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Message-ID: <45526asstr$1069560605@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Goldberry <Goldberry12spam@hotmail.spamcom>
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Subject: {ASSM} [BSFSF] Sixty Seconds, by Tom Bombadil
Date: Sat, 22 Nov 2003 23:10:05 -0500
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via Goldberry
Goldberry12spam@hotmail.spamcom (you can figure this out :)

Emails to me or posts to ass.d will also be read by Tom.

Enjoy!


[BSFSF] Sixty Seconds

by Tom Bombadil  (c) Nov 2003

This one is for Bradley Stoke's Flash Stroke Festival.  As stated below, 
anyone, including Mr. Bradley Stoke on his ASSTR web page, can list, 
archive, and/or share this story.

Disclaimer:  All the standard rules apply.  If you are offended by 
explicit descriptions of sex or the human body, if it is illegal to 
possess such materials at your location, if you are under-age by law in 
your location, or if somebody else thinks you might have too much fun 
reading it, stop right now and remove this text from your computer.

This is purely a work of fiction, with all characters and actions 
described by me coming straight out of my imagination.  As a work of 
fiction, it does not condone or condemn any of the activities or actions 
described, nor does it relate to any type of real events in my life, or 
known to me in the lives of any of my friends or relatives.

You've been warned.

I give permission for anyone to share or archive this story.

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

Sixty Seconds
The wind is fierce, tearing at my clothes, whipping my hair out from 
under my helmet, making my eyes water so bad I can hardly see.  Behind 
me, my husband is ignoring everything except his cock, which he is 
pounding into me as hard as he can, his two hands leaving bruises on my 
hips with his intensity.  I'm fighting to keep my head, to keep us level 
and straight, but I can't help screaming out my pleasure for the whole 
world to hear.  Every nerve in my body is charged with electricity, 
every muscle tense with anticipation.
"Fuck faster, you bastard!" I scream over my shoulder as time races by.  
One minute.  Sixty seconds.  That's all the time we have, and most of it 
is already gone.  Just as the clock is about to run out, I feel him jerk 
his completion in me, filling me with his seed, hopefully conceiving our 
first child.  Both of our altimeters screech before he pulls the 
ripcord, lovely yellow and orange cloth quickly billowing out above us.  
We have five minutes to compose ourselves before we land.

<Fin>

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