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Subject: {ASSM} The Nine-Minute Ritual by Desdmona (MF rom)
Date: Wed, 29 Mar 2000 21:10:13 -0500
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The following contains explicit sexual situations. It is intended for adults
only. Those of you that shouldn't be reading it, DON'T.
The Nine-Minute Ritual
By Desdmona
The room looks gray; not drab like prison gray, but soft, like
undertones that early morning causes right before sunrise. My eyes peek open
and beyond the blur of sleep, I can make out the shadows of furniture, large
windows and the lighted numbers on the clock radio.
The alarm is about to go off. My body stiffens from lying too long in
one position. I turn to my side and stretch, and then curl back up in a
semi-fetal position. The air is cool outside of the down comforter. I pull it
over my bare shoulder, tuck it under my chin and close my eyes, pretending I
don't know it's time to get up again.
He stirs beside me. I lay quietly hoping he will bring his warmth a
little closer. He complies as if reading my mind and snuggles up behind me in
the coveted "spoon" position.
Neil Diamond suddenly blares "Hands touching hands...reaching out...
touching me... touching you..." I sigh and then grin thinking everyone might
be on my wavelength today as I reach to hit the snooze button.
He takes the opportunity of my outstretched arm to slip his hand under
and cup my naked breast. I shiver, but not from the cool air that invades our
warm cocoon.
The nine-minute ritual is about to begin.
I snuggle back down into his embrace. His long, lean body presses firmly
against my backside and surrounds my fuller curves. I've heard the phrase
"fits like a glove" and indeed he does. There's not a spot between us that
even liquid could seep through.
His fingers graze the outer portion of my breast and then timidly work
towards the nipple. Soft, little pets cause me to tingle and my nipple
hardens, begging to be noticed. He kneads the fleshy part, ignoring the
raised tip. The nipple and areola pucker, as if to pout.
His wanderings arouse him as evidenced by the lurching of his penis
against my lower leg. He senses its need and reaches down to reposition. One
quick little tug and it's resting in the space between my legs caused by my
bent frame.
His hand returns to my body, finger- tipping his way across my skin.
Nerve endings jettison electricity wherever he touches. His hot breath bathes
the back of my neck as his mouth opens and then clamps down in a sucking
kiss. I jerk in response and squirm closer to him. He ends the kiss and
presses his bristled chin into the same spot. My flesh is raw where he
scrapes the stubble back and forth. It's a sensation that he alone invokes in
me. A special spot, connected somehow to my womb. He builds the fire and my
body reacts with moisture to assuage it. I begin to ache.
He knows his power and he revels in it as his thickened penis prods
deeper. My conscious mind reminds me again of the perfect fit that allows me
to feel every slight increase or progression of his intransigent cock, a
quirk of our physicality that I adore.
His fingers caress their way back to my breast, and with deliberate
force tweak the waiting nipple, pulling it outward and lengthening the nub. I
moan and wiggle and mash back against him. Postured like this, I can feel the
wet that has dribbled from him. His cock no longer prods or pokes, it slides
easily into the exposed slit.
He continues to taunt by pulling his hand away and slaking it across my
stomach and over my hip, stopping briefly to grab my pelvic bone. And then
sliding over my groin, he teases my pubic hair and tugs on it gently.
Instinctively, my legs slip apart. His fingers probe further, touching the
head of his penis as it pushes forward between us.
I'm alive with the idea of him touching himself as he touches me. The
back of his palm mushes between my labia and rests against my clitoris. His
outspread fingers reach his penis and pull it towards my center. His
breathing becomes ragged behind me, while my own lungs burn, gulping to get
air.
"I CAN'T GET NO SATISFACTION --" The music jolts us, and in unison, we
groan. The irony doesn't elude us. Mick is not alone this morning.
I consider jabbing the snooze button again when I hear the footsteps clomping
across the floor below me. Funny, I hadn't heard a sound during those nine
minutes.
I tell him I have to go. He rasps out, "I know." I sit up, still slick
with what might have been, and throw my legs over the side of the bed. I
shudder, only this time it's because of the chilly air.
I dress and clumber my way down the steps. My teenage daughters argue
over who's wearing what, as we walk into the garage. I choose not to referee
this morning and instead stare at the clock on the dashboard of the car. It
had been nine minutes ago. I squirm in my seat, feeling the moisture that
remains. I pray it only takes nine minutes to return home.
*****
Copyright 2000 by Desdmona
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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