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Message-ID: <30803asstr$992398204@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Scribbler" <NOSPAM_scribbler62@hotmail.com>
Reply-To: "Scribbler" <NOSPAM_scribbler62@hotmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Making a list
Date: Tue, 12 Jun 2001 22:10:05 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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This was a little Christmas piece that didn't quite make it in . .
.delivered by Posta Uruguay from Scribbler to you. . .in time for solstice

Making A List (c) 2001 by The Scribbler

**********************************************************************

I'm strolling down Madison Avenue, bundled up against the cold, very
expensive calfskin gloves filled with the glossy bags of even glossier
stores, humming to myself:

"Making a list, checking it twice, going to find out who's naughty or nice.
. ."

And I stop myself right there and think for a moment. Yes, that's right;
all the ladies on my list have turned out to be naughty again this
Christmas, and if some of them have in fact "been nice", then again I really
don't care. Its _much_ more fun to shop for the naughty ones. . .

Take Christa for example. I've got a box, long and slender, protruding from
a very swank Hermes bag, with a very special present for this cool,
Scandinavian blonde. The thing of it is, no one understands her, really, so
she says-- not her pro golfer husband, away most of the year, not her high
priced Greenwich shrink-- except me.

And me, I've bought her a lovely riding crop, topped with a nicely engraved
silver handle. The officious clerk knew what I was about, I think, as I
browsed the store, introducing himself as 'Jules' he inquired:. . ."do you
ride, sir?"

"I'm buying a gift"  . . . mentally adding "Why exactly do you think I'm
asking you to gift wrap it a few days before Christmas, dolt"

"Oh, it will be a very lucky person. .  ."

I see where this is going and interrupt: "Woman. . ."

"It will be a very lucky lady to have such a beautiful implement. . .does
she ride?"

"I can't say that I know"

"Well, I'd be happy just owning something as beautiful as this"

"Yes, I'm sure you would be. . ."

I stroll on, swinging my bag happily, and trying to get the image of Jules
essaying implements of corporal correction on his pale white buttocks with
his chorister boyfriends out of my mind. A peaceful cup of coffee at Caf 
Nosidam and I'm happily once again focused on Christa.
Where's she from? Uppsala? Linkoping? Stockholm? I can't remember, really.
But what I do remember is her perfect flesh, unvariegated and pink smooth,
all the way down to her pussy. Now I'll be honest, I really haven't found a
word I like for women's organs. . ."pussy" is kind of frat boy talk,
"vagina" is too gynecologic, "cunt" is a little too graphic, and "slit" too
Lucio Fontana. So I'm thinking in a kind of anomic way about Christa, blonde
and blue eyed, and the remarkable fall of flesh that leads to her lips.

Astonishing, really. Its all so innocent and child-like till you reach the
gash. . .like finding a volcano emerging from a bucolic meadow. But fiery it
is. She responds to everything with a bee-stung swelling of her lips,
something that both embarrasses her and thrills her.

"Show me"

That's one of the things I say to Christa, and words she understands well.

She'll sit back in an armchair, and scoot her little white Hanro panties
down. And then spread herself, revealing those marvelous lips. Flesh that
goes from trim little fairings on a smooth groin to blood-swollen and
dripping with only a dirty joke. This desert blooms with careful fertilizer
and the toil of swarthy men.

So she's told me that she's always wanted to have her pussy whipped. . .saw
it once in a movie and masturbated to the thought for a week. And I'll
oblige-not hard whipping, to be sure, just the quick rhythmic flagellation,
a lubricious tremor.

I can see her right know, legs splayed over the chair arms, as I reverse the
crop and sink the silver handle deep inside her. That's quite nice, I think.
The silver, slick and gooey with her juices, swallowed up by her pink lips,
the crop sinking down till its black leather shaft penetrates.

And, then since I've been quite careful with my placement of mistletoe, I'll
settle down to my cup of eggnog.  I'm embarrassingly hard just thinking
about it, strolling through the Christmas shoppers and tossing a twenty into
the Salvation Army pot, so a poor man can get a warm meal.

It's the least I can do, really.  I'm going to be eating well this holiday
season.

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