Message-ID: <6086eli$9712041357@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/Year97/6086.txt> From: losgud <lushgod@hotnomail.com> Subject: <*>NEW STORY--Let's All Nap Now, Please Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Reply-To: see@iglou.com, end@iglou.com, note@iglou.com X-Nntp-Posting-User: [unauthenticated] 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: <3485B32E.DEB@hotnomail.com> ========================= The following is total fiction. Any resemblance etc. is a product of your imagination. This work is meant as ADULT entertainment. If the laws where you sit say you're too young to read this, go away and turn yourself in to the thought police. Even thinking about sex is dirty and nasty and will warp your mind forever. Go watch a movie or play a game that ends with a body count in the high four figures. Death and destruction are good clean fun. ©1997 losgud. Personal use just fine. Archiving okay. Absolutely NO for-profit use permitted. Reposting without notice is frowned upon. Tampering with the text (rewriting) is illegal. Copyright violations will fall under the jurisdiction of my principality, where the punishment is to discourage repeat offenders. We cut your fucking hands off! ========================= M/F con hum rom NOTE: What's this? A short losgud story? Indeed! Sound familiar? No doubt! Shades of the autobiographical? Not saying! Enjoy! LET'S ALL NAP NOW, PLEASE! Oh but aren't these the busy fizzy days. No time for nothing! Rush, rush, rush, do this, do that. Lord it makes me dizzy just in the telling. So here it is, Saturday afternoon, the wife's in the bedroom reading the little guy a story. I have a bit of religion on my brain. I'm praying like a crazy man _let's all nap now, please!_ Oh, but I fully expect to break with the faith yet again within the hour. I'm a pragmatic guy. If miracles don't happen, forget it! If nothing else, I say to myself, here's that chance for the shower you've been pining for since yesterday morning. I know, I know, it's a scary sort of life. I'm not thinking of a quick wash with soap and cloth, I'm dreaming of water so scalding it takes that dirty layer of outer skin right off. Strips me clean like a solvent. Turn my hair into an exotic flower. Scrape that scratchy rash of beard from my cheeks. Under the pounding water I am luxuriating. And what is this? I wonder. Sheer sensual pleasure? What a rarity in my life. And what other pleasures of the flesh might be forthcoming? Please take a nap, please take a nap, please take a nap. I've got that mantra thing going just in case the Judeo-Christian dude falls through. What, you may be asking, are you talking about? Let me tell you. There's the problem of moving to the city. Urban areas as the suns in our country's galaxy. What a lot of rot! They're fucking black holes, I tell you! They suck things in, including suckers such as us. Matter compacts. Apartments grow tiny. Sure, eventually you adjust, because you too start to shrink. But the first couple years are a pain, literally so. You're forever banging your elbows against the walls. Barking your head on the tops of the doorways. Add to that a cash flow like a sluggish stream, choked with sludge and silt, going in no discernible direction except perhaps directly downward. Home where the heart resides and all that. But it's damn near an homage to the former Soviet style of living. Almost but not quite. Not quite but close enough! At least there's no granny parked in a cot in the kitchen. Keeps me from charging down the streets in open revolt. So you wonder now, good lord, you live in a one bedroom dump, with just the one room that has a door that closes. Why does the kid sleep in there? Why do you and the lovely have the bed set up in the dining nook? Isn't it obvious? Mornings too rushed, evenings too exhausted, if you catch my drift. Sex is like payday: comes once a week if you're lucky, every other if you've got the wrong boss. Sure, there's that flush hour of exchange, greedy with delight, even better than a leisurely lunch. You cash that check, but by midweek it really wouldn't quite make up for all the tippy-toeing around if the wee one wasn't safely stashed away down the hall behind the door. So here's the raw rub. We're at the age where the nap isn't so critical. The kid takes after the old man--_savors_ his sleep. But there's a bit of the mother in him--gets too excited to fall asleep. During the week, Dad says time to hop in bed, it's habit. Dad's such a boring old putz anyway, might as well have a snooze. Besides, if Dad doesn't get his little laydown, what a cranky bastard he becomes! But come the weekend--_Mommy's home!_ Here's a kid who turns backflips at the mention of Hump Day. No, not that one! I mean a.k.a. Wednesday. I'm all dried off, cheeks soft as cunt. Ahh sweet Jesus! please! don't even think the word! I feel like I'm trying to dock at Lakehurst, New Jersey. My pecker's picked up the rallying cry, _Remember the Hindenburg!_ Oh quiet down, will you. I sneak into the livingroom the all-natural man. Dresser's in there. Clean tee, pulling on my underwear when my wife pokes her head around from the hall. "What do you think you're doing!" she hisses, "Don't get dressed, get in bed!" Yes ma'am! Never one to refuse such an order. Now, sounds like the very happy ending, doesn't it. Don't bet on it! We can just be snuggling in when he pops his head around to corner to announce he's not sleepy. Then don't go to sleep, just stay the fuck in bed! _Your bed!_ She comes out of the bathroom shedding clothes like a duck does rain. Oh my goodness! Just look at all that! Is all of that for me? I'm already lurching before she gets under the sheets. We're like that little electric cartoon guy. Little bolts of lightning are shooting from our fingertips. Ooh, where have you been hiding those lips? Mr. Tongue, meet Ms. Tongue. How about a nice warm greeting? Mmm, yes indeed. Of course the whole while the precocious little one is in his room singing arias and reciting Proust. Hey, we're taking precautions in here! You needn't waste your talents. Sibling rivalry is about the last of your worries. Okay, so there's some music, a little chatter going on. Pretend it's some radio going on in the background. Not exactly the stuff of great mood-setting proportions, but fuck that! Well, not exactly. Fuck something else. No mood needs to be set. Oh my goodness but isn't she the hot one today. Skipping straight to the main course. Fine with me! The crudités can keep in the fridge. She doesn't even give me the chance to feel how wet she is. Not with my fingers anyway! She's ripe as brie, but thrice as runny. Just rolls me right over on top of her, settling me nicely between those widened thighs. Doing a bit of gardening, are we? Plunging the old trowel right down in the furrow. Nice warm moist fertile mother earth! No need to knock, the door's wide open. The door's been yanked from the hinges and tossed out on the front lawn. We settle on in. It's the same old in-and-out, but gone fucking exponential! Her legs wave all around like she's running a race. Which, I suppose, she is. Trying to gather up all the angles of good feelings all at once. Greedy for it, aren't we? And why not? I'm flipping through my book of tricks and in the end, my god! there's a whole section of addenda I'd never noticed before. Her hands grab my ass, answering all the questions--what? when? where? how? The who and why, well, any moron can guess those. I may be the driver but she's doing all the steering, guiding us through the forest to a most delicious clearing she knows about. She's a tropical island in this ocean of bed, helpless when the hurricane blows through. Her groves of palms are swaying and snapping, sucked from the ground by their roots. It is, as is often said, an incredible sight to witness such primitive forces. Damn well leaves us guys longing for such an experience ourselves! Having a child changes a woman in many ways. My poor wife suffers in the worst ways anymore from the pollen and mold counts when before there was no bother at all. But there is a bit of the old quid pro quo. Give her about half a minute, then go on like mad and she goes off like mad again! Must be nice! Not that that's near the stop of things yet. Hear that clang? The big bell? Time for round two. Then bang bang clang, bang bang clang, our ears grow deaf to the count. Hello sweetheart, we're playing our song. We're off in our own world--and what a wonderful world it is!-- but we're not so distant the little rustling doesn't catch our ears. We both glance up over my shoulder, our bodies slammed into neutral. Draw up the bedding a little better. Nothing. Nothing, nothing. Oh sure, it was something. I give my head the tiniest little shake. Like it was the cats or the neighbors or the rats or the cockroaches. Surely! Just as surely the machine starts cranking up again, though I'm afraid we've lost a little momentum. Just as I know when her hands go to my ass she's ready to come like crazy, when her hands drop down to my stuff I know she's ready for me to come like crazy. She reaches around my thigh, stroking me quickly and nearly roughly up and down my perineum, grabbing the whole of my scrotum like it's a sack of oranges and she wants to squeeze out a golden quart of Florida's finest nectar. I can't begin to describe how I can possibly resist her wish. I just don't want to quite yet. Not that that's ever helped me hold back before. She adds a hand to the base of my cock, grabbing it right at the gates of her glory, jacking it with a big grin. Please, please, please, I'm thinking, I want more before the end. It's like winning the cover-all. You get to jump up like a jerk and shout BINGO! and collect the big fat prize, but isn't the bulk of the pleasure really in the build-up? I shift slightly, then dive in deep, forcing the ring of her hand off my prick. And suddenly do her eyes go big and round. One guess where her hands wind up next! Once we descend from that mountain range, have some good huffs of richly oxygenated air, she moves on to her next major trick. Lamaze class was years back, but she's retained the value of the kegels. It's the foolproof insurance a woman can have that the cock she calls her own will have no desire to go visiting any other cunts. It sounds like a cross between a wooden barrel and a German pastry, and by god that's exactly what it is. Imagine a keg filled with kugel--sink your dick into that! Then the metal bands around the staves contract, again and again, tighter and tighter. You think a talented mouth feels good! I surrender. My army of sperm are white flags waving. The only thing holding me off is that I'm trying to get the troops lined up nice and proper. Exactly then we hear the words, low and uninflected. "Toilet paper, please." We nearly perish. Full to bursting with laughter. Poor guy. Fully capable of doing the bottom up proper, but the dispenser's a full grown-up reach away. Oh sure, we tried the trick of keeping a spare roll on the top of the tank, but nearly every one wound up in the bowl. It's not as if the stores aren't flush with the stuff--but at the prices, if you're losing every other roll to drowning, you might as well start wiping your ass with dollar bills and spare yourself the outing. "Toilet paper, please." "Just a minute, honey, Mommy's coming." The hell she is! She's too busy clamping down, with enough trace of a tremor to split the Grand Coulee Dam. That'll be Daddy, coming by the buckets. It feels like my body's converting tissue to sperm as fast as it can! I'm a termite-ridden wooden bridge. I give some warning groans, then collapse into the creek. She's gazing up at me with dreamy big eyes. Then she wings my cheek with her teeth. She smiles and whispers proudly, defiantly, luxuriously, "_I lost count!_" I roll off and onto my side, immediately struck by the sight of a big pearly blob of the stuff plopping down on my thigh--that should have been blown out about twenty spurts back! She clambers up and starts pulling on some clothes. Then she adds with a grin, "At least we'll know what to do when you're seventy and can't get it up." That's the uncanny joke. He never takes a dump this time of day. Except the three or four previous times under the exact same circumstances. The sky's full of fireworks and we're but minutes from the grand finale. _Toilet paper, please._ I mean, this kind of conditioning is documented! I'll be a dead man, all boxed up and but minutes from the grave. Bend down and whisper the incantation, and she'll be able to hop down for one last ride! Ah then and here they come, the both of them. Into the big bed he comes. Oh there's the rules and regulations. Mommy and Daddy are resting. Only snoozers allowed in the big bed. If he's just going to muck about, then it's back to his own bed. As if! I'm the only sleepy one in this crowd. No doubt, nap's over. But hardly at a total loss, don't you think? ========================= Like? Yes? No? Comments welcome. losgud@hotmail.com ========================= I am archived at DejaNews under "Author" name: LUSHGOD@HOTNOMAIL.COM -- +--------------' 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> /