WARNINGS: This story includes
explicit descriptions of sexual acts. If reading this
might involve you or another
person in an illegal act, or you are offended by the
exploration of adult themes in literature
or on the Internet, do not read further.
Copyright 2000 by Jane Urquhart.
The author is a member of the Net Authors and
Creators Union (NACU), which defends
the rights of Internet authors and creators.
NACU intends to bring suit against
any person or corporation infringing copyright.
Specific permission is granted for
publication in the news groups Alt.Sex.Stories and
Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated and for archiving
by the Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated archive
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are reserved. Do not repost or distribute by any other
means without express permission from
the author.
Quickie (FM cons)
By Jane Urquhart
"Whaddya
mean, they want five hundred words? I only do works of art! You
gotta have foreplay!"
"Oh,
yeah? It's for the Festival, and you never complained about a quickie
before." Then he put an arm around
my shoulders, gently cupped my left breast with his
other hand, and, through thin cotton,
touched my nipple with his thumb.
Sitting
there quietly on the grass in the park on that summer evening, not talking,
seeing the circles of lamplight on the
shadowed boardwalk below and contemplating the
wide black river, I was weak with indolence,
vulnerable. That touch turned my spine to
jelly; I lay back and looked up at him.
"Here? Right out in public?"
He
leaned over and slipped a hand under my T-shirt. Bare calloused hand
on bare
soft breast, warm, in the cool
of the twilight. Somehow my legs began to part, and I felt
the warmth, too, between them.
Then his other hand slid up my thigh into my shorts. He
moved slowly, letting me feel his nails
slide along my skin. I shivered. Finally he
touched me, and I rose to meet his hand.
"Nobody
within a hundred feet, and besides, it's dark." On his knees now, he
unbuttoned my waistband and slid the
shorts off. The grass felt good. I pulled him over
onto me, slid my hands under his shirt
to feel his bare back. He held my head and looked
down, smiling, then he kissed me, gently,
his mouth barely touching mine. I waited. His
tongue parted my lips; he pulled my
head closer as I met him and the kiss turned into a
desperate mingling of our bodies.
He let me go for a moment, and I soon felt the silken
skin of his penis against my labia.
In seconds he was inside. I put my arms around him
and held him, tightly.
Slowly,
he began to move. My head turned from side to side; I moaned, oh, so
quietly. I slipped my hands down
his back and pulled him in deeper. For a moment we
were still, savoring each other.
His weight on my hips made me a prisoner. He moved. I
met his lazy thrust.
"Faster,"
I said. We moved together. Great strokes pulverized my mind, left
me
gasping as our bones collided, not quite
hurting, each movement bringing me a jolt of
ineffable pleasure.
I
felt the electricity start. He pushed my shirt up higher and kissed
my nipple,
caressed it with his tongue.
"Oh,
God!" I said. Then the sparks flew. My eyes shut tight. I felt
the rolling
surge, then it encompassed me.
On and on, forever, it pulsed through my veins, leaving
me limp to my fingertips. He suddenly
fell; we clasped each other for another moment,
then he rolled off. For a little
while, we were still again. Then I spoke.
"OK,
I'll write the damned thing. Now can we go back to the room and do this
right?"
---The End---
Copyright 2000 Jane Urquhart. All rights reserved.
Many thanks to Spline Duck, Old Rotorhead, and Miles Naismith; all errors are mine.