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From: "Sam Cornell" <cornell525@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} RP Friday Night Saturday Morning by Sam Cornell (FF)
Date: Wed, 23 Jan 2002 18:10:05 -0500
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Disclaimers:

If you shouldn't read this - don't.
If you don't want to read this - don't.
If you want to make money out of this - don't.

Friday Night, Saturday Morning (FF)

by Sam Cornell

{Author's note: this story follows immediately on from An American Friday In 
London. It stands alone, but is enjoyed a lot better after the first one. 
Have a look in the archive. Thank to everyone who e-mailed me with 
suggestions how things might develop.}

Kathy and I have just enjoyed a moment of extreme intimacy. Not bad, given 
that five hours ago she was just a (pretty) face in a City bar. But I can 
see that already, as she comes down from such a powerful cum, the doubts are 
seeping in. Not surprising - she thought her Friday night would be spent 
drinking with her friends, not bent double in a luxury Docklands flat with a 
strange American woman lapping hungrily at her ass.

"You okay, hon?" I ask. The concern is meant to be fake, to keep things 
going, but I'd have to admit that, unexpectedly, I do care how she's 
feeling.

"Yes." She doesn't look like she means it. But I've learnt in my six months 
here that you can ask the English almost anything ("how did it feel to lose 
both your legs?") and they'll almost always reply "fine", "okay", "alright". 
At first I found this stoicism a little irritating, but now I've come to 
appreciate it, as opposed to the life story, complete with gory details, I'd 
get back home.

Kathy is kneeling between my legs, topless, her creamy breasts reminding me 
how much more there is I want to do. I mustn't get this wrong. Her sense of 
discomfort may be increased by the rather inelegant way her skirt is bunched 
around her waist, and her knickers and pantyhose pulled down to her knees. 
It's how I want it, how I love it, but in the throes of what is, literally, 
an anticlimax, it may not be too comfortable for her.

"Why don't you freshen up, sweetie?" I ask. "There's fresh towels and a 
spare robe in the bathroom." She nods, tugs her skirt down, hikes her 
underwear up, and heads off. It's a relief she's left her blouse behind. If 
she'd taken that there's every chance she'll come out fully dressed, all set 
for getting a cab straight home. As it is, unless she chooses to come out 
half naked, she'll have to use the robe. I've still got a chance.

A part of me is annoyed she's so upset. She hasn't actually done anything, 
for christ's sake, apart from remove (some of) her clothes. I've put all the 
hard work in, including providing my own orgasm. All she's had to do, quite 
nice you might think, is spread her cheeks for my pleasure. And hers, given 
the power of her orgasm.

But getting angry wouldn't work. ("How dare you not be happy! Stop being so 
silly and lick me out now!") So I think about how delicious she is, how much 
she got out of the time we've had so far, and how we can both enjoy the rest 
of the night.
She comes back in, wrapped in a white robe. Still no sign of a smile. I ask 
her to sit beside me on the sofa. She does, but a respectable distance away. 
Oh dear.

"Do you want to talk?" I ask kindly. I'm never normally this good at 
sympathy. I must really want some more action.

She mumbles a bit, then manages "I'm not like this, you know."

"Sure you're not. None of us are." She gives me a slightly contemptuous 
look, unimpressed by what she takes as my sophistry. I take it as a good 
sign she's showing some fight. "I mean," I continue, "that I'm not a 
lesbian, just like you, and I'm not a pervert, just like you. But I think 
we're both people who like to feel good. What's wrong with that?"

She remains unconvinced. How can I recapture the mood we had before? "Tell 
me about your evening, Kathy. At least let me understand how you feel." 
Hopefully by describing to me what's happened, she can get back into it. I 
look at her tanned ankle, a warm contrast to the white towelling of the 
robe. I want to stroke my hand over the curve of her ankle bone, up, up, 
under the robe, and feel her wet sex. Failure is not an option.

She searches for the right words to begin with. "I've had a pig of a week. 
Year, really. I was up for it tonight." She pauses, confused. "Going out, 
that is. Getting drunk. I never in a million years thought this would 
happen."

"Then some strange yank starts talking to you at the bar?"

"Yes. I did think for a second `is she chatting me up?', but then I put it 
down to you being lonely."

"And American."

She laughs. Excellent. "Alright. And American. I'm from Liverpool, you 
know?" I know. "When Americans find out they always ask `Do you know The 
Beatles?' Like one of them isn't dead and the other three aren't old enough 
to be my grandfather, living in mansions a very long way from the Mersey. 
You don't get that from any other country. At least you didn't ask that." 
No, I got you to strip and licked your asshole instead. A lot less wearing.

"Then what?" I ask.

"Then, I enjoyed talking to you. I think we all did."

"Did you think I was trying to pull you?"

"I wondered. Not most of the time, but sometimes. It did feel a bit odd the 
way you kept talking to me."

"Nice?"

She pauses. "To be talked to, yes. To be chatted up? I was flattered, I 
suppose. God, I never imagined for a second we'd ever do anything."

"What about coming here?"

I can see the recollection gives her a little pleasure. She gives a guilty 
little laugh. "I thought you were trying to pull me a bit more."

"Was that good or bad?"

"I came here, didn't I?"

"So did it turn you on?"

She looks at her lap, but she's smiling. Things are going well. Where the 
robe joins at the top, I can see an inch or so of her cleavage. I've seen it 
all, of course, but it's nice to have it under wraps again. Like it's 
happening all over again. "I'll admit to a little buzz at the idea," she 
says. "I never meant to do a thing, but it was nice to know it was 
happening."

"And when we were here?"

"When we were on the balcony, I knew you were going to kiss me. I mean, the 
whole set up here, it's pretty overwhelming."

"Did you want me to kiss you?" Both of us are whispering now, the tone of 
our voices a little lower. It's as if the same chemical that is causing my 
pussy to flood is affecting our voice boxes too. I can only pray it's having 
the same effect on Kathy's sex.

"I didn't mind," she replies. "It felt like it would be the right thing."

"And after?" Now we're getting to the heart of it. I'm very excited to hear 
how she felt during our rather unusual encounter.

"I hadn't expected much to happen, if I expected anything. Maybe just a lot 
of kissing, and a bit of groping. I don't know."

"When I asked you to strip?"

"That was...strange. I got so turned on. But I was terrified. I think I 
thought you knew what you were doing, you knew it would be good."

Somehow, without either of us apparently moving, we are both a lot closer on 
the sofa. I feel sure Kathy isn't getting her cab home just yet.

"What about...after that?" I ask, almost breathless. I've never heard the 
other side before.

"When you asked me to show you my bum, you know, really show you it, I was 
so embarrassed. I mean, it's not what I'd have expected, even if I'd been 
pulled, er, normally."

"It's been a long day?" I am desperate for as much detail as possible.

"Right. I really did think my bum might have been...dirty."

"It wasn't honey, it was beautiful. Perfect. Did you only feel embarrassed?"

Again, she pauses. "No. That was extraordinary. As I pulled my cheeks apart 
for you, I got so wet. I was really starting to burn. I could feel my heart 
racing. And I was thinking - sorry about this - `yeah, look at it, bitch, 
look at it, smell it, smell my dirty bum.' I'm not into that sort of stuff 
at all. You know, shit and stuff."

"Nor am I," I reply. Her openness has really affected me. "What I am into, 
is a beautiful young woman," right now everything tells me Kathy is the most 
beautiful woman I've known, "literally opening herself up for me, inviting 
me into her most private, secret realm, knowing how sordid it might be. I 
don't know why, but for me it's the most beautiful loving."

We look at each other. Those beautiful green eyes. And then we are kissing. 
No hesitation, no tension, just a deep passionate contact.

Kathy pulls back. At first I am worried she has changed her mind, yet again, 
but the look on her face tells me she has other ideas.

"Would you like me to do you?" she asks. "You know, properly." There it is 
again, that impish smile.

This isn't part of the plan. Suggestions from the other person never are. I 
don't care. "How old are you Kathy?"

She isn't fazed by my question. "Twenty-two."

"I'd love you to."

She kneels in front of me, and slips the robe onto the floor. A moment ago I 
thought she was the most beautiful woman I've known, but that image pales 
into the vision before me. Long straight blonde hair, sparkling green eyes, 
a warm coffee tan, creamy breasts and the same contrasting paleness where 
she'd wear bikini bottoms. I haven't seen her crotch before, and my eyes are 
drawn to the fuzzy mid-brown triangle nestling where her legs meet. She sees 
the direction my eyes have taken, and opens her legs wider, inviting me to 
stare as much as I want. I can see the moisture on her lips.

"Strip for me, Sam," she says, parroting my own words from earlier. "Show me 
your beautiful body."

I fumble with the buttons of my blouse, so desperate to get it off. (So 
that's why they fumble!) Then my bra, the straps slipping off my shoulder 
and my nipples suddenly pointing at Kathy's face. She leans forward and 
takes one in her mouth, lightly sucking and almost chewing it. This wouldn't 
be part of my routine, but it's driving me crazy. What an aperitif for the 
main act. I draw her face to my other breast, to cool and moisten the need I 
feel there. She is loving and attentive, but then draws back.

"Take the skirt off." Another departure from my routine, but what catches me 
is the confidence in her voice. It's as if she's waited all her life to 
issue these orders.

The fastenings at the side of my skirt are quickly undone, I lift my butt, 
and slip $500 worth of Armani skirt into a heap on the floor.

On Fridays I like to wear a garter belt. It's uncomfortable yes, and 
sometimes it's visible, but it's part of the uniform and it usually feels 
right. Right now, in only my lower underwear and heels, I feel like a queen.

"Take your knickers off Sam." Kathy's Liverpool accent sounds stronger. 
Rougher. I sense I'm enjoying being dominated by this young northerner. 
"Show me your cunt."

My panties are pale grey Calvin Klein. (I have no problem mixing designer 
labels). Although the crotch is stuck to my quim with moisture, they quickly 
join the skirt on the floor. I open my legs at about 60 degrees to show 
Kathy my sex.

She is interested, her eyes unashamedly taking in the sight. It thrills me, 
knowing that a few hours ago she hadn't even thought of such a thing, and 
now she's enjoying it like an old pro.

"Lift your knees up, Sam," she says. "Right up, to your tits. Show me your 
bum." I pull my knees up to my chest until they are brushing against my hard 
nipples. In doing so, of course, my ass cheeks are pulled wide and 
flattened, leaving my asshole naked and exposed.

Kathy moves in, a little bit. A little blink suggests to me that, while she 
is showing confidence, inside she is crossing some difficult bridges.

Her face is now two or three inches from my asshole. I feel extraordinarily 
open, yet also supremely, almost totally, erotic.

"Tell me about your day," Kathy says. For half a second I think about 
mentioning how the Dornus deal went down, but think better of it. She's a 
lovely brave girl, and I want to help her all the way.

"Got up at six-thirty," I say. "Shower, that sort of thing. DLR to Bank. At 
my desk by seven-forty-five." I'm finding this difficult. As for Kathy, it's 
been a long day, and I'm beginning to feel very self-conscious about my 
personal hygiene. Part of me wants to rush off to the shower, but the other 
part is relishing Kathy's closeness to my tired body.

"You've been to the loo?" So much for English beating around the bush. The 
loo, which I think comes from Waterloo. (A famous English victory against 
the French, if you don't know. Of course they had to have help from someone, 
on that occasion, ironically, the Germans). Water-loo. The WC, lavatory, but 
not the bathroom.

Yes, I've been to the loo. Always before I leave for work, but that doesn't 
count because I shower after. Then? Definitely, but I can't think when. It 
isn't the kind of incident that sticks in your mind. Not until now, anyway.

"A couple of times," I croak. The tension is getting to me a bit. "I'm sure. 
You know, that kind of going to the loo." It's funny how with my knees 
against my tits and a face inches from my asshole my confident 
conversational ability has dried up and I have turned into one of what I 
previously thought of as my victims.

"I know," Kathy says. Her eyes are fixed on my stretched little hole. I am 
dying to ask "what can you see? what can you smell?" but I can't. I just 
can't.

Kathy is rocking a little, and I see she has slipped her left hand between 
her legs. Her frigging is gentle, controlled. It is a slightly bizarre 
thought, but I am struck by how confident my twenty-two year old lover seems 
to be now.

I am dying for some contact with my ass, my pussy, anything. Kathy licks her 
lips, a swift trace of her tongue. "Your bum is beautiful, Sam," she says, 
and pokes her tongue out, straining, oh so slowly, towards my ass. Either 
she is drawing it out for erotic reasons or she is summoning up the courage.

Then, bliss, contact. A soft wet brush against the tightness of my crater. I 
am normally quiet during sex but I let out a deep groan. She continues to 
tease my asshole and it almost tickles. The sensation is of the exquisite 
kind that I want to last forever, but also want to build into a climax as 
quickly as possible.

Then I see that sweet tanned face move closer still, and Kathy's lips 
provide a fuller, more definite contact with my ass. She is quite urgent 
now, her tongue pressing against the firm muscle of my anus, seeking the 
area of least resistance. It feels as if she is licking me clean, and my 
mind encounters the dilemma Kathy mentioned to me. At least part of me is 
mortified at what I'm letting her do (or what she's letting me do?) but the 
other, overwhelming, part revels in the depravity. What was it?

I repeat Kathy's words back to her. "Smell it," I say. I can't bear to call 
her `bitch'. "Smell it. Taste it. Taste my dirty bum."

Her free thumb moves up to my clit. I jump at the contact. Not surprisingly 
she is pretty awkward, a thumb and fingers rubbing across my button. But it 
multiplies the shock waves running through me.

I look in the mirror. I look truly obscene. My heels pointing to the 
ceiling, my body almost folded double, this is not a Sam I've ever seen 
before. I like her. She's exciting. More beautiful is Kathy, her head 
pressed tight between my open cheeks, her honey body rocking as her hand 
works her cunt.

And then she starts to climax, her breath heaving and her hand making slow 
tortured movements across her sex. I am thrilled that the experience of my 
ass has brought her to this.

I am normally slow to climax when touched by another (which is why I like to 
do myself first), but the sight of Kathy's orgasm, and the sensation of her 
tongue moving frantically in my asshole, begins my own eruption. It is an 
electric feeling, and as every inch of my body strains it feels as if Kathy 
and I are united, through the tender delicate link of her mouth and my 
asshole.

Kathy lifts her head. She is grinning furiously, the last thing I expected. 
I let my legs drop, aching from their confinement. She leans across my body. 
I know what she wants. The dirty kiss, something which I have possibly 
enjoyed in the past as the final humiliation. But the tables are reversed, 
and I don't feel humiliated, I feel hungry. Our lips meet, and my tongue is 
straight inside, searching every corner of her mouth, letting her know how 
passionately we share our dark taste.

Eventually we part. She is still smiling. I look at the cream of her 
breasts, breasts I haven't even held, let alone loved.

I look at the clock. Two a.m. We have only been lovers a couple of hours, 
and at one time I would have thought that Kathy and I had fully explored the 
depths of our intimacy. Something tells me that times have changed, and that 
this young, apparently innocent, woman, may take me to new levels.

The End

Please let me know what you think.


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