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Message-ID: <36917asstr$1024665003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: PJcocoa@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} [Rom Fest] L is for Lethargy {Gary Jordan} (RP)
Date: Fri, 21 Jun 2002 09:10:03 -0400
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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Disclamer:  If adult stories are not legal
for you to read, then don't read this. 

This was my entry in 
The Dulcinea Memorial Writing Festival

This is the edited version, in which I
don't waste a lot of time thanking my
favorite editor (DennyW), or Shon or 
AlexisS (the Bronze Medal Winner) for 
forcing me to write.  I'm sure nobody
wants to hear how they twisted my arms.

I'm probably not going to tell you that
my email address is pjcocoa@aol.com and 
that I live to read what people think
about my stories, because that's self-
serving and I'm too modest for that.  I
will just get on with the story.


L is for Lethargy (MF ROM cons) by Gary Jordan

She could hardly move.  She didn't think she'd want to move much,
not for a week at least. All her energy was gone, used up in the
glorious night before, and early morning after.  She wanted to move
for him, from him - it couldn't be comfortable with her weight
still pressing on his chest.  She still couldn't will her arms to
lift, her legs to shift.  Those last orgasms, like rolling thunder,
had drained what reserves of strength she ever had.  All her
efforts lifted her less than half an inch, before settling back,
exhausted.

He felt her move, just barely up, then back down.  The darling.
Although there was nothing he could do to help her.  He was acutely
aware of her nipples, pressing against his ribs just south of his
own.  Her body, in intimate cntact with his along its length, was
a warm embrace.  A drip from her wet pussy onto his cock was a
reminder that they should move.

His regular breathing lifted her as much as her own efforts had.
Up, then down;  up; down.  Had he been on top, she would be
suffocating.  She really must give him more room to breathe.  She
concentrated on drawing her left hand from beyond his shoulder
blade to anchor it next to his chest, to use as a lever to move.

He felt her hand, caressing his shoulder, her fingers weaving a
trail of erotic fire along the muscles there.  Was she trying to
awaken lust, after so many feasts, so many repletions?  His cock,
lying limply at the portal of her sweet pussy, twitched gamely,
once.

She felt a twitch below.  Lacking the strength even to open her
eyes, she managed to lift an eyebrow ever so slightly.  Again?  The
poor, ambitious, loving fool.  In her exhausted satiation, there
would be nothing she could do to help.  She needed to tell him so,
but first must lick her dry lips to speak.

He felt her lips at the short hairs of his neck move, her tongue
awakening those hairs to sensation.  His cock twitched again in
response, and began to stiffen.

She felt another twitch at the rim of her pussy, and a slight
pressure from the cock-head nestled there.  Oh, the dear, darling
man!  The words she was trying to form were forgotten, replaced by
a low moan.

Her moan affected him at an instinctual level.  He thought
ruefully that even if some small amount of flesh were willing, the
rest was too weak.  That thought did not prevent his cock from
growing a little more, nestling between the folds of her outer lips
and pressing apart the inner.

Her heartbeat sped slightly at the welcome intrusion of his cock
into her soaking wet pussy.  All the dark hours behind had ensured
that copious lubrication was there, his and hers.  Her breathing
sped ever so slightly as well.

Her warm breath on his neck acted even more as an aphrodisiac. His
cock grew still more, rapidly approaching its maximum in her
warmth.  Its growth was aided by an increasing blood supply,
courtesy of his accelerating heart.

Sprawled atop his body, impaled on the physical manifestation of
his love, she could still summon no reserves to aid in their mutual
enjoyment.  All motion was provided by the rise and fall of their
chests, lifting and dropping like bellows to fuel the flame.  Her
pussy gave an involuntary contraction, a normal response in an
overworked muscle.

He felt the clench around his cock, a delicious sensation.  With
her encouragement, he sought within himself for any of hidden
energy.  Instead, his calf spasmed, in dire need of electrolites
and phosphorous.  It lifted his legs a fraction in response.

She felt the thrust at her core, her nub sensitized all out of
proportion to the stimulation provided.  He must be as tired as she
- he had done more than his fair share of work in the hours since
sunset.  Where was he finding the energy?  Her heart sped up still
more.  Her hand was finally in position and she pushed.  Instead of
rising up, she slid back a few milimeters on their sweaty torsos.

Oh God!  Her nipples on his chest made him incredibly aware of his
own arousal, her thrust, minimal though it was, heightened his
cock's awareness as well.  As best he could, he managed an
answering push, a feeble attempt compared to any other recently,
but an attempt with heart.

Oh God!  The hairs on his chest teased her nipples to full height,
awareness substituting for ardent friction.  And somehow he managed
to thrust into her, and again her mind and memory provided what
friction could not, bringing her closer to completion.  She tried
to bring her right hand parallel to her left.  She would need both
if she were to rise.

He felt her other hand carressing his bicep, a slow tease of
flesh.  Instead of distracting him, it enervated him, and he
managed another tiny push, before collapsing his hips from the
effort.

To her, it was as though he had thrust from her portal to her
cervix and back.  She moaned in frustration that she had no
strength to help.

Her passionate moan raised his arousal to its limits - where flesh
rubbing flesh normally provided the rise to release, mind rubbing
mind substituted.  He groaned, as tortured muscles jerked one final
time.

His groan was the final push, accompanied as it was by a thrust
within.  She came.  By the standards of the night, it was no big
thing - by the standards of the moment, it was a completion, a
climax, a harbour reached, a haven found.   She was happy.

His final jerk, and the accomanying spurt, were the tearing of the
finish line tape of the marathon.  No more remained.  No more was
needed.

"Love," she murmered at the edge of sleep.

"Love," he replied, and passed her into slumber.

The End

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