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Message-ID: <29916asstr$987649803@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Scribbler" <nospamscribbler62@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Story: A filthy Sunday
Date: Wed, 18 Apr 2001 23:10:03 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

It takes some convincing to get Angela to sit on my face. Really, as
I see it, nothing should be easier on a Sunday morning. . .the smell
of coffee hangs in the air, the Times
is in a shambles, the frittata and fresh squeezed orange juice are
gone, idle thoughts of apartment hunting dismissed along with this
week's crop of movies at the Anjelika. . .so why is it such a chore
to get her to do this lovely thing?

"I don't feel like it. . ."

Well, I'm kissing her back and nuzzling down to the top of dark
furrow where her buttocks divide. She's starting to slow hump down,
despite herself. . .she's of two minds, I think. . .one mind squarely
fixed on the 400 count sheets on sale at Pratesi, this weekend only,
and another mind that is entertaining the thought of doing something
just a bit kinky; the sort of thing her mother back in Florida would
consider a paving stone on the road to Hell.

Oh, yes, we're one of those couples. . .degenerate New Yorker and
angelic WASP, though Angela explains to me that she's really "white
trash" -- "Baptists don't count as WASPs darling". For me, I play
urban Pan to this country mouse; wherever she came from, her blonde
hair, teeny little bush, upturned pink nipples are forever those of a
lovely choirgirl from a Pensacola church, bright eyes and beaming
white teeth an irresistable lure-- just how dirty can someone so
clean get?

But to get back to the sex, which is the interesting part, of course,
my favorite moment is to have her squat down. Even the word is
filthy: "Squat". Its one of those short little sex words,
living in the monosyllabic drawer of unredeemed obscenity
with "cunt", "fuck", "slut", and "cock"..

But squatting is better. . .when I finally wheedle her into
agreement, and lay my head deep in the pillow. She pulls herself up,
hands on the headboard, and then flexes down. I think I can hear the
moisture of her labia as the gesture pulls them apart-- I'm sure that
I hear a little wet sound.

Did I mention that Angela is an attorney? At a white shoe firm, no
less. . .little Florida girl, made good, got into Columbia Law School
and moved her tight tan butt and her cheerleader hair to the grey
slush of the Northeast. That's a good trade for New York, I think--
we send Florida our broken down parents, and they send us back hot
little twenty-seven year old attorneys, with virginal pink nipples
and labias that swell like a bee-sting. Good trade.

I wrap my hand around the backs of her thighs, bringing my hands to
her buttocks. . .supporting her and pulling her down. I'm not quite
drooling, but I could be. I can smell her, the heat of her cunt-- its
a rank animal smell, a lubricious dirty smell, and it entrances me.

"Come on darling, down"

She slides a a hand down to her pussy and gives a quick rub, then
pulls her hand up to her face for a tentative sniff. . .

"Yuck. . .I need a bath. . .darling, no.. ."

Oh, now how is it that we've reached this state of non-communication
of the sexes? I don't want her pussy smelling like flowers, or rain,
or pine trees, or oleander, or any of the miscellaneous faux virginal
smells that are trowelled on with the mysterious appliances of
feminine hygiene. I want her cunt to smell like a cunt: rank and
carnal, the decay of dead orchids in the jungle, a slick, wet living
thing whose thick fluids will coat my face.

"No. . .", her voice trickles off, as I slide my tongue along the
length of her slit. She swollen and sweaty, but still not committed
to the act. There's tightness in her thighs, her butt. . . I feel it
with my hands, muscles not yet committed to carnality.

But in her slit a new idea is taking shape. Gamey fluid is sliding
out, my tongue dipping in the river, her blonde fuzz sticky with it.
Her outer lips are swelling open, the ragged edge of her inner lips
growing firm with new blood. . .there's a new pulse here, a grinding
drum that pulls her cunt home to my mouth.

"You are a filthy man. . .oh. . .suck me", she's sitting down onto me
now, her hips calling the stroke. They're an undulating wave, a
repeating spasm that driving my tongue into her slit, and then up to
her little nubbin of a clitoris.

What? She's trying to get up. . .

I hold her.

"Darling." Her voice is insistent "Darling," she hisses. . ."I've got
to go the bathroom"

"No", I say, pulling her down, feeling the wet struggle within her.

"James" -- she only calls me "James" when she's mad or really
serious. . .James, I have to pee"

I'm in heaven, tongue deep in her slit. . .I think I can taste a
little bit of salty flow drip from her peehole.

"So, pee"

"James, you are disgusting, now let me up this . . . uh", her voice
cuts off as I start to nibble on her clit.

She struggles, but the grind in her loins and my arms wrapped around
her hold her in place. . .

"I'm going to. .."

I hear the words and then feel the sweet spray of urine over my face.
Its hotter than I imagine, another carnal smell, another wet
exudate. . .I keep on to her clit and feel her stiffen and grind her
cunt into my face. . .

"Oh, you filthy man. . .", I think that's what she said, as she came,
drenching me and the bed with the wet heat of her urine.

Afterwards, we lay back, stinking, sweaty and flushed with desire. We
had a nice slow fuck, a shower, and then went to buy those sheets. We
go through them pretty quickly, as it happens.

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