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From: mmtwassel@aol.com (mat twassel)
Subject: {ASSM} [Blanket] Mat Twassel: Three If By Air
Date: Mon, 10 Nov 2003 06:10:02 -0500
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Three If By Air
by Mat Twassel
===================================================


                        Eagle


I am waiting at the light a few blocks from the 
Stop-N-Sock, and at the gas station on the corner 
just a few feet away, the woman--young, pretty, 
petite--is at the nearest pump, about to stick the 
gas nozzle into her black boxy car, an Explorer, 
maybe. Gas prices are soaring, but I don't care. 
She has on a halter top and these tan hiphugger 
shorts, and when she leans forward a little I can 
see way down her back to the tattoo of a bird, a 
big angry eagle--just his bold head and hooked beak 
and flat black wide-spread wings.

What I wouldn't give to kiss that bird tattoo just 
above the woman's ass.  I think about the bird's 
talons prying down beneath those hiphuggers, and 
when the light changes I am thinking about sticking 
my tongue as far as it would go into the heart of 
the woman's asshole. 

At the driving range I bash half a bucket of golf 
balls all over the place.  My target is the big oak 
tree just beyond the back fence, but despite the 
stiff breeze blowing straight out I can't get near 
it. That the balls are old and decrepit doesn't 
help; for the life of me I can't keep my shots 
straight. I push right, hook left, sky and skull 
and dribble.  I try all kinds of different swings.  
Finally I go back to the way I did it over a dozen 
years ago when I was in my twenties: aim left, 
swing hard and full, and make sure to follow 
through. Amazingly this works. The good old power 
fade. I slam ball after ball up against the fence 
right at the base of the tree. 

There are two balls left in the bucket when my hat 
blows off. It's a straw hat, and the wind just 
takes it. It sails out twenty yards before touching 
down, and then it starts rolling along on its brim. 
It rolls and rolls. Finally it comes to rest about 
120 yards out in the middle of the driving range.  
Shit.

I take out my nine iron and aim at the hat. I hit 
the shot just right, but nine iron is too much 
club, and the ball soars straight over the hat, 
lands ten yards beyond it, and bounds along the 
ground like a scared rabbit. On a good putting 
green maybe the ball would have bit and spun back, 
but the driving range turf is artificial stuff 
something like the backside of a welcome mat.  To 
hit the hat I'd need to switch to the pitching 
wedge, but I don't; I hit my last ball with another 
nine iron--I hit it just as solid and true as the 
first one, and with the same result. 

Inside the pro shop I ask the guy if he can PA the 
people to stop hitting balls so I can fetch my hat.  
Then I trot out into the range, snatch up my hat, 
wave it briefly at the golfers on the practice 
tees, and trot back in. I'm just about back to the 
tees when I recognize the woman with the eagle 
tattoo. She has a full bucket of balls and a big 
headed driver with a golden shaft. She's really 
pretty, and maybe about twenty, and she's smiling 
at me. "Hey," she says.  "Nice hat."

I grin foolishly.

It's only when I'm back in the car driving home 
that I think I should have said, "Nice tattoo." Or 
at least stayed to watch her swing.  Not that 
anything would have come of it.  Not that she'd 
want me to give her some tips or fuck her brains 
out. I do stop at the gas station where I'd first 
seen her, though--the same exact pump--and I think 
of her while I fill my tank. It's satisfying, but 
not very.



                       Ladybug


Hardly a proper kiss, just the briefest dry brush 
of lips at the end of our first date, but I was in 
love with Marlowe.  I knew she was the one.  For 
our second date we visited the Shaker Exhibition. 
It seemed appropriate. Marlowe wore no jewelry. She 
was beautifully simple and straightforward, as 
perfect as God made her. 

Sure enough, the display entranced Marlowe: stern 
brooms to smooth surfaces, the snug nest of oval 
boxes, the array of precision handtools. Marlowe 
beamed with pleasure admiring a Shaker chair.

She turned to me, eyes agleam. "Wouldn't it be fun 
to sit on?"

I scanned the hall. No guard in sight.  "Maybe for 
a quick moment you could."

"No. I mean naked. Wouldn't that be ...?"

Then we kissed. A long, sweet, sweeping kiss. I'm 
sure people stared, but I didn't care. We kissed 
again, and hurried to my car, to my apartment, to 
my bed.

I stroked her back. My fingers worked like light. 
"Isn't it ironic that Shakers didn't believe in 
sex?" 

"Mm. Ironic."

"I mean their stuff is so sexy. Like you. Naturally 
beautiful. No jewelry. No tattoos." My fingers 
played upon her skin, rested on the perfection of 
her bottom.

"Oh, but I do," she said, and her bottom clenched.

"What? Where?"

"A tattoo. Near my most secret spot. A little 
ladybug. My boyfriend had to hold me apart for the 
tattoo guy to work. Does it matter?" 

I didn't answer. I gripped her bottom as best I 
could. Gently I pried the cheeks apart. Nothing. 
Her skin was pure but for the pretty, star-shaped 
crinkle.

Marlowe laughed. "Maybe he flew away.  Or maybe 
..."

"What?"
 
Again and again I've tried to find the ladybug. 
Still no luck. But I'll keep trying.



                      Balloon


A faint light, dim, and far away, and pale as ash, 
filters through the upper arches of Professor 
Levitt's rooftop office window.  Ariel, one of 
Levitt's 19th Century American Poetry students, 
nestles best she can in the plush wing chair. Her 
legs, long and bare, hang over the arms.  Gradually 
her breathing returns to normal. The dim light 
falls as quietly as late autumn leaves, and Ariel 
imagines she can hear them crush and crackle 
beneath the footfalls of students trudging the 
campus sidewalks towards their dorms and dinners 
and Friday night dates.  A shiver shoots down 
Ariel's spine. Almost imperceptibly, her belly 
lurches. Her cunt lips curl. A thin lick of love 
sap seeps across the crinkle of Ariel's anus skin. 
"Oh," she sighs.

Professor Levitt, observing carefully from the 
floor just in front of the wing chair, smiles up at 
Ariel. "What a delicious little aftershock," the 
professor exclaims, and she wipes a touch of 
similar slickness from her chin, tests it with her 
tongue, then watches as Ariel's secretions continue 
their slow pool.

"I'm just a little chilly is all," Ariel claims, 
not daring to look in her professor's eyes.

"Oh, you poor thing. You were so good. I'm sorry. 
Here, let me get you ..." Levitt rises gracefully 
from the floor and a moment later drapes something 
over Ariel.

"Mm,  nice blankie," Ariel coos, closing her eyes 
to better enjoy the softness of it sliding over her 
skin.

Professor Levitt laughs. "Actually it's a sweater. 
It's big enough for a blanket, though--it's huge. 
One of Sam's little nieces knit it for him, but 
it's too big for Sammy, monster though he is, so I 
wear it sometimes to grade papers. Practically 
covers my knees.  Comfy, isn't it?"

Ariel murmurs something. She clasps the softness to 
her. The sweater is comfy. So are Professor 
Levitt's hands, caressing Ariel's shoulders as they 
are. And then her breasts, through the blanket--not 
the blanket, the sweater, Uncle Sammy's sweater, 
Ariel's breasts, Levitt's hands shaping them, 
holding them, bunching them, having them, blanket 
and breasts and mmm.  Too soon the sweater slips 
away.  Ariel opens her eyes, soft, questioning, 
smoke-blue pools.

"Forgive me," Professor Levitt says. "I like 
looking at you bare. Suffer for me, okay? I'll warm 
you later. I'll make you so hot." Kneeling on the 
puddle of sweater, Professor Levitt lifts Ariel's 
nearer foot and lightly kisses each toe, biggest to 
smallest and then back again. In the end she takes 
the big toe into her mouth and sucks, licking, too, 
and pressing Ariel's arch with her fingers. Ariel 
shivers. Professor Levitt opens her mouth wider and 
takes all the toes inside.  Her tongue delves a 
crease, and for a moment Ariel's skin is nothing 
but nipples. Ariel closes her eyes and seeks the 
skylight, while Levitt's tongue licks the tender 
bottom of Ariel's foot. Like walking on clouds, 
Ariel thinks, until the tongue rasps a delicate 
spot right in the center, and the tickle makes 
Ariel mad with want. Her foot jerks frantically. 
Levitt catches it, holds it fast, swallows the toe, 
and sucks and sucks and sucks, hollowing her cheeks 
with the effort. "You're going to make me pee!" 
Ariel cries, at last squirming free.  "Oh, goodie," 
Levitt answers, staring with unabashed interest at 
Ariel's middle, and now Ariel is going to be 
embarrassed either way. 

"Don't worry, sweetie, the sweater makes a good mop,
but maybe later," the professor says, letting Ariel 
off the hook.  Levitt bundles it up and pushes 
it under Ariel's bottom. "Oh, I love that your 
pussy's so plump!"  Ariel covers herself with her 
hands. Levitt takes the hands each by a wrist and 
leads the wrists away. "I need to see," she says. 
"I am a greedy monster, aren't I?" Keeping Ariel's 
wrists in her hands, Levitt lowers her mouth to 
Ariel's sparse muff, nuzzles and kisses the curly 
hair and sucks the damp strands, then dips lower, 
lips kissing the pointy clit, chin nudging the wet 
cunt wide. Ariel quivers when Levitt's tongue goes 
in--but it's out too quick for Ariel to come. "Oh," 
she gasps. Her thighs quake and her cunt clenches 
emptily. She starts a second "oh," one which 
Levitt, pumping her cunt-wet tongue into Ariel's 
juicy mouth, swallows.  The kiss leaves Ariel limp. 

"Please," Ariel moans. 

Levitt moves her hand down to Ariel's mound. Her 
palm presses. Ariel moans again.  "You do like to 
come, don't you?" Levitt says. Ariel whimpers.  
"Maybe I should make you do it yourself, just to 
see."  Ariel shakes her head side to side.  "No?" 
Levitt says. "No? Why not?"  Ariel tenses. 

"Why not?" Levitt insists.  "Tell me.  Tell me, or 
I won't do it."

Ariel takes a deep breath. "When I do it, it's like 
little soap bubbles popping.  When you do it, it's 
like ... it's like ..."

"Like what?"

"Like everything."

"Be specific."

"I can't.

"You can."

"Like. Like. Like the World Trade Tower 
collapsing."

Professor Levitt laughs. "Those poor firemen."

Despite herself, despite Professor Levitt's fingers 
playing with her cunt, Ariel laughs, too.

"Those lucky firemen," Professor Levitt says, 
lightly rubbing the pebble of Ariel's pee place.

"You think I'm a horrible. You probably think I'm a 
horrible monster like Sammy."

"Oh, Sammy's not a complete monster."

"He's not?"

"No, sometimes he can be sweet. Or at least 
courteous. Sometimes he'll shave extra close. Do 
you know a man's face can be a little bit like a 
bicycle seat?" Levitt's forefinger slides the taut 
stem of Ariel's pudgy clitoris. The bared bulb 
glistens. 

"But you said ..."

"Sam's just a little spoiled is all. Six older 
sisters will do that." Levitt traces the soft skin 
outside Ariel's cunt lips. She pulls gently, then 
lets the puffy skin relax, then pulls again. The 
sticky squeak of sex oil makes her smile. "Now he's 
got scads of nieces, some of whom I've never seen. 
Oh, what sweet flaps you have!" Levitt takes one
wing of Ariel's cunt between her fingers and 
spreads it out. Her thumb smoothes the petal.  "For 
some reason they all adore him. They tease him 
mercilessly. Good old Uncle Sam. They send him 
things. Witness the oversize sweater. Getting all 
cunty with your drool."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. It's sweet. I love it. Maybe I'll wear 
it to bed tonight." 

"What if Uncle Sam smells it?"

Professor Levitt chuckles.  "Then I'll snuff him 
with it. He'll die a heavenly death." She takes 
some of the fabric and tries to stuff it into 
Ariel's opening. She doesn't manage to get much in.  
"Wait," Levitt says.  "I've got a better idea. 
Something else. Something more fitting." She goes 
to her desk. A drawer opens and closes.  A moment 
later Levitt returns. "What do you think of this?"

"What is it?" Ariel asks.

Professor Levitt hands Ariel the object.  "An ink 
stamp," she says.  "Of a hot air balloon. Another 
one of Sammy's nieces gave it to him. Or maybe it 
was the same niece as the sweater. It came with an 
ink pad, but that's all dried up now. No matter."

Professor Levitt takes the stamp from Ariel and 
places the hard rubber panel of it gently against 
the skin of Ariel's belly just below her belly 
button.  "Can you feel it? Does it feel like a 
balloon?"

"I don't know," Ariel says.

"Here, let me give you another one." Her hand 
around the handle, Professor Levitt presses the 
stamp into Ariel's tummy.  "There, two balloons. 
Soon you'll be light enough to take off."

"It tickles," Ariel says. Levitt gives her more and 
more balloons, one on top of the next.  "If only 
the poor people on the World Trade Tower had 
these," she says, "they could have floated to 
safety. Wouldn't that have been nice?"  Once again 
she pushes the face of the balloon stamp firmly 
against Ariel's belly, this time just an inch above 
her mound. Ariel moans. "I said wouldn't that have 
been nice?"

Ariel shivers. "I guess so."

"But the really good thing about this," Professor 
Levitt goes on, "is the handle."  Now holding the 
stamp by its face, Levitt brushes the wooden handle 
against Ariel's sex.  "The knob is not too small 
but not too fat." Patiently Levitt wets the wood 
with Ariel's juice.  "The barrel's not too long, 
but not too short."  Levitt eases an inch of handle 
inside Ariel.  "Not too rough, not too smooth. What 
a nice little knob. Just right! Plump and fat and 
perfect for fucking you with." Levitt pushes the 
balloon. Another inch of handle goes in. Ariel's 
cunt grips it. "Hold on now," Levitt urges. With 
each push, the balloon's upper flange rubs Ariel's 
clit.  The bevel and bulge burrow deeper.  Ariel's 
hips lift. Her body quakes. Her cunt contracts 
against the barrel, her juices gush. The second 
trade center tower begins to topple, and Ariel, 
lighter than air, rises up, up, up, disappearing 
inside herself.

Professor Levitt sighs with satisfaction. Life, 
with any luck, will be deliciously difficult from 
now on.

===================================================
Three If By Air
by Mat Twassel


Portions of "Three If By Air" appeared in 
Desdmona's FishTank, a workshop for erotic
stories. http://desdmona.com/fishtank.asp

Help support ASSTR/ASSM http://www.asstr-mirror.org/donations.html 

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