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Message-ID: <45599asstr$1069881004@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: shakespeer2b@yahoo.com (Shakes Peer2B)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 26 Nov 2003 17:24:36 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} (New) Giving Thanks (MF, rom, flash)
Date: Wed, 26 Nov 2003 16:10:04 -0500
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

I'm not generally a fan of second person POV in stories, but this one
needed it.

As always, your feedback is appreciated.

________________________________
This is a story about a sexual FANTASY written for consenting adults.
If you're not both of those, don't read it.  Characters in a FANTASY
don't get sick or die unless I want them to. In real life, people who
don't use condoms and other safe-sex techniques do get sick and die.
You don't live in a FANTASY so be safe.  The fictional characters in
my stories are trained and experienced in acts of FANTASY - don't try
to do what they do - someone could get hurt.

If you think you know somebody who resembles any of the characters
here, congratulations, but you're wrong - any similarity between the
characters in this story and any real person is purely coincidental,
since all of these characters are figments of my dirty little
imagination.

This is my story, not yours. Don't sell it or put it on a pay site.
You can keep it and/or give it away with all of this information
intact, but if you make money off of it, you're breaking the law and
pissing me off.
_________________________________
Giving Thanks (MF, rom, flash)
(C)Copyright 2003 - Shakes Peer2B
shakes_peer2b@NONOsbcglobal.net
(remove 'NONO' from the above address to contact me)

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Shakes_Peer2B/
http://storiesonline.net/  (go to the Author's page under 'S')
________

The remnants of the turkey hangs in tatters from the bones of the
carcass at the bottom of the trash bin. Leftover stuffing and
cranberry sauce chill in their plastic containers in the fridge. The
dishwasher hums in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on the
cleanup.

The television sits dark and mute in the corner, its shadow dancing on
the wall in the golden glow of the firelight.

You feel almost boneless and light as a feather on my lap as I pull
the blanket up to cover us. We each stare, mesmerized, into the fire,
basking in the afterglow of an evening spent with family and friends
who celebrated the spirit and not just the formality of Thanksgiving.

We are tired, but even as fatigue pulls at us, a spark of passion
grows. A soft touch here, a light caress there, and soon we're on a
leisurely journey to our inevitable destination.

I love the way the firelight plays on the softness of your curves as
you lie gloriously naked before me. Softly, slowly, tenderly, on my
side behind you, I enter you. We move langorously, in rhytm with the
flames.  There's no urgency, no hurry. We know where we're going and
have plenty of time to get there.

When it's finally finished, we're not even breathing hard. I pull the
blanket up to cover us again.

You turn your head, and our simultaneous utterance of "Thanks!" covers
so much more than the last fifteen minutes.  In that single syllable,
we know, without discussion, is appreciation  for and contentment with
our lives together, and a promise of much more to come.

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