Message-ID: <6265eli$9802201536@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
From: jordan@u36.com
Subject: STORY: In Our Tenth Year (oz) Jordan Shelbourne
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
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: <887928358.AA5832708@u36.com>
The third-last from that back drawer. Again, an odd piece that is not
as successful as I'd like. But there's definitely sex in it.
This and my other stories are still available at The Ivory Gate (when
it's working) at:
http://www.u36.com/jordan/
Jordan
Today's quotation:
Tenet insanabile multos Scribendi cacoethes et
aeggro in corde senescit. (Many suffer from the
incurable disease of writing, and it becomes chronic
in their sick minds.)
[Juvenal --- Satires vii.51]
Today's story:
IN OUR TENTH YEAR ON THE YELLOW BRICK ROAD
Jordan Shelbourne
[Tedious legal material:
[Copyright by the author, 1998. All rights retained. Please do not
archive without permission; for permission, contact me at
jordan@u36.com.]
Tomorrow we will see the Wizard. We have been traveling for a very
long time, hiding from the Witch. Just over the horizon, the
Emerald City glows, like the flash of green we sometimes see just
before the sun sets. I wonder if we would have been here sooner,
years ago, if Dorothy had not lost the ruby slippers.
Everyone is anxious. Dorothy and the Cowardly Lion cannot sleep.
So they are fucking.
The Lion whimpers as he approaches orgasm, and his eyes are squeezed
tight; Dorothy is riding him enthusiastically, awkwardly, since
she should really be on all fours, beneath him, but he won't: he's
afraid. Finally he growls deep in his chest. Dorothy urges him
on and the growl rises in pitch -- as he comes, she comes, yipping
once like Toto used to. Then she falls forward onto him, his soft
long belly fur sticking to her sweaty body.
Maybe now they will sleep. I have never slept, being made of straw.
The Tin Man used to sleep; he told me about it on a night like this,
before Dorothy had grown quite so big. (She is over eighteen now.) When
he was a man of flesh, the Tin Man said, he had dreams.
By the light of the moon, I can see the Tin Man's phallus. It's a tin
can, studded with rivets along the bottom, and the end is capped with a
hammered-out half-globe of tin. His nuts are real nuts, of course,
large and brass, and they hold his phallus on. It's all generously
proportioned, like the rest of the Tin Man, but I think that's more
because the tinsmith's eyes were fading, and he hated delicate filigree
work. Dorothy and the Tin Man might do it tonight, if she wants to, but
maybe not. He's still afraid of rust, and she says the oil irritates
her down there.
Mostly she does it with the Lion. She has to sneak up on him while he
sleeps and stroke him to erection; she has to mouth him before mounting
him; she has to avoid making a sound because, although the Lion enjoys
it, he's afraid to admit it.
Tomorrow we will see the Wizard. The Lion is already asleep, purring
softly and maybe he is dreaming of courage. I asked him once why he
wanted courage more than anything else, and he yawned cat-like and said
he would be king of the forest. I asked why he wanted to be king; he
stroked his whiskers -- his muzzle is quite gray now -- and said,
"Droit de seigneur." That means the right of the lord; I know that much.
But his pose and the lazy swelling of his penis hinted that the answer
carried more meaning than the words do. Would I really understand if I
had a brain?
Dorothy still cannot sleep. She rises from the Lion and crawls to the
Tin Man. She is graceful and predatory; the lines of her back are clean
and strong, the muscles of her thighs bunch and smooth as she stalks the
Tin Man. The Cowardly Lion's seed spills down her thighs. Her small
breasts sway. She is not a little Kansas farm girl any longer.
The Tin Man sets his axe aside and lies back. Sometimes he is on top,
but then there is a squeak in his hips that reminds her of bedsprings,
she says. It reminds her of home, and that makes her cry. She has not
spoken of Kansas, of Aunty Em or Uncle Henry, since she grew hair down
there. But now, here, Dorothy is in control. She does not need to make the
Tin Man hard; he will last as long as she needs.
They do not kiss. She takes her time. I hear her slowly work herself
onto his large tool. She is wet -- she squishes and squelches as she
pleases herself. The Tin Man strokes her breasts and fondles her the
way she taught him.
A very long time later, she moans and tosses her head. Her hair is a
black river in the moonlight, her back is rigid with orgasm. The Tin
Man groans, a creaking sound. Slowly Dorothy softens, sagging until her
dark nipples brush against his metal body. "Thank you," she whispers.
"You're welcome," he says. Tears flow from the corners of his eyes. They
drip onto the ground. What they've done has made him cry.
She comes over to me. She smells of sweat and her own arousal and oil
and feline musk. As she makes herself comfortable on my straw-filled
body, I can hear the sounds the Tin Man makes with the oil can. My
straw body shifts and adjusts to fit her curves. They get hard for her;
I soften.
She mumbles a goodnight to me. Now she can sleep. She lies with
one hand beneath her head, the other resting limply on her belly,
her fingertips grazing her pubic hair. I cradle her.
Eventually, the Tin Man stops oiling himself and takes up guard again,
his axe settled across his knees. The Lion rolls over, swatting at
something. Dorothy shifts slightly and her breathing slows into the
deep rhythms of sleep. Some nights she dreams of Kansas. Perhaps she
will dream of me tonight.
But I'm a bag of cloth stuffed with straw. I am as floppy as a
mattress. I cannot have her the way the others have her. I have her
afterwards. She sleeps with the others; she sleeps on me. It's special,
but it's not enough. She sleeps. I yearn.
Tomorrow we will finally see the Wizard. I will not ask him for a
brain, I know that.
--
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |