index


Message-ID: <50891asstr$1112814604@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: gatomedio@hotmail.com (Gato Medio)
Content-Transfer-Encoding: 8bit
NNTP-Posting-Date: Wed, 6 Apr 2005 18:00:12 +0000 (UTC)
Subject: {ASSM} Blame it on the Blackout 03/06 {Gato Medio} (MF FF d/s oral spank)
Lines: 743
Date: Wed,  6 Apr 2005 15:10:04 -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

Blame it on the Blackout
A 'Sting in the Tail' Story
By Gato Medio

Chapter 3: The Aftermath

I woke up in the middle of the night. Fragments of a
dream, or maybe several dreams, were still floating
through my head. In the scene which I was able to recall
most clearly, I was naked, bending over the table in
Roger's kitchen. Fiona was standing behind me, not
wearing any top or bra. She was slapping my bottom! Her
beautiful breasts swayed gently, accompanying the
movement of her hand.

There were men watching - a different man in each version
of the dream. I remembered seeing Roger. He stood there
in his naked glory, his cock ready for action, watching
as Fiona's hand castigated my bottom. In another version,
the spectator was my father. He was fully dressed, but
the bulge in his trousers betrayed how much watching my
punishment excited him. The same could be said for the
third man, whose face I didn't recognize. He was roughly
the same age as my father, so I assumed that it had to be
Fiona's uncle-father.

I put my hand between my legs just to confirm what I had
already suspected. This had been a wet dream! The image
of me getting spanked, naked, with Roger, my own father
and a stranger watching had turned me on! What on earth
was happening to me?

                         -----

I had left the North Tower shortly after Fiona had
terminated our conversation so abruptly, but I had no
recollection of how I actually left. I suppose I must
have taken one of the lifts which had served earlier as
the imaginary backdrop for our fantasies about what might
happen inside a stuck lift.

I had made my way home, but I was unable to tell whether
I had taken the bus or the underground. I had eaten
something, but I couldn't say what it was or what it
tasted like. Then I had joined my father in the living
room to watch the Nine o'clock News. I had sat there, my
eyes fixed on the television screen throughout the
programme, but now I couldn't remember a single news item
which had been covered. My mind had been on other things.
I realized that I must have come across like a sleep-
walker.

I had retired to my room as soon as the news programme
was finished, telling my father that I wanted to get an
early night. But I hadn't managed to fall asleep for a
long time. My mind kept returning to Fiona, the things
she had said, and how she had said them; her smile, the
defiant tone of her voice when she talked about her
passion for her 'Uncle Sid'. The image of her bare
breasts kept returning, and I remembered how I had gotten
irritated about that. 'Alright, her breasts are more
beautiful than mine. Maybe, on the whole, she's more
attractive than I am. But there's no need to rub it in,'
I had told myself.

                         -----

I must have drifted off to sleep eventually, but now I
was wide awake again, trying to make sense of my dream.
Why did Fiona's revelations leave me in this state of
utter confusion? True, she had talked about things which
I had so far only known from hearsay. I didn't know
anybody who would actually _do_ these things. Fiona's
story had turned my knowledge of these practices much
more immediate, much closer to home. Too close for
comfort, it seemed. How else could I explain the impact
her story had on me?

I knew that if I had seen Roger that evening, I would
have spilt the beans. I would have told him every little
detail of what Fiona had confided in me. But Roger was
somewhere up in Scotland, installing video surveillance
equipment for a customer, as part of a major contract.

My mind went back to our farewell, only a few days ago.

     That trip to Scotland had come unexpectedly. The
     company Roger worked for had submitted a bid for a
     contract to supply and install a complete security
     system in all branches of a major Scottish bank. The
     bank's managers had indicated that they were willing
     to accept the proposal, provided that the equipment
     could be installed before the end of the current
     month. Roger had been given the assignment to put
     together a team of dedicated professionals who could
     accomplish the task in record time.
     
     Roger had phoned me with the news, saying that he
     would be catching a plane to Aberdeen in a few
     hours' time. But he wanted to see me before he left.
     Would I mind coming to meet him at his office?
     
     For me, such a question was equivalent to an order
     to drop everything and get myself over to his office
     as soon as possible.
     
     Roger hugged and kissed me and thanked me for having
     come. Then he stepped back a little, looked me up
     and down, and said, "You know, we've never done it
     in my office."
     
     My heart almost missed a beat. He wanted to make
     love to me, here, amidst the hustle and bustle of
     people discussing the final preparations for a trip
     and celebrating their biggest ever contract win!
     
     I was about to remind him that he had already fucked
     me once in this very room, entering me from behind
     as I bent over his desk, when he added, "During
     working hours."
     
     That other time had been on a Saturday, when we
     stopped briefly at Roger's office to pick up a
     document he needed. As soon as we had arrived in his
     office he had told me with his usual "You know,
     we've never done it ... " that he wasn't going to
     miss this opportunity to add another entry to the
     long list of places, circumstances and positions in
     which he had made love to me.
     
     But now I had come to his office for the first time
     during working hours. And it was clear from his
     voice that he was determined to carry out his crazy
     idea.
     
     But how could he? The place was as busy as a bee
     hive in summer! During the short time I had been
     there, the phone had rung several times, a number of
     people had come into the office to ask for Roger's
     signature. Was he thinking of fucking me in front of
     all these people?
     
     "Step behind this curtain and take off your
     clothes," Roger instructed me.
     
     The curtain would shield me from the eyes of anyone
     entering Roger's office. But on the other side of
     the curtain was a huge floor-to-ceiling window.
     There were two other buildings, one on either side
     of the one in which Roger's office was located. The
     three buildings formed the shape of the letter U.
     Anybody looking out of a window in one of the two
     lateral buildings would be able to see me standing
     there without a stitch on. The tinted glass would go
     some way towards concealing my features, but there
     wouldn't be any doubt that a naked woman was
     standing there, pressing her bottom against the
     plate glass.
     
     But there couldn't be any discussion. Roger wanted
     it.
     
     I went behind the curtain, made sure it was closed
     all the way, and got undressed. I don't think my
     heart had ever beaten as loud as it did at that
     moment. And I could feel that other sensation which
     usually preceded Roger making love to me: my pussy
     was leaking like a rusty water tank.
     
     Roger called his secretary. I held my breath, tried
     not to do anything which might make the curtain
     move.
     
     Roger instructed his secretary, "I need a few
     minutes of privacy, Martha. Hold all my calls and
     don't let anybody walk through this door.
     Understood?"
     
     "Yes, Roger, understood. Shall I open the curtain a
     little? It's quite dark in here."
     
     I could hear her walk towards the curtain, ready to
     carry out what she had suggested.
     
     "No thanks, Martha. I like it this way. That will be
     all for the moment."
     
     But Martha didn't leave straight away. "What
     happened to the young lady who came to visit you?"
     she wanted to know.
     
     "Oh, she stepped out onto the balcony to catch some
     fresh air."
     
     I was relieved when I heard the door close. I could
     breath again. But my relief didn't last long. Within
     less than half a minute the door opened again.
     
     "Balcony? What balcony? Your office doesn't have any
     balcony."
     
     "It was a joke, Martha. A joke."
     
     "I should have known. You're always pulling my leg."
     
     Roger opened the curtain a little to check that I
     was ready. It felt so good when he embraced and
     kissed me. Any fear that we might be discovered was
     gone.
     
     "This is going to be a new experience for both of
     us," he said.
     
     Roger told me to stand in the middle of the window,
     where the two halves of the curtain met, facing the
     glass and sticking my bottom out. He would stay on
     the other side of the curtain, opening it just
     enough for him to stick his cock through.
     
     I started to moan as his hard rod slid into my
     slippery pussy. As always, the sensation when he
     pushed deeper inside me was fantastic. It felt
     almost unbearably good. I put one hand into my mouth
     and bit on my knuckles to keep the noise down. But I
     did not manage to stay completely quiet. I wondered
     if people in the nearby offices could hear my
     stifled moans.
     
     Roger drove his cock inside me and I pushed my
     bottom back against him to allow him to enter me
     deeper. Roger increased the speed and the strength
     of his thrusts. I could see people behind the
     windows of the other two buildings, but it seemed
     than none of them noticed me, as Roger's thrusts
     pressed my entire body against the tinted glass.
     
     After a few minutes, Roger came and filled my pussy
     with his wonderful hot cum. I moaned and came in
     sympathy. It was the best I could expect under the
     circumstances. But Roger knew that it wasn't enough
     to put out the flames he had lit. He kissed and
     hugged me and told me to get dressed.
     
     Before I could even put on my knickers he buzzed his
     secretary and told her that he was available again.
     There must have been a queue of people waiting
     outside. They all poured inside, wanting to know
     details about their involvement in the project, or
     asking for his signature on their travel advance
     forms.
     
     I just hoped that nobody would pay attention to the
     movements behind the curtain as I put on my clothes
     and tried to put my hair in order as best I could.
     When the movement in Roger's office had ebbed down I
     stepped out of my hiding place.
     
     Roger kissed me as he led me to the door. "I'll call
     you. I'll think of something special for when I get
     back."
     
     Something special! That promise made my heart beat
     faster. I was sure Roger was already planning an
     elaborate celebration which would inevitably end in
     a marathon session of wild sex.
     
     I didn't dare to look at Martha, Roger's secretary,
     but I was sure that her mouth stood wide open as she
     saw me emerge from Roger's office. I could feel her
     eyes on my back as I walked towards the exit, the
     mixture of Roger's cum and my own juices running
     slowly down my legs.
     
                         -----

Sex with Roger was like this. It was always a completely
new experience. I don't think there has ever been
anything which could be called a 'routine fuck', a
situation where we made love just out of habit or because
we didn't have anything else to do.

There were two distinct forms to our lovemaking. On one
hand, there were the impromptu fucks like the one which I
have just described, which usually started because we
would find ourselves in a situation in which we had never
before made love.

On the other hand, there were set pieces, elaborate
celebrations of our passion, which Roger prepared with
great attention to detail. Like a theatre director he
would prepare the stage, the lighting, the background
music, and me, his main actress, for a memorable
performance.

The 'something special' he had promised me would be such
an occasion. I found it difficult to control my
impatience, but I knew it would be a pleasure worth
waiting for.

I started to wonder whether the incident which had me
lying naked on his kitchen table while he handed an
unexpected visitor some material on optical sensors
hadn't been planned exactly that way.

Roger would be capable of setting this up. He would let
me believe that I was in danger of being discovered,
because he knew that this kind of situation was bound to
leave me steaming with excitement.

                         -----

Should I make my own contribution to the upcoming
commemoration by talking to Roger about my newly-found
interest in spanking? Should I suggest to make my first
ever spanking part of the celebration? It seemed an
excellent idea, a worthy demonstration of my feelings
towards Roger - but something held me back.

In a way, I was glad that Roger wasn't around. Who knows
what his reaction might have been. What if he took a
liking to this idea of spanking and decided that from now
on he was going to give me a good thrashing whenever I
misbehaved?

I trust Roger. I just wasn't sure that I trusted him
enough to give him ideas about spanking my bottom. It
would take all my willpower not to talk about that
subject with him when he returned, or when he called.
Seeing that it had taken over my mind, it would be nearly
impossible to avoid it.

But what if it hurt? What if I didn't get as aroused by
it as Fiona seemed to? Once Roger had included spanking
my bottom into the repertory of things he did to me, he
wouldn't drop it so easily. I had to find out first if I
could take it. I needed to find someone who'd spank me on
a trial basis - give me a free sample spanking without
obligations, so to speak.

'You've gone irretrievably out of your mind, Elizabeth
Jane,' I scolded myself. 'Have you lost your marbles? As
if it weren't enough that you let this guy fuck you
whenever, wherever and however he wants, now you want to
let him thrash your bottom too!

'It hurts! It's meant to hurt! Parents do it because they
expect that the pain will make their little monsters
think twice before they misbehave again. Admittedly, it's
a somewhat antiquated concept of education, but at least
that's the idea. There's no joy in having one's bottom
whacked. Only people with defective brain cells expect to
feel pleasure when they're spanked.'

'Hmm, that's true too.' The hand between my legs which
had been performing gentle up-and-down movements, and
created a pleasant sensation in the process, stopped
moving. Maybe I would be better off if I filed the whole
story under 'strange and unusual things which happened to
me' and got on with my own life.

After all, what did I have to do with Fiona's wish to get
thrashed and then abused by her own father? We weren't
even close friends! I had to admit, though, that that
conversation during the blackout, our exchange of until
then closely-guarded secrets, had brought us closer. But
there was no reason why I should let her problems take
over my life.

                         -----

The following day, it almost seemed that I had managed to
file and forget Fiona's revelations. I worked very hard,
trying to make up for the time lost during the blackout.
I even managed to remember my idea for the New Age
artist's home page.

Fiona, too, was kept busy as everybody tried to get back
on schedule. We met only briefly, during our lunch break.
Other colleagues were sharing our table and neither of us
mentioned the conversation of the day before. But somehow
I felt that even saying 'Hi' to Fiona had taken on a
different quality from before.

However, as soon as I left work, my thoughts returned to
the subject I had intended to file and forget. 'Why can't
I do it myself?' I asked as I was squeezed like a sardine
in an overcrowded underground train on my way home.
Couldn't I just whack my bottom as hard as I could
manage, to find out how much it hurts?

Sure, I would be missing many important aspects of a real
spanking. The element of submission, of handing over
control to someone else, for example. I knew what that
was like from my relationship with Roger. That was it!
Couldn't I just imagine that Roger had ordered me to
spank myself and was watching me from somewhere where I
couldn't see him? That would also provide the affective
energy which Fiona obviously felt towards her father-
uncle.

As soon as I got to my room I started looking for a
suitable arrangement. There was a backless chair, a kind
of stool, which would have to play the role of my
punisher's knee. I put it in front of the large mirror.
Then I took off my clothes and bent over the stool. I
realized that it would be very difficult to watch and
slap myself at the same time. I tried a number of
different positions, but there didn't seem to be an ideal
angle for what I had in mind.

In the end, I just took a deep breath and smacked my
bottom.

All I could tell was that it made a very loud noise. I
wondered whether my father downstairs had heard it, and
if so, whether he could tell what the source of the noise
was.

I tried again, harder. I almost twisted my arm out of
joint in an effort to put more power behind the whack.
There was also a risk that I'd slide off the stool and
land unceremoniously on the floor.

I gave myself another whack. There was no pleasure, nor
did I feel much pain. This was obviously not the way to
do it. It had to be someone else. But who?

My thoughts drifted towards my dad.

No chance! The idea of physical punishment was
diametrically opposed to everything my father stood for.
I couldn't imagine him spanking my bottom to punish me.
But maybe, if I asked for it as a special favour?

                         -----

     The previous day, when I had listened to Fiona talk
     about her Uncle Sid, it had occurred to me how many
     points we had in common, even though our domestic
     setups were completely different. I, too, have lost
     my mother when I was very young. But I still have
     some vague memories of her. I even own some
     photographs showing the three of us: my mum, my dad
     and me.
     
     My mother didn't die in an accident. In the words of
     my dad, it was 'a stupid illness which could have
     been easily treated if it had been detected in time'
     which took her away from us. My father had been
     madly in love with my mother, probably as much as
     Fiona's Uncle Sid had been with her mother. My
     father decided to preserve my mother's memory by not
     getting married again. Nor did he bring any other
     female companion into the house.
     
     This decision - an egoistic indulgence, as he called
     it - deprived me of a feminine presence in the
     house, someone who could give me guidance in
     'girlie' matters. My dad considered himself
     responsible for this gap and decided that he would
     do his best to make up for it.
     
     My dad told me everything about sex and about
     becoming a woman, long before there were the first
     signs of any change in my body. And he didn't do it
     in the dour manner of a schoolteacher who only talks
     about this kind of thing because it's part of the
     curriculum. No, for him becoming and being a woman
     was a joyful experience, one of the great mysteries
     of life. And he wanted me to know how lucky I was to
     be a member of the 'beautiful sex'.
     
     My father's explanations were in marked contrast to
     the 'sex education' lessons I would have much later
     in school. Those seemed to be mainly about the
     unpleasant aspects of being a woman, about the risks
     and dangers of sex.
     
     My dad also talked to me about masturbation a long
     time before I felt any urge to stimulate myself. He
     talked about the techniques, the benefits, and also
     a little about the risks. I still remember how
     surprised the girls in my class were when they heard
     me talk about the subject so matter-of-factly.
     
     A number of them had gathered around in a circle and
     were exchanging stories, amidst gasps and giggles,
     about the sensations they had experienced while
     touching themselves 'down there'. I shocked them by
     saying, with the authority of an expert, "Oh, you
     mean masturbation. My dad told me all about it." I
     left them open-mouthed as I told them everything I
     knew about the subject, both what my dad had told me
     and the results of my own experiments.
     
     They hadn't expected me to know so much about a
     'naughty' subject like that. My approach to most
     things was more serious, more mature than theirs. I
     wasn't interested in the superficial conversations
     about film stars and other celebrities they engaged
     in. I didn't go for the gossip about who had been
     seen with whom, who was splitting up and who was
     about to get together again. They had taken my lack
     of interest in these subjects as a sign of
     prudishness and had given me the nickname 'Plain
     Jane'. Now they had found out that things weren't as
     they had imagined them to be.
     
                         -----
     
     Contrary to Fiona's uncle-father, my dad had never
     established any rules. He never told me what to do.
     I didn't have to be home at a set time - it was up
     to me to figure out how much sleep I needed to
     function in the morning. The only thing he asked was
     that I let him know when I decided to spend the
     night somewhere else. That way he'd know that my
     absence was a scheduled event and he didn't need to
     worry. And, as there were no rules, the question of
     punishment never arose.
     
     I knew that I could talk to my father about any
     subject, absolutely everything. He would listen to
     me, ask a few questions to make sure he understood
     what was afflicting me, and then he would lay out
     all the possible answers in front of me. He would
     make sure that his comments included a feminine
     point of view - because he had decided to be my
     father and my mother at the same time.
     
     But, and this could be very frustrating at times, he
     never expressed any preference or gave me any
     guidance. He said, he didn't want to interfere in my
     decision making process, just because he was my
     father. His closing comments usually were, "These
     are the options and the pros and cons. The decision
     is yours."
     
     It's not as if my father has no convictions, that he
     is constantly sitting on the fence. No, he has firm
     views on most subjects, and I've often heard him
     express them in conversations with others. But as
     far as I was concerned, he wanted me to form my own
     opinion.
     
     When I wanted to know what was the right thing to
     do, what his choice would be if he were in my place,
     he would say. "There is no objective best course of
     action. A factor which one person considers an
     unacceptable risk might be the reason why another
     person decides to chose this option, because that
     other person wants some excitement and enjoys taking
     risks. You are the one who'll have to live with the
     consequences. You need to know where your
     preferences lie and how much risk you're willing to
     take."
     
     Not being told what to do, and having to decide by
     myself based on my own criteria made me mature much
     earlier than the other girls I know. It made me
     reach decisions on a rational basis, just like
     adults do. At least that's what I used to think. Now
     that I'm (almost) an adult myself, I know that, on
     the whole, decisions made by adults are just as
     irrational as those made by little children.
     
     I reacted to the vacuum created by this lack of
     guidance in two ways. One, I became very opinionated
     about just about everything. If my father didn't
     want to tell me what was right and what was wrong, I
     decided that I knew, and I didn't hesitate to tell
     everybody how I felt about things.
     
     The second reaction - which may sound like it's
     contradicting the first one - was that I developed a
     desire to be told what to do. I follow instructions
     by teachers or my boss without hesitation. That's
     probably also why I feel this deep passion for Roger
     and why I follow all his suggestions so obediently.
     Roger does something which my father never did: he
     gives me orders.
     
     My father's stance didn't even change when I asked
     him about smoking cannabis. I had expected that his
     work in a rehabilitation centre for young addicts
     would make him come down strongly against the use of
     any kind of drug, but he kept his answer neutral. As
     usual he covered all aspects of the question, both
     the negative consequences and the liberating, mind-
     expanding effect which is ascribed to drug-usage.
     And, as usual, he ended his deliberations with the
     conclusion, "The choice is yours."
     
     I knew that if I wanted to get something useful out
     of a conversation with my dad, I would have to
     prepare my questions carefully. I had to avoid
     anything which would allow him to drift off into a
     general discourse about spanking, the whys and
     wherefores, and a variety of opinions which other
     people held about the subject. I wanted my dad to
     tell me what _he_ thought about it and what _I_
     should do to satisfy my curiosity.

                         -----

"Hi, Dad, can I talk to you about something?"

"Sure. I was wondering when you'd finally get around to
asking me."

"How come? How did you know I wanted to ask you
something?"

"Well, yesterday you were acting like a zombie from outer
space. So I knew there was something on your mind."

I felt like telling him that zombies don't come from
outer space but from the world beyond, but that wasn't
important at the moment.

"It's about physical punishment. Spanking to be precise."

"Yes?"

"I've got this colleague who gets spanked once a week by
her uncle who's really her father."

"What is he, her uncle or her father? He can't be both.
At least not as far as I know."

I realized that I was in danger of confusing matters and
getting off the subject I wanted to ask about.

"He's her uncle. Her father died when she was still very
young. Anyway, he spanks her once a week to punish her
for everything she's done wrong during the past week."

"She can go to the police and file a complaint. Or better
still, see a family counsellor. He - or more likely it
will be a woman - will hear all the parties involved,
advise them on the legal situation and then suggest a
solution which all can agree to. I've got the number
right here."

My dad was about to get up to find the phone number in
his agenda.

"No, that's not the problem," I stopped him in his
tracks. "She likes it."

"Hmm," my dad said, settling down again. "Then what's the
problem?"

I decided to go for the jugular. "Why have you never
spanked me?"

My question took him by surprise. He hesitated for a
moment. "You mean, why did I never ...?"

"Yes. Why did you never whack my bottom with your bare
hand?"

I didn't want to give him a chance to recover his usual
professorial stance.

"But ... But I love you, Elizabeth Jane."

"So does my friend's uncle. He loves his niece. But he
spanks her every week. And she thinks it has helped her
become a better person."

"Ah, yes, but that's a minority view. On the whole,
spanking is nowadays frowned upon, considered
ineffectual, and not consistent with the respect we
should feel for fellow human beings."

Damn! Dad was off again on his 'some think this, others
think that' routine. If I let him continue along this
route, it would only be a question of time when he would
arrive at the 'the choice is yours' conclusion.

I cut him off in mid sentence. "I didn't ask about other
people's opinions. I want to know why _you_ never spanked
me."

"I don't think your mother would approve of it. And,
quite frankly, I never expected that you would ask to be
spanked."

Success! I had him where I wanted him. Now I only had to
state my request with a firm voice and I would know what
it feels like. But that would mean that I had to take off
my jeans and knickers right in front of my father. That
wasn't right, was it? I didn't have any incestuous
desires towards my father like Fiona did. How could I
justify exposing myself to him? I needed some time to
think about the implications of the next step.

"Not now, I'll think about it. I just wanted to know how
you feel about the subject."

I got up and left my father on his own, wondering what on
earth I was after.

When I arrived in my room I realized that the thought of
my dad spanking my bare bottom had indeed turned me on. I
could feel the wetness seep through my knickers. I took
off my clothes and put everything my dad had taught me
about masturbation into practice.

                         -----

I felt that I had made a huge step forward. I only needed
to ask my dad nicely and he would spank my bottom. The
problem of not wanting to expose myself to his eyes was
easily solved. I would wear a short nightgown, just like
Fiona's 'punishment shirt'. I would bend over a table or
a desk and lift the back of the gown. All that would be
exposed to my father's eyes and hands would be my bottom.
There was nothing indecent about that, was there?

Although this particular problem was resolved, there were
still many open questions which kept tormenting me. My
father had never spanked anybody in his life. Could I
just assume that he would know instinctively how to do
it? What if he didn't do it right and I arrived at the
wrong conclusion because of that?

Although my dad had agreed to satisfy my desire for a
spanking, he didn't consider it a punishment for
something I did. Would he let me feel the full force of
his hand, like Fiona's uncle probably did, or would he go
easy on me?

I would have to give my dad detailed instructions on how
to do it so that it would be as close as possible to a
real punishment spanking. But I had no experience in that
matter. How could I possibly instruct him?

The answer was clear. I had to talk to Fiona to find out
more details.

                    To be continued

-- 
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> Moderators: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|ASSM Archive at <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org>   Hosted by <http://www.asstr-mirror.org> |
|Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d; look for subject {ASSD}|
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+


  index