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From: AnneArbor@hotmail.com
Subject: {ASS/M} "El Nino" by Anne Arbor (MF)
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[ Obligatory caution:  adult material lies ahead.  If you cannot buy
  a ticket to an NC-17 movie, then you shouldn't be reading this. ]

Copyright (c) 1998 by Anne Arbor    (AnneArbor@hotmail.com)


El Nino
 by Anne Arbor

    We had a busy weekend of the usual - Saturday saw yard work
during the day and entertaining friends for dinner at night, and
Sunday yet more gardening.  The abnormally heavy winter storms have
turned our landscaping into a soggy rain forest of weeds, invading
Bermuda grass, and leggy branches.  It seems that we will never catch
up.  By Saturday evening we were both tired.  Sunday morning we made
a date for an early bedtime, and when 9pm arrived, the dog had had
its final excursion in the back yard, the doors were locked, and we
were turning out the lights on our retreat to the bedroom.  I still
hadn't told him I was leaving him.

    He is in bed first, naked as always, watching me putter for a few
extra minutes, then I discard my own sweats and join him.  I lie on
my back, eyes closed, feeling the day drain out of me.  He curls to
my side and his left hand roams across my skin.

    This time we are slow.  The pads of his fingertips find turgid
nipples and soft curves.  Between my legs I warm and blossom and
twitch.  I knew he would eventually get there.  When he touches me
this delicately, I know he's drifting his fingers across the little
hairs on my skin.  He finds my belly.  Grazes my pubic hair.  Diverts
to my hipbones, first one then the other.

    My legs part.  It is a signal, and he returns.  My own left hand
finds him, his hardness rising out of his thatch of curly hair.  He
throbs in my fist while his fingers gently separate me and dip into
my slickness.  My eyelids flutter.

    "I want you," he whispers, and I hum a welcoming response,
squeezing his cock, opening my legs still further.  He tugs on my
hip.  "Get on top of me."  I roll on my side, facing him, and begin
to mount him, then I slide down, passing my body along his, his cock
scraping across my skin, jostling my breasts.

    I take him in my mouth, halfway at the beginning, then a full
plunge until my lips encounter pubic hair and he twitches and swells.
He gives me a moaning sigh of appreciation and anticipation.  I pull
back, leaving him coated with saliva, and focus on his mushroom head
and his salty leakings.  "Do you want to come in my mouth?" I murmur
in offer, but he demurs.  "I want to come inside you."

    And so it is done.  One more full descent, then I am on top of
him, notching him.  When he's wet like this he slides in without
hesitation.  I writhe on him, undecided whether to rock and thrust
and feel his rigid flesh invade me, or to impale and grind and grip
him.  I do both.  I do us both.  He holds me, holds my hips, holds my
face, tweaks my nipples and prods through my pubic hair to thumb my
clit.

    I have no patience.  No more slow touches.  I want to fuck him
and to be fucked by him.  Inside I am flowing, hot and oozing.  He is
my rock, my stiffness, the fulcrum of pleasure around which I play.
I lean forward to tease my clit against his pelvic bone, then arch
back and tease my G-spot against his rigidity.  Our eyes meet.  Again
he twitches.  I squeeze a reply.

    "I'm going to come," I say, needlessly announcing what he already
knew was imminent, and he raises his hips higher, giving himself to
me.  I feel almost sloppy loose, slippery and gushy.  His hands frame
my face and I have only the vaguest sense of rocking and swirling my
hips, of feeling full of him, connecting to his body and his soul,
and then it explodes.  Twitching clenching pulsing, I grunt and close
my eyes and just let it happen, let it cascade over me in shuddering
waves.  Somewhere in there I sense him clutching at my hips and
gasping and his cock jerky jumpy inside me, adding more heat and
liquid to our soup.

    I keep moving, slower and gentler, but still moving.  Still
holding his hardness, still feeling what I do to him, and what he
does to me.  "Was that good?" I ask, even though I already know the
answer.  I lean forward.  My breasts wobble above his chest, my
nipples calmed though quivers still ripple inside me.  His fingers
slide lazily through the sheen of sweat that has formed on my back.
He knows me, all too well perhaps.  Tomorrow, I promise myself,
tomorrow I will tell him.



[ I express my many thanks to Mat Twassel for his patient and
  helpful suggestions on this, and other, stories. ]



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