Message-ID: <22126asstr$946955400@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
X-Original-Path: extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!edrn
From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} The Red-Shouldered Mangrove Warbler (F/mmm)
Lines: 613
X-Original-Message-ID: <84rj2m$1ifq@edrn.newsguy.com>
Date: Mon, 3 Jan 2000 22:10:00 -0500
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/22126>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: kelly, Lambchop, newsman
The Red-Shouldered Mangrove Warbler (F/mmm)
by DrSpin
(drspin@newsguy.com)
January 2000
=====================================================================
DrSpin's Standard Disclaimer:
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is to it. If
any reader is offended, and I would be surprised to hear it, he/she
should not have been here in the first place and only has
himself/herself to blame. If this story is relocated, please leave my
name intact as the author and please include my email address.
=====================================================================
The pretty girl next door was getting married next weekend. I knew
her but not that well. My two buddies had turned up in the 4-wheel-
drive and we were packing the gear in the front yard when she came
over to the fence. A camping trip, she asked?
Well, no. My hobby, my passion, was bird watching and I had converted
Ben and Graham, which hadn't been all that hard because neither had
ever really had a life yet. Nice guys, all of us. You know? Plain and
ordinary. But bird watching? I knew full well what it sounded like as
I talked.
She smiled brilliantly. Carrie. That was her name. She was 20 and
maybe too young to be getting married. But what the hell did I know
about it anyway. I was only 16 myself and the biggest thing in my
life was bird watching. Which is what we were packing up to do and we
wouldn't be back till dark and we were really out there looking for
the red-shouldered mangrove warbler and you never did know but we
might just catch a flash of the rare but very pretty little bastard
at this time of the year. If we were careful. Might even get a photo.
Which would be terrific and maybe even important at this time of the
year. The words kept tumbling out of my mouth and she kept smiling
brilliantly.
Well look, she said, it was such a nice day and she didn't have
anything at all to do but get into mischief worrying about next
weekend and whether she was doing the right thing and all that, and
now the words were just tumbling out of her mouth, and rather
nervously too, and the upshot was that maybe we could let her tag
along. If it wasn't going to be too much trouble.
Huh? This beautiful chick? Carrie? She was asking to come along with
three nerdy younger guys like us? Jeez, didn't she have anything
better to do? Well, as it turned out, she didn't. Except get into
mischief. Etcetera.
So there we were, bouncing along off-road in Ben's father's battered
Jeep (Ben was 17 and could drive legally) and I was sitting in the
back next to Carrie looking under lowered eyelids at her long
slender legs, which were there stretched out beside me at some
considerable length because she was wearing this little short pale
yellow summer dress spotted with little black or maybe dark blue
flowers and with buttons down the front. Gosh but she was pretty. She
was marrying some smooth jerk next Saturday somewhere out of town and
she was going off to live with him someplace somewhere else. Lucky
stiff. She sure was pretty.
She chattered away about the groom, whose name was Jeff, and about
the wedding and about what a pain in the backside her mother was
because she horned her way into everything and how they agreed on
nothing and how it was blissful to escape her for just one day. The
Jeep was noisy and she leaned and swayed towards me, her mouth
directed to my ear. She was sitting close because the bench seat
beside her carried her capacious drawstring bag and her wide-brimmed
straw hat with its long trailing yellow ribbon. I nodded and murmured
and looked covertly at her long and smooth legs stretching down to
her little canvas shoes. Jesus but she was pretty. She had perfect
knees.
You wouldn't believe, she said into my ear, what she had to put up
with just to do a simple thing like get married. Such a huge enormous
fuss about everything and everybody. And the whole wedding thing was
turning her into something she definitely was not. She hated every
single item of clothing she would be wearing on the day, right down
to her underwear. All of it had been chosen by her mother. Carrie had
battled with her all the way and had lost every skirmish.
I looked at her in mild surprise. "Underwear? You had a fight about
underwear?"
"Oh yes," she said. "The biggest fight. But I lost as usual and now
I'll be wearing stitched shiny white with reinforcing and wires and
suspender belts and God knows what else. It feels like I'm wearing
full battle rig. I'll walk down the aisle like a spaceman on the
moon."
I laughed at the image of her in a huge white wedding gown, legs and
arms stiff and stuck out, wobbling and waddling to the altar. "Oh
dear," I said sympathetically. "It sounds complicated."
"Well, it's just not me," she said resignedly. "I'm a simple girl.
Given a choice, I like to wear things like I'm wearing today."
"And very pretty they are," I said with mock gallantry. "Especially
the hat."
She beamed at me. "That's nice," she said. "You can say it again if
you like."
"About the hat?"
"No, the pretty part. I seem to need that at the moment."
"Oh well then," I said. "Let's look at you. Pretty yellow dress,
pretty hat, lovely long and glossy dark hair with just a bit of curl
and tied loosely at the neck, very pretty face, cute nose, clear
grey-blue eyes, terrific slim figure and extremely excellent legs.
Great skin tone. All up, I'd have to say you are the prettiest thing
on this half of the planet."
She even blushed prettily. "Over the top, Michael," she said. "But
thanks anyway."
"You're welcome. And I think you're perfectly right about the clothes
and the underwear and all that. You should tell them to jam it and
wear what you want. It's your wedding day, for Christ's sake."
She sighed. "Too late for that. I'm signed, sealed and just about
delivered."
"You don't sound all that convinced about it, Carrie."
She pursed her mouth and studied me for a moment. She sighed again.
"Isn't it awful? I think I'm having a panic attack."
"This Jeff," I said. "You must love him to say you'll marry him?"
"I thought I did, right up to yesterday. Now I'm not sure I even like
him."
"Oh dear. Maybe this is normal."
"Maybe," she agreed, and sighed again. "I just wish they'd not take
me for granted. Like a good little girl. Why do I have to do the good
little girl thing all the time?" She lapsed into silence, hands
folded in her lap, and looked out the window.
We arrived at the chosen place, backed up the vehicle and started
unloading. Carrie wanted to know where we were going. Into the
mangroves, we explained. That's where the warbler was. We hoped. She
looked at our gumboots unenthusiastically. Was it muddy? Well, yes.
Mangroves, you know. Look, we said, we didn't expect her to come with
us. In fact it would not be ideal if she did, because the warbler was
a timid bird and you had to be patient, careful and quiet. She looked
about her at the small and secluded clearing. She thought it nice
enough. She'd wait for us, read a book and maybe catch some sun. How
long would we be? We thought maybe a couple of hours, depending on
our luck, and we'd be back for a spot of lunch.
We had no luck at all. It was a near birdless morning, let alone the
scarce red-shouldered mangrove warbler. We made our way back
disappointed, with a full camera and empty stomachs. Maybe things
would improve later in the afternoon. We stepped into the clearing
where we'd left the car and found Carrie looking awkward and
flustered, which was understandable because she was standing crouched
with a red-and-white striped towel clutched around her.
"Yikes," she said to us. "You're early. You don't know how close that
was. I didn't hear you until the very last moment."
Replay. Calculation. Deduction. She'd been sunbathing on the towel.
She wasn't wearing much. Maybe nothing. Confirmation. There on the
ground was the drawstring bag, the hat with the ribbon, the yellow
dress with the flowers, a white bra and white pants. And a book. And
a tube of the sun lotion variety.
She straightened, pulled the towel tight and tucked a corner into her
cleavage. Her bare shoulders and upper chest were smoothly beautiful.
The towel finished about halfway between her groin and her knees. She
was still wearing the canvas shoes. Only. And the towel. Just the
towel. And the shoes. My brain was digesting this in large chunks.
Holy smoke. A minute ago this lovely creature was lying on the ground
buck naked.
"So," she said, apparently recomposed, "did we see the pretty little
red bird like we hoped? Did we get any photographs?"
"No," answered Graham morosely. "No birds, no photographs. A
washout."
"Maybe we'll get lucky later," I added. My voice sounded a little
hoarse to me. I think I actually croaked.
"Maybe not, either," said Ben pessimistically.
We ate a meagre lunch, a few unglamorous sandwiches and some pieces
of fruit, standing around the back of the Jeep. Carrie, who remained
wrapped in the towel, was buzzed by an insect. She reached up to swat
at it and in the process the top of the towel worked loose. It sagged
and slipped away, exposing completely her left breast before she
clutched it to her body. Unhurriedly, looking at my face with a lack
of expression, she readjusted the towel. I expected at least an
`oops' from her but she said nothing. Ben and Graham were away on the
other side vehicle examining a dubious tyre. They had seen nothing.
But I saw her breast, which was not big but not small either,
perfectly round and perfectly shaped, topped with a small brown
nipple which tipped upwards.
I stood looking at her, perplexed. I had seen her breast and she knew
it. She was cool so I should be cool. I tried. "So," I said, "are you
feeling any better about your fiance? I mean, have you learned to
like him again?"
She raised one eyebrow at me. "I haven't given him one second's
thought," she said. "Or my mother. Or the wedding, for that matter.
It's really nice out here and I want to thank you guys for letting me
come along. I just needed to get away from it for a day."
Ben and Graham had returned. "No worries," said Graham. "I only wish
we could find a nice bird or two to show you. But there's nothing and
I don't think there's going to be anything." He sighed. "No birds. No
photographs. It's been a no result trip."
"Well, we can't have that. Let's make sure we get a result," said
Carrie. "I'm a sort of a type of bird. Why don't you photograph me?"
We three looked at her, standing there smiling, and I was thinking
ragged and jerky again. Like photograph, camera, Carrie, towel,
naked, breast. All words which wouldn't link up into a proper chain.
"Uh, sure thing," said Graham, who was more than handy with a camera.
He even had his own dark room. "Sounds good."
"I know what you're thinking," she said, still smiling. "But I have
to tell you I'll be keeping certain clothes on." She gestured to me.
"Get my nice hat for me." I fetched it and she perched it on her
head. "The hat stays and so do the shoes," she said, and I was
thinking her smile was a little tight and strained. "But if we can
strike a deal I'm prepared to lose the towel."
The other two had their mouths open like fish. I hoped I didn't. "A
deal?" I asked.
"The photos," she said. "They can't go anywhere. I'm outa here next
week but my family lives in this town."
"Sure thing," said Graham. "I'll give you the negs."
"You can keep them. Just don't show them to anybody. You have to
promise."
We murmured in promising fashion. Her smile had gone. It was
difficult to read her face. She looked like she was concentrating. A
silence developed and she appeared to have her mind elsewhere. Graham
coughed. "I'll grab the camera," he said, and ducked around to the
back of the Jeep.
Carrie drew a deep breath. You could hear it plainly. Suddenly she
smiled again, radiantly. "Fuck it," she said, and it was quite
shocking to hear her say it. "Let's be mad and have some fun for a
change."
She moved away from the vehicle and into the clearing. She turned and
faced us. "I can't believe I'm doing this," she said. And again, a
hesitation as if she was thinking about something unrelated. Then, in
a flash, she whipped the towel away and stood there, naked. Except
for the straw hat and the long ribbon. And the canvas shoes.
Maybe this is what happened when people got God. A blinding vision
thing. An unforgettable experience. It was an astounding revelation
that she could look so good.
I mean, I'd seen two girls naked in the flesh. I'd seen photographs
in magazines and I'd seen movies. Carrie-in-the-flesh was so much
better. She stood awkwardly and anxiously, with her head cocked to
the side, looking in turn at each of our faces and then again. And
again. Man, she was so perfect. Everything was there in exactly the
right place and exactly the right size and exactly the right shape.
Her breasts were perfect for the frame of her body and her waist
perfectly narrow and hips perfectly wide and legs perfectly long and
slender. At her centre, like a target, was a perfect vee of pubic
hair, not too much and not too little, and it seemed to be two-toned
in colour, like rich chocolate brown at the outer and black at the
inner. And all over, everywhere the eye looked, her skin was wholly
unblemished. Not a mark. Not a blotch. Nothing. Sheer perfection.
Absurdly, she burst out laughing. Her body shook and she bent over,
her breasts hanging and swaying until she clamped them together with
her arms, putting up her hands to hold her face. In a moment she
stood up straight again and it was obvious her nervous moment had
passed. She stood relaxed, smiling, even confident. "Sorry about
that," she said. "But you should see you guys. You look absolutely
terrified." She giggled. "I had this nagging worry you might gang up
and hurt me but now I see that's not going to happen."
I didn't know about Graham or Ben but I wasn't terrified. Stupefied,
maybe. And even while I stood transfixed, a little venomous spider
was running around my brain, set loose by her words. We were three
guys. She was just a girl. Easy. Barely any effort at all. Push her,
pin her, take her. Easy.
Nah. She was way too nice. Besides, I was thinking about standing
there and watching her until I grew old. I heard the click of the
camera and Graham was crouching, snapping her. She smiled readily for
him and bent her head. Nah. She was way too cute.
She struck poses effortlessly and gracefully. "You know," she said,
"I've always secretly wanted to do this." She flirted beautifully
with the camera. Holding her hat on her head and looking into the
distance, a wistful smile on her pretty face. Leaning gracefully back
against a tree. Perched on the bonnet of the big square 4-wheel-
drive. For 20 minutes or so she breezed her way around the clearing,
towing all three of us on an invisible rope. Graham took the photos.
Me and Ben did nothing but watch. She was glorious. She was also, you
could see it clearly, happy. And when it wound down of its own
accord, she insisted we conclude with pictures of us with her. Silly
pictures after what had gone on, like holiday snaps. We each took a
turn with the camera while she stood between the remaining two, us
clothed and her naked. They were, she said, the photos she would
remember best.
She rewrapped herself in the towel, sat on the bonnet of the car and
looked directly at me. "You're less amazed than they are about this,"
she said. "Tell them why I did it."
I thought for a moment. "I guess," I began hesitantly, "it's an act
of rebellion." She smiled her wonderful smile. "I guess," I
continued, "it's probably the last thing your mother would expect you
to do. You're getting married next weekend and this has been a show
of defiance to all of them. Your mother. Your fiance. Even though you
won't tell them, you'll still know what you did. How am I going?"
"Not bad," she said. "It's also been great fun. I've never felt so
free to do what I want. You know," she cocked her head, "it's true
what I said in the car. I really have been pretty much a good girl
all my life. I've only had sex with three guys, including Jeff, and
that's not much for a girl getting married." She grinned widely
suddenly. "I was about to say I've done it less than you guys but
then this funny idea popped into my head. You guys haven't done it at
all. I just look at you and know it's true."
Silence. I knew Ben and Graham certainly hadn't and they thought I
hadn't but actually I had, two years ago with a plump and aggressive
distant cousin and it had been an awkward, clumsy and very
forgettable experience. Never mind. Now was not the time for
recrimination.
Carrie laughed and clapped her hands. "Priceless," she said. Then she
stopped laughing all of a sudden. After a moment she jumped down from
the car and rummaged through her bag. "Look at that," she said. "I
think somebody is trying to tell me something. Just three condoms
left and I won't be seeing Jeff again until my wedding day." She
shaded her eyes from the sun with a hand and looked at us. "Maybe
it's a fair trade. I get to double my head count before I get married
and you guys get to lose your cherries."
She'd gone stark staring mad. Too much sun or something. No way did
this make any sense. The naked thing, maybe. It was mad enough but
she was really just sticking it up her mother and we three were
ancillary. But now? Way-pretty imminent blushing bride Carrie getting
it on with three awkward, sweating, nervous and somewhat less than
average standard package guys who were junior in every possible way?
Face it. We were about as exciting as a handbook on superannuation.
"Maybe you want to think about this," I suggested, trying for her
sake.
"I did already," she said. "Let's go alphabetical. That means you."
She pointed at Ben, reached out and took his hand. Wearing her towel
and carrying three wrapped condoms, she scooped up her clothing and
led him away into the scrub, Ben looking back at us twice over his
shoulder. You'd have thought he was about to face a firing squad.
"Shee-it," said Graham with pronounced feeling after they
disappeared.
"Right," I agreed. "Amazing stuff."
He nodded. "Amazing."
"Guess what? You're next."
"Shee-it," he said.
After a time which scarcely seemed long enough Ben re-emerged,
tucking in his shirt. He stopped before us and looked at Graham. "She
wants you now," he said. "About 20 yards in, veering right."
Graham sucked in his breath. "Shee-it," he said, almost absently, and
set off.
"Don't say a word," I said to Ben. "I'm worried it's a dream and you
might smash it."
He rolled his eyes. "Fuck my brown dog," he said. From Ben it was a
big statement.
I put up my hand like a traffic cop. "Uh. Not a word." He hovered for
a moment, thought about it, nodded and moved away to the Jeep to pack
away the gear.
My attention wandered as I strolled in small circles in the warm sun
of the afternoon. I put off thinking about Carrie because if I
started to think about her my guts turned liquid. It was such a nice
day. The sky was fiercely blue, the breeze gentle, and birds were
peeping and cheeping in the branches of a dark green tree festooned
with small orange berries. Such a pleasant chirruping and whirring
sound.
My head snapped up. I knew that sound. I peered into the tree. And
there it was: The red-shouldered mangrove warbler. And another. And
another. Amazed, I watched as four flashy warblers hopped and flitted
around the tree pecking at and swallowing the little orange berries.
I swivelled and looked for Ben. He was nowhere to be seen. Out of the
bush, stumbling over a fallen branch, came Graham. He almost fell,
straightened, picked up the branch, swung it around and threw it
mightily in the air. It whistled over my head and crashed into the
dark green tree. He was grinning hugely. He punched the air like a
victorious prize fighter and pointed the way back into the scrub.
I swung back to look for the warblers. They'd vanished, frightened by
Graham's big stick. He clapped a hand on my shoulder, still grinning.
Then he saw the expression on my face. "What's the matter with you?"
he asked. "You look like your grandmother just died."
I looked at him and back at the tree. Fuck the red-shouldered
mangrove warbler. There was a job to do. "Nothing," I said
cheerfully. "I think I might just go and rendezvous with somebody
over there in the bushes."
"Mad if you don't," he advised.
Carrie was sitting nakedly but neatly on the striped beach towel,
knees drawn up and her arms wrapped around them. "Well," she said,
"if it isn't the kid who lives next door."
"Yes," I said. "I'm going to miss you."
She smiled, just a little sadly. "I wish I'd known you better," she
said. "You're a really nice guy to talk to, Michael. You could have
been a good friend when I needed one."
"The age difference, though," I pointed out.
"Probably right," she agreed, stretching out her legs in a vee and
revealing herself unambiguously. "Maybe we should begin the catch up
process."
"You're sure?" I hesitated, still not truly believing.
"Positive," she said. "This has been the most rewarding sex of my
life."
Now I was astounded and instantly intimidated. "You're kidding. You
must be kidding. Ben and Graham? They were good?"
"They were terrible. But don't tell them. We're all terrible when we
start and everybody improves in great leaps forward. I'm just saying I
felt good about it."
"You mean the giving thing," I ventured. "Like a nurse comforting the
lost and the lame and the hopeless."
She laughed. Then: "Take off those jeans, Mikey. The day is growing
older."
I stood before her wearing only my tee shirt and she rolled the final
condom into place and smoothed it out with both hands. I'd have given
her my life savings for that experience alone.
"You're certainly ready, willing and able," she said. "You got a steel
pin in there or something? I had to use some encouragement on one of
your pals."
I clapped my hands to my ears. "Tell me no more. It's bad for me to
know that."
She smiled. "It's time," she said, pulling me down to her.
Carrie was so beautiful. It didn't go away no matter how close you got
to her. No upclose and personal imperfections. She was a star, and I
was lucky enough to be allowed to put something of myself inside her
body. She studied my face and watched my eyes, never not smiling to
some degree. She looked and appeared serenely comfortable. And nothing
more than that. There was no passion. How could there be? But
certainly there was an easy and warm and pleasant accommodation and I
didn't doubt for a second the sincerity of her gift.
I completed my task and for the first time I think in a couple of
hours felt myself go soft. I eased out of her and placed my head
gently on her breasts. A nipple poked insistently into the softest
part of my cheek and she stroked my hair gently. The breeze was
stiffening, the sun sliding and slanting away and all the birds were
talking about it.
"I have a favour to ask," I murmured.
"What?"
"Can I kiss you?"
She chuckled and I felt it vibrate against my cheek. "Sure," she said.
"Of course you can."
I cradled her face gently in both hands and kissed her. I started it
by saying thanks but it kept going and growing. She was so beautiful.
She was glorious.
I pulled back and she raised an eyebrow in that cute way she had about
her. "Well," she said. "If you kiss me like that again I warn you I'm
going to have to kiss you back."
So I did and she did, and with it I felt and absorbed the first real
stirrings of passion in her. Odd, isn't it. Sometimes you can fuck a
girl and she'll just lie there. And sometimes you can kiss the same
girl deeply and meaningfully and she'll purr and growl like a hungry
leopard licking at her prey before devouring it. But that's a
diversion. Back to the story.
She broke the kiss eventually and I could tell the episode was
concluded. Even though I was getting-there-hard-again there would be
no encore. We dressed and rejoined Ben and Graham and it was all very
pleasant and relaxed; even polite. We drove back to town with Carrie
leaning against me in the back seat and dozing on my shoulder.
"Well," she said to us as we stopped outside her house, "it's been
fun. Just don't tell anybody and we'll all live happily ever after."
Ben and Graham never saw her again. But I lived next door, remember,
and there's still the final chapter of a story to tell. Three days
after Red Warbler Sunday I was passing her house around dusk when she
hailed me from her front steps. She was leaving on a jet plane on the
morrow and that evening she was having the final fitting of the
celebrated wedding dress. The dressmaker would be gone by eight and
her mother had to be at a meeting at 8.30 so if I liked I could drop
by after then and see her in the dress.
Sure I liked. It was Carrie. I went home and on the spur of the moment
I manufactured a suitable wedding gift. I sliced out carefully from my
big bird book a full-page colour plate artist's rendition of the red-
shouldered mangrove warbler, took down from the wall my prized
autographed photograph of G.S.Chappell walking through the player's
gate at the Gabba, relegated the great batsman to a drawer and
replaced him in the mounted and carved frame with the dashing red
warbler. It looked good.
It still looked good at 8.35 and Carrie liked it tremendously well.
She was right about the wedding dress. Six children could have used it
effectively as a backyard tent. She looked like Queen Elizabeth I.
But she was cheerful about it now and optimistic she could get
through the entire ordeal well enough. Being bad for a day had helped,
she said. She'd needed to let off steam.
"Pity," I said. "I was hoping maybe you still had some steam to let
off."
She looked at me speculatively, amused. "Here and now? In my wedding
dress? That's bad, Mikey."
"Very bad," I agreed. "Can't think of anything worse."
"Anyway," she said, "I used up my supply of condoms. Unless you have
one?"
"No."
"Then that's that, because I'm perilously close to peak fertility.
It's a conspiracy. I'm sure Jeff and my mother want me to be
impregnated on my wedding night."
"So," I said. "It appears there is actually something worse than doing
it in your wedding dress."
She'd been wandering around the room and now she turned and stood
stock still. "You have silver tongue, boy," she said. "You'll be a
devil when you grow up."
I fucked Carrie in her wedding dress that night between 8.50 and 9.15.
It was not an easy accomplishment. Practical matters determined that I
had to lie on my back on the floor while she lowered herself to the
task. I was completely covered in masses of white material and could
see nothing and hear not much more. I knew she was nervously excited,
though. I could feel it in the gripping action of her vagina as she
stabbed herself quickly and repeatedly, and I could hear her muttering
and talking vaguely about how nasty and awful she was being and how
there was no excuse for it. When I spurted long and deep into her she
shouted something I didn't catch and dropped her weight on my pelvis
and wriggled furiously.
Afterwards, and not long afterwards, she cooled down quickly. "Get the
hell out of here," she said to me, meaning it but not harshly. "I
never want to see you again."
She did not. The next day she went away and two days later she
married. A few weeks later I received a letter from her thanking me
for my wedding present. It was pretty much the formal response, except
that she made a point of saying she would treasure the warbler and
hang it always in a place close by. It would remind her, she wrote, of
good and bad times back home.
I heard she had a baby but it was very much later and not in
contention. Over time I lost my photos of Carrie somewhere. All bar
one. It shows Ben and me, and a beautiful naked girl in absolutely
prime condition between us, smiling and squinting into the sun. I have
it beside me as I write.
Ben and Graham continued bird watching but I gave it up there and
then. I'd seen the red-shouldered mangrove warbler and what else was
there? As well, I couldn't talk about it and nobody would believe me
anyway, and that was a promise I kept. Until now. Years and years
later.
Oh well. I'll just be putting Carrie's photo away in a safe place.
Just as soon as I look at it one more time.
ENDS
(drspin@newsguy.com)
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html> Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations. |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+