Amiga ISO Collection/AmigaDemoCD2.iso/ASCII/TEXTE/SEX/ADULTSHARE/A/ASS14690.TXT

Text File | 1994-03-26 | 16.1 KB | 282 lines

            CHAPTER 1
@BEGIN_FILE_ID.DIZ

                         J-01  Francine@END_FILE_ID.DIZ



     Francine ran a hot tub, undressed, and let herself slip into
the comforting water.  The trip from Morocco had been
exhausting--the hot train ride from Marrakesh to Rabat (it might
be an Express by Moroccan standards, but not by European
standards), the flight to New York--a cattle car as always, heavy
with the scent of goat leather and Moroccan spices--the
traditional hassle with customs between connecting flights which
were too tightly scheduled to begin with, and finally, the last
leg to Dallas.  The last flight always seemed a bit surreal with
the changes in time zone, the taste of the food, and the smell of
the air all adding together to alert her senses to a major and
sudden change.  And prolonged air travel always made her feel
dirty.  The water felt wonderful.
     But the trip had also allowed her a great deal of time to
let her mind plan and wander--to consider her goals for the trip,
and how best to achieve them.  And now, feeling slowly
replenished by the warm water, she began to detect the excitement
one feels when something well-planned is about to become reality.

     Dr. Kevin Duval, she thought.  What should I expect from
you?  You sound like a mixture of Irish and French, but your
accent was decidedly Texan.  A melting pot product, no doubt, and
therefore completely unpredictable.  I suspect, from the doctors
I have known, that you are pudgy, chauvinistic, and a bit
arrogant.  But I have a purpose, and you are an essential part of
that purpose.
     She let her body slip further into the water as her
conscious mind dug into its memory to retrieve her fantasy--the
one that never failed to get her excited:

     She was floating on a raft, bobbing gently up and down in
the ocean.  A wooden raft.  And as she floated and drifted, she
became conscious of something near her--something in her space.
Looking over, she saw a large shark swimming slowly and ominously
around the raft.
     She should have been terrified, but instead she was
fascinated.  There was something about the shark that made it
seem innocuous, almost benevolent.  She watched as it moved
slowly, but with tempered power--pushing itself gracefully, with
almost no movement or effort--through the water--muscles
rippling, skin smooth and slick, glistening like ivory.  She felt
a stirring--a need to get in the water to see it closer.
     In the water, the shark circled closer.  It was as if it
smelled her excitement.  Not her fear--there should have been
fear, but fear did not exist-- it sensed her curiosity, her
excitement.  She removed her suit so that her excitement could
permeate the water.  It was an excitement she had never felt
before.
     As the shark circled it began a slow transformation--the
sullen, shiny gray changing slowly to a pale pink--the snout
becoming not the head of a shark, but the head of a dick.  Two
sunken eyes replaced by a slash, swollen and red.  Her legs began
to open involuntarily as she leaned back against the raft and
watched the transformation.  She knew she should run, or scream.
She should feel threatened.  But she sat transfixed, watching it
move in its searching pattern as she opened herself completely to
receive it, wanting it.
     The circling stopped.  Sensing the opened legs--the warm,
wet arousal sparking a small flame between them--the excited
welcome--the unconditional invitation, the transition completed
itself and the shark, now a massive hardon, moved toward its
target.  What should have been a deathly fear was now an
uncontrollable hunger.  She wanted it to move quicker--to feel it
inside of her.  She wanted the danger.
     She watched, fascinated, as it moved between her legs, then
spread the swollen lips with its tip, sliding slowly in.  She
closed her eyes, anticipating its complete penetration as her
muscles stretched and her hips thrust upward to accommodate it.
But it stopped.  It's progress was impeded.  Although it had in
fact transformed itself into a massive hardon, it had not shed
its fin.  And now the fin lodged--against the swollen, sensitive
lump which rested above the entrance.  The fin--that sail-shaped
specter of danger which, moving silently through the water would
evoke fear in anyone, was now pressed against her most sensitive
and secret part and evoking not fear, but a pleasure she had
never known.  It thrust, it writhed, trying to overwhelm its
impediment and impale her.  She thrust back, opening herself even
more.  But the thrusting only lodged the fin more firmly against
her clitoris, moving it up, then down, from side to side.  It
thrust harder, with the same result.
     Anxious, it started driving harder, trying to gain entry.
It twisted its body, each twisting, wrenching movement grinding
the fin across the swollen knot of clitoris.  It gyrated in the
water with such force that it moved her in the water, pressing
her against the raft, then receding, then pressing forward again.
It was as if she were riding it, as if it might lift her
completely out of the water with its fervent urgency.  It was the
dick she had always fantasized about, but never found.  It was
the penetration she had feared so often, and now craved.  Her
mind raced to capture the right moment.  She was with every hard
dick she had thought would bring her to the paramount
stimulation, but had disappointed her, leaving her frustrated.
It was not even a dick now--it was an awesome hardon with a mind
of its own.  It was hard as a rock--harder than anything she had
ever known--a swollen mass of muscle--slick and smooth as shark
skin, pushing--wanting--and it would not be denied.  It was
powerful, intense in a way that verged on savagery.  It was
frantic in its frenzied excitement.  It was no longer pink--it
was a deep purple, sheathed with distended veins.  And then, when
it seemed her shark/hardon might exhaust itself in its effort,
she felt the first crash.  La petit morte--the little death.  The
earth no longer existed.  The sea no longer existed.  Nothing
existed except the sensation in her groin.  She was
floating--bright lights--flashing--her body removed--bracing
itself for the inevitable, uncontrollable crest.  She came,
wrapping her legs around it--enveloping it--and shoving it
against her.  She came as she had never come before, the
shark/hardon trying more desperately to complete its penetration
before her climax stopped--to pierce her and feel her spasm
around it as she came.  The first wave, the peak, and then the
ebb.  The slide back to reality.  But just as the ebb began, the
resistance disappeared.  The hardon, fin intact, started moving
deeper, the fin rubbing her bud like a bow over a violin string,
starting with a low note and building to a crescendo.  A
swordfish, gathering its energy, breaking the surface of the
water to fly free through the air--twisting--turning--ecstatic.
But it was not a swordfish breaking water.  It was the hardest,
biggest, hungriest hardon she had ever felt, breaking into her.
It was ecstacy.  In the middle of her downward slide, she
suddenly started to climb again.  Wrapping her legs more tightly,
she pulled it deeper inside her.  Thrusting, squirming, ecstatic
in its success, it thrust deeper.  She felt it swell within her,
sensing the urgent pressure within it.  And just as she reached
her second climax, it throbbed, and it came.  It came with such
force, with such volume, she felt herself pushed backward, and
was sure it would catapult her off of it.  But she held on,
feeling one massive spurt after the next, one pulsing throb after
the another, until it finally completed its act, slipped backward
from her, and began its transition back to the mighty and
dangerous shark.  She watched it as it swam lazily back to sea.
She had been attacked by a shark.  The ocean water should have
been blood red around her.  Instead it was milky white.  A sea
full of semen.

     Francine rested a moment, then got out of the tub, dried
herself, and began dressing.  She was ready.  Mentally, and now
physically.
     Francine ran a hot tub, undressed, and let herself slip into
the comforting water.  The trip from Morocco had been
exhausting--the hot train ride from Marrakesh to Rabat (it might
be an Express by Moroccan standards, but not by European
standards), the flight to New York--a cattle car as always, heavy
with the scent of goat leather and Moroccan spices--the
traditional hassle with customs between connecting flights which
were too tightly scheduled to begin with, and finally, the last
leg to Dallas.  The last flight always seemed a bit surreal with
the changes in time zone, the taste of the food, and the smell of
the air all adding together to alert her senses to a major and
sudden change.  And prolonged air travel always made her feel
dirty.  The water felt wonderful.
     But the trip had also allowed her a great deal of time to
let her mind plan and wander--to consider her goals for the trip,
and how best to achieve them.  And now, feeling slowly
replenished by the warm water, she began to detect the excitement
one feels when something well-planned is about to become reality.

     Dr. Kevin Duval, she thought.  What should I expect from
you?  You sound like a mixture of Irish and French, but your
accent was decidedly Texan.  A melting pot product, no doubt, and
therefore completely unpredictable.  I suspect, from the doctors
I have known, that you are pudgy, chauvinistic, and a bit
arrogant.  But I have a purpose, and you are an essential part of
that purpose.
     She let her body slip further into the water as her
conscious mind dug into its memory to retrieve her fantasy--the
one that never failed to get her excited:

     She was floating on a raft, bobbing gently up and down in
the ocean.  A wooden raft.  And as she floated and drifted, she
became conscious of something near her--something in her space.
Looking over, she saw a large shark swimming slowly and ominously
around the raft.
     She should have been terrified, but instead she was
fascinated.  There was something about the shark that made it
seem innocuous, almost benevolent.  She watched as it moved
slowly, but with tempered power--pushing itself gracefully, with
almost no movement or effort--through the water--muscles
rippling, skin smooth and slick, glistening like ivory.  She felt
a stirring--a need to get in the water to see it closer.
     In the water, the shark circled closer.  It was as if it
smelled her excitement.  Not her fear--there should have been
fear, but fear did not exist-- it sensed her curiosity, her
excitement.  She removed her suit so that her excitement could
permeate the water.  It was an excitement she had never felt
before.
     As the shark circled it began a slow transformation--the
sullen, shiny gray changing slowly to a pale pink--the snout
becoming not the head of a shark, but the head of a dick.  Two
sunken eyes replaced by a slash, swollen and red.  Her legs began
to open involuntarily as she leaned back against the raft and
watched the transformation.  She knew she should run, or scream.
She should feel threatened.  But she sat transfixed, watching it
move in its searching pattern as she opened herself completely to
receive it, wanting it.
     The circling stopped.  Sensing the opened legs--the warm,
wet arousal sparking a small flame between them--the excited
welcome--the unconditional invitation, the transition completed
itself and the shark, now a massive hardon, moved toward its
target.  What should have been a deathly fear was now an
uncontrollable hunger.  She wanted it to move quicker--to feel it
inside of her.  She wanted the danger.
     She watched, fascinated, as it moved between her legs, then
spread the swollen lips with its tip, sliding slowly in.  She
closed her eyes, anticipating its complete penetration as her
muscles stretched and her hips thrust upward to accommodate it.
But it stopped.  It's progress was impeded.  Although it had in
fact transformed itself into a massive hardon, it had not shed
its fin.  And now the fin lodged--against the swollen, sensitive
lump which rested above the entrance.  The fin--that sail-shaped
specter of danger which, moving silently through the water would
evoke fear in anyone, was now pressed against her most sensitive
and secret part and evoking not fear, but a pleasure she had
never known.  It thrust, it writhed, trying to overwhelm its
impediment and impale her.  She thrust back, opening herself even
more.  But the thrusting only lodged the fin more firmly against
her clitoris, moving it up, then down, from side to side.  It
thrust harder, with the same result.
     Anxious, it started driving harder, trying to gain entry.
It twisted its body, each twisting, wrenching movement grinding
the fin across the swollen knot of clitoris.  It gyrated in the
water with such force that it moved her in the water, pressing
her against the raft, then receding, then pressing forward again.
It was as if she were riding it, as if it might lift her
completely out of the water with its fervent urgency.  It was the
dick she had always fantasized about, but never found.  It was
the penetration she had feared so often, and now craved.  Her
mind raced to capture the right moment.  She was with every hard
dick she had thought would bring her to the paramount
stimulation, but had disappointed her, leaving her frustrated.
It was not even a dick now--it was an awesome hardon with a mind
of its own.  It was hard as a rock--harder than anything she had
ever known--a swollen mass of muscle--slick and smooth as shark
skin, pushing--wanting--and it would not be denied.  It was
powerful, intense in a way that verged on savagery.  It was
frantic in its frenzied excitement.  It was no longer pink--it
was a deep purple, sheathed with distended veins.  And then, when
it seemed her shark/hardon might exhaust itself in its effort,
she felt the first crash.  La petit morte--the little death.  The
earth no longer existed.  The sea no longer existed.  Nothing
existed except the sensation in her groin.  She was
floating--bright lights--flashing--her body removed--bracing
itself for the inevitable, uncontrollable crest.  She came,
wrapping her legs around it--enveloping it--and shoving it
against her.  She came as she had never come before, the
shark/hardon trying more desperately to complete its penetration
before her climax stopped--to pierce her and feel her spasm
around it as she came.  The first wave, the peak, and then the
ebb.  The slide back to reality.  But just as the ebb began, the
resistance disappeared.  The hardon, fin intact, started moving
deeper, the fin rubbing her bud like a bow over a violin string,
starting with a low note and building to a crescendo.  A
swordfish, gathering its energy, breaking the surface of the
water to fly free through the air--twisting--turning--ecstatic.
But it was not a swordfish breaking water.  It was the hardest,
biggest, hungriest hardon she had ever felt, breaking into her.
It was ecstacy.  In the middle of her downward slide, she
suddenly started to climb again.  Wrapping her legs more tightly,
she pulled it deeper inside her.  Thrusting, squirming, ecstatic
in its success, it thrust deeper.  She felt it swell within her,
sensing the urgent pressure within it.  And just as she reached
her second climax, it throbbed, and it came.  It came with such
force, with such volume, she felt herself pushed backward, and
was sure it would catapult her off of it.  But she held on,
feeling one massive spurt after the next, one pulsing throb after
the another, until it finally completed its act, slipped backward
from her, and began its transition back to the mighty and
dangerous shark.  She watched it as it swam lazily back to sea.
She had been attacked by a shark.  The ocean water should have
been blood red around her.  Instead it was milky white.  A sea
full of semen.

     Francine rested a moment, then got out of the tub, dried
herself, and began dressing.  She was ready.  Mentally, and now
physically.