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From: John Jameson <j_jameson1780@my-deja.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Donna [4/7] {Jameson} (MFF Rom Oral)
Date: Sun, 6 Feb 2000 07:10:04 -0500
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Donna
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Copyright 2000, John Jameson. All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction, and all characters and events are drawn from
the author's fevered imagination. Any resemblance to persons, living
or dead, is unintentional. If you think you recognize yourself here,
it's no doubt a matter of projection on your own part. (Unless, of
course, you happen to be female, are not offended by what you read, and
find middle-aged would-be authors of erotica irresistible. But we'll
save that discussion for some other time.)
Please do not reproduce this work in any form without the express
consent of the author. If you want to archive this story, you may
contact me at Jameson1780@altavista.com.
If you are offended by explicit depictions of human sexuality, you may
want to look elsewhere for entertainment (after consulting a competent
therapist). If it is illegal for you to read such materials due to
age, local laws, or other considerations (and you know who you are, so
let's not kid each other), then please go no further. Not that I can
stop you, but at least my conscience is clear now.
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Part Four -- At Long Last Lust
Saturday was a classic autumn day: clear, bright and cool. I don't
think it was the chill air, though, that accounted for the flush in
Donna's cheeks when I picked her up at her dorm that morning. I had my
spare clothing and toiletries in a backpack, so I took her small travel
bag and carried it as we walked over to the counseling center, each of
us with an arm around the other's waist. Donna had taken advantage of
the communal kitchen in the old dorm to bake a huge batch of blueberry
muffins, which she then packed to bring along for people to munch with
their coffee as we worked on the old farmhouse. The aroma of the fresh
baked goods was almost as enticing as the scent of her hair as we
walked the six blocks to the center.
There were ten of us going out in Donny's bus, so I had to "suffer"
with Donna snuggled on my lap during the fifteen minute drive out to
the farm. She teased and tantalized me, wiggling her warm bottom in my
lap, kissing my ears and neck, and whispering about what would happen
that night when we retired to the privacy of our room. I retaliated by
slipping one hand up under her tattered sweatshirt and brushing my
fingers across her belly and up to the undersides of her breasts. My
fingertips brushed upward softly until they just barely contacted the
edges of her areola, then retreated, only to repeat the cycle again on
the other breast. I traced every curve of her magnificent breasts in
this way--except her aching nipples. By the time the short ride was
over, I was pretty sure she had a small wet spot in the crotch of her
jeans, though it was much less obvious than the pulsating bulge in
mine.
We were given a quick tour of the old place, a large brick Georgian
design with massive chimneys at either end. It had been built in 1856
by a man who was to become a Union-sympathizing judge during the Civil
War. Some people claimed the place was haunted by the ghosts of
Confederates he'd had hung from the ancient oak trees out front. The
house had a huge kitchen and even larger living and dining rooms on the
first floor, a small room that had been a library, six smallish
bedrooms and two nearly new baths on the second floor, and four smaller
general purpose rooms on the third floor. Donna and I had been
assigned to one of the guestrooms on the second floor, sparsely
furnished with a double bed, an old wing chair, a dresser with a
stained mirror, and a nightstand. To us it was a bridal suite, if only
because the massive oak door and the thick old interior walls were, we
were assured with a grin, almost soundproof. We deposited our luggage
on the bed and rejoined the group around the coffeepot in the kitchen.
The group ate and praised Donna's muffins as we split up the tasks to
be done that day; then we all turned to and got to work.
Donna and I were part of the group painting the living room, and I was
surprised at the level of discipline and craftsmanship everyone brought
to the job. With a liberal use of drop cloths and a little time to
make sure bare wood was masked, we managed to cover every inch of the
walls with a fresh coat of pale yellow paint with hardly a drop
spilled. What spills there were seemed to land on people, not surfaces
we wanted to protect. By one in the afternoon, we were cleaning up
brushes and rollers, setting them out on the wraparound porch to dry,
when Donny pulled up with a busload of pizzas and beer. Barb Mueller
promised us a home-cooked curry for dinner. We moved our materials
into the library as soon as we'd eaten our fill of pizza.
Dan Franklin, the director of the counseling center, talked though the
afternoon about plans to use the farmhouse as a retreat center for the
staff. As one of the student directors, I agreed it was something we
could use, since it was surprisingly stressful work at times,
especially working the Acid Rescue lines and counseling pregnant women
three years before Roe v. Wade. At that time, even advising a pregnant
woman on where abortions could be obtained was illegal in the state of
Missouri.
We mainly did preliminary screenings and helped women interested in
adoption or keeping their babies to get in touch with appropriate
support resources and to think about how to deal with families,
boyfriends, etc. Women who wanted abortions were referred to a group
of volunteer clergy who had accepted the risk of maintaining guides to
places in the country it was possible to obtain such services legally
and safely. The theory was that merely referring someone to a third
party that did the actual referrals for abortions insulated us from
felony charges if the state ever decided to play hardball.
We had similar protective rules because of our involvement with Acid
Rescue and runaway counseling; no one was EVER allowed to bring any
illegal substances into the center. More than once, the Columbia cops
had come in and searched the building looking for drugs, but the worst
they'd found had been a bottle of Boone's Farm wine in a fridge.
Alcohol being considered almost a required food group at Mizzou, we'd
never been hassled for that but were convinced if they ever came in and
found so much as a dime bag of grass, we'd all be busted.
In any event, the idea of having some place away from the center where
the staff could come and do encounter sessions and workshops, receive
additional training, and just shoot the breeze together made a lot of
sense to me. I promised Dan that the staff in my area would make
contributions to the rent in order to have use of the facility.
We got so caught up in the discussion as we worked that we almost
didn't realize we were done painting the library until it was time
again to clean our tools. The smell of the chicken curry, which Barb
Mueller had been cooking all afternoon, had permeated the whole house
by the time we were done, and we sped through the cleanup and a quick
change of clothes before dinner was served around the large old tables
in the dining room. They say hunger is the best sauce, and we tore
into the curry--which was served with brown rice, mango chutney, and
Indian flat bread--with a relish.
The conversation was lively and interesting; this was truly an
exceptional group for the most part. Ordinarily, Donna and I would
have been in the thick of it until everyone just passed out from
fatigue and the jugs of red Italian wine being doled out so liberally.
About eight o'clock, though, Donna caught my eye and explained to the
group that she'd been up early to bake the muffins so it was soon going
to be her bedtime. We received a few knowing grins from those who knew
us and knew of our quest for a private space, as we said our good
nights.
And then the time arrived. We closed the heavy oak door of our room
and made sure it was latched (though there was no lock), then looked
around in wonder before looking at one another.
--
New story "Donna" is posted to my Web site
----
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/John_Jameson/www
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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