Date: Fri, 23 Feb 96 17:22:51 -0800
From: Peter Langston <psl>
Subject: Falwelling Tracey
[And now for something entirely different... -psl]
Forwarded-by: firstname.lastname@example.org (Keith Bostic)
Forwarded-by: mk@TFS.COM (Mike King)
Forwarded-by: email@example.com (Steve Molla)
-- by Mark Aster
NOTE: This story contains NONE of the Seven Dirty Words You
Can't Say On The Net.
Tracey came home from work in a lousy mood. She knocked her hat off the
the rack when she hung up her coat. This wouldn't normally have upset her,
but today she yelled "Oh, gingrich!", picked up the hat, and threw it into
"Bad day, darlin'?" I asked.
"Oh, I'm just all robertsoned-off about this falwelling Communications
Decency Act," she said.
"Refresh my memory," I asked. She'd mentioned it before, but I hadn't paid
much attention. She's the net.junkie in the family.
"It makes it a Federal crime to say anything 'indecent' where a minor might
see it, which of course includes the whole Net! And oh-by-the-way one thing
that's indecent is any information about abortion."
"Bullgingrich!" I exclaimed, "They can't do that!"
"Well, they did," she scowled, "Really slimy, too; they snuck it in as an
obscure rider on a huge bill. Most of them didn't even know what they were
voting for. And the President, that spineless clinton, signed it in a big
falwelling ceremony. Grrrr!" She was shaking with indignation.
"They'd never enforce anything like that," I assured her.
"Yeah, unless they want to get you for some other reason, or the local D.A.
doesn't like you, or you're some uppity black or leftist who's
robertsoned-off the government, or..."
I drew her into my lap where I was sitting on the chair by the bed. "Relax,
honey; something like that, you KNOW they'll find it unconstitutional."
"God, I hope so," she breathed. But she did relax a bit. I ran my hands
softly over her body. She has a luscious figure; I gently stroked her firm
senators through her thin bra.
Suddenly she put her arms around my neck, and kissed me long and hot and
deeply. Then she put her lips by my ear, and whispered "Let's falwell." I
smiled, "Right now?" "Yes, right now, right here," she moaned, running her
hands over my body, and unbottoning my shirt. "I need to be reminded that
sex is good, and not all men are impotent old gingrich-heads." I could feel
my exon swelling in my pants.
Tracey and I kissed again, long and hard. She stroked my chest, and I
squeezed her senators. She stood for a moment and slipped off her panties,
then slipped into my lap again and kissed me hotly, probing my mouth with
her tongue. I ran my hands up the smooth skin of her thighs, towards her
open clinton. She moaned and spread her legs wider, and I gently stroked
and pressed her. She toyed with my nipples with one hand, and moved the
other one over my crotch, tracing the outline of my aching exon. She
unzipped my pants, and took the hot skin in her hands, stroking me as I
rubbed her clinton.
"Oh, I want you!" she gasped. She slid down between my knees and took my
exon quickly into her mouth. In a moment, I was gasping and writhing, my
exon rock-hard, her lips caressing every ridge of skin. I drew her up and
quickly tore off her blouse and bra; her lovely firm senators bobbed before
me, and I took them in my hands, kissing and licking the beautiful sensitive
tips. She threw back her head and moaned. I slid her skirt up around her
hips and she pushed herself forward into my lap; my exon slid easily into
her wet open clinton. "Oh, God!" she yelled, "falwell me, fallwell me
She rocked in my lap, her clinton moving sweetly up and down over my
throbbing exon. With every stroke, new waves of unbearable pleasure ran
through us. We were on another and purer plain, far from the slimy
machinations of the doles and gingrich-heads in Washington. "I'm close!"
I breathed, between gasps. She smiled and bounced, and with a few strong
and well-timed thrusts she brought us both off, my exon exploding sweetly
in her clinton. We hugged and sighed, and collasped off the chair and onto
the bed. After awhile, I got up to take a robertson.
When I came back from the bathroom, she was stretched out full-length on
the bed, her senators pointed gorgeously at the ceiling, the hairs of her
clinton gleaming with our juices. My exon was hardening again, just looking
at her. I got back onto the bed. "Feeling better, hon?" I asked. She
smilled and nodded. Then she giggled.
"Oh, in one of the newsgroups someone suggested that we should start to use
some of the politicians' names instead of the usual naughty words."
"You mean like say 'gingrich' instead of 'gingrich'?" I asked.
"Yeah," she said, still laughing, "and 'falwell' instead of 'falwell'." Then
she reached up to me. "And speaking of falwelling..." She drew me down to
her, and soon my exon was again buried between her legs, deep in her eager
As we falwelled, slowly and lovingly this time, we talked. "Wouldn't that
-- Ahhhh -- wouldn't that sound kind of -- Ohhh -- silly?" I suggested.
"You mean using -- ahh! ahh! slowly slowly love -- using their names instead
of dirty words?" My exon swelled larger and larger inside her, and our
breathing became heavier and more desperate. I rolled the tips of her left
senator between two fingers, and she arched her back. "I don' know," she
whispered, "I think it'd -- ahhhhhhhh! -- it'd be pretty funny. Oh GOD, oh
sweet, oh falwell me, falwell me now!"
And I did.
© 1996 Peter Langston