index


Message-ID: <36982asstr$1024744202@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: johndear@softhome.net
Mime-Version: 1.0
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit
Subject: {ASSM} [rom fest] The Outcrop [POV game]
Date: Sat, 22 Jun 2002 07:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

[Submission for "Story Game" catagory; Please review] 

The Outcrop 

by 

John 

 


Don't blame yourself. 

Paul, no. 

He works in mysteries. 

Voices in her mind.  His and hers and his again, a braid of words designed 
to clasp her guilt in place. 

Paul,... 

A deer suspended reverie. 

They stared across her clearing.  It stood beside a rocky, barren outcrop, 
the garden's northern boundary.  She, severed by the cultivated earth, stood 
just as still, denim shirttails stirring in the breeze.  It listened to her 
beating heart.  Then, gathered on its haunches, flank-bloodied, leapt onto 
the massive rock, and disappeared into the upward sloping spruce. 

She caught her breath.  Deer never bothered there before, she thought 
protectively.  She pressed the hoe between her infant beans.  So much to do. 
A worm, sliced through, wriggled into two.  An eye, she thought, from one 
potato breeds a dozen healthy babes.  Nature seemed so bloody simple.  From 
the outside looking in. 

It's not your fault. 

I want to give you sons. 

You will. 

Something's wrong inside of me. 

Have faith. 

Two years? 

There's time. 

We could adopt. 

His will. 

Oh, Paul. 

She plucked a fist-sized stone and flung it in the bush.  Onions, turnips.  
Sweat bathed her torso, wet the denim, glued it to her back.  She loved her 
crown land garden, her day away from chores, observed by only trees. 

==================================================== 

At noon she ate her sandwich, sipped lemon water from a jar, and watched the 
dragonflies.  The day was hot.  She opened up her blouse to let the breeze 
caress her.  Then, took it off; then, spread it out to dry. 

I should see a doctor. 

Pray. 

I try. 

You must believe. 

"I do," she said aloud to carrots as she, kneeling, thinned the row.  White 
globes of breast hung free.  Lettuce, parsnips yet to go.  She'd like to 
finish it before she had to leave, to make his meal. 

She didn't hear her second visitor.  He stood exactly where the deer had 
been, a crossbow on his arm.  His hair so black the sunlight, blued its 
edges.  He stared at her. 

She glanced and started. 

He set the weapon on the rock, upon the now dry blouse, then looked her in 
the eye.  "My deer?" 

"*Your* deer?" 

"I grazed it." 

"Hunting's in the fall." 

Heat beat his voice against the ground.  "White rules," he mumbled. 

Arms folded on her chest, she eyed her shirt.  "Please, give me that." 

"You're beautiful," he murmured.  Turned away from her.  To himself he said, 
"Make fire." 

He gathered old man's beard and lifeless branches from the trees beside the 
granite ledge.  She dressed, then staked her claim with: "It's *my* garden," 
awkwardly. 

"You're welcome to it."  His solemn sentence fell into the smoke between his 
knees. 

She watched him from behind her hoe, amazed at how the fire took shape so 
quickly, the billycan produced its steam so suddenly.  Drawn to his place, 
she watched in silence.  Tea.  Then lard and flour.  Heaps of sugar 
followed.  He squatted on his thighs, looked toward the dense green bush.  
Ignored her so it seemed. 

He pointed down.  A spot of blood. 

"She's slowing now." 

"What if she has a fawn?" 

He made no answer.  Smoke drifted to the trees.  He offered her his cup.  
She took it, tasted cautiously, drank deeply of the brew. 

He took her hand in his.  Incredible how soft his touch.  Electric.  Alive.  
A warmth.  He put his hand upon her shoulders.  He touched her hair no 
harsher than a draft.  He smiled. 

A raven laughed.  He slowly loosed the buttons on her blouse.  Kind, umber 
eyes becalmed her.  When he'd strewn her jeans and underthings along the 
stone, he kissed her on the lips. 

He played against her body.  With his fingertip he split her vulva, found it 
ripe like fruit before its fall.  He sucked his finger.  She pressed against 
him hungrily. 

She cried out when he entered her.  The raven laughed again.  She pulled her 
stomach muscles taut and arched her back against the stone.  He drew her 
legs up by his sides.  She hooked them on his back.  Her face gnarled tight 
in ecstasy, the like of which she had not felt in years. 

He dressed as soon as it was done.  Then, with a mound of dirt, destroyed 
the fire, hauled the crossbow to his shoulder, and slipped into the dark, 
wild wilderness.  Without a parting kiss. 

She lay long upon the slab of granite, naked, picking out a name, dreaming 
how a child might clasp onto her nipple.  Lay until the task of making 
supper beckoned her to leave. 


The end
===================================================
=================================================== 

As seen through the "eye" of a vast flat boulder, exposed and rubbed smooth 
by glaciers, barren for ten thousand years, until a woman makes her garden 
near it, a young man plants his seed. 

John 

johndear@softhome.net 

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}|
|Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org>      |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+


  index