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From: anon584c@nyx.net (Uther Pendragon)
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Subject: {ASSM} new Flights of Fancy 1 {Pendragon} (Mf pett voy 1st) [1/2] <*>
Date: Thu, 3 Feb 2000 22:10:02 -0500
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IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18, or otherwise forbidden by law to
read electronically transmitted erotic material, please go do
something else.
This material is Copyright, 2000, by Uther Pendragon. All
rights reserved. I specifically grant the right for all
reproduction necessary for normal Usenet propagation. I
specifically grant the right of downloading and keeping ONE
electronic copy for your personal reading so long as this notice
is included. Reposting requires previous permission.
I read alt.sex.stories.d. If you have any comments or
requests, please post them in that newsgroup or E-mail them to me
at anon584c@nyx.net. Please use "{ASSD}" at the beginning of the
subject line of any posted reply.
All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as
public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination
and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly
coincidental. This is a piece of fiction, not legal advice.
# # # #
FLIGHTS OF FANCY
by Uther Pendragon
Part 1
"Can't catch me!" Leslie said. Her being sixteen to his twenty-
eight was bad enough; these occasional regressions into childhood
always brought Rick a frisson of guilt. He chased her across his
snow-covered fields, though, and caught her easily enough.
It was a Saturday of freedom. They got only a scant hour on
weekdays, between his getting home from the machine shop and
Leslie going home for supper. Time too short for more than
kissing and petting. On Saturdays he got out at eleven. They
could play and talk -- and plan. Time to waste, but time that
they could waste together.
Their kisses were interrupted by her laughter and his need to
breathe. She wrestled playfully until he had his arms around her
and her tight butt squashed against his leg.
"Can too catch you," Rick said. "You're mine now."
"Yes, Rick, all yours. Hold me, make me yours, and I'll never
run away from you again."
"No, sweetheart. The chase is half the fun. And, for moving
four months too soon, the state would put me in prison for much
more than four years. If you are to be mine and I am to be yours
on any more than a spiritual plane, we have to wait until you are
seventeen."
"But only that long," she said. "Tell me we'll be together
then."
"We'll be together then, and in between times, as well. Just not
as together as we would like. You can keep fleeing me; I can
keep chasing you. But you can be chased only so long as you
remain chaste."
"Pthlibit!"
"I don't hide my faults from you, sweetheart," he said. "I'm an
inveterate punster."
"With a show-off vocabulary." She turned to stick her tongue out
at him. He kissed it, and their kiss was long and deep. "But I
like your talk. Since I can't have anything else for four long
months, tell me a story."
He turned her so that he could kiss the back of her ear before
straightening and slipping his hand under her down jacket to hold
her breast. "A story the lady wants," he said over the top of
her head. "A story the lady shall have."
First Prelude
We might anticipate the time after your seventeenth
birthday. But the time in between won't have been
wasted from my perspective. I'll have talked with
Leslie and held her close.
I'll have kissed her in ways and places that I haven't
done yet. I'll have seen her in this field and in my
yard. I'll have shown her the new foal. Daffodil will
have her foal well before May, perhaps this month.
And as Leslie is a great friend of Daffodil's who has
ridden her many times and petted her previous foals, a
new foal of Daffodil's will have been one more reason
for Leslie to visit. And we will have had many reasons
to spend time in the barn.
Maybe, just perhaps, Leslie and I will have watched
Daffodil's foal from the hayloft. Nobody will have been
able to interrupt us when we are up there without making
a huge clatter first. In the hayloft, she won't have
been able to hide from my kisses and my hugs. Or we
might have decided to watch from an upstairs window.
There, Leslie will have been able to undress without
freezing. And I'll have been privileged to see all of
her beauty at one time. Naked in the cold weather,
Leslie won't have been able to flee from the house.
And I'll have hugged my love, and seen my love. And my
desire for Leslie will have grown. And something else
will have grown, too -- not permanently, but repeatedly.
And I'll have kissed my dearest, kissed her mouth to
mouth, and felt the electric sweetness of her tongue;
I'll have kissed her ears and have felt her wiggle her
hips so cutely against my hardness in her attempts to
escape, that I'll have wanted -- wanted desperately --
to drive my hardness into that wiggle. But I won't have
done so. I'll merely have added that desire to so many
others, waiting the right time.
And that will have taken us only into the last,
lingering death of winter, not the birth of spring.
She squirmed around in his arms to kiss him. They hugged until
he turned his back to adjust his stiffness within his trousers.
He held her with her back to his front again, and blew across her
hair.
"Somehow," she said, "I suspect that you have something planned
for the spring."
"In the spring," he said. "The mares will come into heat. Now
Daffodil will have a well-deserved rest next year, but I plan to
breed Delilah... and Dafney."
"Is she old enough?"
"She's a mare, sweetheart. She is old enough, or will be by
then. Horses grow up fast. Remember when she was a baby foal.
You came over to see her, and it was the first time that we
really talked."
"You thought I was a baby, too."
"You were a delightful child, hardly a baby, and a beauty even
then. But you didn't have these." He took a few minutes to
reach back under her jacket to play with her breasts through
shirt and bra. "I am going to show you so much in the next four
months. Anyway, my Leslie wanted a story."
First Flight
My Leslie is pure quicksilver. I'll chase her again and
again; I'll catch her again and again; I'll hold her
like this again and again. But however tight I'll hold
her, I'll never completely possess her. So I'll need a
new bait to trap her, a new bait every time she flees.
Maybe a new caress when I run her down, maybe a new
place to kiss her, maybe a new sight out in my barnyard.
So I'll show her so many things. I'll show her what the
books say about women like herself and men like me.
I'll show her how the animals handle passions like ours.
For we are animals, too, but animals with a stronger
will. We can anticipate the future; we can hold
ourselves back, hard as I find it, to make the future
last.
But I'll show my love the ways of the animals. I'll
bring in a stallion some Saturday when Delilah is ready.
She'll flee, but want to be caught. We'll see the
stallion pursue her. Then I'll hold my love while we
watch the stallion mount her, and cover her, and thrust
into her. I'll tell my love, while we watch and I
caress her here and here, that this is the way of the
male.
For I am male and my love is female. And the stallion's
thrust will hold the promise of my thrust. And
Delilah's acceptance will be the paradigm I will show my
love. I will say that she should be prepared to accept
my thrust in the same way. And after I have shown her
that, I will pursue her until she must show me something
else. I will, for only the second time, see the
membrane which guards her entry. Which will still be
the membrane which guards our future.
With any luck whatsoever, Dafney will come late to heat
as she did last year. If not, she will come back in
heat in April. And before Dafney comes into her April
heat, I will show my love that Dafney has a membrane
quite like Leslie's. If Delilah will be an exemplar to
Leslie as to behavior, Dafney will be a representation
as to her state.
When Dafney is in full heat, I will show my love
something different from an experienced mare's
flirtatious running to invite her mate's pursuit. I'll
show her the serious maiden flight of a new mare from
the stallion who holds more fear than hope for her. But
there is only so much room in the corral, after all, and
that stallion will desire the pleasures which he has
previously experienced much more than Dafney will fear
the totally unknown. He'll end her flight. He'll
corner her. He'll nip her flank, and -- never having
tolerated that before -- she'll stand still while he
does. I'll hold my love while Dafney quivers. Then the
stallion will rise up and mount her, while her
quiverings double at the startling weight.
I'll watch that mounting and imagine my own, which will
be much closer in time by then. I'll think of the girl
in my arms, and picture her in my arms again but without
the impediments. I'll see the thrust of the stallion
and let it suggest my own. I'll harden and press that
hardness against my love only a few inches from where
that hardness belongs.
And I'll remind my love that Dafney stands where she
will soon lie and tell her that her flight will avail no
more than Dafney's. And I will hug my love so tight in
my arms while the stallion thrusts home. And I will let
that prefigure my thrust, nearer and nearer in our
future.
And we will watch as the stallion's thrust breaks
through Dafney's membrane. I will hold my love as she
sees a mare being filled by a stallion which is
indifferent to the mare's wishes. We will watch the
mare's fear and uncertainty tremble under his weight,
and certainty, and lust. And I will wonder how much
fear and uncertainty my love has, whatever her
protestations; but I will look forward to the time that
I approach my love with certainty, and an overpowering
lust, and even weight. But I will restrain that lust
while we watch the horses as tightly as I restrain the
body of my beloved. I will hold her tight from the time
of the loosing of the stallion until the mating of the
beasts is quite done.
When the horses are done, fully done, I will show my
love that Dafney is now completely open; but I'll show
her very carefully, since Dafney will not be in a mood
to be touched back there.
And, when Leslie has seen all that, I'll take her back
to the house. There, flee as she might wish too, I'll
catch her and strip her. I'll touch her membrane, the
membrane which protects her inwardness and our liberty.
Then, and only then, I'll stroke her for the first time
where she has admitted that she strokes herself. And I
will pursue her response to those strokes until I'm
quite satisfied that I have caught something which is as
quicksilver and precious as the girl herself. I will
hold her and stroke her, and I won't let her go until
I'm convinced that I have found her deepest secret and
evoked her most fierce response.
He pulled her hood back to kiss the side of her neck, not sucking
hard enough to leave evidence. Licking, however, was safe.
Teased by his tongue, she writhed in his embrace. He abruptly
let her go when he saw a car he didn't recognize pull into the
drive a quarter mile away. "Go to the barn," he said.
Officially, she was visiting the horses, not visiting him.
Before she got there, the car had backed out and gone off the
other way.
He could run her down when he needed to, but age often walks when
youth runs. By the time he reached the barn, she was currying
Daphne. The mare didn't need it, but she always seemed to enjoy
it. "Look how large she's grown," he said. Leslie, though
nearly 16 hands tall herself, had to stretch to reach the back of
the Morgan who was two hands shorter. Of course, Lelie's height
wasn't measured at her shoulder.
"But she's still so young."
"Yep. But old enough by any horse-breeder's standards. She came
into heat last year, as you well know. Do you think the age
rules are too lenient?"
Leslie might enjoy being trapped in his arms. She clearly wasn't
about to walk into *that* trap, though. She wouldn't have been
the quicksilver mind he loved if she had.
"On my seventeenth birthday, though, you'll give me the gift that
I want?"
"Not quite *on* your birthday, dearest," he said, "but for your
birthday. There are a few preparations you will have done before
our celebration. But, as you are in charge of those
preparations, you will control the timeline after your birthday.
Before you come to visit me on that special day, you will have
done a lot by yourself."
Second Prelude
In the month before your birthday, you will have
practiced teasing yourself every night, playing with
your lovely nipples and your magic button. You will
have learned to hold yourself at the edge until the
anticipation has grown to pain. You will have selected
a fine-looking brassiere and pair of panties, both
white, and put them in the bottom of your underwear
drawer wrapped around a floral sachet. You will have
made an appointment with a gynecologist, preferably Dr.
Jameson.
You will have seen her as soon after your birthday as
possible. You will have asked to have a quite thorough
examination, including the state of your hymen. You
will have learned from her what methods she would
recommend to stretch that precious membrane so that your
first intercourse would not hurt. And you will have
followed that advice, especially if she will have
offered to cut it for you.
Whether it is cut or stretched, you will have allowed
days for the soreness to dissipate. You will have
warned me on Friday, and prepared yourself that night.
In that preparation, you will have teased yourself
unmercifully in bed that evening, playing with your
nipples pretending that it is my hands on you. You will
have continued that play with both hands above your
waist until your breasts are too sensitive for even your
touch. Then you will have stroked and tickled your
thighs until your newly-opened tunnel is running. You
will have put a finger within that tunnel, pretending
that it is my finger. (Which requires a good
imagination, considering the difference in size, oh
well.)
You will have stretched yourself until a second, and
then a third finger fits. You will have pretended that
the three fingers are my organ invading you. You will
have moved them in and out of your tunnel in imitation
and anticipation of my strokes within you. When you
have played these games for no less than ninety minutes,
you will have taken yourself to the only peak of the
evening. You will have tried to make that climax as
intense and long-lasting as you are able to produce for
yourself. Then you will have gone to sleep.
The next morning, you will have taken a tub bath, not a
shower. It will have been as hot as you could stand it
in that weather and flavored with bath salts. In the
bath, you will have stretched yourself again, and
brought yourself to the edge of ecstasy. But you'll
have risen from the bath still excited, not sated. You
will have pampered yourself with warm towels and dressed
in the scented underwear. You will have put a good
dress over the underwear. You'll have dressed for the
weather and walked out to the road a little after
eleven.
Once on the road, however, you'll have run to my house,
fleeing your home and your girlhood as rapidly as you
fled me in the field just now. And much more
decisively. And you'll have arrived at my doorstep
panting and breathless and overheated.
And the warmth and the exertion will have surrounded you
with the aroma clinging to you from the bath salts, and
clinging to your underwear from the sachet. Most of the
aroma surrounding you, however, will have been generated
by your exertion and your excitement. The aroma of an
aroused Leslie.
Dafney whickered and nudged Leslie with her nose. Leslie was
standing there with the currycomb in her hand, but she was
watching Rick and totally ignoring the young Morgan. When Leslie
didn't respond, Dafney let a couple of horseturds drop and drank
from the bucket in front of her stall.
Leslie let herself out of the stall and latched the gate. "You
didn't get to the good part," she said. She opened her jacket to
hug him, and she gave him a wet kiss. When he straightened, he
could feel her hard nipples press into his belly through her bra
and shirt; his erection strained upwards towards the valley
between her breasts. She pressed her soft belly against it.
"I thought the parts so far were good."
"Then the best part," she said. "The part where you get to use
this." She rolled against him from side to side, rubbing across
his arousal.
"Because," she continued, all this preparation has a purpose...."
Second Flight
When I get there, you'll open the door, and invite me
in. You'll take my raincoat and smell all that floral
stuff as I loosen it. Maybe you will be able to smell
my excitement. And it will excite you, imperturbable
Rick will finally want something, too.
But, wanting it and getting it is not the same thing, as
you have taught me so well. While you hang her coat up,
your little Leslie will catch her breath. And brute
speed isn't enough inside a house; agility counts, too.
So, you will want little Leslie in her Sunday dress,
little Leslie looking so innocent. But you'll have to
catch her to have her. Leslie will slip away from you
in her slip while you hang that dress up. And, if you
think that I look desirable in that dress, wait until
you see the slip that comes with it.
Looking chaste while I'm chased... (It's your own
fault.) Looking chaste while she's chased, your Leslie
will slip away in her white slip. It is white and
innocent and girlish, but being girlish it wasn't
designed to hide the hips and breasts that Leslie has
developed since that slip was purchased. So, if you try
hard enough, you will catch me in that slip and buy it
for a kiss. But you will need to provide a kiss that is
worth that garment.
And you will hang up the slip, over a chair if nowhere
else. And your Leslie, not being quite yours yet, will
flee again, and hide again. And, not knowing where, you
will have to search all the rooms upstairs. Will you
find her in a closet? Will you find her hiding behind a
door? Will you find her hiding under a bed?
You won't know until you search. And when you find her,
if you find her, you will get to remove more garments;
not her bra, not her panties, but her shoes and
stockings. For you won't find your little Leslie
wearing socks like the little girl you will still think
she is. And you won't see her playing tag in her
pantyhose, for that is asking for a run. You'll have to
take the pantyhose off.
And, when you do that, you'll see those panties you want
your little Leslie to wear. Not slinky black for a sexy
woman, but virginal white for a little girl. And you
can't really expect a little girl to take them off for
you, can you? So, while you will see them, while you
will be able to smell the sweet flower odor from the
sachet -- maybe. And maybe it will be overpowered by
another odor by that time, an odor that will spoil your
illusion that Leslie is a little girl.
While you will see them, you won't remove them then.
After you straighten out the pantyhose, it will be time
to search for a girl who has fled again. You'll
remember how nice it is that you live in an old
farmhouse with so many bedrooms on the second floor.
And you'll search in the closets, and you'll search
behind the doors, and you'll search under the beds, and
-- remembering that she is now barefoot and might get
chilled by the floors -- you'll search within the beds.
And when you have found your Leslie, you'll see that she
is dressed all in white like an innocent little girl,
or, at least, how you think an innocent little girl
should dress. And you will realize, a little late, that
having your wicked ways with an innocent little girl
would be even more wicked. So you will remove that bra,
and will see that your Leslie isn't so little anymore,
especially in the parts that the bra was hiding. And
you will kiss your grown-up love, kiss her until she is
satisfied with the kiss. Then you will kiss the parts
that you have revealed, the breasts that show her
maturity.
And when you have kissed everywhere that you have kissed
up until then, your Leslie will flee one last time. You
will find her easily though. Because, dressed as she
will be, undressed as she will be, the only place to
hide will be in a bed; and the only bed for her to hide
will be your great big one. There, in the bed, you will
kiss her mouth and kiss her breasts. While you are
doing that, you'll remove your own clothes. When you
are more naked than she, you will let her see you as you
have seen her.
You will let her kiss you as you have kissed her. You
will feel her kisses on every part of your body. Then
you will return those kisses until Leslie is gasping in
anticipation. You will remove the white panties which
are the next-to-last protection of her virginity, and
the last symbol of your weird illusion that she -- who
is really old enough to bear a child -- is a child
herself.
Then you will kiss the last unkissed place on her body.
You will use the skill you claim until Leslie is truly
yours, out of her mind with lust.
Then, then finally, you will do your duty. You will
drive that precious organ of yours, which Leslie may not
even see up until that day, into her. You will open the
way in a manner which neither the doctor nor Leslie
herself can open it. And you will fill her until she
holds all of you in herself.
Then you will drive into her and out of her until she
screams from the pleasure. And you will feel a greater
pleasure yourself and fill her with your seed. And you
will rest in her arms and holding a woman in your arms.
The pleasure will make you cry.
When you have rested enough, you will fill her again
with your cock, until you fill her again with your seed.
The joy in your heart and loins will be tinged by only
one regret. You'll realize that you could have been
doing precisely that for the previous six months.
"Do you really think that I'm being selfish?" he asked. "Am I
planning what will be a crucial and unrepeatable event in your
life to please only myself?"
"We can't repeat it?"
"Silly! You know what I mean. It's our first time, but it's
also *your* first time and not mine. Do I really come off as
designing it to please some petty kink of mine?
"Well, you keep treating me as some baby. I keep throwing myself
at you, and you keep ducking. You can't be so worried about a
silly law; you've broken others in your life."
"And so I have," he admitted, "and so I shall. That's part of
the reason. I always tell myself that the reason that I break
laws is to show that the law is wrong. When you take that tack,
obeying the law becomes morally important. And this law is
right."
"It isn't right for me!"
"No. It isn't. But you've seen the sign on the road past the
grade school? It tries to slow traffic to 30 miles per hour."
"Yeah." She sounded wary.
"Well, is that the proper speed to guarantee safety when your
father is driving? He isn't as good as he was when he raced, but
he still has lightning reactions. And is it the proper speed for
his Uncle Shelton? I get scared walking beside the road when
he's driving past."
"Uncle Shelton doesn't speed."
"No. But he's still an accident waiting to happen. But the
speed limit is for both of them. The same thing is true of us.
You're mature for your age, and not only the bulges which make
you so proud...."
"My age!" she said. "Most girls my age have been sexually mature
for years."
"And half of them don't have the intellectual or emotional
maturity to handle it. You do, but the law isn't made for
Leslie; it's made for girls. And the law in New York State says
that a girl's consent isn't valid until she's passed her
seventeenth birthday. I don't think that this law is wrong; I'm
not about to challenge it publicly. So I don't want to sneak
around it. And, quite honestly, I don't want to be caught
sneaking around it.
"Anyway, it's not as if our feelings are going to go away. We
*are* mature, and that means that we can control ourselves for
four months. And that means that we can reconsider our plans
until they satisfy both of us.
"So," he continued, "what is wrong with wearing virginal gear for
the last day of your virginity? What is wrong with my thinking
that the woman I love is a maiden intended for me, rather than a
whore looking for a customer? What is wrong with dressing the
part that, in actual fact, comports with your reality?"
"I just want to feel sexy, so I want to look sexy."
"You do look sexy. Even dressed like this, you look sexy. I'm
not really under any illusions about the size of your breasts,
you know." He turned her in his arms so he could confirm the
size with his hands. She pressed back against his hardness while
his fingers teased her nipples.
"You know," he continued, "when women past a certain age spend an
hour every morning over their makeup, they have a goal in mind.
They want to look like they aren't wearing any cosmetics. But
they want to look like *you* do without any makeup, not like they
do. Seems to me that girls your age are screaming, 'Look-at-me;
I'm wearing makeup.' Not that I would question your decisions
about cosmetics for yourself when you go to school events."
"Yeah. Right."
"But the very desire to look grown-up displays an immaturity.
Although, as I said, it's a good idea to follow the styles of
your peers. This underwear thing, though, is just for the two of
us. And I am *not* obsessing over your youth. I'm not chasing
young girls, I'm chasing Leslie. The last time I felt this
lustful over a sixteen-year-old was when I was fourteen. And, my
dear, evoking lust from a man of twenty-eight is a much greater
accomplishment than evoking it from a boy of fourteen."
"Yeah," she said in her most teasing tone. "I should remember
that you're over the hill. Maybe I shouldn't plan on repeating
sex on our first day. Maybe I should allow you a week to
recover."
Concluded in part 2
Flights of Fancy
Uther Pendragon
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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