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From: Lingua <lingua@acay.com.au>
Subject: Shish Kebab, a (likely) short story.
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			Shish Kebab

	      ---A likely (short) story---

			  By Lingua

"Shish-kebab me," I say. "Skewer me on whatever you can roll out from
between your legs. 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 absorb your heat."

A few minutes ago, without my realising it, Antony must have turned
off the enervating, waywardly written and even more waywardly sung
words of a current-affairs presenter and her reporting colleagues (why
must audio-journalists nowadays try to make bad song of ordinary prose
messages?) and switched on our audio disc of the much more
intelligible "Catulli Carmina" sung in Latin, Italian, Middle-High
German and ancient Provençal.

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 [I suggest "I feel your oily snake prick its way"---Ed. Mitts
off, it's fine as it is---Lingua.] 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?"

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 that 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."

---IT ENDS HERE---

Perhaps someone will explain how I can make electronic links among
several instalments of any story that I post to the usenet.---Lingua.

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