carl Orff softly beats his lyrical tempo from the streamlined black 
plastic beachblaster on the folding table I feel your oily prick snake 
its way up through my innards, weaving benignly but thrillingly between 
(not *through*---how careful you are, Antony) my vital organs. Till now, 
as I've told you several times, I've only *imagined* your prick going 
that far. Now it's *happening*. Double, double toil and trouble. My fire 
burns, my cauldron bubbles. But the great dramatist never envisaged 
anything like this scene.

"Oh, my," I gasp, locking my eyes onto yours. "Where will it end? It's in 
my chest now. I feel so full. So fucking full. So fucking full of Antony."

"And it's going further, Sue, darling," you say. "May it slide into your 
throat?"

"Yes, please!"

"And then may it enter your mouth---carefully?"

"Oh, yes. But shove it! I don't care for the 'carefully'. Shove it into 
my mouth. Let me bite the fucker."

"Stuff that 'shove it' idea," you say. "I don't want to fucking hurt 
you---or me." Your penis creeps gently along my relaxed throat and slowly 
enters my mouth. Your bloated rubbery glans, tipped with its own tiny 
dribbling mouth, deforms when it nudges my top incisors, and sprinkles 
what feels like a few tablespoons of your precome over my bottom lip and 
my chin. I scoop up some precome, baby-oil from your supernatural spring, 
and rub it on my cheeks and my ears. Between my fingers it forms webs as 
glisteningly iridescent as detergent bubbles.

I try to speak, but all I can do is gurgle, because my throat and my 
mouth are full of Antonycock. We gaze into each other's eyes. I put a 
finger between my lips and palpate your ruddy rude glans, on the side 
that's usually the underside but that's now the side touching my top 
incisors. I then nibble the eaves of your glans, and my incisors nibble 
the skirt of it. My bottom jaw moves from side to side so that my top 
incisors tantalise (I hope) the nerve-endings in your exquisite 
unvandalised frenum---the clit you have when you don't have a clit. That 
finger, and the gently sharp teeth rasping your cockhead, seem to be the 
trigger that detonates your cache of white explosive.

"I'm coming!" you say. "Sue, I'm coming! Do you feel it?"

I try to nod my head. Your fruitjuice fulminates from my mouth (still 
surprised after all these years) and onto my chin and my neck. The sight 
of it is the trigger for my own explosion, from my scalp to my toes and 
back to my scalp, and then, erratically, to an archipelago of electric 
nodes between (I wonder whether an acupuncturist could identify them). I 
start to shake. My legs clench you and release you, clench you and 
release you. My hips jerk jerk jerk. Gurgle. Without the benefit of 
subtitles written across my face I can only wonder whether you're clever 
enough to interpret the gurgles as: "I'm coming too. Oh God, I'm coming 
all over. Oh, Christ, why haven't I experienced anything like this 
before? Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. Oh, my darling."

But, of course, I have experienced it before. It's just that each time 
seems better than the previous time.

I shudder and moan and splutter for a minute while you, with an unlikely 
gymnastic agility, allow your cock to reciprocate through me with a 
stroke of more than a metre. My mind dances to the shafting friction in 
my mouth, in my throat, in my chest, in my tummy and in my streaming 
crotch. With sweating brow you withdraw your cock from me till its tip 
comes down to my womb, and then you push it all in again. This time about 
thirty fucking centimetres of the luminous thing (it seems to improve 
each shining minute) emerges from my mouth. My eyes widen, and with one 
hand I grab hold of your slippery cock and cuddle it to dissuade the vain 
and veiny thing from retracting into its me-sized sheath. With my other 
hand I scoop up some cock-spittle from my neck and rub it over the distal 
end of your cock and over my oniontower teats and over the rest of my 
little breasts and around the stretching "Oh!" ring of my lips. 
("Oniontower" is your choice of metaphor, bless you. You describe each of 
my tits as a pair of oniontowers: a smaller one atop a bigger one. 
Whenever we prepare onions for a meal, or whenever I come across a photo 
of St Basil's Cathedral, my nipples swell with blood and stand to 
attention. Because of you.)

I gurgle with another shuddering climax, and I lose control of my 
bladder. My buttocks and my thighs feel my piss soak into the 
travelling-rug that separates us from the beach. More of your mayonnaise 
spills from your glans and drenches my hand. My eyes widen again, and I 
look into your eyes. I wink at you to tell you that everything's all 
right. You reach beneath yourself with a hand and collect some of my 
piss, still gushing from what now seems to have been a pretty full 
bladder. You rub my piss all over your smiling face, and you put some 
into your mouth, squish it around and swallow it. For the first time 
today I drink that surreal sight into my consciousness, and I flood my 
memory with all the earlier times and my imagination with all the times 
to come.

"Sue's piss," you say, and the final sibilant of that lovely phrase 
sprays some drops of me from between your tongue and your front teeth and 
onto my face. "Sue's fine piss. Fine Sue's piss. Your urine. Your 
bittersweet urine. Your chablis. I love your piss because it's yours. 
It's Sue's. You didn't faint, but you did the next best thing---you 
wetted yourself, you good girl. My darling."

Speechless I touch your lips with my fingers as you utter those wonderful 
words. I transfer some of my piss to your stiff teats (there's nothing 
vestigial about your nips, Tony---when they suckle me they take me all 
the way back to my infancy) and to your wispy armpits and to your tummy 
and to your hips. I yearn to put some on the ever-suckworthy tiny 
twitching mouth that you harbour between your bumcheeks, but now I can't 
quite reach it. I remember the first time you went off to work carrying 
not only a pastrami-and-tomato-and-cheese (or whatever it was) sandwich 
and a golden-delicious apple in your briefcase but also a couple of drops 
of my keepsake piss evaporating like eau de cologne from your cheeks, on 
your top ones and between your bottom ones.

We stay there, wordlessly stroking each other. Your glans retreats to 
just outside my lips, and when I kissingly purse my lips around your 
penis just below your glans my lips read your pulsing veins and arteries 
as if they're braille. What a message! What a medium! My fingers caress 
your glans. I still can't speak, but my circular fondling is designed to 
tell you that everything's still all right. You kiss my lips and your 
glans at the one time. You jerk some more semen out of your pouting slit 
and suck it into your mouth. You let the lotion (my usual trusty Ponds 
can jump in the lake, for the time being) ooze from your mouth onto my 
cheeks and nose and forehead and lips. I rub it into my smile with my 
hands. Shish-kebab sauce of the gods.

A few minutes later your penis starts to shrink slowly down through my 
system. When it retreats from my throat I take three or four deep breaths 
and say:

"That's enough foreplay, Antony. Don't be shy, dear boy. You can take 
your frigging finger out of my cunt now. Here, I'll show you what to do 
next."

                                                             ---END---



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