a mix from my Aunt 302
Sheri
Grace
Peter's homecoming
New Years Fm
Her Birthdy

From courtney_sweet@yahoo.co.uk Thu Mar 13 20:07:56 2003
Date: Tue, 4 Feb 2003 18:10:05 -0500
From: Courtney Sweet <courtney_sweet@yahoo.co.uk>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated, alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Subject: {ASSM} Sheri and The Boys (m+F, incest, oral, anal, mast)

SHERI AND THE BOYS

By Courtney Sweet
http://erotic.stories.by.courtney-sweet.com/

(m+F, incest, oral, anal, mast)

Sheri Anderson wasn't like most mothers, after bringing up three sons, Steve aged 17, Rob aged 15 and Brad 12; she still looked like a teenager herself. Admittedly the plastic surgeon helped with a nip here and a tuck there, not
to mention the magnificent breast enlargement, that made her look more like
a statuesque goddess than your common housewife.

Her husband Graeme was an architect and spent most of his time working,
early mornings, late nights and quite often weekends spent away with one project or another. But Sheri was always ready when he came home, wearing
the sexiest lingerie, the highest stilettos and the shortest skirts she
could manage.

While Graeme was away Sheri would sun herself by the pool in the skimpiest swimsuits, sometimes even just a thong, her long supple limbs outstretched
to catch the rays. Quite often this was how the boys found her when they brought home their friends, Sheri would walk inside quite relaxed with her nakedness, making no attempt to cover herself and this usually left the
young visitors in a state of awkward frustration.

The boys were used to their mother walking round with her tight skimpy
clothes. Their mother's extraverted style livened up family outings, their uncles and grandfather always seemed pleased to see her. Even the simplest
task of fetching them from school had turned into something more like a peep show, with all their friends waiting for a glimpse of what their mother was wearing or not wearing as the case may be.

Sheri herself reveled in the attention, often fantasizing that she was being ravished by a group of virile young boys while she masturbated herself with
her cock shaped rubber vibrator. Graeme knew of her fantasies and encouraged her; he knew that it was her way of managing while he was away, even going
as far as suggesting she live out her fantasies as long as she told him all
the details. Sheri had brushed off Graeme's suggestion as part of his sick humor, but there were times when she was right in the middle of a
masturbation session that she yearned for a thick hard cock or two and seriously contemplated her husband's suggestion.

On one of these afternoons Sheri was lying spread-eagled on her bed, her breasts heaving, knees up and her vibrator inserted deep inside her juicy
pussy and her oldest son came home unexpected. Steve pushed on the half
opened door to her room and it swung wide open to reveal her in all her
glory, hips bucking and soft moans escaping her parted lips as she
masturbated herself through a sweet orgasm.

"Oh Shit Mom!" Steve cried as he tried to close the door on his mother
before his two friends (who had followed him down the hall) caught sight of
the scene before them. He was too late, Craig and Tony had already caught
sight of Steve's sexy mom and Tony's strong arm swung the door open again.
The three boys just stood there watching her as she bucked and twisted,
pumping the vibrator vigorously in and out of her slippery pink pussy.

Sheri looked up as Steve cried out seeing the three boys watching her sent
her over the edge; she climaxed heavily her pussy exploding when she
realized they were not going to leave. She cried out, her hips raising off
the mattress her head thrown back as she came with such intensity, she didn'
t have the ability to stop and assess the situation she had placed herself
in.

The two friends of her son moved into the room and when she didn't tell them
to leave they began to remove their clothes, Steve just watched from the doorway as Craig and Tony climbed onto the bed with his mother. They were running their hands all over her, gently caressing her and massaging her breasts and then Tony leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. Steve gaped
as his mother's arms went around his friend's shoulders and she pulled him
on top of her as they kissed, his hand slipping down between her legs and
his fingers disappearing inside her dripping wet snatch.

Sheri's voice was a hoarse whisper "fuck me." she said, it was more like an order than a request and Steve heard her clearly from the doorway, he moved into the room as if to protest, but stopped as if fascinated by his mother's promiscuous behavior. Tony positioned himself between her legs, guiding his rock hard cock straight into her pussy he grabbed hold of her thighs to
support himself as he began fucking her with hard fast strokes.

Craig leaned forward licking and nibbling at her breasts then kissing her as Tony fucked her, stopping only when Sheri began moaning. As he raised his
head she gasped "let me suck your cock at the same time, ohhhhh yes! Fuck my mouth while he fucks my horny cunt!"

Craig needed no persuasion; he raised himself on his knees and offered his throbbing erection to her waiting mouth. She took him in sucking him deep
into her mouth, her cock muffled moans filling the room. Steven watched his mother acting out her slut fantasy, his cock getting harder the longer he watched, puffing and pulsing in his pants until he could stand it no longer. Rushing forward he pulled Tony from between his mother's legs with a slurpy popping noise, his mother opened her eyes but could say nothing with Craig's thick cock buried deep down her throat.

Steve buried his cock to the hilt in his mother's horny snatch; fucking her with fast angry thrusts that butted against her making her breasts bounce
and jiggle. "I. Can't. Believe. You. Could. Act. Like. Such. A. Slut!" he grunted with each heaving thrust, punishing his mother for making him want
to take her like a whore.

"Hey man. Take it easy! I'm next so don't go wearing you're mom out too
soon!" Craig joked, trying to lighten Steve up a little. Sheri was loving
every minute of it and as Craig's cock unloaded streams of creamy cum into
her mouth and all over her face she cried out "Oh yeah honey. Fuck me
Harder! Harder! Oh shit you're so much bigger than you're father, oh god! I
am a dirty slut honey, so fuck me like a whore!" she cried.

Rob her 15-year-old son appeared in the doorway with Jake, one of his
friends "what the fuck? Steve, what the hell are you doing to mom?" He
watched as his brother pulled out his cock and squirt cum all over her
stomach and thighs, letting it run down over her slick pink pussy lips.

"Hey Robbie! Come over her bro!" Steve called out, vacating his position between his mother's legs and walking over to the doorway to meet his
younger brother. As he left his spot Craig moved in, rolling Sheri over onto her stomach he waited as she raised her tight little arse into the air and supported herself on her knees so he could fuck her doggy style.

Rob's eyes were still on his mother as Craig began pounding her pussy in the new position, making her moan and cry out when he fucked her with rapid
pumping strokes. Jake had moved closer to the bed to watch Sheri getting
poked by Craig, he already had an obvious swell in his pants and Sheri
motioned to him "bring it here honey, let me suck it for you while you
watch".

Rob opened his mouth as his friend pushed his cock into his mother's mouth
but only a small croaking sound escaped, Steve patted him on the back. "Don'
t worry man, mom wanted us to do it and well... it's you're turn next" he chuckled as they watched Craig blow his load deep inside their mother's
juicy snatch.

It didn't take long for Jake to shoot his hot creamy cum into her mouth, and they watched as she sucked him clean, her juicy pussy still exposed as she retained her position on all fours. Rob moved in, pushing his cock into his mother's well lubricated pussy, she was so hot and slippery, his cock
throbbed ominously as soon as he began fucking her. The rest of the room
seemed to disappear except for her tight arse cheeks that were pushed up
right in front of him.

Rob didn't take time to think before pulling out his cum coated cock and thrusting it into the tight little opening of her arse. "OH God Yes!" his mother cried out when his thick stocky cock filled her anal passage, she
pushed herself back on him in order to receive his full length inside her.

"Shit man why didn't I think of that?" muttered Tony as he watched Sheri's
body arch and twist with agonizing pleasure, his own session having been cut short by Steve, he had been forced to finish himself off by hand while
watching Mrs Anderson getting drilled by her sons and their other friends.

When they had all finally had their way with her Steve and Rob's friends
left, Sheri went to have a shower and the boys went for a swim to cool off. Brad the youngest son came home to hear his older brother's talking about
how good their mother was in bed, he listened for while until he clearly understood what had happened, then he went to find his mother.

Sheri was still in the bathroom when Brad found her, she was leaning forward drying her hair with only a towel around her and her glistening pussy
clearly exposed. Without warning he reached out and touched her pussy with
his fingertips, it was warm and wet and his mother spread her legs a little
at his touch thinking it was one of the other boys back for more.

As Brad's fingers delved deeper into her pussy she looked up from beneath
her hair and realizing it was her youngest son she turned off the hairdryer. She remained in her bent over position so that he could continue his exploration of her pussy, then quietly she spoke "your brothers told you
what happened?".

Brad looked at his mother's reflection in the mirror and shook his head "no,
I overheard them in the pool, why did you do it?" he asked innocently. His mother smiled and tilted her head, "try it honey and you'll understand" she advised him sagely. She waited for him with her legs spread holding on to
the vanity as he unfastened his pants and pushed his cock inside his mother'
s slippery hole. It didn't take long before his rapid thrusting caused his
cock to explode inside her; he came with a long loud wailing moan.

As he pulled out he heard his eldest brother's voice. "Well it seems as if
we are really keeping this in the family now doesn't it mom, I wonder how
dad will feel when he finds out he will have to share you with all of us
from now on?" Steve chuckled as his youngest brother fumbled to tuck his rapidly slackening cock back into his pants.

"Your father will be fine with it honey, just leave him to me" his mother smiled sweetly, her breath catching as a deep voice from the hall announced
her husband's arrival.

"Fine with what Sheri?" he glanced at the three brothers who were looking
quite sheepish, "what have you boys been up to then?" he asked raising his brow. One look at his wife's glowing face told him everything he needed to know, he turned to the boys with a knowing look. "I think you're mother and
I need to have a talk, you guys run along now ok?"

When they had gone Graeme turned to Sheri, "seems like you have been taking good care of them?" he asked as he followed her back to the bedroom.

"I took your advice and we had quite a time, the boys and their friends that is," she told him with a suggestive smile as she removed her towel and lay
back on the bed. Graeme was not too far behind and after stripping off began
to make slow passionate love to his wife, enjoying the slippery feel of her well used cunt.

"So. Tell me all about it. I want to hear every detail my darling little
slut," he whispered to her a little surprised that she had involved their
son's in her sexual exploits. Sheri told all so that Graeme understood
exactly how it had happened, needless to say the boys and their young
friends became her regular amusement while their father was away.

(C) Courtney Sweet 2001

You can read more of my FREE stories at http://erotic.stories.by.courtney-sweet.com/

This story carries the codes: (Mf, teen, rom, oral, 1st)

For other codes, and how they can help you find the stories you want, see: http://www.asstr.org/~Uther_Pendragon/code/scfr.htm
The Story-Code FAQ for readers.

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From sinistersimon@hotmail.com Thu Mar 13 20:07:56 2003
Date: Tue, 4 Feb 2003 17:10:04 -0500
From: Simon <sinistersimon@hotmail.com>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated, alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Subject: {ASSM} Grace (MF, inc, priest)

Grace
by Simon (sinistersimon@hotmail.com)

I tell people I got into this line of work because of the chicks.
Nearly everyone laughs, and everyone's satisfied, because "the
chicks" are exactly what they have in mind when they ask: I'm a
minister, and to most people that's the same as being a priest.
They think I'm giving up sex. But there are two big differences
between Catholic priests and Congregational ministers: we don't
hear confessions and we're allowed to marry.

Neither of those is quite the benefit you might expect. No, I
don't take confessions ... not anonymously, at least. Instead,
my door is open to everyone in my congregation, and after Mrs
Philips tells me for the fifth time that her husband's having
trouble with impotence, I can't help but think of it every time I
see Mr Philips in the choir.

And marriage? Dating is a nightmare when you're a "man of the
cloth." The women who will date you come in two flavors: the
ones who want to seduce you to the dark side, and the ones who
want to marry you in a week. The novelty of the former wears off
quickly; the appeal of the latter is pretty low considering how
much of your day is spent counseling couples who married too
quickly.

When I was in seminary, I'd avoided thinking about most of this.
Sure, I told myself, I wouldn't be allowed to have sex until
marriage -- but a proper Christian shouldn't anyway (I didn't
really believe that -- the truth is, I'm not sure anyone does
except when they're talking about other people -- but I thought
that I SHOULD believe it). So what difference did it make? I
had the same rights as everyone else -- I could marry, and worry
about sex then.

Mind you, I'd had sex before seminary -- and a few times during,
although I managed to put them out of mind and pretend they
hadn't happened or "didn't count." I'm not sure virgins should
be allowed to be ministers -- sex is a daily topic of
conversation in my office, and even with my little bit of
experience it often mystifies me. I wonder what ministers
actually did during the week, back when people were too
conservative to talk about sex?

The titillation and vicarious thrill of listening to other
people's sex lives -- some people will tell their minister
ANYthing -- wore off after a few years, and I stopped letting
myself be set up on dates by well-meaning members of my
congregation. Like Jimmy Carter, I felt lust in my heart: more
than once I found myself imagining the choir naked, or indulging
in elaborate mid-sermon fantasies about Mrs Jones, the organist.
Yes, I even thought of some organ puns.

I hate to put it like this, but by the time I was thirty-three, I
looked forward to funerals. No one tried to set me up at a
funeral (although what they say about sex being easy to find at a
funeral? It's true -- I've walked in on more than one couple of
mourners.) There was no implication of imminent sex the way
weddings had. Conducting a funeral was the most peaceful part of
my job.

Until Grace Sullivan's father died.

Tom Sullivan died a too-early death, victim of a bad heart, going
out the same way his father had at roughly the same age. Even if
Tom had seen it coming, it was a shock to the rest of us: he
wasn't yet 50, and had been the kind of virile, brawny
fortysomething that reminded you of Kirk Douglas. He jogged, he
played tennis, he coached Little League even though his kids were
long since past the age for it. More tragic still, his wife had
died in a car accident years earlier. Thankfully the children
had grown up and left home -- but Grace, the youngest at 22, took
it the hardest. I don't imagine she remembered her mother very
well.

I'll admit it, most funerals I do by rote. You generally don't
know the person well, so there's no personal investment. But
Tom? He might not have been a friend -- we'd played a few sets
of tennis, and had a heart to heart when his mother died -- but
he was a man I liked and respected.

Grace I didn't know very well. She'd left for college four years
earlier, and hadn't attended church very frequently in the years
before that. She was the only Sullivan daughter, with two older
brothers who'd been football heroes in high school, Dean's list
in college, insurance brokers in New York. About all I knew
about Grace was that she'd gone to art school "out west
somewhere."

I got through the ceremony and the words from friends and family
without shedding a tear -- if that sounds callous, remember that
it's part of my job. If the minister starts crying, everyone
cries, and it's a horrible afternoon for all. The weather, at
least, blessed us: the cemetery is behind the church, separated
by a tasteful copse of spruce, and the bright sun gave everyone
an excuse to put their sunglasses on -- to hide tears for some,
and boredom for others.

Grace, I think, was one of the former. Her voice hitched during
her brief words about her father, and her black knit dress
somehow looked blacker than anyone else's clothes. It was new, I
realized: it hadn't faded in the wash. Whatever I'd heard about
art students, this wasn't a girl who wore black often enough to
have anything appropriate for a funeral. Her hair was light
brown with blonde streaks that might have been natural and might
have been storebought, layered and cut short. She didn't seem to
be wearing makeup: there were no mascara streaks on her cheeks.

The ceremony went well. It usually does when it's someone
everyone genuinely liked, but occasionally you have to deal with
distraught widows, weeping mothers, drunk fathers, and the like.
The men are the worst -- if they've reached the point of
uncontrollable emotion, they have no fear of "making a scene."

The reception was in the hall of the church basement, to spare
visiting relatives the hassle of holding it in Tom's house. Mrs
Jones had made her famous lemon bars, Mrs Philips brought the
punch, and stronger drinks were discreetly made available to the
adults. I mingled for a little while before going upstairs to my
office, where I'd be available for private counseling. Since I
wasn't conducting any official ceremonies or anything, I took off
my suit jacket and tie. The congregation was used to a
slightly-informal minister.

A few people stopped by to say hi, but there were no small
children to ask questions about Heaven, or a widow to console, so
after a few hours I wondered if it was time to go back to the
hall and see about wrapping things up. Just as I was about to,
Grace came to the door. She'd taken her sunglasses off, and I
was right about the makeup -- her eyes were red from crying, but
not smeared. She lingered in the doorway, fingers on the jamb,
until I nodded her in.

"I'm very sorry about your father, Grace," I said, repeating what
I'd told her at least once already, maybe more. "He was a good
man."

She nodded, distracted, and I closed the door behind her before
sitting on my side of the desk, as she sat on hers. "Thank you,
Reverend Bell. I just -- I don't know who to talk to about this.
I thought maybe -- we don't have confession, right? We're not
Catholic. I know I never went to church much, but ..."

"Are you worried about privacy?"

That little nod again.

"Grace, nothing you say here will leave the room. You can talk
about whatever you want, I promise. I have a lot of experience
in these matters."

That brought her out of her daze a little, and in a flash of her
eyes I saw something of the girl she must be under better
circumstances. "I ... don't think that you do."

"Try me."

She started out the usual way -- rambling, talking about growing
up with her father and barely remembering her father, and I did
what I usually do: ignore what's said and listen to how it's
said. There was obvious love in her voice, and true loss. The
more she spoke the more she warmed up, brushing tears away
absent-mindedly with the back of her hand, sitting more
comfortably in the chair, and I was taken completely by surprise
when she said:

"I wanted to have sex with him."

I thought I must have missed who the "him" was, so I asked.
"Who?"

"My father. I wanted to have sex with my father." She looked at
her hands, and shrugged. "Ever since I was a teenager ... I just
wanted him. His big, strong hands ... I used to think about him
all the time."

"Did he ever --"

"No. No! Don't ask if he 'touched' me. It wasn't like that. He
didn't know. Nothing ever happened. I didn't try to seduce him.
I know it's wrong, and shit, I know it's some Electra complex
because I was raised without a female role model, and all that.
I'm just saying ... I wanted him, and the way I miss him now,
it's not just as a daughter."

"And you want forgiveness?"

Her eyes flashed again, angry this time, as she looked up at me.
"I haven't done anything wrong. I don't want to be forgiven for
things I *wanted*. It isn't anything I could help."

"Of course. No, you're right, I'm sorry."

She nodded shortly. "The only reason I'm talking to you ...
well, you're young. Ish. You're probably married and have a
healthy sex life and aren't going to give me some weird 'sex is
bad' lecture."

"I'm not married, Grace, but you're right -- sex isn't bad.
Incest --"

"-- never happened, so isn't relevant. I just .. I don't know
how to deal with this. I don't know how to grieve. I've never
had a real relationship, and I think it's because of him. Every
girl expects a man to measure up to her dad, right? But moreso
with me, I guess."

"That's understandable." And it was. The more she went on, the
more I could see where she was coming from: this near-perfect
father, an attractive man, and he rarely if ever dated, so she
never felt any sense of competition with other females. She was
the only woman in his life -- he became the only man in hers.
The bond they had as father and daughter ... yes, it was more
than that. For her, it became a sexual one, even if never
consummated.

We talked for another two hours, long past the time when I had
expected to go home. Occasionally she had to stop and talk about
something else, something innocuous while she collected her
thoughts, so she asked me why I wasn't married, and I gave her
the brief synopsis -- trouble meeting people. That made sense to
her, she could relate to it, although we had different reasons
for our difficulties.

"Okay," she said at last. "Well. I think maybe I just needed to
tell someone. I'll be in town another couple days, can I come by
if I have, like, a crisis or something? It's not like I can go
to my brothers with this."

"Of course. Call the church switchboard if you're not certain
I'm home; they'll give you my home number if it's an emergency."

She smiled as she stood up, straightening her dress, and when I
got up to open the door for her she gave me a hug. "Thank you,"
she said with a small sigh, and I patted her shoulder. The top
of her head came up to my chin, and her hair smelled like pale
orchids.

"That's my job, Grace."

She held the hug a moment longer, and as I started to pull away
diplomatically, she murmured, lower this time, "Thank you,
Father."

I shook my head. "It's Reverend -- we're not Catholic,
remember?"

She pressed her lips against my neck, just above the collarbone,
warm and very slightly moist, and wrapped her arms around me. "I
know we're not -- Father." When she spoke, her lips tickled my
skin.

If I'd already opened the door to send her off, this wouldn't
have been happening. That ten seconds made all the difference.
I didn't pull away from her -- only enough to protest -- and I
felt the rationalizations forming in the back of my head: there
was nothing wrong with a kiss. It wasn't sex.

"You've suffered a great loss," I started, and she nipped my
neck.

"Spare me the psychobabble. I *know* what I've suffered. And I
know how I want to deal with it." She pulled my head down
towards hers, kissing along my neck. "You're not taking
advantage of the bereaved."

I pushed her away gently, against the bookcase. "We both might
see it differently, later --"

She grabbed my hands and pulled me against her hard, knocking an
Old Testament concordance off the top shelf with a small cloud of
dust. "Later takes care of itself. I. Need. A. Father."

And her mouth was on mine, open and insistent, and I kissed her
back without thinking about it. Our tongues moved against each
other as she moaned, grinding her knit dress against my suit, one
hand in my hair holding on as if afraid I would leave, the other
pressed flat against my chest as if ready to push me away.

She kissed hungrily, needily, and it was easy to respond in kind.
I don't know how long it had been since I had even kissed
someone: too long. I pulled her against me, my hands running up
her sides, feeling her skin beneath the dress as her tongue
lapped against mine. She twisted so that her hip rubbed between
my thighs and the side of her left breast fell against my hand,
soft and just full enough beneath my fingertips. We pulled each
other into the corner, almost wrestling, and she gasped herself
out of the kiss, breathing hot against my neck, murmuring,
"Daddy."

Her hands caressed where her hip had rubbed, stroking my cock
through the thin fabric of my pants and impatiently pulling the
zipper down to feel the shape of me through my briefs. "Grace,"
I started to say, but she kissed me again, quickly.

"Gracie," she said quietly, freeing me from the briefs as my
pants dropped to the floor. "He always called me Gracie." Her
fingers were warm around me, and I felt her dress sliding against
me as she pulled it up. Her hands stayed busy for a moment and
she kissed me again, sliding her tongue along my lips before
turning around to face the wall.

Her dress was pulled up to her back and her ass was bare, pale,
curved just perfectly, and pressing against my cock. She slid up
and down against me, hands braced against the walls and forehead
pressed to the corner, whispering, "Please, Daddy, please." She
sounded like she was about to cry.

I couldn't rationalize this anymore. So I stopped trying.

Neither of us had had sex in a while, and we fumbled a little as
I guided my cock under her and into her sex, a hand on the small
of her back as she whimpered through bitten lips. We both gasped
when the feel of skin-on-skin suddenly became hard-in-wet, and
the simple effort of our fumbling pushed me deep inside her.

"Oh God, Gracie," I breathed, as I grabbed at her and she bent
down lower. I unzipped her dress halfway and she pulled the front
of it down, my hands reaching around to grab her breasts through
the white bra, feeling their weight rest against my palms as I
pulled her back against me, thrusting my crotch against her ass.

"Daddy!" She pushed back against me harder, shoving herself
around me, still on the verge of tears, and her voice was loud,
too loud.

"Shh!" I stroked her hair, and when she started to cry I
hesitated, began to pull out -- but she whimpered, rocking her
ass against me, and I stepped closer to grind against her,
caressing the unseen part of her breast the bra left uncovered,
feeling the warmth and pliability of her skin beneath my
fingertips. "Shhh, it's okay, Gracie, Daddy's here."

We bucked against each other, fucking hard and needily, and her
moans became too loud again. Without thinking, I clamped a hand
over her mouth and she gasped, sucking on my fingers, her breath
raspy and hard. "Love me, Daddy," she groaned around a mouthful
of my index and middle fingers, keeping her voice low. "I miss
you so much, fuck me, fuck me hard, come inside me."

It didn't take long. Her head was banging against the wall, her
hands clawing at it to keep her balance, and I arched against her
over and over again, feeling her tears trickle down over my
fingers and into her mouth, her teeth scrape against my knuckles,
her hot sex clenching around me with every fierce grind of my
hips. I don't know if she came, but when I did, she sucked my
fingers deep into her mouth to stifle her own cry, while I leaned
down to bite her bare shoulder, both of us very aware of where we
were and desperate not to be overheard.

I twitched inside her as I subsided, stroking her back and hair
as she sobbed openly, choking on tears, and when she turned
around to be held, I held her against my chest until she was
cried out, and we helped each other dress -- with affectionate
Ilittle touches to show that no matter how odd we might feel
later, neither of us felt guilty or violated.

We didn't say anything else. She kissed me softly on the lips
before leaving, and that was it: she didn't call for more
counseling, and never accused me of taking advantage of her.
Every Christmas, she sends a card to my office -- "Merry
Christmas Daddy, Love, Gracie."


* * *

More stories: http://www.asstr.org/~Simon/ and at Ruthie's Club (http://www.ruthiesclub.com) as Simon Carraway

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From toomuchtime2002@hotmail.com Thu Mar 13 20:07:56 2003
Date: Tue, 4 Feb 2003 18:10:03 -0500
From: Too Much Time <toomuchtime2002@hotmail.com>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated, alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Subject: {ASSM} PETER'S HOMECOMING, Part 1 (m F F cons busty)



Here's my latest. I can tell it's going to be a long one, so rather than
keep everybody waiting, I've decided to do it in two parts (at least). As
it stands, this part is mostly build-up ... but some of you seem to like
that as much as the finales. The juicier stuff will happen in the next
part, which I've already started.

Enjoy, and as always, let me know your thoughts.

TooMuchTime


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<1st attachment, "homecoming1.txt" begin>

The following is probably a work of FICTION.
It was sent back in time in a quantum bottle.

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