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Message-ID: <36976asstr$1024737002@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: PleaseCain@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} [rom fest] Song of Ourselves by PleaseCain (rom MF spanking)
Date: Sat, 22 Jun 2002 05:10:02 -0400
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Copyright 2002 pleasecain@aol.com

SONG OF OURSELVES
by pleasecain@aol.com

She was late.  To her, it was important to appear unhurried, even 
lackadaisical, while preparing herself, but now he watched with amusement as 
she rummaged in the buff through her top drawer and slung her bra on 
businesslike, a lacy red number that evening.  As she turned to leave, he hid 
behind his book on the bed.  

He listened to her busyness through the wall: the closet pullcord light 
snicker-snacking; hangars scraping; loose shoes bumping; and the bathroom 
light humming for one last look-see, his cue to lower the book to his chest, 
to shut his eyes.

She tiptoed in to assemble his tray--the gentle placing of objects and 
cloying sweetness of perfume--followed by swishing footsteps and the dual 
clicks of door and deadbolt.  

Silence.

He only stared at the book before him, somewhat ashamed he wasn't devouring 
the words.  In the hospital, he shared a room with someone stricken with 
optic neuritis.  The guy said he awoke one morning to blotches, and the next, 
to seven weeks of darkness.  Still, sometimes you just don't feel like 
reading.  The guy in the hospital watched "Star Trek: The Next Generation" 
every evening at six.

Beside the book on the tray, she'd placed a mug, beaded with condensation.  
With the edge of one hand, he unfurled the fingers of the other, and 
maneuvered them through the handle.  He grasped the ceramic loop and hoisted 
the mug tottering in the air.  He licked his lips. 

Then, seemingly in slow-motion, the brim slipped from the hook of his thumb, 
and the cup pivoted about his fingers. 

In addition to paralysis, spinal column damage usually precipitates a number 
of lesser-known effects, such as heightened muscle tone, whereby the muscular 
system triggers severe exertions after sudden stimuli, such as a touch or 
sneeze.  Or the slap of icewater on bare flesh.

When the spasms ceased, his back was contorted into an arch, his arms and 
legs locked stiff.  His eyes roamed the room while his muscles scrimmaged 
against each other.  

While he waited for them to fatigue, he sang the first Clash album, note for 
note, lyrics, leads and all.

During "Janie Jones" on Side 2, his hips relented and he flopped forward, 
panting. 

* * *

He awoke to summer twilight, the dull wash of a streetlight visible around 
the closed blinds.  He winced and realized he had bitten his tongue, tried to 
pool moisture in his mouth and swallow.

Pushing against the bed, he rocked once, twice, and on the third attempt 
rolled onto his back.  The bed felt clammy on his skin.  Below lay the jumble 
of tray, cup and book spilling from its dustjacket.  It was just six-thirty.

The only light came from inside the closet, where through the doors he saw 
his old leather jacket.

Beside it hung a charcoal-gray suit wrapped in dry cleaner's plastic, the 
Christmas suit.

* * *

She joined him at the hors d'oeuvres table, straightening his lapels and tie. 
"How is my sharp man?"

"A bit overdressed, wouldn't you say?"  He popped a cracker into his mouth.

"Exactly how I want you, attracting plenty of stares."  She stood on her 
toes, "All staring at my beefcake boy," and pinched his rear.

"Hey, I'm just minding my business and eating."

"Isn't it wonderful?  Have you tried this feta cheese in tomato sauce?"

"Thanks."  He chewed the tiny bread a few seconds, and then his tone turned 
sincere.  "Thanks again for the beautiful present.  I can't believe how much 
you shelled out."

"You're welcome again.  You look exquisite in it.  There's nothing like a 
well-dressed man.  Like Cary Grant."  She grabbed his arm, and swept her 
other toward the living room.  "Besides, I need to show you off a little.  
What do you think of them?"

"Interesting.  Not the guys from the union hall."

"Most are pretentious farts.  But they're my farts, I suppose.  They're all 
impressed you're not in the Business.  Actors only date other actors, one big 
inbred family.  It's tough on women, because half the guys are gay, and the 
rest think they're Stanley Kowalski."

"They're not all impressed.  That guy doesn't think much of plumbers."

"Oh Spiny Norman, he's harmless.  He'll drink whiskey sours until he gets 
loud, and then either sit by himself in another room or leave."

"He's got an attitude.  Does he get beat up a lot?"

She giggled.  "You've injured his puppy pride, brute.  He asked me out twice 
last year."

"Well, by all means."  He bowed in deference.

"Uh-uh, I've got my hands on hot property--you're probably the only one here 
whose not seeing an analyst--so you're not going anywhere."  She pressed 
close, lowering her voice.  "Tonight, I want you to spank me."

The revelers congregated around the piano for carols.  Before he could speak, 
she took his hand.  "Come, studboy, another thing you're going to work on 
tonight is your singing."

* * *

Warm and languid from champagne, she clung to him in the cab, her breath 
moist and sweet on his neck, her leg rubbing his through the slacks.  After 
he paid the fare, he draped his coat over her and prodded her along until 
they reached the lobby.

She lived in a studio then.  A mattress and a few pieces of thrift-store 
furniture crowded the room.  Boxes, costumes and a tiny refrigerator stuffed 
the adjacent cubbyhole, with a hot plate and sink on the counter.  Twinkling 
lights on a small tree casted a mellow glow over the busy room.

While she hung the coats, he rubbed his hands and set upon what was becoming 
a habit, browsing hundreds of books stacked on the glass-doored bookshelves, 
the one grand feature in the unit.  It's what you do in someone else's place, 
look over the bookcase, the surest insights into a mind.  There was much that 
was new to him, plays ancient and modern, obscure Americans and untranslated 
Europeans, instructors and theorists, several versions of every Shakespeare, 
Russians, a smattering of historical novels and self-help primers . . .

"Can I make you a drink?" she said.

"I'm fine."

He picked one about Lee Strasburg, a proper freak and hopefully a bit 
entertaining, he thought, as he kicked off his shoes and pulled the chair 
within the dim light of the tree.  

"Put those back on!" she called from the bathroom.

"What?"

"Put them back on, the shoes!"

"Why?"  He sighed and slipped his feet into the shoes, then opened to the 
index.

Minutes passed before the silence prompted him to look up.

She wore a lacy pink slip, her nipples standing beneath the silky cloth.  
"Still in jacket and tie.  Good."  She took the book, closed it and lay it on 
the table, patting it once like a child.  

The slip pooled around her feet.  She pulled him down for smothering kisses, 
ran her hands over his back and neck.  His fingers played about the curves of 
her hips and behind.  Then she surprised him with an insistent bump toward 
the chair behind him.  He plopped on the chair, chuckling.

She knelt at his feet, nibbling playfully through the slacks, breathing him 
in.  "Easy," she whispered, and didn't lower herself to his lap but rather 
slithered her body around his, one hand splayed on the hardwood floor.  
Against the dark trousers, her peachy skin glowed like diamond on velvet.

They had done this before, when playful gestures stretched for minutes and 
hinted at her deeper proclivities.  But never was it like this, the end in 
itself, her naked bottom draped in offering, the dimple at the small of her 
back rolling with each anticipatory breath.

The first was little more than contact, loose fingers falling on cool flesh, 
but her exhalation was full and loud.  Her thighs parted, her cheeks rose in 
her silent yearning.

The second was flaccid like the first, but the cup of his palm popped on her 
skin.  She mewled with her outbreath, a purple sound of building pressure and 
hot synapses firing.  Her pelvis ground on him and lifted once again.  He 
gave her a couple more like that, liking the sound and her panting and the 
insistent jutting of her ass.  

He raised and stiffened his hand.

The report sounded fleshy, almost wet.  She snapped forward for a few 
moments, then floated upwards again and waited there, swaying invitingly.  He 
brought his hand down a few times in succession, alternating cheeks, then let 
her catch her breath as the blush settled over her tender skin.  

He brought down more, enjoying her movements and guttural vocalizations, as 
if they were embarked on a lusty campaign together.  Caressing the warming 
curves, he contemplated his next salvo: what was she expecting? what would 
bring the desired effect from her prone body?

He held his hand in the air, observing the tension in her buttocks and lower 
back over several seconds.  She knew it was coming.

He spanked her in a heart-like rhythm, not stopping until her retreating 
backside quivered in crimson and his hand numbed past his wrist like in a 
constricting glove.  He lay it palm-up on her ass, while she rubbed her 
inflamed skin.

Then he brushed her hand away and raised his not yet vital hand in the air.  

While he rained down another set of firm strokes, she began a petulant 
crying.  He spanked her until the streak subsided and her exhausted body 
absorbed his ministrations without protest and his hand throbbed like needles 
through his fingertips.

He didn't wait, but pulled her by her hips and guided her on her unsteady 
legs to the edge of her bed, where she braced herself while he threw off his 
coat and tie and undid his trousers, soaked with her arousal.  His prick 
curled red and beating, and he seized her hips and plunged into her dripping 
sex.  He held her up and fucked her.  

Their sex was wet and loud, and mercifully short.  She collapsed to her side, 
he on his back behind her.  They lay unmoving beneath the cracked ceiling 
like a many-colored slideshow, only police sirens stirring in the frigid 
night.

She turned to nestle on his arm, a lazy finger undoing the buttons of his 
shirt while the streams of her breath rustled the field of his chesthairs.  
He stroked the baby skin behind her ear.

"You spanked me so hard," she peeped into his chest.

"So hard," her fingertip dabbed in the last clear stickiness draining from 
him, "like I was a hooker."  She sat and removed his shirt.  "No one has ever 
done that to me.  Rub my bottom."  She reached behind her to massage herself 
while propping her head on an elbow. 

"Is that how you treat your other girls," she said between kisses, "spank 
them and fuck them like hookers?"

"Only you," he said and rolled on top of her.  He crossed her wrists above 
her head while he raised himself.

"Ooh, I'm scared."  She brushed her woman's hair against him.

"Shh," he whispered in the hollow between her lips, and down her neck, 
between her breasts.  She arched as his lips pulled her nipples, strawberry 
pink.  Beneath her breasts, the ridge of her tiny ribcage strained against 
her skin with each inhalation.  He traced the lines with his tongue.

Then he covered her mouth with his while he nestled against her juncture.  
Short, pinched movements, and his fat ring was inside her.  She moaned into 
his throat.  He slid into her from side to side, loving her warm canal in 
every spot, at every angle.  She welcomed him with coaxing squeezes and a 
wild tongue.  While luxuriating inside her body, he slid a hand under her 
knee, lifting her leg while her hands remained pliantly above her head.  He 
fucked her like that, fragrant and exposed, her arousal plain to their ears 
until drowned out by her cries beneath him, when he released her and they 
relaxed inside one another.

* * *

He tried straightening his right hand, but it remained a palsied claw, except 
the ring finger that twitched on its own agenda.

The numbness overran that hand first: he dropped tools, and brought empty 
fingers to his mouth only to discover that the cigarette had already bored 
into a pantleg or carpet.  By the time he was forced from his job, clasping 
his walker, the doctors who had assured him that three-quarters of MS 
patients remained ambulatory, had tossed up their hands; as the blight crept 
higher like the sands in an hourglass, he tossed up his own.

Time and again he tried to be rid of her, but she clung, even after he 
stopped touching her and bridled against hers, and she shouted him down 
whenever he insisted she go out without him.  She began assuming the gaunt 
mask of others he had seen, spouses worn by frustration and toil, so he 
persisted until her response one day was not a bawl but a timorous "Are you 
sure?" and even as his stomach dropped, he nodded and thereafter made no 
mention.

He slid the hand beneath his cheek and closed his eyes.

* * *

In the hallway were murmurs, low but unmistakable.  They lasted several 
minutes until the lock snapped.  

As a courtesy, he lowered his eyelids while she entered and closed the door 
on her evening.  She gasped and crouched to gather the wreckage from the 
floor.

He croaked, "Hi."

"Hi, are you all right?  Oh, the bed is wet!"

"I spilled.  Don't worry, it feels good.  How was your night?"

"I can see you spilled."  She continued, holding her coat about her, and 
mumbled with a juggler's preoccupation, "It was OK.  Boring.  Are you 
hungry?"

"Could you hand me the remote?"

"Do you need me to turn it on?"  He shook his head.  "I'll be back in a few 
minutes," she said.

He flipped through the channels while she rattled around in the next room and 
ran the shower.  He could hear the whine of air in the water line--probably a 
loose washer--and the echo of soft chuckles.  He increased the volume. 

He woke again as she settled on the bed in her shapeless blue flannel robe, 
carrying the tray.

"I have a surprise for you," she said.  "Ooh, are you sure you don't want me 
to change the sheets?"

"No.  What have you got?"

"Twenty-four Kick Peach Salsa!  Doesn't that sound good?"  The jar opened 
with a pop and she let him smell, then tore open the bag of chips and dipped 
one, lowering it to his mouth.  The crook of her arm against his cheek 
smelled of fresh soap.

"Woo, that's hot!"  She gulped cola from her glass.  "Wow!"

His lips closed around another laden chip, then sipped from the glass she 
offered.  She drank again, then opened the book and cleared her throat.  Her 
red fingernails absently traced the circlets of his chest hair.

"I celebrate myself,
And what I assume you shall assume,
For every atom belonging to me as good belongs to you.

"I have heard what the talkers were talking . . . the
talk of the beginning and the end,
But I do not talk of the beginning or the end.

"There was never any more inception than there is now,
Nor any more youth or age than there is now;
And will never be any more perfection than there is now,
Nor any more heaven or hell than there is now.

"Sure as the most certain sure . . . plumb in the uprights,
well entretied, braced in the beams, 
Stout as a horse, affectionate, haughty, electrical,
I and this mystery here we stand.

"I am satisfied . . . I see, dance, laugh, sing;
As God comes a loving bedfellow and sleeps at my side all night and close on 
the peep of the day,
And leaves for me baskets covered with white towels bulging the house with 
their plenty,
Shall I postpone my acceptation and realization and scream at my eyes,
That they turn from gazing after and down the road,
And forthwith cipher and show me to a cent,
Exactly the contents of one, and exactly the contents of two, and which is 
ahead?"

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