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From: anon584c@nyx.net
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Subject: {ASSM} rp "Flights of Fancy 1" {Uther} (Mf pett voy 1st) [1/2]
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Date: Wed, 11 May 2005 16:10:03 -0400
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===================


If you are under the age of 18, or otherwise forbidden by law 
to read electronically transmitted erotic material, please go do 
something else. 

This material is Copyright, 2000, Uther Pendragon.  All rights 
reserved.  I specifically grant the right of downloading and 
keeping ONE electronic copy for your personal reading so long as 
this notice is included.  Reposting requires previous 
permission. 

All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as 
public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination 
and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly 
coincidental. 

This is a work of fiction, not legal advice.  

                        #  #  #  #  #  #

                        Flights of Fancy 
                       by Uther Pendragon 
                        anon584c@nyx.net  

Chapter 1:

"Can't catch me!" Leslie said.  Her being sixteen to his 
twenty-eight was bad enough; these occasional regressions into 
childhood always brought Rick a frisson of guilt.  He chased her 
across his snow-covered fields, though, and caught her easily 
enough. 

It was a Saturday of freedom.  They got only a scant hour on  
weekdays, between his getting home from the machine shop and  
Leslie going home for supper.  Time too short for more than  
kissing and petting.  On Saturdays he got out at eleven.  They  
could play and talk -- and plan.  Time to waste, but time that  
they could waste together. 

Their kisses were interrupted by her laughter and his need to  
breathe.  She wrestled playfully until he had his arms around her  
and her tight butt squashed against his leg. 

"Can too catch you," Rick said.  "You're mine now." 

"Yes, Rick, all yours.  Hold me, make me yours, and I'll never  
run away from you again." 

"No, sweetheart.  The chase is half the fun.  And, for moving  
four months too soon, the state would put me in prison for much  
more than four years.  If you are to be mine and I am to be yours  
on any more than a spiritual plane, we have to wait until you are  
seventeen." 

"But only that long," she said.  "Tell me we'll be together  
then." 

"We'll be together then, and in between times, as well.  Just 
not as together as we would like.  You can keep fleeing me; I 
can keep chasing you.  But you can be chased only so long as you  
remain chaste." 

"Pthlibit!" 

"I don't hide my faults from you, sweetheart," he said.  "I'm 
an  inveterate punster." 

"With a show-off vocabulary."  She turned to stick her tongue out 
at him.  He kissed it, and their kiss was long and deep.  "But I 
like your talk.  Since I can't have anything else for four long  
months, tell me a story." 

He turned her so that he could kiss the back of her ear before  
straightening and slipping his hand under her down jacket to hold  
her breast.  "A story the lady wants," he said over the top of  
her head.  "A story the lady shall have." 


    We might anticipate the time after your seventeenth  
    birthday.  But the time in between won't have been 
    wasted from my perspective.  I'll have talked with  
    Leslie and held her close. 

    I'll have kissed her in ways and places that I haven't  
    done yet.  I'll have seen her in this field and in my  
    yard.  I'll have shown her the new foal.  Daffodil will  
    have her foal well before May, perhaps this month. 

    And as Leslie is a great friend of Daffodil's who has  
    ridden her many times and petted her previous foals, a  
    new foal of Daffodil's will have been one more reason  
    for Leslie to visit.  And we will have had many reasons  
    to spend time in the barn. 

    Maybe, just perhaps, Leslie and I will have watched 
    Daffodil's foal from the hayloft.  Nobody will have been  
    able to interrupt us when we are up there without making  
    a huge clatter first.  In the hayloft, she won't have  
    been able to hide from my kisses and my hugs.  Or we  
    might have decided to watch from an upstairs window.   
    There, Leslie will have been able to undress without  
    freezing.  And I'll have been privileged to see all of  
    her beauty at one time.  Naked in the cold weather,  
    Leslie won't have been able to flee from the house. 

    And I'll have hugged my love, and seen my love.  And my  
    desire for Leslie will have grown.  And something else  
    will have grown, too -- not permanently, but repeatedly.   
    And I'll have kissed my dearest, kissed her mouth to  
    mouth, and felt the electric sweetness of her tongue;  
    I'll have kissed her ears and have felt her wiggle her  
    hips so cutely against my hardness in her attempts to  
    escape, that I'll have wanted -- wanted desperately --  
    to drive my hardness into that wiggle.  But I won't have  
    done so.  I'll merely have added that desire to so many  
    others, waiting the right time. 

    And that will have taken us only into the last, 
    lingering, death of winter, not the birth of spring. 


She squirmed around in his arms to kiss him.  They hugged until 
he turned his back to adjust his stiffness within his trousers.  
He held her with her back to his front again, and blew across her  
hair. 

"Somehow," she said, "I suspect that you have something 
planned for the spring." 

"In the spring," he said.  "The mares will come into heat.  
Now Daffodil will have a well-deserved rest next year, but I 
plan to breed Delilah... and Dafney." 

"Is she old enough?" 

"She's a mare, sweetheart.  She is old enough, or will be by  
then.  Horses grow up fast.  Remember when she was a baby foal.   
You came over to see her, and it was the first time that we  
really talked." 

"You thought I was a baby, too." 

"You were a delightful child, hardly a baby, and a beauty even  
then.  But you didn't have these."  He took a few minutes to  
reach back under her jacket to play with her breasts through  
shirt and bra.  "I am going to show you so much in the next four  
months.  Anyway, my Leslie wanted a story." 


    My Leslie is pure quicksilver.  I'll chase her again and 
    again; I'll catch her again and again; I'll hold her  
    like this again and again.  But however tight I'll hold  
    her, I'll never completely possess her.  So I'll need a  
    new bait to trap her, a new bait every time she flees.   
    Maybe a new caress when I run her down, maybe a new  
    place to kiss her, maybe a new sight out in my barnyard. 

    So I'll show her so many things.  I'll show her what the 
    books say about women like herself and men like me.   
    I'll show her how the animals handle passions like ours.   
    For we are animals, too, but animals with a stronger  
    will.  We can anticipate the future; we can hold  
    ourselves back, hard as I find it, to make the future  
    last. 

    But I'll show my love the ways of the animals.  I'll  
    bring in a stallion some Saturday when Delilah is ready.   
    She'll flee, but want to be caught.  We'll see the  
    stallion pursue her.  Then I'll hold my love while we  
    watch the stallion mount her, and cover her, and thrust  
    into her.  I'll tell my love, while we watch and I  
    caress her here and here, that this is the way of the  
    male. 

    For I am male and my love is female.  And the stallion's 
    thrust will hold the promise of my thrust.  And  
    Delilah's acceptance will be the paradigm I will show my  
    love.  I will say that she should be prepared to accept  
    my thrust in the same way.  And after I have shown her  
    that, I will pursue her until she must show me something  
    else.  I will, for only the second time, see the  
    membrane which guards her entry.  Which will still be  
    the membrane which guards our future. 

    With any luck whatsoever, Dafney will come late to heat  
    as she did last year.  If not, she will come back in  
    heat in April.  And before Dafney comes into her April  
    heat, I will show my love that Dafney has a membrane  
    quite like Leslie's.  If Delilah will be an exemplar to  
    Leslie as to behavior, Dafney will be a representation  
    as to her state. 

    When Dafney is in full heat, I will show my love  
    something different from an experienced mare's  
    flirtatious running to invite her mate's pursuit.  I'll  
    show her the serious maiden flight of a new mare from  
    the stallion who holds more fear than hope for her.  But  
    there is only so much room in the corral, after all, and  
    that stallion will desire the pleasures which he has  
    previously experienced much more than Dafney will fear  
    the totally unknown.  He'll end her flight.  He'll  
    corner her.  He'll nip her flank, and -- never having  
    tolerated that before -- she'll stand still while he  
    does.  I'll hold my love while Dafney quivers.  Then the  
    stallion will rise up and mount her, while her  
    quiverings double at the startling weight. 

    I'll watch that mounting and imagine my own, which will  
    be much closer in time by then.  I'll think of the girl  
    in my arms, and picture her in my arms again but without  
    the impediments.  I'll see the thrust of the stallion  
    and let it suggest my own.  I'll harden and press that  
    hardness against my love only a few inches from where  
    that hardness belongs. 

    And I'll remind my love that Dafney stands where she  
    will soon lie and tell her that her flight will avail no  
    more than Dafney's.  And I will hug my love so tight in  
    my arms while the stallion thrusts home.  And I will let  
    that prefigure my thrust, nearer and nearer in our  
    future. 

    And we will watch as the stallion's thrust breaks  
    through Dafney's membrane.  I will hold my love as she  
    sees a mare being filled by a stallion which is  
    indifferent to the mare's wishes.  We will watch the  
    mare's fear and uncertainty tremble under his weight,  
    and certainty, and lust.  And I will wonder how much  
    fear and uncertainty my love has, whatever her  
    protestations; but I will look forward to the time that  
    I approach my love with certainty, and an overpowering  
    lust, and even weight.  But I will restrain that lust  
    while we watch the horses as tightly as I restrain the  
    body of my beloved.  I will hold her tight from the time  
    of the loosing of the stallion until the mating of the  
    beasts is quite done. 

    When the horses are done, fully done, I will show my  
    love that Dafney is now completely open; but I'll show  
    her very carefully, since Dafney will not be in a mood  
    to be touched back there. 

    And, when Leslie has seen all that, I'll take her back  
    to the house.  There, flee as she might wish too, I'll  
    catch her and strip her.  I'll touch her membrane, the  
    membrane which protects her inwardness and our liberty. 

    Then, and only then, I'll stroke her for the first time  
    where she has admitted that she strokes herself.  And I  
    will pursue her response to those strokes until I'm  
    quite satisfied that I have caught something which is as  
    quicksilver and precious as the girl herself.  I will  
    hold her and stroke her, and I won't let her go until 
    I'm convinced that I have found her deepest secret and 
    evoked her most fierce response. 


He pulled her hood back to kiss the side of her neck, not sucking  
hard enough to leave evidence.  Licking, however, was safe.   
Teased by his tongue, she writhed in his embrace.  He abruptly  
let her go when he saw a car he didn't recognize pull into the  
drive a quarter mile away.  "Go to the barn," he said.   
Officially, she was visiting the horses, not visiting him.   
Before she got there, the car had backed out and gone off the  
other way. 

He could run her down when he needed to, but age often walks 
when youth runs.  By the time he reached the barn, she was 
currying Daphne.  The mare didn't need it, but she always seemed 
to enjoy it.  "Look how large she's grown," he said.  Leslie, 
though nearly 16 hands tall herself, had to stretch to reach the 
back of the Morgan who was two hands shorter.  Of course, 
Lelie's height wasn't measured at her shoulder. 

"But she's still so young." 

"Yep.  But old enough by any horse-breeder's standards.  She 
came into heat last year, as you well know.  Do you think the 
age rules are too lenient?" 

Leslie might enjoy being trapped in his arms.  She clearly wasn't 
about to walk into *that* trap, though.  She wouldn't have been 
the quicksilver mind he loved if she had. 

"On my seventeenth birthday, though, you'll give me the gift 
that  I want?" 

"Not quite *on* your birthday, dearest," he said, "but for your 
birthday.  There are a few preparations you will have done before 
our celebration.  But, as you are in charge of those 
preparations, you will control the timeline after your birthday.   
Before you come to visit me on that special day, you will have  
done a lot by yourself." 


    In the month before your birthday, you will have  
    practiced teasing yourself every night, playing with  
    your lovely nipples and your magic button.  You will  
    have learned to hold yourself at the edge until the  
    anticipation has grown to pain.  You will have selected  
    a fine-looking brassiere and pair of panties, both  
    white, and put them in the bottom of your underwear  
    drawer wrapped around a floral sachet.  You will have  
    made an appointment with a gynecologist, preferably Dr.  
    Jameson. 

    You will have seen her as soon after your birthday as  
    possible.  You will have asked to have a quite thorough  
    examination, including the state of your hymen.  You  
    will have learned from her what methods she would  
    recommend to stretch that precious membrane so that your  
    first intercourse would not hurt.  And you will have  
    followed that advice, especially if she will have  
    offered to cut it for you. 

    Whether it is cut or stretched, you will have allowed  
    days for the soreness to dissipate.  You will have  
    warned me on Friday, and prepared yourself that night. 

    In that preparation, you will have teased yourself  
    unmercifully in bed that evening, playing with your  
    nipples pretending that it is my hands on you.  You will  
    have continued that play with both hands above your  
    waist until your breasts are too sensitive for even your  
    touch.  Then you will have stroked and tickled your  
    thighs until your newly-opened tunnel is running.  You  
    will have put a finger within that tunnel, pretending  
    that it is my finger.  (Which requires a good  
    imagination, considering the difference in size, oh  
    well.) 

    You will have stretched yourself until a second, and  
    then a third finger fits.  You will have pretended that  
    the three fingers are my organ invading you.  You will  
    have moved them in and out of your tunnel in imitation  
    and anticipation of my strokes within you.  When you  
    have played these games for no less than ninety minutes,  
    you will have taken yourself to the only peak of the  
    evening.  You will have tried to make that climax as  
    intense and long-lasting as you are able to produce for  
    yourself.  Then you will have gone to sleep. 

    The next morning, you will have taken a tub bath, not a  
    shower.  It will have been as hot as you could stand it  
    in that weather and flavored with bath salts.  In the  
    bath, you will have stretched yourself again, and  
    brought yourself to the edge of ecstasy.  But you'll  
    have risen from the bath still excited, not sated.  You  
    will have pampered yourself with warm towels and dressed  
    in the scented underwear.  You will have put a good  
    dress over the underwear.  You'll have dressed for the  
    weather and walked out to the road a little after  
    eleven. 

    Once on the road, however, you'll have run to my house,  
    fleeing your home and your girlhood as rapidly as you  
    fled me in the field just now.  And much more  
    decisively.  And you'll have arrived at my doorstep  
    panting and breathless and overheated. 

    And the warmth and the exertion will have surrounded you 
    with the aroma clinging to you from the bath salts, and 
    clinging to your underwear from the sachet.  Most of the 
    aroma surrounding you, however, will have been generated 
    by your exertion and your excitement.  The aroma of an 
    aroused Leslie.  


Dafney whickered and nudged Leslie with her nose.  Leslie was 
standing there with the currycomb in her hand, but she was  
watching Rick and totally ignoring the young Morgan.  When Leslie  
didn't respond, Dafney let a couple of horseturds drop and drank  
from the bucket in front of her stall. 

Leslie let herself out of the stall and latched the gate.  
"You didn't get to the good part," she said.  She opened her 
jacket to hug him, and she gave him a wet kiss.  When he 
straightened, he  could feel her hard nipples press into his 
belly through her bra  and shirt; his erection strained upwards 
towards the valley between her breasts.  She pressed her soft 
belly against it. 

"I thought the parts so far were good." 

"Then the best part," she said.  "The part where you get to 
use this."  She rolled against him from side to side, rubbing 
across his arousal. 

"Because," she continued, all this preparation has a 
purpose...." 


    When I get there, you'll open the door, and invite me  
    in.  You'll take my raincoat and smell all that floral  
    stuff as I loosen it.  Maybe you will be able to smell  
    my excitement.  And it will excite you, imperturbable  
    Rick will finally want something, too. 

    But, wanting it and getting it is not the same thing, as  
    you have taught me so well.  While you hang her coat up,  
    your little Leslie will catch her breath.  And brute  
    speed isn't enough inside a house; agility counts, too. 

    So, you will want little Leslie in her Sunday dress,  
    little Leslie looking so innocent.  But you'll have to  
    catch her to have her.  Leslie will slip away from you  
    in her slip while you hang that dress up.  And, if you  
    think that I look desirable in that dress, wait until  
    you see the slip that comes with it. 

    Looking chaste while I'm chased...  (It's your own  
    fault.)  Looking chaste while she's chased, your Leslie  
    will slip away in her white slip.  It is white and  
    innocent and girlish, but being girlish it wasn't  
    designed to hide the hips and breasts that Leslie has  
    developed since that slip was purchased.  So, if you try  
    hard enough, you will catch me in that slip and buy it  
    for a kiss.  But you will need to provide a kiss that is  
    worth that garment. 

    And you will hang up the slip, over a chair if nowhere  
    else.  And your Leslie, not being quite yours yet, will  
    flee again, and hide again.  And, not knowing where, you  
    will have to search all the rooms upstairs.  Will you  
    find her in a closet?  Will you find her hiding behind a  
    door?  Will you find her hiding under a bed? 

    You won't know until you search.  And when you find her,  
    if you find her, you will get to remove more garments;  
    not her bra, not her panties, but her shoes and  
    stockings.  For you won't find your little Leslie  
    wearing socks like the little girl you will still think  
    she is.  And you won't see her playing tag in her  
    pantyhose, for that is asking for a run.  You'll have to  
    take the pantyhose off. 

    And, when you do that, you'll see those panties you want  
    your little Leslie to wear.  Not slinky black for a sexy  
    woman, but virginal white for a little girl.  And you  
    can't really expect a little girl to take them off for  
    you, can you?  So, while you will see them, while you  
    will be able to smell the sweet flower odor from the  
    sachet -- maybe.  And maybe it will be overpowered by  
    another odor by that time, an odor that will spoil your  
    illusion that Leslie is a little girl. 

    While you will see them, you won't remove them then.   
    After you straighten out the pantyhose, it will be time  
    to search for a girl who has fled again.  You'll  
    remember how nice it is that you live in an old  
    farmhouse with so many bedrooms on the second floor.   
    And you'll search in the closets, and you'll search  
    behind the doors, and you'll search under the beds, and  
    -- remembering that she is now barefoot and might get  
    chilled by the floors -- you'll search within the beds. 

    And when you have found your Leslie, you'll see that she  
    is dressed all in white like an innocent little girl,  
    or, at least, how you think an innocent little girl  
    should dress.  And you will realize, a little late, that  
    having your wicked ways with an innocent little girl  
    would be even more wicked.  So you will remove that bra,  
    and will see that your Leslie isn't so little anymore,  
    especially in the parts that the bra was hiding.  And  
    you will kiss your grown-up love, kiss her until she is  
    satisfied with the kiss.  Then you will kiss the parts  
    that you have revealed, the breasts that show her  
    maturity. 

    And when you have kissed everywhere that you have kissed  
    up until then, your Leslie will flee one last time.  You  
    will find her easily though.  Because, dressed as she  
    will be, undressed as she will be, the only place to  
    hide will be in a bed; and the only bed for her to hide  
    will be your great big one.  There, in the bed, you will  
    kiss her mouth and kiss her breasts.  While you are  
    doing that, you'll remove your own clothes.  When you  
    are more naked than she, you will let her see you as you  
    have seen her. 

    You will let her kiss you as you have kissed her.  You  
    will feel her kisses on every part of your body.  Then  
    you will return those kisses until Leslie is gasping in  
    anticipation.  You will remove the white panties which  
    are the next-to-last protection of her virginity, and  
    the last symbol of your weird illusion that she -- who  
    is really old enough to bear a child -- is a child  
    herself. 

    Then you will kiss the last unkissed place on her body.   
    You will use the skill you claim until Leslie is truly  
    yours, out of her mind with lust. 

    Then, then finally, you will do your duty.  You will  
    drive that precious organ of yours, which Leslie may not  
    even see up until that day, into her.  You will open the  
    way in a manner which neither the doctor nor Leslie  
    herself can open it.  And you will fill her until she  
    holds all of you in herself. 

    Then you will drive into her and out of her until she  
    screams from the pleasure.  And you will feel a greater  
    pleasure yourself and fill her with your seed.  And you  
    will rest in her arms and holding a woman in your arms.   
    The pleasure will make you cry. 

    When you have rested enough, you will fill her again  
    with your cock, until you fill her again with your seed. 

    The joy in your heart and loins will be tinged by only 
    one regret.  You'll realize that you could have been 
    doing precisely that for the previous six months. 


"Do you really think that I'm being selfish?" he asked.  "Am I 
planning what will be a crucial and unrepeatable event in your 
life to please only myself?" 

"We can't repeat it?" 

"Silly!  You know what I mean.  It's our first time, but it's  
also *your* first time and not mine.  Do I really come off as 
designing it to please some petty kink of mine? 

"Well, you keep treating me as some baby.  I keep throwing 
myself at you, and you keep ducking.  You can't be so worried 
about a silly law; you've broken others in your life." 

"And so I have," he admitted, "and so I shall.  That's part of  
the reason.  I always tell myself that the reason that I break  
laws is to show that the law is wrong.  When you take that tack,  
obeying the law becomes morally important.  And this law is  
right." 

"It isn't right for me!" 

"No.  It isn't.  But you've seen the sign on the road past the  
grade school?  It tries to slow traffic to 30 miles per 
hour." 

"Yeah."  She sounded wary. 

"Well, is that the proper speed to guarantee safety when your  
father is driving?  He isn't as good as he was when he raced, but  
he still has lightning reactions.  And is it the proper speed for  
his Uncle Shelton?  I get scared walking beside the road when  
he's driving past." 

"Uncle Shelton doesn't speed." 

"No.  But he's still an accident waiting to happen.  But the  
speed limit is for both of them.  The same thing is true of us.   
You're mature for your age, and not only the bulges which make  
you so proud...." 

"My age!" she said.  "Most girls my age have been sexually 
mature  for years." 

"And half of them don't have the intellectual or emotional  
maturity to handle it.  You do, but the law isn't made for  
Leslie; it's made for girls.  And the law in New York State says  
that a girl's consent isn't valid until she's passed her  
seventeenth birthday.  I don't think that this law is wrong; I'm  
not about to challenge it publicly.  So I don't want to sneak  
around it.  And, quite honestly, I don't want to be caught  
sneaking around it. 

"Anyway, it's not as if our feelings are going to go away.  We  
*are* mature, and that means that we can control ourselves for 
four months.  And that means that we can reconsider our 
plans until they satisfy both of us. 

"So," he continued, "what is wrong with wearing virginal gear 
for the last day of your virginity?  What is wrong with my 
thinking that the woman I love is a maiden intended for me, 
rather than a whore looking for a customer?  What is wrong with 
dressing the part that, in actual fact, comports with your 
reality?" 

"I just want to feel sexy, so I want to look sexy." 

"You do look sexy.  Even dressed like this, you look sexy.  
I'm not really under any illusions about the size of your 
breasts, you know."  He turned her in his arms so he could 
confirm the size with his hands.  She pressed back against his 
hardness while his fingers teased her nipples. 

"You know," he continued, "when women past a certain age spend 
an hour every morning over their makeup, they have a goal in 
mind.  They want to look like they aren't wearing any cosmetics.  
But they want to look like *you* do without any makeup, not like 
they do.  Seems to me that girls your age are screaming, 
'Look-at-me; I'm wearing makeup.'  Not that I would question your 
decisions about cosmetics for yourself when you go to school 
events." 

"Yeah.  Right." 

"But the very desire to look grown-up displays an immaturity.   
Although, as I said, it's a good idea to follow the styles of  
your peers.  This underwear thing, though, is just for the two of  
us.  And I am *not* obsessing over your youth.  I'm not chasing 
young girls, I'm chasing Leslie.  The last time I felt this 
lustful over a sixteen-year-old was when I was fourteen.  And, my 
dear, evoking lust from a man of twenty-eight is a much greater 
accomplishment than evoking it from a boy of fourteen." 

"Yeah," she said in her most teasing tone.  "I should remember  
that you're over the hill.  Maybe I shouldn't plan on repeating  
sex on our first day.  Maybe I should allow you a week to  
recover." 


Concluded in Chapter 2
Flights of Fancy
Uther  Pendragon
2000/02/03
2001/06/08
2002/03/04
2004/04/20
2005/05/11


For another story involving a woman's first 
sexual intercourse, this one really happening, see:
http://www.asstr.org/~Uther_Pendragon/med/rampant.htm
"Rampant"

This story is indexed in the subdirectory: 
http://www.asstr.org/~Uther_Pendragon/mf.htm
Mf Older Men, Younger Women  

The directory to all my stories can be found 
at:
http://www.asstr.org/~Uther_Pendragon/index.htm

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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20050511161003
