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Message-ID: <36966asstr$1024722607@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Desdmona22@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} [rom fest] Obsession by Desdmona -  Flash
Date: Sat, 22 Jun 2002 01:10:07 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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The following story is part of the Romance Festival. It is intended for 
mature adults. If you're not supposed to be reading this, then don't. You 
might go blind.

Comments are welcomed and appreciated. Thanks!

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

Obsession
By Desdmona
(463 words)


He'd been coming here for months--entering through the back door, sitting at 
the same table, ordering the same meal, and watching the sunset from the same 
window. He couldn't see her, but she was there. Her haunting 
fragrance--hibiscus mixed with ocean breeze, incensed the air around him. It 
was she who guided his hand to his groin while his other hand twirled a fork 
in his linguine. 

The back of his eyes burned like the sun on a white-hot beach of the 
panhandle. A suggestive "remember" played a crescendo in his mind.

As if he could forget...

Linguine and shrimp. A well-placed napkin. Her daring hand. A pedaled zipper. 
"Can you eat while I play?" she purred, her tongue slithering across her 
bottom lip, paving the way for a throaty moan. Her pupils dilated as her slim 
fingers probed to the meat of him. She leaned in to whisper, "Can you, 
darling?"

He wasn't sure. He'd failed her tests before--lying nude on blacktop in the 
heat of the day, convincing a third to join their party of two, or nibbling 
the nipple of her bared suntan breast in line at the deli. Always in a crowd. 
Always in the open. Attempting had been difficult. Exciting. Succeeding had 
been unachievable. 

After his failures, she became morose. Odd. Obsessing over animal shows on 
cable TV, watching with untamed eyes and mimicking the ferocious growls. 
She'd ceased calling him 'darling', and she'd stopped turning her feral eyes 
towards him. This time might be different.

The probing continued--delicate feathery touches, followed by a coddling 
grasp, and then an upsurge in tempo. It was Utopia--this feel of flesh 
against flesh while in a public place. Her thumb skimmed over his glans and 
found the first drop of seminal damp. He closed his eyes and forgot all else 
until his fork pinged against the side of his plate, and his eyes popped open 
to see uncurled linguine splattered on the linen. He squirmed from her grasp, 
and his napkin floated to the floor. Damn!

"Is the lady not joining you tonight, Mr. Faber?" 

"Hmm? What did you say?"

"Your lady friend--she can't be with you tonight?"

He looked to the seat on his left. It was empty. His fork, with its tines 
mummified in pasta, was secure in his left hand. The tablecloth was spotless 
and the napkin still covered his lap. He shook his head.

"We sure do miss her 'round here."

He nodded and the maitre'd turned to leave.

The summer sun drooped in the purple sky and glasses tinkled around him as 
lovers saluted its beauty. His hands remained steady as he sucked in the last 
of the linguine. He swallowed, he moaned, and a growing stain blighted his 
napkin.





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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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