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Message-ID: <30800asstr$992387405@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: RevCottonMather@excite.com (Reverend Cotton Mather)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 12 Jun 2001 17:03:11 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Remember by Reverend Cotton Mather (MF)
Date: Tue, 12 Jun 2001 19:10:05 -0400
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------------------------------------------------------------------------
Welcome to the Church of The Right Reverend Cotton Mather. This story is
the sole property of the author, and may not be copied or downloaded for
the intent of profit. Permission is freely given for anyone to download 
or copy for their personal pleasure or use, as long as there is no 
intent to charge money or barter for the privilege of acquiring this 
material.

(copyright 2001, Rev. Cotton Mather)
------------------------------------------------------------------------


REMEMBER
by Reverend Cotton Mather




Am I remembering?  

Or is it something from a lifetime ago?

Before we were we, when you were you and I was me.

It was a crazy time.

The streets were burning, and I was there.

Did I know you then?  No, I don't think so.  I would remember.

I knew you were near, though.  I could feel you.  I know that now.

All I knew then was that there was...something...incomplete...about the 
way I was living.

And behaving.

My parents would never have understood.  Or even recognized me.  During 
that time.

Sex.  And drugs.  And rock and roll.  There was fighting in the street.  
I was a street-fightin' man.  I was living a songwriter's dream.

Marching and getting maced and looking at Hell's Angels dressed up as 
"security" and crying for the fallen here at home and cursing the fallen 
across the sea in another world and then going back to our little places 
to drink and eat and smoke and lose ourselves in sweat and saliva and 
secretions.

Am I remembering?

I think so.

Nothing succeeds like excess.  And I excelled at excess.

A dozen or so of us in a small 2-bedroom apartment, a few in the kitchen 
fixing dinner for all of us, the rest in the main room, no lights on, 
candles everywhere.  Groups of two or three on the couch, on the floor, 
in front of the dark television.  On the closet floor.

The music loud, a faint blue-white haze near the ceiling, Jimi and 
Janis, Airplane and The Lizard King looking silently on from the walls.  
I'm passing the pipe, taking as big a hit as I can.  I'm lying on the 
couch, with another whose name I cannot recall, the two of us getting as 
close together as we can on the narrow cushions, me wedged into the back,
she on top.  I hand her the pipe, she takes a toke, then leans over and 
passes it to another I cannot see on the floor below her.  She settles 
back onto me, her head on my chest.  She sings softly along with the 
music as she is lying there.  I have one arm around her shoulder, 
holding her tightly to me.  My other hand is under her shirt. 

I loved that time.  Freedom.  Independence.  Radicalism.  Free 
expression.  Explorations of life, love, sexuality.

No bras.

I loved that time.

A contented purr comes unbidden from her as I play with her turgid 
nipple.  She is a rail-thin waif with long brown hair, straight as a 
ruler, down to the middle of her back.  I could smell her shampoo.  
She is dressed in bell-bottoms and a tie-dyed t-shirt, one bare foot 
rubbing up and down my shin, the other pressed tightly against my 
foot.  Slim-hipped, her breast is small but pliant, and she enjoys 
the attentions I am paying to it.

I feel her jerk slightly and shift her weight.  She lifts up and 
kisses me, hard, her lips insistent, her tongue searching.  She 
gasps into my mouth, and sucks my tongue into her mouth.  She moans,
breaks the kiss, and her head falls back, her eyes closed, her 
breathing rapid, her face flushed.  I feel her moving, nearly 
undulating, on the couch.  I look down our entwined bodies and see 
another's arm, nearly disembodied in my enhanced state, snaking up 
from the direction of the floor.  There is no hand attached, the 
arm seemingly ending just above the wrist as it disappears under 
the unbuttoned fly of her jeans.  The arm moves, flexes, moves.  
Her body writhes in concert with the movement of the arm.

I struggle up to a sitting position, and the scene evolves into 
something more real, more unreal.

One of my roommates, on the floor.  It is his arm I see, his hand 
is stroking my girl's slit, his finger waging its own tiny war 
with her clitoris.  His eyes are also closed, as he is concentrating 
on the sensations being created by the artist with him on the floor, 
an artist in fleshly pleasures.  She is nearly the twin of the one on 
the couch, with somewhat darker hair and larger breasts.  Her shirt 
is open, his jeans are undone.  His left hand is entwined in her hair, 
gripping, expressive in its intensity, as she is sucking hard on his 
cock, her cheeks hollowed with her efforts.  As I watch, she brings 
her lips up to the crown, then plunges down until his pubic hair is 
tickling her nose.  He groans.  I groan in sympathy, in anticipation,
in youthful exuberance, in sympathy again.  The net effect is to make
his finger, buried deep in the pussy of the girl on the couch, to 
clench, unclench,and clench again.  This causes her to hunch against
his hand, relax, then push up once more against his ministrations.
I squeeze her breast hard, run my thumb back and forth across her 
nipple, then lean down and press my lips to her ear, and thrust my 
tongue into her ear canal.  She whimpers, and whines, and cums hard 
on my roomie's hand.  She turns her head and kisses me as ferociously
as she can, as her mind whirls with the sensations of the three of 
us, the smoke, the smells, the sounds.

She slides the foreign hand out of her jeans, and turns to me.  She 
takes my hand, the one under her shirt, and pushes it down her belly 
until I feel the silken fabric of her panties.  I rub her under her 
jeans, back and forth, hip to hip, on each swing of my pendulum 
reaching slightly lower.  I can feel that her underwear is soaked 
through, and the sensation causes my heart rate to accelerate and hot
blood to flow to my crotch, creating an almost delicious rigidity 
that aches for relief.  She slips one leg underneath mine, while the 
other drops to the floor, creating more room for my hand and arm.

She, in turn, loosens my belt and tugs at the buttons holding my 
jeans together.  She feels the dampness coating my underwear, then 
I feel her fingernails lightly scratch along the elastic, then snake 
underneath, and glancingly rub across the head of my cock.  
Constricted, still it throbs at the touch.  Her fingers blindly, 
lightly explore, then move down, and hold on.  She squeezes, then 
rubs up and down, then squeezes again.  I hear a groan, and with 
surprise realize it's me who is groaning.  In retaliation, I push 
her jeans down off her hips.  She lifts up, allows me to reach 
behind her to remove them, then kicks them off her legs impatiently.
She again positions herself to easily spread her legs, making herself
available to my touch.

I lift myself up and begin to tug off my own jeans, now that they have 
been loosened.  She helps, and they slip off like water, followed 
immediately by my underwear.  She kisses me again, a hungry and 
demanding joining, our lips pressed almost painfully against each 
other's, our tongues battling for dominance like Indian finger-fighters.
The pleasure of our mouths is matched by the pleasures of our hands.  
Hers abandon their gripping excercises to brush lightly downward, 
caressing my balls, exchanging the energy of their previous activity for
gentle explorations.  My fingers find again the soft down on her 
stomach, brushing once again back and forth across her waist, pausing 
at each passing of her navel to scratch lightly at the depression.  I 
can feel her muscles shiver at each light search of her belly button, 
but my attention is still elsewhere, as she continues her own 
explorations of my balls.  She rubs her fingertips underneath the sac, 
down toward my asshole, then slowly brushes them back up again, all the
way to the base of my cock.  Her actions cause my own stomach muscles 
to quiver, both of us lost in a feast of the senses.

I run my fingertips down, down between her spread legs.  As they rub 
between her engorged lips, I press her panties into her slit as I 
continue down and between.  She thrusts her tongue deep into my mouth, 
encouraging me, anticipating the frenzied conclusion we are building 
toward.  All other sounds, sights, external stimuli have paled beside
the experience of the moment between the two of us.  We are alone among
the crowd, the inexhorable sense of time suspended, just she and I 
standing outside the realm of the real.

I feel, more than hear, her moan into my mouth.  Her panties are 
soaked and warm.  I pull aside the legband and my fingers are 
immediately drenched with her juices.  Her slit has flowered open, 
and I run my fingertips along her, up to her clit.  As soon as I 
touch it, she breaks our kiss with a gasp, and her hips begin their 
rocking once more.  I rub her clit again, then slowly rub down 
through her open slit once more, and push my fingertip into her 
opening, and stop.  Her vagina clenches my finger, trying to suck 
it up further in, and her hips continue to rock up and down.  She 
is gasping, rolling her head back and forth, her hair in her eyes,
her mouth open, her eyes wide and unseeing as she concentrates on 
the sensations emanating from her center.  The movement of her hand 
on my cock has stopped, and she is gripping it like a lifeline.  
This works for me, removing the sensations she had been causing 
that were driving me closer and closer to my own little death.

I stop being gentle.  I thrust my middle finger into her hole, until my 
palm is resting on her mound.  I move my finger out, then in again, 
twice, three times.  On the next thrust, I add my index finger.  She 
cries out, and her whole body contracts as she tries to gain even more 
penetration.  Again I move out, and in, and again, and again, pistoning,
my timing adjusting to the movement of her hips and the whistling of her 
breath.  I rub her clit once more, roughly, with my thumb, and am 
rewarded by a wheezing cry, rising in pitch as the sensation of her 
climax overcomes her.  Her pussy exudes during her climax, coating all 
my fingers, the palm of my hand, and her thighs as she pulses them 
together and apart, trying to prolong the ecstasy she is feeling.

I grab her by the hips, and roll over onto my back, bringing her with me.
She sits up, lifts herself up onto her knees.  With one hand she pulls the
leg of her panties to one side, with the other she grabs my cock and 
places the head against her cunt.  My hands on her hips guide her down,
and she twists and sinks, oh so slowly, agonizingly, upon my length.  
she feels me fully in her, she collapses down to lie on me, hardly moving.
I can feel her vagina pulse and clench against my buried cock, the heat 
and the pressure and the moisture combining to rob me of any rational 
thought.  My hands stroke her from her shoulders, down her back, reveling 
in the soft feel of her hair, down to her silken covered ass, slipping 
under the elastic of her waistband, then resuming the travel back to her 
shoulders.

After a moment, she lifts up, and begins moving against me, up and down.
My hands of their own volition move under her shirt to her swollen 
breasts, and my palms remain still as her movement rubs her red tips 
back and forth across them.  She watches me, I watch her.  I see, deep 
within her eyes, the moment.  You know which moment, don't you?  The 
moment when she begins the inevitable climb up, the moment when she 
knows she will be able to go to completion.  The look in her eyes 
triggers a quickening in my brain, transfers the information through my 
bloodstream directly to the pulsing cock buried within her.  The renewed 
expansion and contraction in turn creates a sympathetic tidal motion 
within her, and the rhythmic pulsing causes the natural tightness of her
cunt to apply even more friction, until we are experiencing something 
akin to velvet encasing steel, anticipating the unbearable, preparing 
for the coming explosion.  I lift up my head and capture one swollen 
nipple between my lips, and gently use my teeth to rasp across its bumpy
surface.  She throws her head back and arches her back, pushing her 
breast against my mouth, and cums.

She opens her mouth to scream, but no sound escapes.  Her entire lower 
body, from calf to pelvis, contracts against me.  The resulting increase 
in pressure triggers my explosion, and I feel my cock expand and jerk as 
the semen pumps deep into her well.  Six, seven, eight times the pump 
jets its supply against her walls as she endures her own silent climax.

At last, she trembles with her exertions, and collapses down into my 
arms.  We are slick with sweat.  I can feel the dampness underneath her
hair at the back of her neck, and in the crack of her ass, as I continue
to run my fingers along her back and buttocks.

As if waking from a dream, she sits up and looks around.  The room is 
empty, but sounds of festivity are coming from the area of the kitchen.
She climbs off me, sits on the edge of the couch, and dresses.  In 
perfect languor, I am reluctant to move, until she tells me she's hungry
and stands.  I find my clothes rumpled on the floor, and put them back 
on.

We are done for the moment.

Was it you?  No.

Was it me?  I think so.  I'm no longer sure.

It was an incident repeated, with infinite variations and many different
partners, often during the Summer of Love.  Of course, the Summer was 
followed by the Fall, and by the Winter, and the Spring, with another 
Summer to follow.  It was a complicated time, it was a simpler world.  
The love we were so willing to share did not become deadly for several 
more years.  We were lucky.


But you.  You were near.  I knew it.  It colored all the times I was so 
hedonistic.  So self-destructive.  So...willing to live for the moment?
Waiting for True Love?  Waiting for Godot?

I don't know.  All I know is that, eventually, it was you.

And it was me.

And still is.

Us.

Thank you for saving me from myself.

Thank you.




More Reverend Cotton Mather stories can be found at
www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/ReverendCottonMather/www

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