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JOHN DARK REPOST
The following story is posted for the entertainment of adults. If you are
below the age of eighteen or are otherwise forbidden to read electronic
erotic fiction in your locality, please delete this message now. The story
codes in the subject line are intended to inform readers of possible areas
that some might find distasteful, but neither the poster nor the author
make any guarantee. You should be aware that the story might raise other
matters that you find distasteful. You read at your own risk.
The enjoyment of these reposts can be increased by reading the "Coming
Attractions," which includes the titles to be reposted in the next week.
These stories have not been written by the person posting them. Many of
those e-mail addresses below the author's byline still work. If you liked
the story, either drop the author a line at that e-mail address or post a
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itself. Posting the comment with a Cc: to the author would be the best way
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The copyright of this story belongs to the author, and the fact of this
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below. If you keep the story, *PLEASE* keep the copyright disclaimer as
well.
=====================
Mat Twassel has given John Dark permission to repost this story.
This story is copyright by the author.
=====================
Re: Proof Reading Sex Stories
by Mat Twassel
mmtwassel@aol.com
Part 1
==========================================================
Re: Proof Reading Sex Stories
Dear Celeste,
The other evening I noticed one of your reviews of internet
sex stories: you offered a sex-story proof-reading service.
How does that work? I'm not sure I need proof-reading so
much as I need advice on how to write a sex story. Let me
explain.
Laura is the prettiest girl in my Intro to Philosophy class.
She's medium-short with long legs and breezy hair, and a
figure pert and clean. She sits way down in the front row
of the lecture room, and I sit far in the back, but she's so
special no one could help but notice her. Of course I
figured she's way out of my league, probably a sorority girl
with tons of boyfriends or someone ultra-serious and special
in her life; not the kind of person to give a second thought
to someone like me, an ordinary freshman guy, the kind who
went the whole of high school too timid to talk to girls
much less ask one for a date. So I was awfully surprised
when Laura came up to me as I was walking out of that Intro
to Philosophy class.
"I liked what you said about Newcomb's problem," she said.
"It was just a question, really," I stammered.
"Well, it was a good question," she said, "The one I wanted
to ask myself except I was too shy."
"You don't seem like the shy type," I said. That was about
the boldest thing I'd ever said to a girl.
"Well appearances can be devastating," she said, and we
laughed and started walking together. It turned out we both
had free periods before next class, so we stopped in a
little coffee place on the edge of campus and had a couple
of cups of hot cocoa. Over the next two weeks, the after-
class walk and the hot cocoa became a routine. But routine
is completely the wrong word for it. It was the best thing
that ever happened to me.
In the coffee-house, Laura and I would talk about all sorts
of things: the material of that philosophy class, mostly:
ethics and morals and whether angels painted their toenails;
but also we discussed ordinary stuff--what kind of cookies
our moms baked, for instance, or what it was like learning
how to ride a bicycle, or how it felt to bury our pets when
they died. I studied the philosophy texts extra hard so I'd
feel at least a little more comfortable talking with her--
she was certainly much smarter and more widely read than me.
Sometimes she teased me when I hadn't heard of someone,
Abelard or Camus or Kant--well, I'd heard of Kant but I
didn't know the first thing about him... except his name.
Emanuel, wasn't it? Laura seemed to like teasing me. But
sometimes minutes would go by with us just sitting up on
those coffee-house bar-stool type chairs around a tiny round
table sipping our cocoa and letting our feet dangle and not
saying much of anything. I'd watch Laura drink her cocoa,
and she'd think her thoughts. I loved the way she'd press
her fingertip into the dollop of floating whipped cream,
swirl it around a bit, then transfer a taste of froth--
fingertip to tongue. Eventually she'd take a full sip,
leaving a light fuzz of foam above her upper lip, and then
after awhile, perhaps unconsciously, Laura would swipe off
the milky fuzz with the side of her tongue, or suck it off
with her lower lip, or best of all just leave it there for
awhile. I wouldn't have minded tasting that cocoa-and-cream
foam on her upper lip.
As far as my own cocoa was concerned, that little mound of
whipped cream got in the way. One day I thought maybe I
should offer it to Laura, but I wasn't quite sure how to go
about this. If she'd accepted, then what would I do: scoop
it out with my bare hands and plop it in her cup? No, I'd
have to ask the waitress for a spoon, and I hate bothering
waitresses. I truly wouldn't mind Laura using her fingers
in my cocoa, not that I'm all that fastidious about my food,
but I do have some manners. Anyway I couldn't figure out
the right words. "Do you want my cream?" didn't seem quite
proper, so rather than make a fool of myself, I said
nothing.
I'm not sure where Laura would go after our coffee-house
time. I had a physical chemistry lecture, and Laura
remained sitting at our table. I'd have to hurry to get to
the chem building in time; and then concentrating on the
lecture was a chore. I'd catch myself thinking of Laura,
wondering what she was doing, what she was thinking, whether
there was any chance she was thinking of me.
After chem lecture I'd stroll slowly back to my dorm for
lunch, and I'd promise myself that at the next philosophy
class I'd gather enough courage to sit next to Laura. It was
a promise I'd made and broken for the last three classes.
I'd get there early, but invariably I'd settle into my usual
place way in the back where I felt safe. Initially I had
hoped she'd choose to sit in the back with me, or even
better that she'd ask if I didn't want to sit up front with
her, but neither of those things happened. Maybe the idea
of us sitting together just didn't occur to her. Or maybe
she didn't want to sit next to me. Or maybe she was waiting
for me to make the move. If I could be brave enough to sit
next to her, I thought, why then maybe later in the coffee-
house I'd be brave enough to ask her to go out... to lunch
or dinner or a movie or maybe just for a walk. Something.
Anything. Still, I was overjoyed with what we had. The
semester was barely underway. I figured I still had some
time. I didn't want to be rash and ruin anything.
You're probably wondering what all this has to do with sex-
stories. Sorry to be so poky about getting to the point.
Angels. It started with angels. In the coffee-house this
morning after class, Laura and I were talking about the
expectations and preconceptions we'd had about philosophy.
"Is it what you'd thought it would be?" she'd asked me.
"I don't know," I said. "I knew so little about philosophy.
Only that it sounded grown-up. What about you? Are you
disappointed?"
"A little," Laura admitted. "I guess I was expecting
something more meaningful, more relevant."
"Like what?" I said.
"Existentialism and stuff," Laura said. "You know: Rolling
boulders up a hill. Making deals with the devil.
Understanding the meaning or meaninglessness of life.
Instead it's like we're trying to count angels dancing on
the head of a pin." She swirled her forefinger through dark
chocolate foam, took her finger out and brought it to her
lips. I noticed her fingernails were neatly trimmed and
shiny smooth.
"I wonder what kind of dances those angels do," I said.
Laura rewarded me with a little laugh.
"I imagine they know some divine little steps," Laura said.
It seemed to me Laura was pretending to me more cheerful
than she felt.
"What kind of shoes do you suppose they wear," I said.
"Ballet slippers?"
"Hot yellow Capezios," Laura said.
"What are those?" I asked.
"Or else they go barefoot," Laura continued. "If I were an
angel, I'd go barefoot. Why wear shoes when you can fly?"
"Would you paint your toenails?" I asked, "If you were an
angel?"
She thought about it. "Probably," she said. "If you're not
wearing shoes, painted toenails make a lot more sense. And
if you're an angel, what else are you going to do between
dances and carols and cooking God's supper?"
She said this lightly, but I knew she was glum. I should
have asked what's wrong, but I was afraid. Maybe she was
getting her period or something like that.
"Do you paint your toenails?" I asked.
"Not since I gave up angel-hood," she replied. "How about
you?"
She grinned at me, and I didn't know what to say.
"Don't worry," she said then, "I won't make you take off
your shoes."
"Thanks," I said. I was pleased with the way I said
"thanks." I thought it sounded sort of grown-up.
"When I was a little girl once I used my mother's lipstick
on my toenails," Laura said. "That was serious fun."
"Was your mother mad?"
"Not mad enough to spank me."
"Did you get spanked much?"
"Sometimes, when I was bad."
I couldn't imagine Laura being bad. Maybe mischievous, but
not bad. I wanted to ask about the bad things she did.
Instead I asked about the lipstick. "What color was it?" I
asked.
She thought for awhile. "I don't think I could read back
then," she said. "Sunset-Peach, probably."
"Is that a real lipstick name: Sunset-Peach?"
"Sure," Laura said. "Lipsticks have the weirdest names.
Red Red Raven. Ballpark Honey. Ballistic Pink. All-The-Way
Red. Ruby Dooby Dew."
"You're making these up?"
"Not really." she said. "Want to know my favorite?"
"What?"
"All-Day-Cinema Pink."
"That does sound neat."
"Yeah, I wouldn't mind trying that, but I don't think they
make it any more. I also like Hot-Apricot. Skys-the-Limit.
And Mumbo-Jumbo, which can also be used for barbecue sauce."
"You ARE making these up, aren't you?"
"No, honest."
"What lipstick do you use?" I asked.
"None, usually... Well, when I'm really really serious about
my lips I'll smear on a little Philosopher's Puce," Laura
said. "And when I'm feeling a touch naughty, Playing with
Pussy Pink."
I blushed.
She stared.
"It looks a little like that," she said.
I blushed deeper.
She smiled.
"You're not very experienced with this boy-girl stuff, are
you?" she said.
Ah, Celeste, I suppose I should have mumbled "yes" or "no"
or "I don't know," but her eyes were strangely hot,
peculiarly beseeching.
"I know some stuff," I said hesitantly.
In fact my sexual experience had been limited to self-
exploration and the words and pictures found in bookstores
and on-line. I didn't know what to say--What could I say?
That I knew something about masturbation?
"I've, um, written some stories," I said.
"Stories?" she asked.
"Sex-stories?" I said.
Her eyes seemed to find this interesting. Deep-down I felt
certain she knew it was a lie. I'm not a good liar. Maybe
that is why I'm not too good at concocting sex fantasies.
Words or hands, either one, get in the way.
"Have you had any stories published?" Laura asked.
Oh-oh, I thought. "Um, just on the Internet," I said.
"Oh," she said.
I tried to remember what we'd been talking about. Angels. I
felt alone and lost, frail and uneasy, as if I were floating
way off the ground in a haze of bright light, but with fog
all around. Everybody could see me, and I couldn't see
anything.
Laura looked at her watch. "Shouldn't you be going?" she
said. "Else you'll miss your chemistry."
"I guess so," I said. I stood up. I didn't want to leave
her, but I felt she was willing me to go. Or else she
wanted me to stay. I wasn't sure. She stood up.
"You know what?" she said.
I didn't know. She lifted her face, touched my bottom lip
with both of hers. Our lips touched for just an instant.
There was a slippery hint of pressure. And heat. And
everything, everything I ever wanted. And then she was a
few inches away again.
"You're sweet," she said. "You should put me in one of your
stories sometime. That might be fun."
I stood there. I wanted to kiss her again. I wanted to
kiss her always and everywhere. But I didn't have the least
idea how to go about it. The last thing I wanted to do was
leave. But that's what I did. I said, "Bye, I guess," and
then I turned and walked out of the coffee-house and down
the street which led back to campus and chemistry. As I
walked, I thought about the heat of her lips, and I
shivered.
So that's it. Now I have to put her in a sex story. And I'm
afraid to go about it. Laura needs to be in a poem, not a
sex story. But God, I have no hope there; none at all. I
need help, Celeste. Help.
***
====================================================
End of part 1 of 3
=====================
Re: Proof Reading Sex Stories
by Mat Twassel
Part 1
-30-
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