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From: Tiramisu <tiramixu@yahoo.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} {ASS} <*> Come With Me by Tiramisu MF Rom
Date: Sat, 28 Oct 2000 00:10:15 -0400
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CONTENT WARNING: This story has an adult theme and may include graphic
descriptions of sexual acts. If it is either illegal where you are, or
you are not of legal age to view such material, please stop now.
"Come With Me" MF Rom
A Halloween story.
{ASSM} {ASS} <*> "Come With Me" by Tiramisu MF Rom
Copyright October 2000 by Tiramisu. All rights reserved. Please do not
repost without explicit permission of the author. Permission is granted
for archiving in ass and assm.
Comments are welcome. Email Tiramixu@yahoo.com.
"Come With Me"
November 1, 2000
Dana Grant was sound asleep when the phone rang. "Miz Dana, sorry to
wake you, but you need to come down here right now."
"Huh?" she replied groggily as she glanced at the clock. "It's nearly
one o'clock in the morning."
"Yes,m. But Mrs. Tinsley is dead."
"Oh. I'm so sorry to hear that."
Dorothy Tinsley was a sweetheart; despite all her problems, she never
complained. Sadly, she was paralyzed from the waist down from an
automobile accident 12 years earlier. Her husband Paul had taken care
of her until he died of a heart attack three years ago in 1997, and
then
Dorothy had come to the Churchhill Nursing Home near Wichita where Dana
was the Chief Administrator.
On top of the paralysis and the loss of her husband, poor Dorothy
suffered from emphysema, and a bad case of osteoporosis which was
worsened by the medications she was taking for the emphysema. She had
constant pain in her chest and ribs from the small fractures which
resulted from the osteoporosis. The pain was constantly visible on her
face, and though she was only 68, she looked 80. Dana had seen enough
through the years to know that Dorothy's death was a blessing, even
though it was premature.
Still, Dorothy's death was a surprise: her health problems were
serious,
but not immediately life threatening. And why the phone call at one in
the morning? "Well, Martha, you know what to do. You've seen people
die at Churchhill before. Call Doc Evans."
"Yes,m, but I still think you need to come down here. This was pretty
strange."
"What's strange?"
"I'm not sure I can explain. You'll have to see for yourself."
"Try, Martha."
"Try?"
"Yes, Martha. Try to explain."
"It's. . . it's not normal."
"What on earth do you mean?"
"Mrs. Tinsley. She was. . . I mean she is. . . It's spooky."
Dana was now fully awake, and though she had the utmost respect for
Martha's judgment, she was getting angry. "Martha, what do you mean,
spooky?"
There was a long pause, and finally Martha blurted out: "She's naked."
Dana sat up in her bed. Naked? Spooky? "What, Martha, do you think
she was. . . attacked?"
"No, Ma'am. But it's weird. She don't look like herself."
Frustrated, Dana asked, "What is so spooky? What do you mean, she
doesn't look like herself?"
"I dunno. It's just spooky. Please come down here."
"Shit," Dana muttered, and decided, what the hell, got dressed and
drove
the two miles to Churchhill.
And Martha had been right. This was strange indeed. And almost spooky.
Dorothy Tinsley lay naked on her bed, legs spread wide, her nightgown
crumpled on the floor by the bed. Dana's first thought was that poor
Dorothy Tinsley had been raped, despite what Martha had said, and as
unlikely as that would be at Churchhill. But no, Martha had to be
right. There was no sign of a struggle, and Dorothy looked relaxed,
peaceful. More than that. Serene? No, even more than that.
Whatever
happened here had not been unwelcome. Sometimes these old folks
sneaked into one another's rooms late at night, but that seemed most
unlikely in Dorothy's case. Because of the paralysis, Dana doubted if
Dorothy had any sexual feelings at all.
And even if she had had a visitor, that wouldn't explain everything.
The really strange thing was her face. Again, Martha was right. She
didn't look like herself; she looked much younger. She barely looked
68, and that tight, pained look in her face, the perpetual grimace, was
gone. It was replaced by, serenity. No, not serenity. Rapture!
"Martha, does anyone else know about this?"
"No, Miz Dana."
"Did anyone hear anything?"
"No Ma'am. Though I was on the desk there, and I did hear a short cry
once or twice in the night, but that's not unusual."
"Was it once, or twice?"
"Twice, I think."
"A cry of pain?"
Martha scrunched up her forehead and thought. "No, not quite. I
wasn't
really listening, since a lot of them cry out during the night, you
know, if they move the wrong way or something."
"Sure, Martha."
"What time did you find her?"
"Just before I called you."
Dana thought for a moment. "Any particular reason why you checked on
her at that precise moment?"
Martha hesitated. She really wasn't sure, though there was the thought
in the back of her mind that she had heard something. But she wasn't
sure. "No, Ma'am."
"You didn't hear anything?"
"No Ma'am."
"Would you know if anyone went into or out of this room?"
"Yes'm I'm sure I would, and no one did."
Dana wasn't quite convinced, but still, she doubted Dorothy had had a
visitor. This was a real mystery. She wanted to check this out
further
- alone. "Okay, then. Why don't you go call the Doc while I, uh, fix
things up here. I'll call if I need you. Meanwhile the less said
about
this the better."
"Yes,m," Martha replied as she left the room.
Dana looked more closely at Dorothy. She was still warm, so she must
have died very close to the time Martha called. She checked for signs
of sexual activity. There seemed to be some signs of swelling, of
distention, as if she had had intercourse a short time before. There
was even some lubrication, which she found surprising, and wondered how
long after intercourse such things would remain. But there were no
signs of semen, and no signs of any trauma or any forcible
penetration.
No rape. No late night visit from another patient, at least not from a
male patient who was capable of ejaculation.
Strange indeed. Dorothy looked younger and more vibrant than she had
since she came to Churchhill three years earlier. And the way her legs
were positioned was not what you'd expect from a paralyzed woman.
Well,
she had to make it look normal before Doc Evans got there.
* * *
October 31, 1950
Halloween at Kansas Western was always special. First there was the
hayride around the campus, then the dance. Some of the students wore
costumes, and some didn't. A lot of the boys wore masks, and dressed
as
Zorro, or The Lone Ranger, or plain old ghosts. Some of them took
advantage of the situation to grope the girls on the hayride, and some
of the girls, dressed as witches or nurses, took advantage of their own
anonymity and let the boys have their way.
But for Paul Tinsley, this night meant much more than that. He'd met
Dorothy Hendricks two months earlier, the first weekend they arrived on
campus as freshmen, and they'd been inseparable ever since. He'd
fallen
in love with her right away: her smile, her pretty face, her sense of
humor, her dreams for the future. They were both virgins, and he'd
been
patient, respected her wishes to go slow. But tonight, he hoped, would
be THE night.
Dorothy Hendricks stood on the dance floor waiting for Paul to return
with apple cider and cake for the two of them. She watched the couples
on the dance floor, watched the couples which were paired off in dark
corners, or leaving to take a walk outside, hand in hand. As she
watched, she thought about Paul and the last two months. From the
beginning, everything about him thrilled her, but mostly, it was the
way
he listened to her, cared about what she thought, and respected her
desire to be a journalist, to research and expose some of the things
that were wrong in the world.
Paul Tinsley. Dorothy's Tin Man, she called him. Because he was the
opposite of the Dorothy's Tin Man who needed a heart in the Wizard of
Oz. She laughed to herself. That was the scarecrow, not the Tin Man,
Paul had said. She didn't care which it was. He was her Tin Man
because he had a heart, and she loved him with all of hers.
Mostly, though, she thought about the last two weeks. In the last two
weeks, they had taken things further than she had ever gone before.
His
kisses had turned her on from the beginning, partly because she was
falling in love with him, and partly because of the way he kissed. He
didn't try to bruise her mouth with his, and he didn't try to shove his
tongue down her throat. His kisses were gentle, teasing. He would
draw
her lower lip between his and gently suck or nibble. Or, he would
tease
just the tip of her tongue with his, and when she would become excited
and put her tongue in his mouth, he would gently suck it and swirl his
tongue around hers. She'd never been kissed like that before. She
hoped those kisses would never end.
But the last two weeks, it had gone further. He had slipped his hand
inside her blouse, and it had felt good. She had let him take her
blouse off, and he gently stroked her titties. The he had pushed her
bra up, and kissed her titties, gently licking and sucking her nipples
until they became hard and she felt wet between her legs. That had
scared her, and she asked him to stop, and he did without protest. She
loved him for that.
The next time, though, she wasn't scared at all, and she didn't ask him
to stop when he kissed her titties. She didn't ask him to stop until
he
slipped his hand under her skirt, and under her panties. When he
touched
her vagina her whole body felt like it was on fire. She felt tension
build, felt her private area throbbing. It felt so good. She wondered
if this was what an orgasm was, but it felt as if there should be more,
as if an eruption of some sort was just out of reach. Again, though,
with great difficulty, she had managed to ask him to stop. And again,
he did without protest.
Paul returned, smiling at her, juggling two glasses of cider and two
pieces of cake. He looked sharp in penny loafers, khakis, starched
white shirt.
She was so pretty, he thought, her strawberry blond hair hanging just
above her shoulders, her bangs highlighting her face, her green eyes,
her beautiful smile, the lips he loved to kiss. She looked great in
her
white blouse, pumpkin-colored skirt, black and white oxfords and bobby
sox. Sweet, but to him, very sexy too.
The tables were all full and there was no place to sit. Paul led them
outside. It was an unusually warm night for late October: Indian
summer, no need for sweaters or coats. The Hunter's Moon had risen
higher in the sky, casting a soft glow over the campus. One of the
wagons that had been used for the hayride was parked a little distance
away, under a grove of trees. A private spot maybe. "Let's go over
there," he said.
The wagon was empty, and they settled onto the soft hay and sipped
their
cider. "Want some cake?" he said.
"Sure. Thanks."
Paul had cider in one hand, a plate with two pieces of cake in the
other. They looked at the plate. One plate. No forks. They looked
at
each other and laughed.
She smiled at him. "Well, Paul darling, are you going to give me some
cake or not."
"Of course." He set his glass of cider down, broke off a piece of cake
and held it to her lips. Gently she took the cake from his fingers,
nibbling his fingers as she did, licking them, sucking them.
"Since you forgot forks, I suppose you forgot napkins, too."
"All part of the plan, my dear," he said, kissing her, licking away any
trace of cake which remained on her lips.
"Hmmm, delicious" she cooed as she drew his tongue between her lips.
He
set the cake aside and kissed her more earnestly, nibbling her lips,
sucking her tongue. He kissed her neck, biting gently, and she moaned
softly. He dragged his tongue across her neck and she murmured, "Oh,
god, Paul. . ."
He kissed her throat and began to open the buttons of her blouse. She
put her arms around him, hands on his neck, pulling him to her as he
kissed lower, kissing the flesh he exposed as he unbuttoned her
blouse.
He pulled the blouse from her skirt, slipped it from her shoulders, and
removed it as she kissed him and held him tight. He removed her bra,
and looked at her, naked from the waist up.
She was so beautiful, lying there half naked in the moonlight. "I love
you Dorothy Hendricks," he said. "I will always love you."
"I love you too, Paul," she whispered.
He kissed her throat again, then moved lower, licking a nipple,
sucking,
teasing. Dorothy felt the passion build again. If she didn't stop him
now, she didn't think she'd be able to stop him at all.
He gently bit her nipple. "Ohhh," she cried.
He kissed her bare stomach, just below her navel and it sent shivers
down her spine. His hand was on her bare thigh, moving higher. Then
he was touching her vagina, slipping his fingers under her panties and
into her and she felt that throbbing, fluttering feeling that she had
felt once before.
"Does it feel good, honey?" he asked.
"Hmm."
"Please don't make me stop, baby, I love you. I want to make love to
you. Want to make you feel so good."
"Ohhh."
He pulled her panties down and the air felt good on her wet vagina.
His
mouth was everywhere. He kissed her mouth and her nipples, her neck
and
her stomach. She was moaning and squirming now, her hips moving, the
sensations he was creating were so delicious, the tension he was
creating in her so exquisite. His face was between her legs. He was
kissing her THERE. Licking. Oh god. Oh god. "OH GOD," she screamed
as he licked her and she felt the eruption that she had denied herself
before.
"Oh, Paul," she said as the spasms subsided. "I think you gave me an
orgasm. It was. . . incredible."
He smiled at her, kissed her. Somehow, she realized, he had slipped
his
pants off and had taken what she knew must be a condom and put it on
his
penis. He kissed her again. "I love you more than life, Dorothy."
She felt his penis pressing against her and it felt good. The feelings
of her orgasm had not completely drifted away, and the fire began to
build again. She felt pressure as he pushed slowly into her, then a
short sharp pain, and then only the pleasure of feeling him deep inside
her, stroking slowly in and out, grinding against her. She felt
another
orgasm build, and as the first wave broke over her, he arched his back
and grew still and she felt him pulsing inside her. "Oh, yes!" she
heard
him cry as they orgasmed together.
They lay together for awhile, quietly, enjoying each others presence.
It was just before midnight when Paul turned to Dorothy and said, "I
will always love you, Dorothy Hendricks. And I make you a solemn
promise. I hope that I will spend the rest of my life with you, but if
anything ever separates us, I promise that fifty years from today, I
will find you. . ."
* * *
October 31, 2000
Dorothy Hendricks went to bed at 10:00 PM as always. And, as always,
she slept fitfully.
It was just before midnight that she was awakened by a presence.
First,
she felt his presence, then she saw him. A young man of 18 stood
before
her wearing penny loafers, khakis, starched white shirt.
"Paul!"
"Yes, my love."
"My Tin Man! You kept your solemn promise!"
"Yes, my love," he said and moved closer to her, took her hand, gently
kissed her.
He had repeated that promise again and again through the years, telling
her how he loved her, how special that night had been to him, how
precious she always was and always would be to him. Even when she had
become paralyzed, and could no longer enjoy intercourse, he loved her,
and told her so every day.
Oh, how she missed him, missed his love the last three years, his
passion the last twelve years.
He began to remove her nightgown and she protested, "Paul, you know I
can't. . ."
"Shh," he said and silenced her with a kiss. He kissed her neck and
her
throat and she began to feel stirrings where she had felt nothing for
twelve years.
"Oh," she said as he tossed her nightgown on the floor and kissed her
breasts and her nipples hardened and she felt the wetness in her vagina
that had been dry so long. He stepped back from the bed and was naked,
his penis more hard and erect than it had been since he was a young
man.
The sight of it aroused her even more.
His mouth was on her again, kissing her nether lips, the lips which
were
now swollen and sensitive. He felt so good. His tongue slipped inside
her and she moaned, her hips began to move, she ground against him,
wrapped her legs around him as his tongue moved inside her. His tongue
moved higher and teased her clitoris, then circled it, swirling around
it and she came. The long forgotten intensity of the orgasm surprised
her and she cried out, "Oohhh!"
Paul was on top of her now, his penis sliding inside her as her orgasm
began to subside. Somehow, he always had the timing just right and he
began to bring her toward a second climax.
"Come with me," he said, and she did.
"OHHH" she cried as she felt the first wave of orgasm course through
her. Her orgasm crested as she felt him explode inside her, felt him
throb, felt her muscles clench him, squeeze him as he filled her with
his hot seed.
Her orgasm seemed to last forever, and his, too. It seemed as though
he
came and came, pulsing inside her forever. Never before had she
experienced anything like it, it was almost. . . supernatural.
Finally, when she thought she couldn't take anymore, the waves of
pleasure subsided. They lay together, holding each other and for the
first time she began to think about the strange events which had just
happened.
Paul looked at her knowingly. He held out his hand to her.
"Come with me," he said, and she did.
END
Authors note:
It's funny how these things happen. I needed a name for the old woman
in
the story, an older name. Dorothy. Then I wanted a last name.
Tinsley. No particular reason, just a name.
Then the thought hit me to give Paul a nickname. Tinsley. Tin Man. Cool.
At first I was thinking of the Danny Devito movie, then I thought of
the
Wizard of Oz. Then I realized I already had the right name for my
female character! And then, I decided to put them in Kansas.
And one final comment. I was all set to post this but when I proofread
it one last time it became clear what had been bothering me. The
opening dialog between Martha and Dana had been much shorter. Like -
this is strange, you'd better get down here, and Dana decided what the
hell and off she went. Much better to make it more plausible that Dana
would venture out in the middle of the night -and build the mystery at
the same time. This was the hardest part of the story to write - the
next two parts wrote themselves.
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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