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From: mmtwassel@aol.com (mat twassel)
Subject: {ASSM} Lorrin Murray and Mat Twassel: Calendar Feb 1 - Feb 15
Date: Sat, 16 Feb 2002 16:10:15 -0500
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Calendar  Feb 1 - Feb 15
by Lorrin Murray and Mat Twassel
===============================

Feb 1

Up and Down, In and Out

Her eyes are greener for the red lining them. They soften 
and water as she watches. She can see his back, wide at 
the top, tapering down smoothly but with muscle to his 
slim waist. She watches him move up and down, up and 
down, hears each sigh and groan as if she were under him. 
As if it were her smooth tan skin, her ribs just barely 
showing, her flat, almost concave tummy, her breasts 
round and soft.


Feb 2

Aerial Nude

The view is almost aerial, but more of a 45-degree angle. 
We are looking down into the pool. Underwater, her body 
is one sinuous line of curved nakedness. Were we to go 
downstairs, into the basement, into the pool room, whose 
ceiling is glass -- the glass bottom of the pool -- the 
image would not be distorted. Her eyes would be open, 
staring down at us, her silky blond hair would spread out 
in a flat triangle. We'd see her nipples tightened from 
the water, hard and brown. We'd see her stomach, smooth 
and flat, with two almost invisible lines running down 
accenting her toned obliques. Her legs would be smooth 
slim stretches of peachy flesh. And if she were to see 
us, she might give us a naughty grin, and bubbles of air 
would slip out her mouth, and she might even reach one 
delicate hand down to her groin and wink impishly at us. 
But our view is aerial, so all we can see are distorted 
angles of peachish skin.


Feb 3

Skier, Yosemite National Park

Inexorable Recklessness

Head down, poles angled at 45-degrees, he takes the curve 
of a corner in the air. From our side we can see the way 
wind has carved the snow. The soft swirls. The crevice. 
The slopes and shadows smooth as a woman's bottom. Only a 
moment now until his skis kiss the surface, skip and 
shoot. Only an hour until, back at the lodge, his tongue 
travels carefully towards her asshole.


Feb 4

The University of Moonlight

The light covers can't hide how beautiful she is, asleep 
in her little dorm room, in her little bed, a smile of 
perfect contentment upon her face. She must be dreaming. 
It must be a happy dream. Her lips part ever so slightly. 
Her hands are pressed together between her legs, but not 
in a sexual way. Not yet.


Feb 5

Michigan Blacktop

Down the center of the highway he runs, front heal about 
to hit, shoulders and back bare, skin glistening with 
sweat. From his stride, though it's difficult to tell at 
this angle, I'd say he's really moving. Pace better than 
a seven, maybe, better than a six. Sun shimmers at the 
tops of his shoulders. His hair bristles in the breeze. 
His shorts flap -- creases the color of iron. The big 
muscles of his buttock bunch beneath the cloth. 
Abundantly empty, the highway tunnels ahead. From the 
dense shadows of tall pines to his left, a raccoon peers. 
To his right slim fish slip beneath the silvery ripples 
of the roadside pond. Light catches a pair of woman's 
panties caught in the reeds. White panties speckled with 
mud, droplets of dew glistening at the center -- but the 
runner doesn't seem to notice.


Feb 6

The Hottie from 410s

She's wearing an old pair of khakis and a t-shirt. She's 
on the phone with a cute guy from down the hall. "So," he 
says, "my friend, Mike Jones, was talking and he heard 
some guy say he went to lunch with the hottie from the 
410s. That's you." Her eyes widen and she smiles. She 
slips one hand into the front of her loose khakis, under 
the waist band of her undies. Her skin is smooth on the 
way down and slightly prickly on the way up. She traces 
the soft cleft, up and down, still smiling.


Feb 7

Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy from Company B

Gray hair, a few tendrils curling over his ears, but the 
middle-aged man seated at the piano bench is in pretty 
good shape. The muscular tension in his raised arm is 
readily apparent. On the girl's bare bottom a red blotch 
like Africa shows how hard he's hitting. In her crack we 
can see the puff of her sex lips, the slit between. A 
couple more continents and her cunt will be fully open, 
ripe and ready for fucking.


Feb 8

The Golden Age of Jazz

She is holding a platter arranged with fresh baby carrots 
in the center. Surrounding them are bite-sized segments 
of succulent cauliflower and in the outer ring plump 
crescents of juicy orange. He is standing behind her 
holding her breast in his hand, his finger and thumb 
encircling a nipple. Her face is turned to the side and 
tilted up. Her lips are parted to receive his kiss.


Feb 9

Missy at the Mailbox

The girl walks down the front steps in her short boxers 
and a t-shirt. She is not wearing a bra, and when the 
wind gusts, her dark nipples show and the ponytail of 
cornsilk hair atop her head spills. By the time she gets 
to the mailbox, Missy, her next door neighbor, has seen 
her and walks over. They smile at each other and then 
Missy puts a hand on the girl's hip and moves in close. 
The girl can feel Missy's breath on her cheek. "You are 
getting better and better looking every day," Missy says. 
The girl smiles and blushes and looks down. Missy lowers 
her head, forces the girl to look into her eyes. Dark 
smoldering eyes. Missy's hand moves softly inward, just 
an inch or two on the girl's hip. Below the top of her 
boxers, the girl clenches. Shudders. Missy smiles. Bright 
white teeth. "You must come over and play sometime," 
Missy says.


Feb 10

The Music Room--Beth: 4:30

The mildly ungainly ugliness of the man's knuckles, the 
hint of knobbiness, the stray circlets of dark hair and 
the brutal ruddiness make a nice contrast to the peachy 
smooth glide and glisten of the girl's cunt. The first 
two fingers are in her, the last two curled back, the 
blunt thumb is on the edge of her asshole, pulling the 
skin a little, about to push in.


Feb 11

The Princess Dreams of Her Wedding

Golden light rains down upon the bed of animal skins 
where the princess dreams of her wedding. One hand pushes 
a thrash of golden curls across her forehead. Her other 
hand closes over the fine thatch above her groin. Her 
legs have slipped apart, showing us the slim furrow of 
slippery pink. At the long plank tables on either side, 
the king and queen and all the noble men and women and 
all the rude ruddy peasants of the province have begun to 
feast. Cauldrons of creamy soups, steaming pies of curry 
and baby lamb, rare fruits plump and ripe, limbs of 
succulent beasts cooked to perfection. The guests gulp 
heady wine from silver goblets, wipe grease from their 
lips, and drink again. Stacks of dowry rise everywhere 
else, gems and jewels, furs, clocks, cattle, peacocks, 
unicorns, stuffed critters with ebony antlers, sabers, 
spears, armor, white stallions, plush carpets, musicians, 
all rising up to the castle's ceiling. 

The princess sighs and opens her arms to her prince. 
He'll pierce her smoothly with a single thrust, 
ensconcing his sleek cock in her snug quiver. How fine 
and full she'll feel clasping him that way. Her little 
belly lifts in anticipation. Her lips part. Her sex 
blooms rose red. Oh, if only the Pope didn't want his 
wedding poke--a prick like Porky Pig rooting and 
blubbering in her delicate cunt. That won't do. The 
prince pushes him off. The Pope swings his sword. Mounds 
of dowry come crashing down.


Feb 12

Ensconced in Wisconsin

Outside the tall glass windows which make up an entire 
wall of the second floor library, leaves dark and bare 
dance in the wind. Inside, with each thrust, he pushes 
deeper into her smooth slick warmth. With each thrust she 
shudders and moans, feeling the fullness of his prick, 
the fullness of his pulse. With each withdrawal she 
sighs, begging him to return, to stay, to fill her back 
up. Thrusts and stays, removes and sighs, thrusts again, 
again, again -- one thrusting, staying couple of paired 
endurance thrusting and moaning together until a final 
shout-sigh of perfection.


Feb 13

Shades of Gray--The Empire

Earliest dawn. Pools of gray sheep stand on the gentle 
slopes of the soft gray hillside. Above the crest a gauze 
of gray light lifts. Stretching through the valley below, 
like a model railroad, the Empire races towards New York, 
a slim streak of lascivious pink licking the tops of 
Pullman cars as they ride the curve. 

If we look closely at the middle window of Pullman car 
#1507 we can see a pair of faces peering out. Vivien 
Leigh and just behind her, Cary Grant. Their faces at 
first seem to be filled with horror, as if these 
travelers are seeing something outside their window too 
dreadful to describe. But don't worry: it's nothing 
outside. Just the grip of orgasm at the finish of their 
pre-dawn fuck.


Feb 14

Shades of Gray--At the Movies

Their faces glow with the silver-gray of movie light. 
Holding hands with the boy to her left, the girl is 
staring straight ahead, watching the screen, her eyes 
wide, her lips parted. The boy to her left is also facing 
forward, but his eyes have shifted to spy upon the girl's 
face. Perhaps something in the squeeze of her hand has 
alerted him. Her other hand is in the lap of the boy to 
her right, under his unbuttoned levis. His eyes are 
closed, or squinted, looking down at the spot of pale 
light which touches her slim wrist as her fingers work 
the fattened bulge. 


Feb 15

Peppery

Something ever so slightly peppery about the scent of his 
skin, the taste of his sweat. But even after his shower, 
even when he's freshly clean, he smells this way. She's 
standing behind him now, naked herself, her nose and lips 
brushing his shoulder. He's facing away from her, a white 
bath towel wrapped around his waist. Her arms have 
reached around him, her hands caress his chest. When he 
turns, the towel will come undone, they'll kiss, and it 
will all start again. 

Later she will take the towel to the laundry basket, but 
before dropping it in, she'll bring it to her nose, close 
her eyes, take in the scent. Mm, peppery. She can't help 
it; it makes her want to fuck.


===============================
Calendar  Feb 1 - Feb 15
by Lorrin Murray and Mat Twassel


Comments? Write to LorrinMurray@aol.com
or mmtwassel@aol.com

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