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Message-ID: <28782asstr$981439804@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Kenny Gamura" <turtlemeat69@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} Fred Flintbone and the French Tickler {Gamera} (Mf oral voy MF anal)
Date: Tue,  6 Feb 2001 01:10:04 -0500
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                        DISCLAIMER

This is a piece of fiction. Its characters have not even
begun to contemplate such things, mostly because said
characters do not exist.  Any imagined resemblance to people
living or deceased is either the result of dementia on the
reader's part or that the reader is, in fact, a character
this story.  None of these are conditions to be proud of,
and it would not be wise to draw attention to one's self by
claiming any similarity.

It is assumed that readers of this story have the permission
of the state, mom, dad, and the pastor and are able to fully
tell the difference between real and make-believe.  If not,
PISS OFF, ASSWIPE, AND GET A LIFE!  Furthermore, the writer
is aware that he is bound for hell, but welcomes both praise
or/and well thoughts out, humourous insults on his writing
skill or lack there of. Note: he already knows he cannot
spell warth shet.

The events and descriptions of this story are the sole
property of Kenny N Gamera and should not be recorded,
reposted, or profited from in anyway without express written
permission of the person hiding behind that pen name.
Reposting and free archiving may be tolerated given the
writer's name and address remains attached.  Archiving by
Deja.Com, and ASSTR/ASSM is assumed and encouraged.

Thank You and Good Day,
Kenny N Gamera
turtlemeat69@hotmail.com

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Gamera


            Fred Flintbone and the French Tickler
                             by
                       Kenny N Gamera

In the bondage workshop, everyone sat in a wide circle.
Mistress Monica sat at the front, like King Arthur at the
round table, but whereas Arthur would have sat on a throne,
she sat on her husband. The students sat at simple wooden
school desks that might have been ordered from a Sears
catalog sometime during the Depression. The desks were way
too small and even more way too uncomfortable for their
adult bodies; Fred could understand why the instructor
would have chosen her husband instead.

Fred let his mind wander away from the discussion topic to
where he was no longer aware of what it was. So, while
missing the finer points of binding paraplegics with
chains, he concentrated on the finer points of the French
Tickler. She sat across the circle from him, next to a
large breasted brunette with a bad case of makeup induced
acne.

He studied her brown eyes through the thick lenses of her
plastic framed glasses. Her braided, brown hair fell down
her left shoulder to a point just passed the bottom of her
modest bust, which was hidden by the loose peasant blouse
she wore. Her embellishment-free face wore the expression
of a trance as she followed the discussion. Fred was
reminded less of a fashion model and more of a librarian,
but...

Crack!

He cried out in pain as the lash tickled his cheek. His
hand went to the red mark on his cheek, even as the pain of
the blow registered on his lust addled brain. Fred also
looked up at the instructor who now stood in front of her
human chair with a black bullwhip unfurled.

"Awake now, Mr. Flintbone," Mistress Monica asked in the
_mean_ voice.

"Yes, ma'am," answered Fred in the _very_ frightened
voice.

"Do you have a clue as to what we were discussing, Mr.
Flintbone?"

"Uh," he looked at the whip, still ready in her hand. He
thought it best to tell the truth rather than try to
bullshit himself into anymore trouble than he had already
done himself into. "No, ma'am."

Mistress Monica looked up to the ceiling and let out a
protracted sigh. He blushed at the thought of the hell he
had just gotten himself into. That and the look of pride on
acne girl's face as she stuck her cleavage just a little
further on display. Oh, and the gentle chuckles and giggles
of the rest of the workshop. And the fact, that he just put
the third sentence fragment in a row in his internal
dialog.

He made a heavy internal sigh.

"Well," she finally announced, "if you could be so kind, I
would like you to write a short scene tonight involving who
you were thinking about and also involving yesterday's
discussion on safewords." She glared at him. "You can
pleasure us with a reading of it tomorrow."

Sadist, thought Fred.

After the workshop was dismissed for the next series of
sessions, Fred walked quietly to the room holding the
discussion group on teen sex. A few steps ahead of him,
French Tickler went in the same direction. He stopped at
the vending machines to get a cup decaffeinated at same
time she stopped for a diet cola.

He watched her from the corner of his eye as she fought to
feed a worn out buck into the dollar acceptor. Her plain
brown skirt reached down to her ankles, which only left her
Birkenstocks and unstockinged feet exposed. Part of his
mind tried to imagine the mysteries beneath her loose
clothing as the rest debated offering her a fresh bill.

Just as he resolved to do so, she got her money flat
enough for the machine to accept it. He heard the clunk of
the can dropping into the hole as the last drops of his
coffee were pissed into the paper cup. He sipped at the
vile fluid as she walked away. He gave himself a mental
kick to his mental ass.

Damn, he thought as he entered his room. I'm acting like a
creepy teen-age kid not a thirty-five year old man.

Chester the Molester arrived late with a skinny girl in
tow. He wore a pair of faded jeans and a Big Johnson
Daycare tee-shirt. She had a pair of tight, daisy-duke
cutoffs and a smaller duplicate of the older man's shirt.
Her shirt did little more than attempt to display her
developing treasures. His failed entirely at hiding a large
spare tire.

The girl grinned a silly, young girl grin that showed off
both her orthodonture and the piece of gum that churned
around her teeth. She quietly took a seat while Chester
began writing at the chalk board.

Fred copied down the words "Reality of sex with young
teens" as Chester wrote them and quickly became bored. He
began to watch the other attendees, all of whom wore
stained raincoats. He sighed and wondered why he didn't
take the bestiality workshop instead. Then, he let his mind
wander to his assignment for Bondage.

"Mr. Flintbone," asked Chester, breaking him back to
reality with a partial flashback to the previous hour. The
rest of the group had their hands up like they were
competing in an Arnold Horshack look-a-like contest. "Could
you come up here, please?"

This was not going to be good, thought Fred.

He went to the spot that Chester indicated with his hand
and sat in the chair. The girl watched her feet swing back
and forth as she sat in a chair across from him. The gum
continued to bravely face its torture as the world viewed
the spectacle through her open mouth. The crowd of
overcoats watched with looks of dejection.

"Now my daughter, Cindy, will demonstrate one of the many
dangers of sex with a thirteen-year-old girl."

When Chester announced her name, Cindy got up and went
over to Fred. As her jaws continued to work over the gum,
she got to her knees and undid his zipper. She reached in
to his pants and pulled out a mostly hard cock, despite his
case of nerves and morality,.

In short order, she developed rhythm of 'chomp-chomp,
lick, chomp, swallow, release, chomp-chomp, lick.' It was
about as sexy as a pair of Granny's undies. Still, Fred's
dick responded to her somewhat talented mouth. When she
reached full stiffness, Cindy lowered her mouth all the way
down his modest shaft. She easily reached to his ball sack.
Her tongue snaked out of her mouth and rubbed over his
nuts.

Deep throat done, she lifted her head up quickly.

Fred screamed out in pain for the second time that day as
a batch of his crotch hairs parted company with his body.
Cindy looked up at him with a tinny, hairy grin. Fred
reached down to his balls and felt around. A glance to his
pubes confirmed the presence of a sticky wad of gum.

He made it back to his desk without slipping on everyone's
mess. Cindy had offered to finish him, but Fred had thought
with his organ safely wilted that it best to retreat while
he was still ahead or at least had one. He carefully
ignored the rest of lecture as he wondered why he had ever
signed up for the "World Famous Erotic Writers Academy of
Earlham College."

It seemed like a good idea at the time, he reminded
himself.

The free period before dinner was spent separating his
shorts, his nuts, and the gum from each other with the help
of a borrowed pair of scissors. Through the process, he
meditated on the assignment he had to write. He worried if
he should confess his fantasy about French Tickler and
embarrass her in front of everyone. Otherwise, he could
write something vile involving acne girl.

He was stuck at an impasse he could not break through.
That, and a case of writers block. Oh, and a case of teen
induced blue balls. And, the fact, he kept thinking in
sentence fragments.

When he returned the scissors, his friend, the
unfortunately named Master Bater, invited Fred to join him
for dinner. "You look like you need a chance to relax for
awhile."

"Thanks, Bater," answered Fred. "I can't tell you how much
I have enjoyed eating dorm food after all these years."

"Yep, makes you appreciate banquet chicken."

"Or, airline food."

They laughed and continued the game of naming inedible
institutional meals as they went through the cafeteria
line. Their meals were surprisingly good. They discussed
their day and the events of the academy as they ate. Master
Bater shook his head in sympathy to Fred's many travails.

"That Mistress Monica is a bitch," he agreed. "She had
that husband of hers fuck me up the ass during my
submission workshop."

"It's been just three days. I don't know if I can take
another three and a half weeks."

"Well, did you really expect a month of fun and continuous
sex?"

Fred sighed again, but out loud this time. "Yes, I think I
did. Still, I would liked a chance to do stuff that
actually had something to do with writing. All they seem to
be doing right now is torturing us, Bater."

"You know, Fred. Its like they're trying to chase us
away," Bater added as they took their empty trays to the
drop off line. "Well, no matter what the problem, beer is
always the answer. A bunch of us are going to a bar
tonight; you want to join us?"

Fred shook his head. " I've got that writing assignment to
do. We came here to write, and I want to get something out
of this besides minor injuries."

They parted at the dorm's lobby. Bater joined a group of
frustrated writers to discuss the evening's pub crawl. Fred
went up to his floor in the elevator, a luxury he did not
enjoy when he was in college a little more than a decade
before. It stopped almost immediately after beginning its
ascent.

The door opened, and in walked the French Tickler. She was
now dressed in a baggy fisherman's sweater but still had on
the long brown shirt that she had worn earlier. She reached
out to push the button for her floor. Her finger, however,
stopped short. She looked at Fred and smiled.

"I see that we are heading to the same floor," she
proclaimed in a husky voice that lacked the pronounced high
pitch that many women develop.

Fred felt that he was blushing slightly. He wrote it off
as his imagination. At least, that was his hope.

He failed to stammer as he answered, "Lucky you, saves you
a button to push."

The door closed itself, and the elevator returned to its
upward trek. They stood in silence for a moment spent
staring at the seam of the elevator door. They went up
another flight.

"So," the Tickler broke the pause still watching the door,
"are you going to the bar with everyone?"

"No, I've got that writing assignment." Fred glanced at
the floor indicator above them.

"Yeah, that's right."

They quietly watched the door for another floor. The
elevator stopped, and together, they got out. They walked
side by side down the old worn carpet.

"I'm going," announced the Tickler out of nowhere.

Fred looked at her. Her eyes appeared much large through
the distortion of her lenses "I'm surprised. You're not old
enough yet are you?"

She smiled at him, which accentuated her slight (but cute)
overbite. "I'll be twenty-three in a month. After this
summer, I'll be starting my Master's degree at Cal State.
In English."

"Oh!" Fred immediately mentally kicked himself again. To
save face, he added, "You look a lot younger."

"Yeah, it's a pain sometimes."

They stopped in front of Fred's door. She grinned at him
as he unlocked the door. He grinned back as he struggled to
insert the key while not looking at the lock and her
simultaneously.

"Guess I'll see you later." she said as the door opened.

"Yeah, later."

"Bye."

"Yeah, bye."

He went into his room. She started back down the hall. He
closed his door.

Damn, what a fuckin' dork, he thought as he finished
pushing the door shut.

He continued to think that at himself for the next three
hours. In addition, he stared at his laptop and the blank
window of MS Word it displayed on its screen. He hummed the
original Star Trek theme when the screen saver flipped
itself on. He opened the window to clear the stuffy air
trapped in the room. He stared at his lap top some more.

His writer's block was finally broken by a knock on his
door.

Thankful for an interruption to his thoughts or lack
thereof, Fred got up and went to the door. There was
another knock just before he opened it. French Tickler
stood just outside. She leaned against the door jam, her
large purse on the opposite side. Her round face was
slightly flushed.

"Good evening," she said. "How goes the writing?"

"Not good."

Fred stepped away from the door to give Tickler room to
enter. She slid past him and took a seat on the bed while
Fred closed the door.

"Why aren't you still out with everyone else?"

She shrugged her shoulders. "I got bored watching Scar
Face shove her tits in all the guys' faces," she said as
Fred returned to his spot at the desk. "Besides, I was
wondering how you were doing."

"Well, if I were using a typewriter, you'd be looking at
blank paper."

"I'm surprised. I thought you'd be done by now."

"Why's that?"

"I've read just about everything you've posted on the
net." She smiled at him. "You're one of my favourites. I
got excited when I realized that I was going to meet you in
person. I have to admit, though, you're not all what I
expected."

"Sorry to disappoint," apologized Fred.

"I'm not disappointed. I had this image of a fat guy
dressed in leopard skin." They laughed. "I'm glad that you
turned out to be a very handsome man."

"Thank you," Fred replied with a real blush. "I think
you're pretty, too."

They looked into each other's eyes. Fred got up from his
seat and sat down next to her. She licked her lips and
turned her gaze to his. His hand lifted her chin, its
weakness adding a softness to her pretty face. Their lips
met in a gentle kiss.

"My name is Jordan," she told him when they had parted.

"Pleased to meet you, Jordan. I'm Fred," whispered Fred as
he pulled her down on his bed with his falling body.

Their lips resumed the kiss but with the passion their
first had lacked. His tongue easily parted its way into her
mouth. Hers greeted it warmly while their arms wrapped
tightly around each other.

Locked side by side in an embrace, they kissed forever
without breathing until at last dire need force their
mouths apart. Jordan twisted and pushed, forcing Fred on
his back. She rolled on top of his body and covered his
mouth with his. This time her tongue took to the offensive
and entered his oral cavity. He sucked onto it for another
long time as she felt the inside of his mouth.

When satisfied with her explorations, she pulled her head
away and sat up. She gazed down at Fred, who watched her in
worship. In a single motion, the sweater came off her body.
She wore no bra, and the cool night air in the room made
her nipples stand up like thimbles from her small rounded
tittie mounds.

She began to undo the buttons to Fred's shirt. As she did
so, she ground her crotch into his groin. Jordan pushed the
shirt out of the way before she lowered herself back to his
body. Bare chest against bare chest, they again kissed for
a short while.

"I want you, Jordan."

"I want you, too. But, I know it sounds silly, but I'm
saving myself for marriage." She smiled down at him, then
gave him a peck on the nose with her pouty, naturally red
lips. "You'll have to fuck me in the ass."

Jordan got off from him and stepped away from the bed. She
stepped from her skirt and sandals. Fred noted again that
she was no fashion model, but she was all woman. Her legs
tapered down from her wide hips to her shapely if thick
ankles. Freckles dotted her pale skin. He admired her high
rounded ass a she lowered he panties to the floor.

Fred removed his clothing and got a condom from the drawer
of the little night stand next to the bed. He slipped it
down on his cock in one motion, pinching a couple of hairs
in the process Wordlessly, Jordan produced a tube of
lubricant from her purse and squeezed a bit of the lube
into a palm. With that hand, she began to masturbate his
cock with a few gentle motions as the other played with his
balls.

She let go after being satisfied that the lube had been
spread evenly along the full six inch length. Again, she
crawled on the bed and assumed the doggie position. Fred
picked up the tube and put a dab on his finger. Carefully,
he worked it around and into her anus, first with one
finger and then with two. Before very long, she pushed back
against his fingers.

"Enough, you bastard. I want you in me. Fuck my ass."

He got behind her and kneeled before her ass. With both
hands, he parted her butt cheeks to expose her asshole.
Jordan took his slippery cock in her hand and guided to her
waiting hole. Fred pushed against the muscle, and after a
short fight, it surrendered to his cock head.

He paused as she adjusted to him, and he adjusted to her.
She got impatient, though, and thrust back against him
forcing a few inches in her body before stalling. Fred
retreated to where he had started and then advanced again
into her rectum. He stopped when she let out a gasp.

"No! Keep going, you bastard. Fuck my butt!" she ordered.

Fred began to rhythmically pump his hips, driving his
swollen dick into the young woman beneath him. He went
slowly, forcefully keeping the girl from pushing against
him faster and harder than his was ready. At last, he felt
his balls knock against her pussy. She moaned out and using
the hand she had used to guide his dong, started to diddle
her clit.

"Please, oh please, fuck me. Fuck me, Fred. Oh God, fuck
me now," Jordan cried out.

"Yes," Fred answered through clenched jaws. He pulled
back, and then with a powerful thrust of his hips, he
slammed against her ass. She screamed out as his cock drove
itself deep into her body. Her fingers rubbed against his
nut sac as she busily played with her love button. He felt
her fingertips brush against the bulging center vein of his
cock as he withdrew for another thrust.

He began to fuck her butt rapidly in response to her need
and the demands of her sympathetic motion. He started
slowly, but soon, he had given in to his lust. With all his
force, he pounded mercilessly against his new lover.
Finally, Jordan was driven from her hands and knees to
laying flat on her belly.

With each advance of his dick into her ass, Jordan would
moan or cry out or squeal in pleasure. Never before could
Fred recall having such a vocal lover in bed. It excited
him beyond his expectations, and as he felt her anal
sphincter squeeze violently around his dick as she entered
orgasm, he began to spasm in his own release. He shot spurt
after spurt of his jism into her intestines, which added to
the ease of his final penetration.

"I feel you coming in me, you bastard. Fill me up with
your cum," she shouted to him as he at last spent himself
in her.

His dick wilted in her ass as they laid there in the peace
after the storm of their passion. At last, it fell from her
nether hole and a bit of his seed seeped out. Jordan turned
her head. Fred reached down, and again they kissed.

"You better start writing that scene for Mistress Monica."

"Fuck, Mistress Monica."

French Tickler, Jordan, smiled. "I wonder if that could be
arranged."

_________________________________________________________________
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