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From: j_shelbourne@yahoo.com (Jordan Shelbourne)
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Subject: {ASSM} Think Of It (uncoded) {J Shelbourne}
Date: Thu,  6 Mar 2003 05:10:05 -0500
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(Been so long since I've submitted something I hope I
haven't messed this up. JS)


                                 THINK OF IT

                            Jordan Shelbourne



His name was Liam and he had a gift.

Think of it as a kind of telepathy, or empathy. It wasn't;
there was nothing psychic about it--the actual explanation
had to do with pheromones and smell and vomeronasal
cavities and suchlike--but what you need to know is that
he knew when women were horny.

Sometimes he couldn't resist acting on that. He tried;
every time, he tried. Prison had taught him this wasn't
an unmixed gift. But-- Don't think of the telepathy as
a telephone; think of it as a radio receiver. Without a
volume control, without an off-switch, and no choice of
channels.

She was walking ahead of him in the corridor, her
perfume--and other things--wafting over him for ten paces,
fifteen, and he lengthened his stride to catch up because
he wasn't thinking much any more, the phone was ringing,
ringing, and he touched her on the shoulder, the warm
shoulder, fingertip dipping into the heat that surrounded
her and she turned to look at him.

He knew he had that vaguely familiar look about him; he
had spent years hearing, "Aren't you so-and-so?" or "Don't
I know you from somewhere?"

"Yes?" She was polite but vaguely distracted. The way
she held her lower lip between white teeth and the slight
stain of lipstick on those teeth made him even more
urgent.

"May I talk with you for a moment." Oh, his mouth said
"talk" but his limbic system said "fuck." And it wasn't
a request; his voice was huskier than it ought to be and
he had his hand on her shoulder, guiding her through the
nearest door.

She probably knew something was going on--it was a broom
closet with a bare incandescent bulb hanging from the
ceiling, apple-green paint on concrete walls, overripe
with the smell of lemon cleaning solutions-- but she went
in anyway, and she turned to face him as he shut the
door.

"Yes?" she asked again, and he didn't hear the question--her
horniness was his, and he slid one palm up her hot soft
naked thigh, under her short skirt, as he pressed his
body against hers and kissed her, hard.  His only concession
to politeness was to keep his tongue to himself.

This was the cusp, the point at which they called "rape"
or hit him or ran when their forebrains caught up to what
their emotions had led them to. And it was rape: he
knew that, and disliked it, but his every attempt to
control it had failed.

She made a noise and he took it into his open mouth and
swallowed it, and she reached down to where his cock was
hard and evident and cupped her hand over it, heel against
the base and fingertips not reaching the end, and she
made another noise, and a third one, and her tongue slid
into his mouth, tasting of tea and minty toothpaste.

His hand slid farther up her leg, to the swell of her
buttock, without finding panties, and the excitement of
that made him grunt. She sucked his tongue into her mouth,
tried to grab his cock but couldn't.  She pulled him
closer with her other arm and rubbed her mons against
him, the hiss of rubbing cloth almost inaudible over
their breathing.

He held her tightly against the wall, the concrete cool
against his knuckles as his thumbs touched the swells of
her breasts, and pushed up with his hips, lifting her
against the wall.

Her kisses were so hard his lips tingled on the edge of
numbness. She held him captive by his tongue even as she
scratched his back, even as her other hand snaked between
their bellies and found his belt. She pushed his hips
away then, just a little, and undid his belt, his pants,
let them fall. Her knees buckled just a bit, rubbing her
chest against him as she found his long hard cock. He
had to look down now as she pulled on him and it was
almost painful, and he thought this was some trick, some
way of punishing him, but she squeezed the shaft of his
cock and made the head swell and then she rubbed herself
against his cock.

He put his hand over hers, his knuckles against her shaven
mound. She felt slick and wet, and she jerked and moaned
when he brushed her clit.

She let go of his tongue to whisper, "Now, now, now, oh
fuck, now." He straightened up: his cock bent for a second
and then slid into her easily, slid deeply inside her
until his pelvis was pressed against her, straightened
until she was on her toe-tips and groaning.

She pushed on his shoulders and then reached down for
his ass, and she pushed again and pulled to show him the
rhythm she wanted, fast and hard and blunt, all force
and heat and sweat.

He knew when she was close to coming; he always knew,
and it was always good for him whether he wanted it to
be or not because their pleasure was his pleasure. Whether
he wanted it to be or not.

She bit his neck trying to hold on and he smelled the
blood with everything else she smelled, and it made him
faster, harder, bigger.  His forehead rested against the
wall as he moved his cock in and out of her, just the
last inch of his cock slamming into her the way he could
tell she liked and rocking against her clit every stroke.

He didn't come the first time she did, because the first
orgasm was small and he was able to wait but she came
again almost immediately and that one was bigger and he
didn't expect it either so he came inside her, a long
dizzying climax that emptied him and purged him of need
for the moment.

Slowly he realized what he had done again. Her fingers
were tight on his ass as she cooed, her slick pussy still
moving on his cock, and he was afraid to look in her
eyes.

"Oh, God," she said. "Oh, that was *exactly* what I
needed." She smiled at him. The lipstick was gone from
her lips now.

"I know," he said.

"It was rape," she told him. "You know that."

"I know," he said. "I have a criminal record," he confessed.
"Sometimes I just...respond to a woman's need."

"So you've done this before." She slowly settled down
onto her heels and his cock popped out of her.  She cupped
it in her hand and looked at it, all slick with come.
"Yum."

And as her hand moved back and forth along the length of
his cock, he started to respond. She smiled and then
caught her lower lip between her teeth again. Her eyes
sparkled brightly.

"Then let's do it again," she said. "And again."

Her name was Anna and she had a gift. Think of her as
the far end of the distribution curve. Think of it as a
happy ending.

                                       (November, 2002)

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