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Message-ID: <28578asstr$980525411@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Lyndon Brown" <indysheets@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} {ASS} Saturday Morning <*> {Lyndon Brown} (MF rom wife)
Date: Fri, 26 Jan 2001 11:10:11 -0500
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Some time ago, I read an essay by Ravensclaw entitled "How to give someone 
an orgasmic dream." It inspired this story.

I appreciate all comments and criticism. If anyone can offer instruction on 
uploading via FTP into my ASSTR account, I sorely need it!

Saturday Morning

I woke before the alarm clock sounded and turned it off without disturbing 
Joan. I love lying in bed beside her on a Saturday morning, savoring 
sensations of warmth and comfort that never seem so intense at any other 
time of day. I could spend whole mornings with her in my arms, hitting the 
snooze bar over and over, staying on the threshold of sleep, reveling in her 
heat and fragrance, savoring the best part of my life in nine-minute gulps. 
She, however, insists on staying unconscious till ten.

She was lying on her side, her head half on my shoulder, half on the pillow. 
She was uncovered to the waist, having, as usual, thrown the covers off her 
and onto me. Carefully, I shifted the double thickness of blankets, covering 
her without disturbing her. I kissed her forehead as I reached around to 
tuck the comforter under her. She smiled in her sleep, murmured and wriggled 
tighter into me, then settled in. I hoped she was dreaming about us.

This time together was made even sweeter by our recent separation. A year 
ago I convinced myself that she was having an affair. She stonewalled my 
attempts to confront her. No explanations. No remorse. No reassurance. No 
attempts to sooth my feelings or counter my suspicions. Just, "If you loved 
me, you would trust me" and a defiant stare. I withdrew. My employer offered 
a transfer to another state and I jumped on it. Two months ago I realized I 
was only hurting myself by staying away.

I found my cock stirring as I looked down her lush body. I had arrived late 
the night before, even later than usual. Her car wasn't in the drive when I 
arrived, but then, with traffic, weather, and the uncertainty about when I 
can leave the jobsite, the timing of my weekend commute is hard to predict. 
She pulled in as I was gathering the second load of luggage to carry into 
the house, and waved a pizza carton at me. Three microwaved slices and two 
glasses of wine later, we crashed into bed, without the usual "welcome home" 
lovemaking.

Stray strands of her hair tickled my cheek. My fingertips smoothed it over 
her temple. There were small flecks of something in her hair, tiny clumps 
and knots. I began to comb it with my fingertips, straightening and 
untangling, and remembering.

She wears her hair short now, tinted silver gray. When I first noticed her, 
in the dorm cafeteria, it was chestnut brown, parted in the center with 
loose braids over her shoulders. She wore it that way only the one day, but 
that is my first memory of her. I loved her with long straight hair. We 
would spend hours then with her lying on me, just kissing. Her hair would 
fall around us in a warm curtain, isolating us, focusing our attention into 
each other's eyes. The gray hairs were appearing, even then.  When she 
turned thirty, defying fashion, she took it all the way gray, and short.

I unbuttoned her sleep shirt and exposed her free breast. The pudgy nipple 
was still a bud, just beginning to stretch as I breathed on it. Her nipples 
are a rare treat. Occasionally she responds to full contact with lips and 
tongue, but generally her nipples are far too sensitive for extended play. 
This morning they looked red and puffy. I resolved to restrict my touch to 
the underside of her breasts and the upper slopes. I noticed more flecks of 
that gluey substance on her throat and sprinkled down into her cleavage. 
There was a small bruise on the inside of the breast. I kissed it tenderly.

There is a sharp edge between arousal and awakening. If the timing is right, 
the sleeper, like my Joan, will incorporate sensual stimulation into her 
dreams. If technique and timing are precise and correct, it can lead to 
penetration and orgasm. If not, a sharp elbow and a cold shoulder. Guided by 
twenty years of trial and error experimentation, I began a walk on that 
tightrope.

I started slowly. I formed a fist with my left hand, and began rolling it 
firmly against her spine where it met the very top of the cleft of her 
asscheeks. She murmured in her sleep, but her breathing stayed deep and 
regular. I massaged deeply, then slacked off. Firm, then gentle. When she 
shifted backward to maintain contact, I knew I had her.

Ever so slowly, I eased her knee up onto my hip, paused as she adjusted her 
dream, then added gentle pressure to her mound with my right palm.

She sighed, and her breathing grew even deeper and slower.
I held her between my hands, applying just warmth and light pressure. I 
kissed her neck and the upper slope of her breast, clearing the odd 
speckles, watching the nipple slowly rise and the flush began to grow across 
her chest. After an eternity, she began hunching lightly against my palm.

I extended two fingers of my left hand and began to massage the area between 
her labia and anus. She was surprisingly slick and sweaty. I dipped the 
fingers of my right hand into the moisture and began to spread it up onto 
her labia.  She began to twitch, chasing my fingers as they circled 
sensitive areas. As I rubbed upward, over her clitoris, she jumped forward, 
then thrust strongly back. The unexpected movement caught my forefinger in 
her anus. It penetrated easily, slickly up to the second knuckle, but when 
she moaned. I retreated instantly.

Her rosebud is off-limits to me, except when she needs that little extra 
push over the edge into orgasm. She did offer it to me, just once, three 
months before our marriage. She was resting, after her first orgasm, my cock 
in her mouth. She paused, looked up, and said, "Would you like to fuck my 
ass?" I eagerly positioned her on hands and knees, then dipped my cock into 
her pussy, just for lubrication. She went wild. Her orgasm triggered mine. I 
have mourned that one premature ejaculation for twenty years!

After she settled, then resumed the thrusts against my hands, I rolled up on 
my side and slid my cock between her vaginal lips. The motion of her hips 
strengthened. I greased my fingers in her oils, parted her lips and began 
stroking her clit.

She threw back her head. Her eyes never opened, but her face screwed up in 
that expression of tortured concentration that precedes her explosion. When 
my fingers left her clit, to guide my cock into her, she whined.

I shifted the top half of my body back to improve the angle, then slid into 
her. We couldn't manage much length of thrust in this position, but she 
ground her pelvis against me with frantic strength. I stroked her, rubbing 
her labia as they stretched around my fully embedded erection. I slickened 
my fingers and slid them back up and around her clit.

She moaned her need. Her hand seized my gently stroking fingers and crushed 
them against her. She craned her head far downward as if to watch our short 
battering strokes. She beat herself against me fiercely, convulsively, then 
exploded in orgasm. She curled up, sobbing for breath.

I kissed the top of her head, snuggling her into my chest. My hands massaged 
her back and eased the trembling muscles of her butt and upper thighs. I 
slid within her, forward and back, just enough to maintain my erection, 
waiting. I cupped a breast, cradling her in my arms as she came down from a 
truly impressive climax.

She stirred, turned her head, and gently bit my nipple. "Thank you," she 
panted, "That was fantastic! You were amazing, Eric. As always."

I went cold and rigid. My hands clenched into fists. She gasped as my 
fingers crushed her breast.

My name is Bob.
_________________________________________________________________
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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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