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Message-ID: <30607asstr$991717807@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: PJcocoa@aol.com (Gary)
Reply-To: PJcocoa@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} <Dulcinea> "L is for Lethargy" (MF ROM cons) by Gary
Date: Tue,  5 Jun 2001 01:10:07 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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This is my entry in the Dulcinea Memorial Writing Festival
NoteTab tells me that before Title, Tags, License and Insurance,
the word count comes to 992 words.

I would like to thank Denny, Alexis and Shon for the many
outlines they provided -- but I threw them all away.  I'll settle
instead for thanking them for their continuing cajolery, 
encouragement and prodding.

This is the story I told them I was too tired to write.

Disclaimer: Under 18? Go away.

"L is for Lethargy" (MF ROM cons)
by Gary (PJcocoa@aol.com)
Copyright 2001

She could hardly move.  She didn't think she'd want to 
move much, not for a week at least. All her energy was 
gone, used up in the glorious night before, and early 
morning after.  She wanted to move for him, from him -- 
it couldn't be comfortable with her weight still 
pressing on his chest.  She still couldn't will her 
arms to lift, her legs to shift.  Those last orgasms, 
like rolling thunder, had drained what reserves of 
strength she ever had.  All her efforts lifted her less 
than half an inch, before settling back, exhausted.

He felt her move, just barely up, then back down.  The 
darling.  Although there was nothing he could do to 
help her.  He was acutely aware of her nipples, 
pressing against his ribs just south of his own.  Her 
body, in intimate contact with his along it's length, 
was a warm embrace.  A drip from her wet pussy onto his 
cock was a reminder that they should move.

His regular breathing lifted her as much as her own 
efforts had.  Up, then down; up; down.  Had he been on 
top, she would be suffocating.  She really must give 
him more room to breathe.  She concentrated on drawing 
her left hand from beyond his shoulder blade to anchor 
it next to his chest, to use as a lever to move.

He felt her hand, caressing his shoulder, her fingers 
weaving a trail of erotic fire along the muscles there.  
Was she trying to awaken lust, after so many feasts, 
sso much repletion?  His cock, lying limply at the 
portal of her sweet pussy, twitched gamely, once.

She felt a twitch below.  Lacking the strength even to 
open her eyes, she managed to lift an eyebrow ever so 
slightly.  Again?  The poor, ambitious, loving fool.  
In her exhausted satiation, there would be nothing she 
could do to help.  She needed to tell him so, but first 
must lick her dry lips to speak.

He felt her lips at the short hairs of his neck move, 
her tongue awakening those hairs to sensation.  His 
cock twitched again in response, and began to stiffen.

She felt another twitch at the rim of her pussy, and a 
slight pressure from the cock-head nestled there.  Oh, 
the dear, darling man!  The words she was trying to 
form were forgotten, replaced by a low moan.

Her moan affected him at an instinctual level.  He 
thought ruefully that even if some small amount of 
flesh were willing, the rest was too weak.  That 
thought did not prevent his cock from growing a little 
more, nestling between the folds of her outer lips
and pressing apart the inner.

Her heartbeat sped slightly at the welcome intrusion of 
his cock into her soaking wet pussy.  All the dark 
hours behind had ensured that copious lubrication was 
there, his and hers.  Her breathing sped ever so 
slightly as well.

Her warm breath on his neck acted even more as an 
aphrodisiac.  His cock grew still more, rapidly 
approaching its maximum in her warmth.  Its growth was 
aided by an increasing blood supply, courtesy of his 
accelerating heart.

Sprawled atop his body, impaled on the physical 
manifestation of his love, she could still summon no 
reserves to aid in their mutual enjoyment.  All motion 
was provided by the rise and fall of their chests, 
lifting and dropping like bellows to fuel the flame.  
Her pussy gave an involuntary contraction, a normal 
response in an overworked muscle.

He felt the clench around his cock, a delicious 
sensation.  With her encouragement, he sought within 
himself for any of hidden energy.  Instead, his calf 
spasmed, in dire need of electrolytes and phosphorous.  
It lifted his legs a fraction in response.

She felt the thrust at her core, her nub sensitized all 
out of proportion to the stimulation provided.  He must 
be as tired as she -- he had done more than his fair 
share of work in the hours since sunset.  Where was he 
finding the energy?  Her heart sped up still more.  Her 
hand was finally in position and she pushed.  Instead 
of rising up, she slid back a few milimeters on their 
sweaty torsos.

Oh God!  Her nipples on his chest made him incredibly 
aware of his own arousal, her thrust, minimal though it 
was, heightened his cock's awareness as well.  As best 
he could, he managed an answering push, a feeble 
attempt compared to any other recently, but an attempt 
with heart.

Oh God!  The hairs on his chest teased her nipples to 
full height, awareness substituting for ardent 
friction.  And somehow he managed to thrust into her, 
and again her mind and memory provided what friction 
could not, bringing her closer to completion.  She 
tried to bring her right hand parallel to her left.  
She would need both if she were to rise.

He felt her other hand carressing his bicep, a slow 
tease of flesh.  Instead of distracting him, it 
enervated him, and he managed another tiny push, before 
collapsing his hips from the effort.

To her, it was as though he had thrust from her portal 
to her cervix and back.  She moaned in frustration that 
she had no strength to help.

Her passionate moan raised his arousal to its limits -- 
where flesh rubbing flesh normally provided the rise to 
release, mind rubbing mind substituted.  He groaned, as 
tortured muscles jerked one final time.

His groan was the final push, accompanied as it was by 
a thrust within.  She came.  By the standards of the 
night, it was no big thing -- by the standards of the 
moment, it was a completion, a climax, a harbor 
reached, a haven found.  She was happy.

His final jerk, and the accomanying spurt, were the 
tearing of the finish line tape of the marathon.  No 
more remained.  No more was needed.

"Love," she murmered at the edge of sleep.

"Love," he replied, and passed her into slumber.

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