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From: "Muriel Mukherjee" <murielmukherjee@hotmail.com>
Subject: SHISH KEBAB: repost of Celeste's #59, class of 1997
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The short story "Shish Kebab", which made its first public appearance in
mid-November 1997 when one Lingua posted it in alt.sex.stories.moderated
and a couple of days later reposted it with minor changes, was judged by
Celeste to have been one of the 20 classiest in her class of the month
and one of the 100 classiest in her class of 1997.
Celeste, who even if only (?!) as a literary critic is among the dozen
best writers who've ever contributed to the erotic parts of the Usenet,
labeled those mere 1370 words as "highly imaginative sex" and stamped
them with the holy trinity "10, 10, 10" despite their mystifyingly
unAmerican use of centimeters and meters rather than inches and feet.
"Shish Kebab," like many other celestially certificated stories that
seem to vanish from assm after their first posting (où sont les
sortilèges d'antan?), now deserves to be reposted for the sake of those
rare or frequent fliers of assm who don't know how to dive into the
Usenet archives or who can't be bothered to. Here it is:
------------
SHISH KEBAB
A likely (short) story
Version 2
By Lingua
"Shish-kebab me," I say. "But don't let any of that sand get onto the
travelling-rug. There's no knowing *where* it'll end up."
"Get fresh with me," you say. "Thread yourself around me."
"Do me like a dinner," I say. "Let me soak up your heat."
As Carl Orff softly beats his lyrical tempo from the streamlined black
plastic beachblaster on the folding table I feel your oily prick snake
its way up through my innards, weaving benignly but thrillingly between
(not *through*---how careful you are, Antony) my vital organs. Till now,
as I've told you several times, I've only *imagined* your prick going
that far. Now it's *happening*. Double, double toil and trouble. My fire
burns, my cauldron bubbles. But the great dramatist never envisaged
anything like this scene.
"Oh, my," I gasp, locking my eyes onto yours. "Where will it end? It's
in my chest now. I feel so full. So fucking full. So fucking full of
Antony."
"And it's going further, Sue, darling," you say. "May it slide into your
throat?"
"Yes, please!"
"And then may it enter your mouth---carefully?"
"Oh, yes. But shove it! I don't care for the 'carefully'. Shove it into
my mouth. Let me bite the fucker."
"Stuff that 'shove it' idea," you say. "I don't want to fucking hurt
you---or me." Your penis creeps gently along my relaxed throat and
slowly enters my mouth. Your bloated rubbery glans, tipped with its own
tiny dribbling mouth, deforms when it nudges my top incisors, and
sprinkles what feels like a few tablespoons of your precome over my
bottom lip and my chin. I scoop up some precome, baby-oil from your
supernatural spring, and rub it on my cheeks and my ears. Between my
fingers it forms webs as glisteningly iridescent as detergent bubbles.
I try to speak, but all I can do is gurgle, because my throat and my
mouth are full of Antonycock. We gaze into each other's eyes. I put a
finger between my lips and palpate your ruddy rude glans, on the side
that's usually the underside but that's now the side touching my top
incisors. I then nibble the eaves of your glans, and my incisors nibble
the skirt of it. My bottom jaw moves from side to side so that my top
incisors tantalise (I hope) the nerve-endings in your exquisite
unvandalised frenum---the clit you have when you don't have a clit. That
finger, and the gently sharp teeth rasping your cockhead, seem to be the
trigger that detonates your cache of white explosive.
"I'm coming!" you say. "Sue, I'm coming! Do you feel it?"
I try to nod my head. Your fruitjuice fulminates from my mouth (still
surprised after all these years) and onto my chin and my neck. The sight
of it is the trigger for my own explosion, from my scalp to my toes and
back to my scalp, and then, erratically, to an archipelago of electric
nodes between (I wonder whether an acupuncturist could identify them). I
start to shake. My legs clench you and release you, clench you and
release you. My hips jerk jerk jerk. Gurgle. Without the benefit of
subtitles written across my face I can only wonder whether you're clever
enough to interpret the gurgles as: "I'm coming too. Oh God, I'm coming
all over. Oh, Christ, why haven't I experienced anything like this
before? Oh, shit. Oh, fuck. Oh, my darling."
But, of course, I have experienced it before. It's just that each time
seems better than the previous time.
I shudder and moan and splutter for a minute while you, with an unlikely
gymnastic agility, allow your cock to reciprocate through me with a
stroke of more than a metre. My mind dances to the shafting friction in
my mouth, in my throat, in my chest, in my tummy and in my streaming
crotch. With sweating brow you withdraw your cock from me till its tip
comes down to my womb, and then you push it all in again. This time
about thirty fucking centimetres of the luminous thing (it seems to
improve each shining minute) emerges from my mouth. My eyes widen, and
with one hand I grab hold of your slippery cock and cuddle it to
dissuade the vain and veiny thing from retracting into its me-sized
sheath. With my other hand I scoop up some cock-spittle from my neck and
rub it over the distal end of your cock and over my oniontower teats and
over the rest of my little breasts and around the stretching "Oh!" ring
of my lips. ("Oniontower" is your choice of metaphor, bless you. You
describe each of my tits as a pair of oniontowers: a smaller one atop a
bigger one. Whenever we prepare onions for a meal, or whenever I come
across a photo of St Basil's Cathedral, my nipples swell with blood and
stand to attention. Because of you.)
I gurgle with another shuddering climax, and I lose control of my
bladder. My buttocks and my thighs feel my piss soak into the
travelling-rug that separates us from the beach. More of your mayonnaise
spills from your glans and drenches my hand. My eyes widen again, and I
look into your eyes. I wink at you to tell you that everything's all
right. You reach beneath yourself with a hand and collect some of my
piss, still gushing from what now seems to have been a pretty full
bladder. You rub my piss all over your smiling face, and you put some
into your mouth, squish it around and swallow it. For the first time
today I drink that surreal sight into my consciousness, and I flood my
memory with all the earlier times and my imagination with all the times
to come.
"Sue's piss," you say, and the final sibilant of that lovely phrase
sprays some drops of me from between your tongue and your front teeth
and onto my face. "Sue's fine piss. Fine Sue's piss. Your urine. Your
bittersweet urine. Your chablis. I love your piss because it's yours.
It's Sue's. You didn't faint, but you did the next best thing---you
wetted yourself, you good girl. My darling."
Speechless I touch your lips with my fingers as you utter those
wonderful words. I transfer some of my piss to your stiff teats (there's
nothing vestigial about your nips, Tony---when they suckle me they take
me all the way back to my infancy) and to your wispy armpits and to your
tummy and to your hips. I yearn to put some on the ever-suckworthy tiny
twitching mouth that you harbour between your bumcheeks, but now I can't
quite reach it. I remember the first time you went off to work carrying
not only a pastrami-and-tomato-and-cheese (or whatever it was) sandwich
and a golden-delicious apple in your briefcase but also a couple of
drops of my keepsake piss evaporating like eau de cologne from your
cheeks, on your top ones and between your bottom ones.
We stay there, wordlessly stroking each other. Your glans retreats to
just outside my lips, and when I kissingly purse my lips around your
penis just below your glans my lips read your pulsing veins and arteries
as if they're braille. What a message! What a medium! My fingers caress
your glans. I still can't speak, but my circular fondling is designed to
tell you that everything's still all right. You kiss my lips and your
glans at the one time. You jerk some more semen out of your pouting slit
and suck it into your mouth. You let the lotion (my usual trusty Ponds
can jump in the lake, for the time being) ooze from your mouth onto my
cheeks and nose and forehead and lips. I rub it into my smile with my
hands. Shish-kebab sauce of the gods.
A few minutes later your penis starts to shrink slowly down through my
system. When it retreats from my throat I take three or four deep
breaths and say:
"That's enough foreplay, Antony. Don't be shy, dear boy. You can take
your frigging finger out of my cunt now. Here, I'll show you what to do
next."
---END---
Any reader who knows of another eminently repeatable story that's had a
long absence from assm and (important "and") whose author too seems to
have vanished is invited to send the story to me at
<murielmukherjee@hotmail.com>.
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