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From: lordshon@aol.com (Shon Richards)
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Subject: {ASSM} Storytellers (M/F)
Date: Wed, 19 Jul 2000 08:10:02 -0400
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This is a sexual story that is copyrighted by me, Shon Richards. Please do
not post, repost or make money from it. Comments are always welcome at
lordshon@aol.com
Storytellers
By Shon Richards
Angela told me her first story over dinner one night. It was the story of how
her and her husband didn't love each other any more, and how the inevitable
ending was bearing down hard on them. It was a love story, bitter with small
grudges that kept gaining momentum as the years went by. The ending was good
though. It ended with us running off together, shedding all of our problems
like a bad book that's finally had it's cover closed. Her story was a lie, but
I loved her for telling it.
That same night, when we kissed and nibbled in my car with the tinted windows,
I told her a story of my own. It was the story of my wife, and how much she
had changed these last few years. It was a tragedy, detailing how this once
great woman had fallen into a cycle of mental instability. My story had a
happy ending as well. It ended with kisses, Angela's full lips against mine,
the honeysuckle smell of her long, brown hair and climaxed with the promises we
whispered to each other as my hand slipped under her shirt. I didn't know it
either, but my story was a lie as well.
My tragedy and her love story were placed aside that frenzied night. As the
minutes of our secret freedom ticked away, we hurried to write the opening
pages of our new story. I remember the simple pleasure of watching her take
off her shirt. Her brown eyes smoldered whenever I would touch her lips with
my fingers. My mouth descended on her bra, licking, nibbling, tasting and
devouring the abundant skin of her breasts through the thin material. Her
cupid bow mouth delivered their own pleasures, re-teaching me the joys of
kissing, reminding me how hard the heart could pound from a single swipe of a
tongue against nervous lips.
As I removed her bra and suckled at her faint, pink nipples, Angela poured
dialogue that melted into my ears, speaking endlessly of pleasures promised and
delights yet to be imagined. Biting on her nipples only solicited more
stories, all of them decadent and delirious. Angela told me the story of how
she would make love to me, of what her long legs could do, and what parts she
would hold onto while she rode me till we were spent. All these things she
would promise as I rolled her nipples between my lips, and these stories were
completely true.
Many stories are told between lovers having affairs. I often told her a story
about how I loved to dance, especially with her. This wasn't true, but it made
her smile. When we were alone in an empty house, I would dance with her,
telling her that I dreamed of little else. Angela's brown eyes would shimmer
with happy tears that she would blame on the sad songs playing on the radio. I
don't know if she knew I was lying. I just know that she wanted someone to
tell her that fable.
The best stories I ever told her was when I was between those lovely thighs.
When I was entering her and her sex would greet me with warmth and strength, I
always told her the story of my happiness. It was the same tale every time.
It was the story of how a man could think love was dead, but then discovers it
all over again from an older woman. She never tired of this plot, always
arching her back to receive my hips as they meet hers. Instead of applause,
she would clasp her ankles around my buttocks, kicking me deeper inside her.
Her moans in my ears were the only reviews I heard, and they never lacked in
praise. When she climaxed, it would be with a full body tremor that shook her
completely, wrenching a tortured orgasm from her lips. No better payment could
a bard ever receive.
Some stories were silent, or rather, complete omissions of unpleasant truths.
I never found out what she did for her husband for Valentine's Day, and Angela
never found out what I got my wife for her birthday. I think it's the stories
we don't tell that are the most important sometimes. How could our story
survive if I knew that Angela sucked her husband that morning? Where could our
story go if Angela knew how much I still loved my rainy day walks with my wife?
There were missing chapters from the novels of our lives, but they were the
parts that the other didn't want to read.
There are stories that only lovers could tell, stories that are so perfect,
they couldn't possibly exist in an honest relationship. Angela's insistence on
performing oral sex was such a story. Oral sex with my wife was always a
quiet, tender story, while Angela only told the ribald version of the tale.
Long wipes of her tongue, from balls to tip that could never be told by a wife.
Loud, messy sucking noises that burn the ears with their lewd passion were
standard elements in the story of Angela's mouth. If she wasn't squeezing my
cock between her full breasts, she was stroking my cock to explode in her
mouth. Only in her stories would I be allowed to grab her hair so roughly, or
bounce my balls against her chin as I emptied myself into her lips. Lovers
always write the stories to allow things that they would censor with their
spouses. It's the exchange of fiction that makes an affair work.
Our story ended like most stories do, at a beginning rather than an end. The
stories we wrote for each other's ears and on each other bodies, had built up
so quickly, and yet with so much work. They were fiction, they were at many
times false, but we never minded because we always had an appreciative audience
- each other. As accomplished as we had become, we began to understand that we
were writing for the wrong people. At some point in our marriages, we had
stopped listening to the tales our spouses told, and instead, chose to see the
tales of our own misery.
Once upon a time, there lived two people who decided to give their marriages a
second glance. They whispered their good-byes one summer night while the hot
wind caressed their joined bodies. Dancing for the last time, they let go of
the characters they had become. They didn't live happily ever after, but for
once, they started to really live.
Sometimes, when the night is quiet, and one of them is alone with the silence
of their thoughts, one of them remembers a story. They might see the flaws or
the untruths of the story they remember, but they can never forget the passion
in which the story was told.
The end.
By the way, what did you think? Tell me at lordshon@aol.com
"We have a blind date with Destiny, and it looks like she's ordering the
lobster."- The Shoveler
My stories are kept at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/ShonRichards
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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