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Message-ID: <31162asstr$993838203@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "Father Ignatius" <FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com>
Reply-To: "Father Ignatius" <FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com>
NNTP-Posting-Date: 29 Jun 2001 13:04:55 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} {RP} "Expanding Julie's Sexual Horizons" by Father Ignatius (MF oral anal toys voy <*>)
Date: Fri, 29 Jun 2001 14:10:03 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Expanding Julie's Sexual Horizons
Father Ignatius
MF oral anal toys voy <*>
(c)September 2000

* I would be pleased to hear from you, at
FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com, about whether or not you liked
this story, and why.
* Thanks to DrSpin and Ruthie for the editing, advice and
encouragement and to Denny for meticulous proof-reading.
* This is a revised version of the story originally posted
as a Write Club duel.

-----

My friend Jim is a shit-stirrer who doesn't know when to
keep his mouth shut. When I first introduced him to Julie he
made some witty little comment to me under his breath about
"Mud-wrestlers always did do it for you, didn't they?" Julie
has excellent hearing, so it wasn't far enough under his
breath. She didn't let on, though. With a completely neutral
expression on her Victorian porcelain-doll face, she made as
if to shake hands with him. When he put his hand in hers,
she dislocated his thumb. I found this both scary and a
major turn-on.

Okay, Julie's a meaty girl. She won a lot of swimming
trophies at school and anchored the freestyle relay team.
She has big, full, swimmer's shoulders; a broad, firm
swimmer's back and her narrow waist flares out to wide,
womanly hips and muscular buttocks above long, powerful
legs.

And she has large, business-like breasts. She
characteristically wears a sports top as well as a bra to
give them extra support. They get most distractingly -- and
not only for her -- in the way when she's working on a
drawing board. "Thank God for CAD stations," she says,
through her curved Cupid's-bow mouth. I said she looks like
a Victorian porcelain doll, and she does -- complete with
brown, old-fashioned bangs, a snub nose, and laser-like,
icy-blue eyes that might have been made of glass. Eyes like
that make a man want to do things for a woman. That and not
getting his thumbs dislocated. When she walks into a room,
people notice. I was completely infatuated.

* * *

The first time we had sex I discovered she wasn't shy to
tell me what she wanted. We spent Saturday afternoon
together and were fooling around on the sofa after dinner. I
had unbuttoned her shirt, revealing her ample frontage, and
was kissing her neck and the upper slopes of her breasts.
When I started tickling their under-sides, she came to a
decision and stood up, lifting me to my feet. She shrugged
her shirt onto the floor, took me by the hand and, reaching
up behind her back to unhook her bra as she walked, led me
into my bedroom. She dropped the bra on the floor and,
turning to me, pulled me onto her front as she lay back on
the bed.

I burrowed like a happy puppy into her abundance and, in the
following ecstatic minutes, worked my way from her glorious
mouth down to her navel and below. Rubicon time. Thinking
prudently of my thumbs, I edged the waistband of her
tracksuit trousers down a cautious, gentlemanly half-inch
and licked politely. I felt the firm fingers of her firm
hand close round the top of my skull. She pushed my face
down her belly and ground it into her. She lifted her
buttocks off the bed. I straightened up to draw the trousers
down to her thighs and she lifted her feet off the bed to
let me pull them off entirely.

I bent down again to business, to her pale yellow lacy
panties that half-revealed the whorls of brown pubic hair
pressed back behind that dainty barrier. The hand appeared
on top of my skull again and I felt my nose pressed firmly
into service. We started by going slowly side to side.
Then -- after a sudden, sharp gasp from Julie -- we went
more gently up and down for a while. Finally, the team
worked out, by experiment, to a little circular motion one
way round for my face and the other for her pelvis, making
her breathe deep and fast while I cautiously breathed
through my mouth.

Abruptly, she caught her breath, lifted my face from her and
again lifted her buttocks from the bed. I pulled the
stained, soaking panties down her legs, leaving a trail of
moisture down one thigh, past her ankles and heels, and
tossed them aside. I bent again to her crotch but she
grunted, "Mm-mm," closed her legs, took my cheeks and jaw in
her two hands, and pulled my face up to hers. My eager cock,
straining inside my jeans, ploughed the furrow between her
thighs until the tip butted into her curls while she pulled
off my tee shirt.

I felt her hands push in between us, beneath my belly. Her
fingers slipped under the waistband of my jeans and met
inside my underpants on either side of my frantic,
imprisoned cock. I felt her thumbs undoing the single metal
waist-button and then her thumbs clamped her fingers through
the cloth. She brutally ripped my zip open by yanking apart
the fabric on either side and she pulled my underpants and
jeans down around my thighs. My cock flopped eagerly out and
burrowed into her crotch. I felt her thighs open under mine,
felt her belly muscles contract under mine. Her pelvis
swivelled and her hands, under my buttocks, pushed me firmly
into her. "In," she said. I did it.

Her thighs gripped my pelvis and she set the brutal rhythm
she wanted. "Harder," she grunted, teeth clenched. I did it.
I gripped her shoulders, swung back, swung forward and
thrust hard into her. She pushed me back and together we
swung me forward again. I reverted to wild, uncontrolled,
back-to-teenager thrusting, revelling in the honey feel of
my cock sweeping roughly back and forth up her toned,
gripping cunt, rushing and tumbling towards a hasty,
inelegant, glorious, animal explosion of pleasure.

That zip was never quite the same again. I replaced the
jeans and learned to get them off quickly myself when she
got that look in her eye. But we always did much the same
thing, in missionary position. Eventually, keeping my thumbs
carefully out of harm's way, I plucked up the courage to
make an elaborately casual remark about expanding her sexual
horizons. She didn't say anything but looked thoughtful and
uncharacteristically uneasy. I should have been uneasy too.

* * *

My casual remark had been catalytic, I discovered the next
time I went to her flat in Green Point to collect her for
movies. I rang the bell a few times without getting any
response. I eventually delivered a brisk, last-try rat-a-tat
on the doorknocker. The door swung violently open and there
stood Julie. She was naked except for
stereotype-teenage-fantasy black fishnet stockings, a
stereotype-teenage-fantasy suspender belt and
stereotype-teenage-fantasy strappy, red high-heels. I could
only gape.

"Don't just stand there!" she snapped. "Do you want the
whole neighbourhood to see me like this?"

Her hand shot out. Two powerful fingers dug into the
waistband of my jeans behind my belt-buckle and she yanked.
I disappeared, pubis first and still gaping, into her
doorway like... like... Well, not a cork into a bottle. But
you know what I mean. The door slammed behind me.

The whole neighbourhood, at my guess, would have been just
fascinated to see her. While I carried on with the gaping,
my cock got into the business of reacting to Julie's
movie-going outfit. Her fingertips noticed my response and
she smiled fondly and cupped her other hand under my balls,
encouraging further action unlikely to lead to the movies.
This made me nervous, as she doesn't do fond smiling. She
was acting a little bit off in other ways, too. She gave me
a sweet, sweet smile -- the first on record -- and a
deliciously memorable kiss, gentle as cigarette smoke. She
usually kissed me as if she was attacking grapefruit. I
noticed when she did it that we stood exactly eye-to-eye
because of the high-heels.

She smelled nice, not of perfume -- which she didn't wear --
but of something fruitily familiar and half-remembered,
redolent of cosy comfort, like your mother's home cooking
when you're nine years old and never not hungry. Blood
transfer was affecting my thinking and I made the mistake of
pushing this minor mystery to the back of my mind.

She backed down the passage into the living room, pulling me
by my belt-buckle and, well, my balls. By the time we got
there, my cock was once more trying to get out of my
trousers. Mere movies, I hoped and prayed, were off the
agenda. She yanked the end of my belt out of the buckle and
got down to dragging my nether clothing off.

"Shoes off," she said. I did it, standing on the back of one
with the toe of the other foot and wrenching my feet clear,
the way it freaked my mother out when I did it on her budget
as a child. My jeans and pants were shackling me by the time
I was barefoot and I stumbled out of them hastily as Julie
pulled my tee shirt over my head. There was another whiff of
the familiar, elusive odour. In no time, I was bare as a
babe with my eager cock questing hungrily around, dragging
me behind, in the direction of Julie. "Eager-beaver," said
that little, irreverent internal voice that got me into such
trouble before I learned not to let it out of my mouth. Hey,
where'd she go?

She hadn't gone anywhere. She had turned her back on me to
bend forward over the back of the armchair, gripping the
arms in her hands, hair flopping down and obscuring her
face. The high-heels lifted her just to the right height to
allow her to do this, and her lower belly nestled into the
crumpling antimacassar.

"I've been thinking about what you said about expanding my
sexual horizons," she said, in a slightly muffled voice. I
leered at the marble roundness of her buttocks, the dark
anal cleft, the suggestion of an anal opening, the glimpse
of labia, the roughness of brown hair; the long, strong legs
held straight and plunging into the whore-sandals. "Start at
the left."

Left? Left what? There was a startling array of objects on
the table next to the armchair. A can of Crisco, courteously
opened, standing on a housewifely Kleenex. A thin, round
bridge pencil. A regular, hexagonal, wooden pencil,
red-and-black St dtler HB. A quadrangular ballpoint pen,
slightly thicker. A tiny little dildo -- pre-pubescent, I
guess. I didn't know they came that small. A trainer dildo?
Then a somewhat larger dildo, a gap, and finally, a notably
large dildo. "To dream the impossible dream," hummed the
internal voice, half to itself. And, finally, a whole box of
Kleenex. All in a row, ends all lined up, equally spaced
(except for the gap) in textbook anal-retentive fashion.

Anal-retentive? In a flash, I realised that the gap was
where my own cock fitted into the series and understood what
Julie expected of me. She was mysteriously patient and
quiet. Looking back on it, that should have made me nervous,
too. As it was, the bit I was thinking with was straining
with renewed excitement and my brain only caught up much
later. I dipped the toothpick into the Crisco, twiddling it
in my fingers to get it thoroughly coated and bent to those
wonderfully round, firm buttocks.

I eased them apart with thumb and forefinger. They tensed
and resisted. I felt Julie's effort of will that relaxed
them and allowed me to part them, revealing the puckered
little rosebud of her ass-hole. I blew gently on it and
watched it pull in and then relax like a sea anemone when a
diver swims past. A warning growl from the front of the
armchair hastened me forward to my duty.

I slowly introduced the toothpick a careful half-inch into
her anus. It was too small for her to resist. I twiddled it.
A little gasp floating round the side of the chair. I
transferred it from anus to Kleenex, generously Crisco'd-up
the thin, round bridge pencil and pushed its hemispherical
end into the trying-not-to-resist rosebud. Twiddling it did
nothing -- it was too round --  so I moved on up to the
hexagonal St dtler. This time, twiddling produced a squeal
and Julie's full hips writhed around on the back of the
chair. Her knees bent for a fraction of a second and then
resolutely straightened again.
The quadrangular ballpoint pen was an even greater success.

It was dildo time. The trainer dildo took much more
encouragement to go in than the writing implements had
needed. Once it was in it, though, was obviously doing a
much better job. I experimented for the first time with a
back-and-forth motion. I had to put a hand on Julie's back
to steady her but she writhed around so distractingly that I
decided to skip the next dildo and get into action myself. I
straightened and pressed my straining cock against the
rosebud, holding her by the hips. She tensed and I felt the
buttocks clamp closely and forbiddingly round the top of my
cock. Encouraged, I pushed harder but, with a flicker of
annoyance, she clamped harder. I'll bet you didn't know
buttocks could clamp with a flicker of annoyance. Well, they
can.

"Crisco," growled Julie. Ah, yes. I did it, my cock
luxuriating in the lubricated touch of my fingers and palms.
This time, I pressed firmly and patiently. Eventually the
relaxation came and I was able to force my cock slowly in.
The tight band of her sphincter dragged down my cock until
it firmly clamped the very root. Eyes closed, head flung
back, naked toes sliding slightly on the carpet, Crisco'd
fingers slipping as I grasped her hips, I strained to get
one more millimetre further inside her.

* * *

At this point, I later worked out, she must have fallen
asleep. The intensely pleasurable enclosing sensation around
the base of my cock transformed into a painful and much more
powerful grip.

"Ow! Ease up!" I said.

No response.

"Please?"

"Please! Julie! You're hurting me!"

No response. A gentle snore -- yes, by God, a snore! --
drifted around the armchair. And there I stood, trapped.
Lust drained away but the blood in my cock didn't; it had no
way to get out. As the minutes ticked by, it seemed to me
that my trapped cock grew within her and pleasurable
tingling gave way to painful throbbing. Julie gave a little
grunt and made a turning-over-in-bed motion. For the sake of
my yet-to-be-conceived children I grabbed her firmly,
Crisco-slippery, and held her onto the top of the chair. The
hideous force of the clamping band eased for a brief moment
but, before I could react, clamped down again double hard.
She slid further forward and raised me helplessly to tiptoe.
I started to sweat. I grabbed the chair either side of her
hips, heedless of Crisco marking the fabric, grateful for th
e greater friction to hold her steady.

"Julie! Julie! Wake up!" I prodded her butt frantically. Not
a hope. She was completely unconscious, drugged almost. How
could this be?

I braced my knees and pulled, trying to walk backwards on
toe-tip. No change. I tried harder, recklessly throwing my
torso back to get a bit of momentum. _Ow!_ Don't try that
again. I pulled back as hard as I could without jerking. The
chair slid back across the carpet, loaded legs digging into
the pile. Great.

I put the heels of my hands on the back of the chair and
pushed back, doing vertical press-ups on the chair-back.
Nothing. _Nada._ I tried harder. Julie slid a little bit
over the chair, back to her original position. This was
progress; I could get my heels onto the floor again. With a
little sigh, she slipped back again, remorselessly pulling
me to tiptoe once more. Damn and blast.

I looked about for inspiration and caught sight of myself
reflected in the living room's picture window that used to
look out over Table Bay. I looked ridiculous: obscured
(mercifully) from pubis down by Julie and the chair, I stood
teetering with arms thrown back for balance and looking
worried. I looked exactly what I was -- a man with his cock
trapped up the butt of a slumbering Juno. Well, at least
things can't get any worse, I thought, as I reflected on the
tragicomedy.

At that point, things got worse. My gaze travelled through
my reflection and focussed on the newer block of flats that
is the reason Julie's flat doesn't look out over Table Bay
any more. And there, on the external walkway and gazing
slack-jawed into Julie's front window, stood a family of
up-country tourists from Gauteng. They'd caught sight of us
on their way from the lifts to the kitchen door of their
hired holiday home. On the other side, it looks out over
Table Bay but, right now, they were finding me a lot better
value than the view they'd paid for. "Vanderbijlpark can't
offer anything like this," you could hear them thinking.
Well, I should bloody well hope it can't.

As I watched, aghast, the mother indignantly chivvied the
under-age daughter through the kitchen door, followed her in
and banged the door virtuously. The father and the
near-grown-up son continued to be rivetted, with idiot grins
pasted over the front of their moron heads. After the
briefest possible interval, the net curtain of a bedroom
window flicked aside and the wide-eyed daughter returned
unimpeded to her gaping. The mother, for her part,
materialised discreetly in the kitchen, thin-lipped with
self-righteous, wouldn't-miss-it-for-the-world disapproval.
Her Gauteng neighbours were certainly going to get chapter
and verse on life in the decadent Cape when she got back
home.

And every second that passed, my poor captured cock got more
and more and more painful. I was trying not to think about
huskies in Alaska gnawing off their legs to escape
bear-traps when Julie snorted, raised herself up on her arms
and looked about her, dazed. She obviously had no clue where
she was.

"Julie! For God's sake...!"

She didn't seem to hear me. But, at least, she stood up. My
heels greeted the floor again, with affection.

"Julie! Hey, Julie!"

No dice. She shook her head, as if to clear the sound of
dream voices, and obviously regretted it.
"Ooooh, shit," she said and, gripping her head in her hands,
strode off down the passage to her bedroom. She walked in
such a way, I have to tell you, that I formed the opinion
that she'd completely forgotten she was wearing unaccustomed
high-heels. And me. And me? Guess where I went? Yelping in
pain and in horrible anticipation of pain, I had an instant
crash course on how to march in lockstep with stumbling
stiletto heels. All in all, I did well: I only got a
stiletto heel-driven by the full weight of this mysteriously
groggy, stumbling hefty woman-onto my instep and toes three
times. At my three corresponding screams of agony, she
gasped in pain and clasped her head afresh but otherwise
behaved as if I wasn't there. Rather an insult, really, I've
since thought, when I had leisure to consider.

She dragged me into her room and, like an exhausted
long-distance swimmer who has gone out too fast too soon,
she "dragged the piano" (i.e. me) into the final lap and
gratefully threw herself face down onto her bed. I was
painfully yanked with her and flipped forward as she
crashed. _Ow!_ And a split-second later, the teeth of my
upper jaw met her skull with an explosion of blinding pain.
Double, triple _ow_! Jesus bloody buggering Christ! Pity my
top lip was in the way.

"_O, aarde!_" There was a spatter of applause and a derisive
cheer from outside the window. When I could again open my
tear-spurting eyes I dimly saw the Gauteng contingent, like
good tourists, had repositioned themselves so as to follow
the next act of our little improvised street theatre. The
daughter was now in the next bedroom, the mother was in the
bedroom the daughter just vacated and the two men had moved
along the balcony. They rested their elbows on the parapet,
hands hanging, watching the afternoon's entertainment as
placidly as if it were a circus act on television. I hadn't
much control over my life at that point but, at least, I
could thwart them. I reached over to the bedside table to
snap off the light and saw on it a near-empty bottle of
sherry. I pressed the switch and a cheated chorus of
"Aaaaaaah!" floated over from the next building as the room
went dark.

That sherry on the bedside table -- she'd won it in a
raffle. Didn't drink the stuff. It had been standing around
unopened for months. At last, I identified the elusive odour
Julie was putting out: Bertram's Extra Dry Sherry. Julie,
normally abstemious, had most of a pint of sherry in her.
Calming herself to expand her sexual horizons, no doubt.
Pity her anal sphincter obviously wasn't calmed enough to
expand. Hell, blast and double damnation. No wonder she was
out. She was going to have the mother of all hangovers when
she eventually came round. Serve her right, the bloody
bitch, I thought vengefully. Me and my big mouth. I wasn't
in a position to do much but at least I could kick myself,
which I did.

The pain in my cock was now beyond unbearable, to say
nothing of my other wounds. I lay on Julie in what,
normally, would have been a highly erotic position --
nothing is sexier, I believe, than firm, round buttocks
nestled into the lower belly -- wondering frantically what
to do. I wasn't icily calm but eventually I thought of the
shower. An icy cold shower was exactly what we both needed,
in the worst way. Particularly the innocently slumbering
Julie, I thought bitterly. It was only a matter of getting
there. I lay there contemplating a variety of bizarre ninja
manoeuvres to achieve this. Eventually I realised that it
was a choice of carrying this Juno into the shower or dying
of blood loss -- merciful, merciful blood loss -- following
the regrettable explosion of my cock.

If I could slide her gently half-off the bed, get her knees
on the floor, I could get enough leverage to lift her and
all would be well -- relatively well, anyway. If she slid
past to the point of no return, though, and flopped onto the
floor then I might as well be nailed to the floor by my
scrotum until dead.

I pulled experimentally. _Ow, ow_, bloody _ow_. That wasn't
going to work. I rolled her to one side, got one arm around
her waist, rolled back, pushed up with the other arm and, in
exquisite agony, anti-humped her -- you should pardon the
expression -- slowly backwards towards the edge of the bed.
She slumberingly resisted every inch of the way while I
sobbed and swore and gritted my teeth. When her knees went
over the edge of the mattress, she suddenly went of her own
accord. My fingernails clawed at the bedclothes like a cat
being Velcroed off the sofa. I was desperate to stop her
before she pinned me to the floor for the rest of my short,
unnatural life. Stiletto-stamped toes shrieking in protest,
I stopped her at the last moment. I took a deep breath and
uttered a brief prayer (for God to have a sense of humour).
I braced myself on my wounded feet and, clasping her with
both arms, humped her -- this time you need not pardon the
expression -- to the door of the shower. God, she was a
weight.

The bathroom door faced the window and, as we reeled through
from the darkened bedroom, my shoulder struck a light
switch. A fluorescent light flickered horrifyingly to life.
A crow of delight and some spontaneous applause indicated
that we were silhouetted for the further entertainment of
the Gauteng Fan Club. I was beyond caring now. I staggered
grimly forward on my very last reserves of strength and
lifted Julie triumphantly over the sill of the shower
cubicle. God -- who does, it turns out, have a sense of
humour -- arranged for her heels to catch and over we went,
twisting as we fell. Always the gentleman, I broke her fall
with my body, smashing my head gallantly on the tiled wall
in the process. Appreciative whistling came from the balcony
opposite.

When the flashes of light behind my eyelids eventually
flickered out, I fought to roll Julie over on her front. As
she hung from my poor, abused cock, I kneeled and wrenched
the cold tap with all the force I could muster. Freezing,
stinging water deluged us both. Julie screamed angrily and
threw her head back. My lower lip paid the price this time
and got between my teeth and her skull.

"Fuck!" she screamed, not knowing where she was.

"Fuck!" I mumbled resentfully, clasping my abused face.

She realised fast enough that someone naked was lying on her
nakedness, though, and briskly smashed her elbows backward
at me. The anal sphincter crushed me tighter than ever and I
felt ribs crack before I could grab her arms.

"Jesus, Julie, it's me! Relax! Stop!"

She swung her head round as far as it would go and
recognised me. She didn't seem to take it as good news.

"What the fuck are you doing?" she screamed.

"I'm expanding your fucking sexual horizons, you dizzy
bitch. Now let me go."

"Let you go?" I saw her on her face the reflection of her
physical stocktaking. Sexual horizons?

"Oh." She blushed, for the first time on record.

"Do it, dammit. Let me go. I'm dying here."

Pause

"I can't."

"You can. Bloody do it."

"I can't."

Then the bloody woman started to giggle helplessly. I was
about to get her attention by the famous
hangman's-noose-executed-with-soap-on-a-rope trick when, at
least, the giggling allowed her to relax and the horrible
clamping eased up. This time I didn't wait but wrenched
myself free, sobbing with relief. My cock was unrecognisably
huge, shaped and coloured like an aubergine. I lay and cried
while the cold water beat down on my distressed manhood.

"Oh, God," said Julie, "I feel sick." And she vomited
copiously onto the shower floor. The sweet, sick smell of
half-digested sherry chokingly billowed out through the
shower stall.

"_Ag, sies!_" cried the peanut gallery, fascinated and
affronted.

Time and water eventually helped. Julie, staggering to stand
and see straight, tried to be solicitous but spoiled it by
giggling and the turned worm drove her away with harsh
words.

Much, much later I got dressed again. My cracked ribs hurt
damnably, putting on my underpants was exquisitely
painful -- but marginally better than the prospect of
zipping my cock if I didn't -- and I couldn't get my damaged
feet into my shoes.

Julie tried to get me to stay but I wanted to get medical
attention for my skull, my teeth, my ribs and my feet.
Driving was horribly painful but not as hard to bear as the
appreciative whistling and applause I got from the
Gautengers as I limped across the car park. They playfully
tossed me a can of Castle lager, as a sort of street-theatre
tip, I suppose. Unfortunately, I was looking shamefacedly
down, not up at my third-floor tormentors, didn't see it
coming and did not attempt to catch it. It ricocheted off
the bonnet of my new BMW and cracked the windscreen.

"_Ag, kak!_ Sorry, hey, man," came a Gauteng voice,
followed -- not a moment too soon -- by the sounds of
hurried withdrawal.

* * *

And yes, when the doctor saw my other wounds, he suspected
I'd been mugged. He suspiciously insisted that I strip
completely. And yes, he then insisted on a full and complete
explanation of my swollen, plum-coloured, sorry-for-itself
penis. And yes, he then failed in his manful struggle not to
roll around on the floor laughing. He nearly made it but
made the mistake of catching the nursing sister's eye and
then they were both off. They kept snorting and trying to
say, "I'm sorry" and then giggling off again while I stared
patiently at the wall, praying unsuccessfully for the ground
to open up under me.

The news spread through the hospital like wildfire. I was
escorted off the premises by a goggle-eyed escort of
wheel-chaired and ambulant patients and every member of
staff who could find an excuse for walking, whispering,
behind me -- about a hundred per cent of them, I judged.

The zip on those jeans was never the same again, either.
And, if I ever get another erection ever again (and I'm not
betting on it) and it isn't exquisitely painful (and I don't
believe it won't be) there'll be no more expanding of sexual
horizons. It's the missionary position for me, preferably
with someone the size of Allie McBeal. And I'm never eating
aubergine again either.

-----

* The original version of this story was written in six
hours as a Write Club duel with Jack of All Trades. Rui
Jorge was the referee. Thanks, Jack; thanks, Rui.
The Challenge Words were:


Jack of All Trades
quadrangle
infatuated
catalytic

Father Ignatius
armchair
bridge pencil
toothpick

Rui Jorge
tragicomedy
ninja
squeal

* The original versions of both stories are at the Write
Club site, at
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Rui_Favorites/www/Write_Club/duel17.htm
(Thanks, Rui!)

* My collected stories are hosted on my web site,
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/FatherIgnatius/www/.

* I would be pleased to hear from you, at
FatherIgnatius@hotmail.com, about whether or not you liked
this story, and why.

* Thank you for reading me.

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