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Subject: {Bombadil}JDR"The Morning After"( MF? )[1/1]
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JOHN DARK REPOST
The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic
erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story
codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas
that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author
make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other
matters that you find distasteful. You read at your own risk.
The enjoyment of these reposts can be increased by reading the "Coming
Attractions," which includes the titles to be reposted in the next week.
These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of
those e-mail addresses below the author's byline still work. If you liked
the story, either drop the author a line at that e-mail address or post a
comment to alt.sex.stories.d. Please don't post it to alt.sex.stories
itself. Posting the comment with a Cc: to the author would be the best way
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The copyright of this story belongs to the author, and the fact of this
posting should not be construed as limiting or releasing these rights in
any way. In most cases, the author will have further notices of copyright
below. If you keep the story, *PLEASE* keep the copyright disclaimer as
well.
********************************************************************
The Morning After
Short story #24
By Tom Bombadil (c) Oct 1997
Here's one for Malinov's spam title contest.
Original spam heading follows the story.
Disclaimer: All the standard rules apply. If you are offended
by explicit descriptions of sex or the human body, if it is
illegal to possess such materials at your location, if you are
under-age by law in your location, or if somebody else thinks you
might have too much fun reading it, stop right now and remove this
text from your computer.
This is purely a work of fiction, with all characters and actions
described by me coming straight out of my imagination. As a work of
fiction, it does not condone or condemn any of the activities or
actions described, nor does it relate to any type of real events in
my life, or known to me in the lives of any of my friends or
relatives.
You've been warned.
I give permission for anyone to share or archive this story.
********************************************************************
| |
| All of Tom Bombadil's stories can be found on this web page: |
| http://members.iglou.com/stbush/stories.html |
| |
********************************************************************
=====================
The Morning After
By Tom Bombadil
via stbush@iglou.com
It wasn't so much the alcohol, I suppose, as the fact that I have
just gone through a difficult breakup. It's inevitable that when
one of my short term, intense relationships goes sour, there's
going to be a bit of a rebound. But this?
When I first woke up this morning, things were a little hazy. Well,
maybe more than a little. There was an internal argument going on.
My head was telling me not to move; even breathing made the pounding
worse. My stomach, on the other hand, insisted that rather than
lying in bed, a much more appropriate position would be leaning over
a white porcelain bowl. The stomach won out, and I just made it.
Thank God.
Several hours later, after rinsing my mouth, washing my face,
downing a couple of Tylenol and crawling back into bed, I woke up
again. This time, aside from aching all over, I felt almost human;
not one hundred percent yet, but at least on that side of the
half-way mark. My bedroom was a disaster area. It looked like the
proverbial aftermath of the proverbial cyclone. My comforter was on
the floor on the wrong side of the room. Instead, I was wrapped in
the afghan off my chesterfield. How that got in here from the
living room is still a mystery to me. The clothes I'd worn to go
out partying in last night were nowhere to be seen.
Still groggy, I noticed an empty wine bottle on the night stand.
Beside it were two empty tumblers. One had red lipstick on the
rim. That's when a new queasy feeling started up in my stomach, one
that had nothing to do with last night's alcoholic overindulgence.
After wrapping up in a robe, I hesitantly headed off to see what
other surprises waited. The kitchen and living room were in about
the same shape as the bedroom - horrible messes both. Amid my
scattered clothes, dirty plates, empty Chinese food containers
(when - how - did they get here?), used towels and other clutter,
I found two more empty wine bottles and a couple more empty
glasses. That same red lipstick was on one of them.
By then, some hazy memories from last night started to emerge. Most
of them revolved around the first bar we - my friends and I - went
to. I had several too many there. Then one of my friends, I don't
remember exactly which one, suggested we all go to another bar. I
went along with them. After that was another bar. Later, yet
another. There might have been more, but I don't really remember.
By that fourth bar, I was fairly drunk, and had long since lost
track of my friends. Or, just as likely, they had lost me. Only
a few hazy images of what happened after I got there rose to the
surface. Dark red hair; piercing blue eyes. No face to go along
with those features, however. They definitely didn't belong to the
person I'd arrived there with.
I should know better by now. Drinking to excess gets to me every
time. It brings out another me, someone different from the normal
me. Someone who does things I don't do; wouldn't do. Things I
rarely remember.
It was when I started cleaning up in the kitchen that I found
them - a pair of bright red bikini style lace panties.
That queasy feeling in my stomach got much worse.
They weren't my panties.
More hazy memories started coming back. The red hair was long,
and contrasted well with pale white skin; a low-cut black dress,
with a red lace bra peeking out; those intense blue eyes looking
up at me; strong, slender arms around my neck, my waist; soft lips
everywhere on my body, touching and teasing all those sensitive
places; an extreme closeup of silky smooth thighs, as white as
milk. More, I didn't want to remember, but it kept coming anyway.
There was a note beside the panties:
Darling, last night was magical. Fabulous! You were so
wonderful! It's been ages since I even dreamed of finding
someone like you again! I haven't had such a fabulous evening
in forever! And when you said you'd love to go out with me
again, I almost died right then and there. Anyway, I'll pick
you up next Friday, here, at eight sharp. Be ready for another
night of wild passion!
Love and Kisses,
Kim.
The note ended with a kiss - bright red lipstick again.
Oh, shit. What kind of trouble have I gotten myself into this
time?
<Fin>
Original Spam: "Kim's panties ... beautiful worn panties"
(Sorry Kim - I just couldn't resist! <Grin>)
********************************************************************
public praise: alt.sex.stories.d email: stbush@iglou.com
World Wide Web: http://members.iglou.com/stbush/stories.html
********************************************************************
=====================
The Morning After
By Tom Bombadil
-30-
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