Message-ID: <7198eli$9803232151@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
From: AnneArbor@hotmail.com
Subject: {ASS/M} "Fingerprints" by Anne Arbor (MF, cheat)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Path: qz!not-for-mail
Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam
Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Original-Message-ID: <6f6aj4$hdn$1@nnrp1.dejanews.com>


Fingerprints
    by Anne Arbor

    Dee sprawled heavily on top of him, her back sweaty and slow to
cool.  Her face was tucked under his jaw, where she could hear his moist
panting in her right ear, feel his chest rising and falling.  She could
feel the rapid thump-thump-thump of his heart, though it was still not
as fast as hers.  His erection was gradually softening in the twitchy
clutches of her vagina.  The only muscle she moved was down there,
trying to hold onto the moment.

    But her carpet-scrubbed knees were complaining too loudly to ignore.
Dee sighed and rolled off onto her back.  She looked over at Paul.  His
shrinking cock flopped to the side in that almost pathetic post-coital
dying animal look, erotically shiny with her juices and his semen.  It
bobbed, feebly.  A trace of white still oozed from its tip.  A death
gasp.  Dee closed her eyes again.

    "That was good," he said to the ceiling.  His hand reached over to
fiddle his fingers in her flattened pubic hair.  They drifted lower
until they grazed her upthrust clitoris, but she squeezed her legs
together and pushed his hand away.

    "No," she grumbled, "Too sensitive."  He grunted and lay still
again.  She could hear her own heartbeat thumping in her ears.  Another
apartment door slammed, somewhere down the hallway.  Dee's own fingers
found herself still puffed wide and pouty.  His semen, thick and sticky,
was beginning to leak from her.

    It had been a few days, so there was more than usual.  She liked
that.  It was the gift that kept on giving, for hours after he left her,
a sloppy reminder of their all too brief connection.  And the more he
ejaculated inside of her meant the less likely it had been that he'd had
sex with his wife since the last time Dee had seen him.

    Paul cleared his throat.  "I can't be here on Friday."  He paused.
Dee remained silent.  She always wanted him on Fridays.  The weekends
were unsufferably long without Fridays.  "It's my birthday.  Jodie is --
we're having a party.  She wants me home early."

    "Oh."  There was nothing else to say.

    "I've got to go," Paul said in a quiet voice.  Dee watched him rise
unsteadily to his feet and head toward the bathroom.  She knew that "go"
probably meant "leave."  He'd been here for almost two hours.  He was no
doubt expected at home.

    It had been a year now.  A year since they first had sex that Spring
afternoon in her apartment.  It had been a day very much like this one.
In fact, Dee mused, today might even be close to a first anniversary.
Sometime in early May, wasn't it?  She couldn't remember exactly.  She'd
never been very sentimental about those kinds of things.

    Yes, it probably was early May.  A warm California sun, a typically
cloudless day.  They had played hooky from work, leaving in the middle
of the afternoon to swim in the large pool at her apartment complex.
They both probably knew what was really going to happen.  Dee had
certainly known.

    It wasn't as though she had seduced him.  No, he had been ready and
willing.  She'd met Paul when she started her first job after a Master's
at Berkeley.  He was flirty in an attractive, non-threatening way.
Light brown hair, thin and starting to recede.  Startlingly blue eyes.
A couple of inches shy of six feet.  His being married didn't bother
her.  At least not back then it hadn't.

    No, they had both been ready and willing.  They'd retreated into the
coolness of her apartment after the swim, and there she had accepted his
invitation of a back massage on a damp towel on the living room floor.
Before too long she was on her back, naked and legs unashamedly splayed
wide apart, and Paul was licking chlorinated water from her breasts and
the musky nectar from her vulva.

    Dee was proud of her breasts, 26-year-old firm and almost softball-
sized, with medium-small tan nipples that hardened easily.  She was
neither skinny nor plump, neither obsessed with controlling her weight
nor oblivious to it those times when it crept upwards.  She was a
tomboy.  Her dirty blonde hair was cropped just above her shoulders,
legs strengthened from running, arms and shoulders from swimming.  She
was comfortable in her skin.  And she loved how men reacted to it.

    And Paul had reacted like most men.  He had an experienced mouth
which had lingered only briefly on her neck and breasts before finding
its way straight down, following the faint downy path between her
bellybutton and her curly brown thatch of pubic hair.  There he had
stayed, swabbing her labia apart with a flattened tongue, alternatively
proding fingers and tongue into her twitchy vagina and not quite often
enough saying hello to her clitoris.

    They seemed to be a matched set from the beginning, Dee remembered.
Paul loved to give her head.  She loved to receive it.  Neither of them
seemed to feel the need to talk much.  They communicated instead through
gestures and motions, sighs and moans.  He'd learned quickly that first
afternoon.  She had intruded her fingers to interrupt his mouth,
strumming her clit in a firm side-to-side flurry, then had held her
lips apart and angled her hips and had encouraged his mouth to mimic
her instruction.  And mimic he did, until she was inflamed and flowing
and climbing her way to a climax.

    But he had been too eager that first day and still unable to read
all her signals, and before she'd reached the mountaintop he was moving
to the next step, up on his knees between her thighs, his Speedo
stripped and flung atop her own a few feet away.  His erection curved
high and hard, his testicles hanging asymmetrically.

    All too quickly he'd covered her body with his.  The moment was
aroused and rushed and awkward.  The cool skin of his thighs pressed
against her own warmer flesh.  Dee had strained her legs apart, bending
her knees, her hands just below her kneecaps to hold herself open for
him.  He had smeared his shaft in her creamy slickness, and she had
tried to adjust her body to accommodate to his angle.  His knees had
nudged up and back on the carpet, searching to find the right position
with this new body and its unwaif-like hips.

    And then, suddenly, he was inside her.  First only an inch, then a
brief retreat followed by a deeper thrust.  Dee always held her breath
at initial penetration, held her body still and receptive, relishing
that invasion of hard flesh.  She remembered how Paul had stopped, then
leaned forward and just kissed her.  Long and lingering.  It had been
the longest kiss of that first afternoon, and it had surprised her how
he was able to pause what had at the time seemed so frantic and to just
focus on her mouth.  She had tasted herself on him, inhaled her scent
on his mustache.

    Then, without breaking the kiss, he had driven the rest of the way
up inside her, his pubic bone pressing the weight of his hips through
hers to pin her against the hard floor.  She couldn't breathe.  Dee had
broken the kiss to pant, to find a place for her hands on his back, his
behind.  His thick shaft had deliciously stretched a vagina which hadn't
felt a cock in more than six months.

    But they didn't click right away, that first time.  She'd felt out
of sync, out of control.  Falling behind.  Paul was breathing hard, his
cock already doing that thrust-twitch-stop thrust-twitch-stop that
signaled how distressingly close he was to an orgasm.  Dee had struggled
to get back to where she was when his mouth had so abruptly left her
pussy, and that was made all the more difficult by Paul's irregular
rhythm.

    "Wait," she had gasped.  "Stop."  She had pushed at his chest with
her fingertips.  His cock, jerking involuntarily, slipping back.  Not
yet, not yet, she had thought.  "Let me be on top," she'd told him.

    Paul had smiled and acquiesced, withdrawing completely, then had
flopped down beside her on his back.  His penis was an arch of
glistening flesh, with an inch of angry red just below the head.
Throbbing.  Bobbing up and down.  Alive.

    She had straddled his hips.  She had reached down to find his shaft,
furrowed its mushroom head up and down between her labia to assure
herself that she was properly spread and wet, and, closing her eyes, had
lowered herself on his erection.  She had impaled herself on him with a
directness that had made him audibly groan.  She loved to hear a man
groan.

    Dee became conscious of the sound of water running in the shower.
That was a clear sign that Paul really was leaving.  Her right
forefinger traced the sensitive edge of her inner labia, from bottom to
top, first one side then the other, then briefly checked the still
gaping path to her vagina.

    Dee smiled and remembered back to that first time, remembered how it
was so much like this very afternoon.  How she'd ridden him, how she'd
mashed herself against his pubic bone, how her body had swirled with the
heady sensations of a roughly diddled clit matched with a stuffed
vagina.  How she was happy.  How she was being fucked.

    How she was fucking him.

    And how she had found her rhythm with him.  Back and forth, a
relentless grinding pressure of her clit on him, an occasional small
sideways movement to stretch her vagina and remind herself that this
rock-hard, warm male flesh was inside her body, stirring her soul.  Her
clitoris had scrubbed against his pussy-juice soaked pubic hair.  She'd
always loved that feeling, loved the sensations, the bonding.

    Dee had been in her private universe, fucking this man's cock.
She'd allowed him into her body, though perhaps not into her mind, at
least not just yet.  She'd used him, used his erection, scratched her
intimate itches.  He always lasted longer this way, she smiled to
herself.  She could ride his body and soar into the clouds.

    Dee remembered how she'd opened her eyes and looked down at him.
Paul had been flushed.  His hair was tousled and sweat-stuck on his
forehead.  His hands had found her hips, holding her with an anxious
firmness as if he was afraid she was going to escape.  She had captured
those eyes and caressed her own breasts, kneading them roughly and
pinching her nipples, presenting herself to him, teasing him.  His cock
had jumped inside of her.

    Even though pinned down by her weight, Paul had struggled to rock
his hips, to stroke himself in her and find some measure of friction,
but Dee wasn't having any of that then.  She had only pressed down even
harder.  Paul's eyes had looked almost in pain.  Dee had rewarded him
with the tightest clench she could muster with her vagina.  It would
have to be enough.

    Paul's lips had pursed.  Again and again she had squeezed and
squirmed herself on him, clenching and working her hips, until finally
his eyes had closed and she knew he was going to come.  His fingers
clawed into her hips and his body struggled to power upward to bury
himself as deep as he could manage.  She'd met him with her own downward
thrust, with her full weight behind it, rewarding the both of them with
one final fraction of an inch.

    And there they'd hung, suspended.  Dee had felt his cock stiffen
into steel and then, finally, those magical spasms began.  She had
clenched herself around the pulsing root of his shaft, knowing each
spasm was delivering a splash of white fire.  She'd felt the tip
quivering gloriously high up inside her.  Felt the spreading warm rush
of his fluid.

    And when he had finished, when the spasms had died down and his body
was no longer rigid, he had left her sloppy slick and fucked full, and
it was her turn.  Dee had closed her eyes to concentrate and to began
anew the grinding pressure.  Paul, to his credit, had held his hips
raised high.  Now it was all business.  It was all her.

    She had arched her back and twisted her hips to prod his shaft
against that old familiar spot, her Old Faithful.  And when she'd found
it, when she'd felt stuffed and goaded by that male stiffness, it had
all come crashing over her, splitting her head apart while her insides
convulsed.  Dee had heard herself grunting happily at every pleasure
spasm, every clutching circular grasp of his impaled penis, continuing
to rock her hips and twist her nipples and suspend herself there on the
crest, hopefully forever.

    But it was never forever, and when she had returned to Earth, still
making those little circles on him, Dee had opened her eyes and had
given Paul a large smile.  "Hi," she'd said, with just a hint of self-
consciousness.  For the first time that afternoon she'd felt just the
slightest bit shy and vulnerable.  Not because of where his cock was,
not because he had seen and touched and tasted her body.  Because he
had seen her climax.

    And one year later they were still in her apartment, still tearing
off each other's clothes.  Two, or sometimes three times a week he'd
come to her, usually in the late afternoon, almost always on her living
room floor.  A year, she thought to herself.  She wondered if Paul
thought about anniversaries.  Or about anniversaries with her.

    Where was all this going, Dee asked herself.  Now he knew just how
to bring her off with his mouth, with those long buildup licks and, at
just the right moment, that furious tongue making figure-eights on her
clitoral shaft.  And when she had enough of that and needed the primal
feel of his stiffness buried inside her, sometimes after one orgasm,
sometimes after two, she would ride him just as she did that first May
afternoon, until he would cry out her name and explode, sometimes
before her, sometimes after.  Sometimes together.

    And, like today, like a hundred other times, he would empty himself
into her body in those long, sticky surges, leaving her with a part of
him that would ooze out for hours as a lingering memory, hours after
the apartment door closed behind him.  It was all she woke up with in
the morning.

    Dee heard the shower turn off.  Slowly, with a curious fatigue, she
made her way to the bathroom.  His semen, their soup, had found its way
back between her buttocks, and by the time she was standing in the open
doorway of the small steamy bathroom, she could feel it creeping down
the insides of both thighs.

    Paul had dried himself with her favorite blue towel.  It was still
hanging loosely over his shoulders.  He stood there, looking down, his
hair wild and untamed.  He was inspecting his penis.

    "Looking for fingerprints?" she asked him in a quiet voice.  Paul
stared back at her with a puzzled look on his face.  She turned and
walked away.


-----== Posted via Deja News, The Leader in Internet Discussion ==-----
http://www.dejanews.com/   Now offering spam-free web-based newsreading


-- 
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |