Date: Sat, 9 Feb 2002 17:32:44 -0600
From: Tom Emerson <thomas@btl.net>
Subject: "Lack of Privacy."

Lack of Privacy
(M/F, M/M, voyeurism, mast., rom., impreg.)

by R. Forbes Emerson


      Santa Fe is seven thousand feet above sea level, and our big adobe
began to lose its heat to the morning.  I'd only spent ninety days on the
DMZ, but it was enough to make me comfortable anywhere but the DMZ.  Even
so, it was getting coolish, and, stark naked dozing in my wife's bedroom
doorway, I awoke feeling the chill.  It was just past five a.m.

      I stood, not stiffly, I was fit as a fiddle, and listened at the
door.  My robe was over the back of a chair, maybe I could just duck in and
get it.  Silence.  I went in to try and use the bathroom, but it turned out
I was not, as they write in Web stories, piss hard.

      Well, couldn't be helped.  All my clothes were in the bedroom, and it
was distinctly cool by now.

      Nothing triggers alarms like sneaking, so I just opened the door and
entered.  Found my wrapper, slipped it on, and had every noble thought in
the world of not looking, but doing the noble thing, which was to head out
to the shop and start on the mother of all tool boxes.  I might have done
that, but for Anne's knee sock.  It's bright white caught the dawning light
and could not be ignored in its childish innocence.  So I didn't.

      One person in the room was not subject to the chill.  Anne.  My wife
of three years.  Her knee sock was all her lion had left for the world, so
fully did the beast lie with the young woman.  Having seen the sculpt of
delicate foot in white cotton little-girl sock, my eye traveled to the
floor where the discarded knife gave me fully to know the past night had
not been a dream.  I stooped to retrieve the potentially hazardous object
from the floor, and that was the end of both nobility and the robe.  Not to
imbue the story with false tension, yes, I removed the knife to safety, and
then placed the robe over Peter, much too hot in here for it, all of a
sudden, then I dropped to my knees and looked.

      They were breathing softly into each others mouths.  Anne and I
invariably slept spoon fashion, my arms around her Peter was so much on top
of her lithe body, only her left leg with its long, white sock spayed from
under his hot, pelted male mass was full to my wondering eyes.  It appeared
they could mate together without moving more than a few inches, and I
watched intently to see if they were being with each other.  Peter was a
big powerful man, breathing deeply, so they could have been sharing,
perhaps even were sharing, knowing I was there.  Loving I was there?  Well,
why not?  I was certainly loving their being there.

      Peter began to react to the new warmth of the robe by moving and
huffing.  Anne's eyes opened, tried to focus on the man an inch away, and
gave up.  At Peter's stirring, I'd moved a little away, so she didn't see
me.  Privacy?  Sometimes it's a little hard to define.  She gave Peter a
private look, and whispered his name.  "Yes," he whispered.  Then a magic
thing happened; they stared into each other's eyes, now awake, then gently,
even tenderly away, and he settled back to his pillow, again breathing
against her cheek.  They did not kiss.

      I was afraid the noise of my erection getting bigger would twig them
to my presence, but their eyes were closed and their breathing was
beginning to take on a deliberation.  And it was about now I got harder
because of the musk of them.  The smell of their urgent search through the
night for her child, and the power of him in fulfilling himself as a man
intimately connected with her needs, was a drug beyond needle or pipe.

      They were now communicating, eyes clamped shut, with their breaths.
Peter was blowing on Anne, she'd wait a few seconds, and blow back.  Slowly
the tempo of the search increased, and they interspersed a serious of
languid friendly breaths with small routines of huffing, led by Anne of the
search.

      Their efforts to be together were mutual and beautiful.  Peter
absently pulled the rope from his waist, leaving them naked above the bed
clothes.  Anne's blouse was still trailing from her shoulders, but that
didn't interest me.  The silly flower in the one long, messy pony tail
strewn over her left shoulder and across the pillow, was more interesting;
made her look ten.  Exciting?  Very.  But since when has there been
anything merely `very' about my young wife?  Example? One long, white silly
old school-girl stocking rising on her slim dancer's calf to three inches
under her perfectly formed knee.  And if one was beautiful, two were higher
than magic.  And there were two.  As Peter eased himself over her slim teen
body, Anne's right leg appareled, just a stripe of color at first, then
more fully evident as she spread her long legs slowly wider and wider,
finally walking heel and toe, for her mate.

      Now the musk powered in the air.  As Peter rose off Anne I could see
she was still coated all over with cum.  As the male moved back, he fully
exposed his female, and I could see the sheet underneath her waist was
soaked and slimy. Her inner thighs and pubic areas were simply a thick,
white smear of him, and the smell of Anne's need was nothing short of
intoxicating, so, I did the safest thing for a drunk, and lowered to my
knees, thanking myself for the foresight in having dispense with the knife
so I could move safely.  I did move, just a little, easing myself toward
the head of the bed, inches to the left of Anne.  Perfect view of him, now
raised on his powerful arms, in search of his young female.

      Anne held the powerful torso straining over her in a way that could
almost be described as businesslike.  She'd never have a reason to hold a
patient the way she was holding Peter, but if she had, she would have done
it the same way.

      Apparently their foreplay amounted to Peter finding her without using
either of their hands for guidance.  Since his big penis was bent to the
right, this was not a straightforward process, and I sensed Anne was
guiding him with her hands on his powerful flanks.  I'd helped in their
first connexion, but now I was a stranger, and, besides, it was vastly more
erotic witnessing their small, tender, friendly searching which would begin
the grandest search of my darling's life.

      It took almost five minutes until she signaled with just the
slightest puff that he had truly found her.  If she hadn't been soaked from
their night, I think it would have taken a long time, and aroused them, but
their breathing remained heavy but even, other than that one puff of
intimate greeting.  Peter confirmed he was properly mounted with an
infinitesimal thrust, then they froze stiff and hard in each other's arms.
From the sounds of their coupling during the night, I was sure Peter had
stayed inside Anne until they fell asleep, so this was her second time with
him.  Apparently they had discussed the matter in the last whispering I'd
heard through the door, because what happened next was both violent and
spectacular.

      Anne whispered, so softly I wouldn't have heard two feet away,
"Sheila."
      Peter surged like a boar.
      Anne shrieked at the top of her lungs, "MISTER STUCKEY!!"

      That was it; their entire display of passion.  Peter froze solid as a
mountain for a minute while Anne came back to her bed.  Fortunately, the
shock of his manliness popped her eyes open, and, looking out from under
his pole of a neck, she saw me.

       Her eyes smiled instantly, and flicked down (I was kneeling) and saw
my absolute hugeness.  She didn't panic, while her eyes glowed with maximum
fire.  Very good girl.  As they got ready to be man and woman, Anne very
gently shifted so her face was free of his covering of her, begging me with
her eyes.  I moved forward across the carpet, leaned to her, and found the
hottest and sweetest kiss in the world, complete with a tongue I hadn't
known for awhile, and a sucking for my tongue, I'd never known.  When she
had me in her mouth, I knew exactly what she was going to do.  Share.  She
was holding me sucked still in her mouth, because Peter was still
motionless deep inside her child-like tummy.

      When I decided to theme a story on privacy, I obviously didn't know
what we were in for.  Who among the world's dearest readers could delineate
the privacy of our situation?  As Peter had begun his considerable manhood
inside my wife's body tight vagina, he'd clenched his eyes jammed tight,
giving Anne and I, you guessed it, more Privacy.

      How long would it last?  Yeah, that's just what I was thinking with
my tongue deep in the hot, steady suction of my adoring wife.  And sure,
you're happy readers and thinking I'm doing a pretty good job setting a
scene with erotic potential, and what with this being only my third short
story, but I've hardly begun.  See, what happened is Anne's tongue moved.
Gently, caressingly, the tip of her found the tip of me.  I won't say we
actually mated, but all the feelings of wonder and joy and sweet happiness
of intimately mating were there.  Plus, it was sexy.  That slight motion,
her tongue with mine, linked to the gentle power of her lion, was more than
mere titillation.

      Did it make me bigger than Peter?  Well, I write fantasy, too, so
we'll just call it a Yes.

      Their business was now at hand, and, so strange to see it, that's how
it seemed.  Anne's tongue took a gentle, but persistent rhythm against
mine, slightly leading the lion's part in their search.  To a degree, I was
surprised; thought she might show more passion at least for the child, if
not for the little baby's dad.  Then again, she was an awfully good wife,
and, who knows? things may have been more intimate with them behind a
closed door.  You know, privacy.

      Thus we were engaged for some minutes, her slow steady rhythm with
tongue and suction, me, kneeling close to the bed and getting harder by the
minute.  Then, slowly, she stopped, sort of letting Peter continue without
us, if that makes any sense.  I'm smart now, and I was pretty smart even
then, so I got the message.  She knew I was a male, thought I was a perv,
and apparently hoped I was a creep.  As she came to an end with my tongue,
I knew she was granting me a sacred privilege.  To bear witness.  I tongued
her a thankful thanks, and move back a few inches, also rising back to my
knees.

      It was the world's oldest, and, under just the right circumstances,
most beautiful sight.  A man with a woman for a baby.  Baby had chosen
well.  Peter was hugely swollen, probably stretched to a full eight inches
or more for his masculine duty.  It might be interesting one day to see him
with his beloved Mary Jane, though watching his long, steady use of Anne's
body was going to be hard to top.

      Ever hear of hypnotism?  Would you like me to try it on you?  Think:
One Misissippi, Two Mississippi, Three Mississippi, and keep thinking it.
Of course, that's for measuring the passage of seconds.  With Peter's
gentle rhythm inside the school-girl with the widely spread dancer's legs
and long white socks, it was more like, slowly now, wait for it: Baby girl
for the very pretty little Anne, baby boy for the very pretty little Annie,
baby girl for the very pretty little Annie, baby boy for....

      My illustrious ancestor was a poet, but what would one write poetry
of, today?  Poetry, besides, is partly what the reader makes of it.
Something can be poetic in once situation, and grotesque, in another.  Of
course, Mormon Mormon went to church / to worships something phony / stuck
an angle in his past / and called in Marioni, is universally offensive, but
the Olympic opening was so utterly and without the possibility of
redemption, offensive, I think I'll do us all a huge favor and go back to

      Baby girl for the very pretty little Annie
      Baby boy for the very pretty little Annie.
      Baby girl for the very pretty little Annie
      Baby boy for the very pretty little Annie

      One thing for sure, you can't fault the rhyme or the meter.

      How long should a poem be?
      The chaps that write Spanking stories sometimes go on a column binge
that covers whole pages.  Painful.  Me?  I'm trying to appeal to a kinder
gentler world.  It does not exist, but I still try to appeal to it.  Of
course, that's both rhetorical and academic.

      Poetry, aside, the act of creation is of grace and beauty.  Anne's
beautiful small artist's hands cradling the flanks of a pelted lion during
the mating of the lion was a picture of a thousand words, of and my itself.
The tender sureness of their contact was of mild splendor.  Almost most
special of all was the rippling and cording of the muscles of her girlish
arms as she bore as much as she could of the weight of his process with
her.  Her eyes gazing slackly into mine, as she allowed his gentle
withdrawal, and the glow sparked as he returned made me stare at her for a
full minute to share it all, despite the beauty of her wide spread, socks,
and his power in presenting his mass gift for deep in her belly.  The
womanliness with which she submitted to her fertilization contrasted wildly
with the silly plastic daisy still clasped to her neglected pony tail
heightened the aesthetics of what she was feeling and experiencing.  Wish
I'd had a camera, though mere pix could have hardly done their joining
justice.  They were with each other for baby pictures, and there I would
not be remiss.

      After about five minutes, I returned for another long, beautiful
kiss.  Both of them were beginning to sweat freely; that they hadn't simply
dissolved into each other in a great puddle on the sheets will give some
idea of the athletic nature of their male and female bodies.  Of course, a
half melted-away mom wouldn't have been much of a mom, so maybe the gentle
guidance flowing from the school-girl hands to her lion were rooted in
common sense, or just the simple fact that Anne, characteristically,
thought of others.

      This kiss was, if anything, the more intimate.  We met with the
almost giggling, friendly affection of old lovers.  Yes, we knew each other
so well; however the career things went, and just plain liked each other so
much.  All that was there with an added dash of womanliness that was so
distinctive, however subtle, I wondered of she hadn't already conceived and
was just parting from our baby's dad as gently and tenderly as she knew
how.  That's a lot to read into a kiss, but a kiss that goes on and on for
minute after minute is not a good kiss to use to hide subtext.

      Again, she let my tongue free.  From listening through the door to
the two of them mating four times, the slight change of tempo before she
released me was like a heady drug.

      Yes, he was being more with her now.  Not only did he leave her to
the very tip of his wet, swollen penis with a slightly more rapid motion,
but he re-entered with a greater purpose, giving a last second hitch,
bucking himself an extra inch into her receptive belly.

      From listening, I knew this would not last.  Indeed, as I was
watching, Anne's hands crept lower on Peter, who tensed in response now he
had to bear all his weight on his corded arm sinew.  Where she placed her
left hand, I looked closely.  Peter's wiry torso hair partially hid them,
but there they were.  Since I knew some moments remained for their child
making, I could actually count sixteen small crescent dimples.  I was happy
for Anne.  The markings were on him because she was climaxing when he met
her needs with his powerful slowly surging body.

      Her fingers were now riding low on of his flanks, inches above the
strong hips which were swaying to her with that sense of urgency I'd
detected through the door when I eavesdropped on their mating through the
mooney New Mexican night.  There was a wonderful sureness and familiarity
to the way she grabbed her man, preparing herself; a beauty to his new beat
with her that a three year old could see as terminal.  Most beautiful of
all?  Her long legs, slowly finding his massive, sweating buttocks, gently,
slowly, very friendly and affectionate, not thrashing against him, but
deliberate iron, finding him with the beauty of practice, and working
together with her long, bent legs, and slim, strong fingers. Then six
inches from my eyes, she was digging suddenly hard to him.

      Peter thrust absolutely fully, hitched, bucked, and found her depth.
As during the night, they froze for long seconds, until her gurgling mew,
so much fuller, richer, happier and more absolutely content than it had
been through the wine glass, signaled her welcome of his hot man sperms.

      The results were beyond belief.

      From their joining, a flow of semen gushed so it actually sprayed
from between their sweating, straining thighs.  The same three year old
could have counted his gushes by the big pulsing of their mate.  After six,
it settled to a rapid, dripping flow as their will with each other was
fully consummated.  I joined Anne, finding her mouth, letting her take back
my tongue so she could share the last half of her light, enduring orgasm.
It didn't take much imagination for me to follow to the very center of her
being, and the gulping of the lips of her cervix for the rich, white sperm
still flowing freely from the utter depth of Peter's big balls to the
intimacy of her childish, slim belly.

      It just seemed to be ending for them, when I felt Peter's strong,
mountain man hand just above my right hip.  He fondled me gently as I
sensed the last of what he was doing inside my eager young wife, then he
became more willful with me.  He reared like a stallion, slowly pulled me
from Anne's now still mouth, and gently manhandled my hairless swimmer's
body until I was kneeling on the sopping sheets, sharing his position
between Anne's widely spread legs.  Anne stared at us, the lion holding a
young buck that was in love with her.  That was easy to see, I was
absolutely huge; had never felt, or, when I glanced a second down from her
hot new-mother's eyes, seen anything like the way I was now, rose red for
six inches at least, enraged, flaring purple for two more inches, and so
thick I couldn't believe Peter hadn't done something really perverted with
me..

      He continued with his deliberate guidance of me.  He was still
quaking with his enormous spend, but seemed little diminished in his power
to hold me and master me like a child, both of us kneeling between those
childish socks.  Anne rose very high off the soaked sheet, spreading,
impossibly, even wider for me.  We went forward together, Peter's powerful
left arm under mine, his fingers squeezing my marijuana-swollen right
nipple, and his right hand tender and loving as he molested me on my lower
belly.  Then he had me in his impossibly wet, slick, hot hand, holding me
down for her body.  He surged me forward, Anne came a little to me, taking
her final position, and reaching back to lock her fingers behind her neck
and arch her back.

      They were both having their way with my lithe body, but I was still
me.  Yes, I entered, just and inch until I saw a special light in her eyes,
then slowly, fully, fully, fully.  We stared hotly at each other.  The
feeling of my swollen penis, richly slimed with Peter's copious manhood
made me wildly, quaking giddy.

      Peter was urgent behind me, pushing me, his huge boner still hard and
now against the small of my back as he urged my completeness with the girl.
Anne, even with her arms over her head, was crabbing to me, wanting more of
me as a man even as my balls came hard against her beautifully used pussy.

      As Peter had, I froze for a long moment, bathing in her heat and
dazzling, effervescent wetness, the sting of Peter's rich, hot cum like a
mile long feather drawn slowly out of me.  With a trace of a giggle in her
friendly eyes, she used the muscles of her birth canal on me; a shocking
new experience she'd apparently learned from her new male over their hours
together.  This was the secret of their gentle ways together; how tender it
must have been to whisper instructions and guide her practice over all
those hours.

      I felt super supreme, and I could have lived with her wetness and
carnal efforts for my semen for a lifetime.  I pretended to relax, pleasure
them, and, before I knew it to be to late, after five minutes of lulling
them into a since of peace and security over what they wanted me to do in
the belly of my wife, I jolted back and free.  Peter sensed the will of my
movement, and, while he could have overpowered me and forced me to share
inside Anne, he let me come free.  Anne's eyes widened at my sudden
leaving, that was physical, then smiled with an infinite love, sharing
Peter's acceptance of my will.  His experience with the bodies of young
recruits came in to play.  As he held my slim chest in his powerful, hairy
left arm, he found me with his slick, wet right hand.  Sensing my frantic
tension, he simply skinned me back to the base, and let nature take its
course.

      I came-off.  My first spray went over Anne's face, almost sizzling as
it splashed on the plastered adobe.  By my second agonizing cum, long, long
seconds later, he had lowered me, and after that, it was much like my
guidance of his orgasm the night before.  The difference was, I did not
puddle my seed on Anne's slick belly; did not want my ejaculate anywhere
near her thighs.

      The three of us agreed, so I sprayed on her swollen nipples, all over
her shoulders, neck, arm pits, and slack, stunned face.  If at any time in
history, sex has been a spectator sport, it was that early-summer morning
on East DeVargas Street.  She just watched me, arms still raised, now,
perhaps, in delighted surrender, fingers still laced behind her long,
dancer's neck, arching like a very happy young woman.

      Peter helped me with the power of his left arm, and the firmness of
his spermy right hand.  He'd handled many teens this way, and his
experience, his wet kissing and licking of my left hear, and his words and
hisses of encouragement were a dazzling new world.

      His masturbation of spurt after big, heavy, ropy spurt, where I would
have been flowing as I had last night with his wife, made a macho show off
of me.  After the longest imaginable time, him with me, both of us felt my
ending with my bride approaching, and he gathered me in his experienced
arms, held it for at least half a minute, then released me for a final
hard, long, grinding spray of sperm flecked with bits of diamond.  It was
over for me, but Anne was looking wild.  I almost leapt forward, falling to
kiss her.

      Gasping, she panted, "So that's what you've been doing in me all
these years."  I shared that tender instant, and pivoted and rolled from
her, landing, facing back, on the rug.

      It was as I thought it would be.  Peter had had entirely enough of
the business of creating a child in a fertile young woman with pony tails
and knee socks.  Anne had also shared with him enough of the baby making
process.

      He was on her like the lion he was.  Her arms flew to him so hard
they slapped against his massive bull's back.  Her long legs flailed around
him, nothing tender in the way she was bringing him into her body now.  He
roared out with the feeling of her, she screamed incoherently at his need,
and urged him with frantic whispers.

      Peter thundered against his little school girl, his breath roaring,
his back bleeding from Anne's clawing, raking, shattering orgasm.

      Me?  I was wondering how a single sperm could emerge unmashed from
the frenzied holocaust in Anne's vagina.

      Peter groaned, "I feel your husband's sperm," as he came off his arms
and his chest met Anne's wet nipples.  Then they kissed frantically,
plunged and bucked against each other.  Peter rose on his shaking arms
again, thrust hard and fast for a full, absolutely wild minute, and fell in
return to the nipples doubled in size by the anticipation of the roughness
of his crinkly chest mat against her.

      Sometimes he took a long moment to gaze down between her thighs to
see his magnificence raging in and out of her cunt.

      In ten minutes, he bellowed and started coming off, very hard, again,
bringing Anne to absolute orgasm as he fell to her wet, heaving breasts,
biting roughly at her neck.  The girl screamed and howled, openly, again
and again, finally gasping and moaning, then sobbing and whimpering as her
lion finally slowly folded and collapsed.

      Peter half rolled off a lade of his own sperm like a big cat shot
with a small bullet and holding to life for all it was worth.  In moments
they were on their sides, facing each other so they could share their slick
wetness, and necking like kids.  I ducked in for a kiss to her soaked
cheek, regained my robe, and took the knife into the kitchen, closing the
door softly behind me.

      To shaken to use the circular saw, or router, I started Peter's tool
box backwards, by sanding, steel wooling, staining, and waxing some
pre-planed wood.  Eventually, I was able to function well enough to
complete the project, my thoughts drifting to the bedroom, where I hoped
the pillow talk was sweet and most of all, that they were making a date for
the very moment Anne would want to begin the search for her second baby.

      You've heard of brunch, right?  Late breakfast, early lunch.  I don't
give quizzes, but see if you can figure out who was having the happiest
brunch of all time by ten a.m.?  And all it took was a lack of Privacy.

Posted by Thomas@btl.net

xxx (no kidding)