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From: <NiteSweats@aol.com>
Subject: Celeste's Lost Stories - Open Big {Thomas A Long} (FFM,dental,satire)
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TTT Archive (Treasure Trove of the Titmouse)
Celeste listed several stories as "lost" in her Cumulative Monthly List posted
in late July. I'm posting those I have to ASS/M and hope those who have
others will
do the same. My reposting will include:
Bushido {Sachi Mizuno} Excerpt only. Anyone got the rest?
Cleave it to Beaver 1 {MrNatural} Is there more?
Dispensation of Grace 3 {Horangi} Anyone got parts 1-2?
Face of Betrayal {Morpheus' Twin}
Hands On {Deidre Ng}
Meeting Shirley {The Observer}
Open Big {Thomas A Long}
Silent Intruder {Annette}
Tammy's Game {Tammy Ng}
Terri's Dilemma {The Observer}
Tonya Harding, Slave Girl {Your Friendly Author}
These stories have been minimally cleaned up. If I have it,
the text includes original headers and footers.
Still missing, as far as I'm concerned:
"Let Your Fingers Do the Riding" by Solo Polyphony
"Under the Table" by DOLFAN353
"Shower Buddies" by Stone Wolf
"'D' Is for Driving" by Dulcinea
"So Shy" by Scott Sanders (young love)
"Stuffing the Old Gobbler" by MrSpraycan
Best,
Titmouse
[in:openbig.txt] alt.sex.stories/dl/sl960619.t
>From pantsuit@prairienet.org Wed Jun 19 23:42:42 PDT 1996
Article: 98088 of alt.sex.stories
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From: pantsuit@prairienet.org (Thomas A. Long)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Open Big [dental, satire, F/F/M]
Date: 19 Jun 1996 03:18:56 GMT
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The following is Copyright 1996 by Tomb Lung all rights reversed marca
registrada patent pending ad hominem corpus delicti cogito ergo cum . . .
Parsley Garnish and the Prostate Tooth
or, Little Open Big Pinch Plays Dentist
"War or peace, hate or love. What difference does it
make? It's the same God, same Satan; they're just fucking us
up different dentrifices."
-- Noam Crosby
Little pinch here, little pinch here, little pinch here.
Open big, open big, open big. Little pinch. Open big. Open.
So John Kitchener calls to make an appointment with the
heterodontist; been having trouble with this prostate tooth
he used to pimp for.
I tell him forget it, come on over here. We'll fix him
up. Comes in with three feet of unwaxed floss up his can and
a water pick on full blast.
"You holdin' out on me? You fuckin' holdin' out on me?"
Pathetic orgone bag. Tension so thin you need a soup
spoon. No tension, no release.
Half-inch-thick layer of tartar on his perineum. I sigh
and start scraping.
Open big. Little pinch now.
John kisses me hard on the lips without warning or
warmup, screws his wet mouth onto mine righty tighty
crossing the threads as the torque and the heat and the
friction welds our lips together. He injects his tongue like
molten plastic into a mold, sneaks it in there, lolls it in,
without force or ambition. I don't fight, and wonder why,
like Larry Tate wondering why he just gave Darrin a raise
after the schmuck fucked up the Macmillan account.
He kisses me again under the big lamp hanging from the
ceiling like a robotic scrotum, incandescent brimstone glare
shining into his eyeballs and his red retinas staring deep
into not only my third eye, but my third soul. Hot enough to
melt amalgam, I grope him out of the chair and we fall to the
floor in a clench. My hygienist, Dinah, straps on a big black
vascular dildo--a perfect match to her Abyssinian skin--and
fucks me in the ass while I massage John's ailing prostate
with the blunt end of my dental pick. He moans as I tickle
his aching gland and tease him to erection.
I rub his glans against my pussy lips in a figure eight
pattern to moisten the purple head; I grab his cock at the
base and stroke his septum with my burning clit. I force him
inside me and begin to gyrate, sweating and moaning. I reach
up to the spit sink, grab the suction hose, and press its
mouth against my clit. My nub to distends grotesquely
into the plastic orifice, sucks a good inch into the tube
like a billion frayed nerve endings being slurped from the
bottom of a cup through a krazy straw; my shrieks drown out
the brapping raspberry noise of it.
Everything on earth is swollen and red. "You're gonna
have to gas me," John whispers.
"No need. I've got it piped in through the ventilation
system."
"Oh yeah. Ohhh yeeaahhh . . ."
Dinah emits a frustrated whimper, scowls. She points at
her dripping cunt in mock distress.
"Anita," she moans (her pet name for me). "Who has put
this pubic hair on my crack?"
"Professor Thrill," I coo (my pet name for her). "Are
you a scorned woman?"
"Ooh, Anita . . . Aneeeeeeeeeta . . ."
I ball up a soft wad of impression material, jab the
putty-like goop onto the bit of my drill, and jelly it up.
About thirty thousand rpm applied to that bitch's clit, her
puckering vulva; she jerks spasmodically from the excess
stimulus, cums in shimmering white waves. We collapse into
fetal mounds of exhausted joy.
John stands over us, towering and surging with orgasmic
power, jerking off with both hands, spraying a constant arc
of tapiocal jismic mucilage over us, cascading us with
sizzling hot cum, drenching our naked, writhing bodies,
droplet by droplet, spurt by spurt. Dinah passes out, three
fingers buried in her cunt, and then everything fades away
from me, too . . .
I don't know when Kitchener leaves, but he's still
cumming when he does; leaves a slug's slime trail of it down
the hallway and into the parking lot.
--
--
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