"Forlorn" {Pendragon} (MF rom wl lac)
FORLORN
Uther Pendragon
nogardneprethu@gmail.com
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This material is Copyright, 1997, Uther Pendragon. All
rights reserved. I specifically grant the right of downloading
and keeping ONE electronic copy for your personal reading so long
as this notice is included. Reposting requires previous
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All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as
public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination
and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly
coincidental.
# # # #
FORLORN
Uther Pendragon
nogardneprethu@gmail.com
My disappointment was absolutely ridiculous.
First of all, my wife Jeanette was overburdened. I do help
with our baby; but she has the major responsibility for child
care. She also takes a course in French Literature. It's a
level higher than the courses she'd taken previously, not beyond
her reach but a stretch. The first paper of the quarter was due
that day; and she knew that she would soon, perhaps that day,
have to present it to the class.
I teach at the University, which is why she can take one
free course. I left my office and met her at the front door.
She handed me the diaper bag and the car seat (with The Kitten,
our four-month-old baby still strapped in it). She said "Love
you, Bob; she'll probably get hungry," before rushing off to her
class.
"Love you," I called after her. And I did.
But I do wish that she had said "Happy birthday" as well.
My progress up the two flights of stairs to my closet was
interrupted three times by coeds and once by a secretary who
wanted to coo at The Kitten. "Isn't she the cutest baby in the
whole world?" I asked one coed.
"She is a darling," was the response.
I suppose that my office isn't really a closet; it has half
a window. There is room for my desk, my cellmate's desk, chairs
for the two of us, and standing room for up to three students.
Luckily, The Kitten only takes up room on the desk.
I couldn't stay depressed long in her presence. Indeed she,
Catherine Angelique Brennan to be formal, is the primary reason
that I should have been happy as a lark. We had wanted a baby
for a long time. The Kitten was here, was healthy -- an
unexpressed dark-hours worry for expectant parents -- and was the
cutest baby in the whole world.
And Jeanette's class time was my quality time. I held my
daughter against my shoulder while I read my copy of *When We
Were Very Young* to her. For swaying in time with the poetry's
beat an office chair is a good substitute for a rocker.
And the rocking reminded me of the second reason that I
should be happy. For a long period, our sex life had been
restricted. First there were the mechanical details involved in
enhancing the chances of conception. "Making a baby" is lots of
fun, but seriously trying to do so restricts your choice of
positions. Then, as her pregnancy advanced, we had to abandon
having her on top, then having me on top, and then any
penetration at all. The period immediately after The Kitten's
birth had constrained our sexual activities as well. Over the
last three months, however, the constraints have disappeared.
Interruptions had been plentiful. I think The Kitten has a
sixth sense; but Jeanette disagrees. She points out that we
hardly have a dinner which isn't interrupted either. "You just
care more about our time in bed," she says. Anyway,
interruptions can be dealt with. And they provide a great
excuse.
Before the baby, Jeanette had sometimes been reluctant to
engage in sex play before the "proper time" for bed. Nowadays,
however, Jeanette agrees that any evening nap by The Kitten
provides an opportunity that might not recur that night. For
that matter, the last feeding before bedtime has become almost a
ritual period for foreplay. Jeanette lies down on the bed, The
Kitten lies at her breast, and I get any skin left over.
This rarely extends beyond foreplay, although we might
protract the foreplay luxuriously. My oral ministrations,
originally reserved for special occasions and then makeshifts
when genital intercourse was no longer possible, now regularly
garnish our bedtimes.
And, when The Kitten is away (in sleep), the mice get to
play.
The previous night, for example, I'd teased Jeanette to the
edge and kissed and licked her over that edge. We'd all lain
there in the afterglow until The Kitten was totally done. I'd
changed her before taking her to the rocker to burp her. Our
bedroom wasn't really designed for three, but everything almost
fits; her changing table was once my dresser, and I managed to
put her in her little bed without leaving the rocker.
"Aren't you coming back?" Jeanette had asked.
"I thought that you might join me." She'd laughed but came
to sit on my knees facing me.
"Going to rock all your girls to sleep?"
I'd pulled her closer and had patted her back. "Christopher
Robin goes hoppity, hoppity," I'd begun. She stopped me with a
kiss. Somewhere in the midst of our kissing, the joke had
disappeared. The nice thing about that position is that any
spreading of my legs spreads hers more. I'd used that access to
tease her until she'd been ready. She'd broken the last kiss and
leaned back while she grasped me. That had given me the chance
for a couple of kisses on her breasts before she'd fitted us.
Then we'd rocked together. I'd slid within her until she'd been
on the edge once more. A few touches on her magic button had
taken her over. Her gasping moans and rhythmic clutching around
me, had begun my own ...
My musings were interrupted by a student. "Is Professor
Johnson here?" she asked. And then, when I pointed out that his
posted hours hadn't begun yet, "Hi, Kitten, want to come to
Jackie?" The Kitten clearly did and enjoyed a few minutes of
appreciation from somebody new. When she looked anxious, Jackie
handed her back. Johnson came in just then, still a little
early. "Professor Johnson," the girl asked, "that paper you
assigned this morning, is it due the fifth?"
"November fifth, that's right." He looked at me when the
girl left, and we both laughed.
"You have an admirer, Catherine Angelique," I said. He
grimaced good-naturedly. He'd complained some about my doing
child-care in that office, but he'd stopped after a visit from
the dean of women to tell me how strongly she supported the idea
of men participating in parenting. She came, rather than phoned,
while Johnson was in the office. Message sent, message received.
The Kitten made the mouth motions which signaled that she
was hungry. I took sixty seconds to come up with the bottle, and
she took thirty seconds to shriek her starvation. The only way I
can find to bottle-feed her is lying on my arm facing away from
me, with the tiny bottle held horizontal in my other hand. When
I'd tried it with her on her back and the bottle above her, she'd
applied the suction that she normally applies to her mother's
breast. The resulting volume of milk had almost drowned her.
I walked her out in the hall for that feeding. She would
suck a little and then look up at me. "That's right," I said.
"Mommy's not here right now. Daddy's looking after you. And
Mommy left her milk so you could eat. She loves you. And I love
you. And we'll keep you safe and warm."
The Kitten's physical needs are satisfied by bottle
feedings, but she never treats them to that blissed-out look that
she gets when she is nursing. Who can blame her? She seems to
enjoy Daddy's burping strategy, however. "Just for a handful of
silver he left us ..." I recited, pacing the hall with a swagger
and patting her firmly in time with the verse. A satisfactory
eruction accomplished, we went back to the office.
Changing diapers does not count as quality time from my
perspective, although The Kitten expresses her pleasure at losing
those encumbrances by waving her arms, kicking her legs, and
occasionally voiding her bladder. This time, however, was
without incident. My desk was safe and my office mate minimally
offended.
I leaned back with her on my shoulder and rocked silently.
Having had an exciting morning, she was soon asleep. I put my
pocket watch on the desk and let my mind stray.
There is something both comforting and sensual about having
a small life breathing against your chest. I know that Jeanette
feels the same way, and I've taken advantage of her feeling once
or twice. Mostly, we restrict ourselves to foreplay while The
Kitten is nursing, but not always.
One night, we'd been convinced that The Kitten would sleep
for hours more. We'd luxuriated in the time and privacy. I had
kissed Jeanette everywhere else before she had parted her legs
and given me access to her center. With her lying on her left
side and my lying on my right side behind her, we can look each
other in the eye while I kiss her, at least when no baby is
between us. I had savored her odor and taste while teasing her
with my tongue. Then she'd stiffened, and her eyes had focused
elsewhere. After I had sucked and licked her to a rather noisy
climax, we'd lain in quiet repletion and -- in my case -- eager
anticipation.
At which point, The Kitten had surprised us by crying. I
popped the pacifier into her mouth while I changed her, but she
clearly wanted the real thing. Barely recovered, Jeanette had
lain back with the baby on her belly while I had kissed her
gently. Soon her knees raised and spread to give me access. "She
won't go back to sleep after this one," she warned.
"I'll put her in the car seat on the bed and shake the bed
to keep her entertained."
"Est-ce-que ton papa est bete?" she asked our child. "Non?
Est-il *tres* bete?" Catherine's responses to these
conversations being silent, Jeanette reports them to me. "She
says that you are *very* silly."
Meanwhile, I'd been lying far down the bed with Jeanette's
thighs and quim within easy reach. I had given her an occasional
kiss on the ribs, but only my hand had done anything serious.
I'd been careful to keep my motions gentle, but the physical
pleasure of brushing that fine hair and smoothing those thin lips
had slowly been overtaken by the emotional pleasure of seeing
Jeanette's renewed arousal. My arousal hadn't been in question,
by then it had become painful. "Are you okay?" I'd asked her
perfunctorily, being certain that she'd taken care of the
contraception.
"Bob?"
"Let me try this way." She'd looked a little dubious, but
had allowed me to raise her legs and slip under them. Lying at
right angles to her, I'd parted her lips again. That time,
however, I'd had more than a finger to slip inside. That
position is a little clumsy, there being no muscle pattern to
move one in and out. All that had meant, however, was that my
entry had been excruciatingly slow as her warmth enclosed me
millimeter by millimeter.
Once enclosed in that moist clasp, I'd only been able to
rock side to side to generate internal friction, but that hadn't
been my main goal. My fingers, still on her labia, had resumed
their caresses. She'd turned from The Kitten to look at me as
I'd gone further. A few strokes around her clitoral area had
been answered by her stiffening and muffled gasps. She had
reached her right hand to find my left. Then she'd given me the
gift of ultimate intimacy. Silently, she had spasmed around me.
It had been a minute before her eyes met mine again. "I
love you," had been my greeting. Asked then and there whether
any other gift could have matched that, I would have laughed at
the idea. So why was I feeling so forlorn today?
"Love you, too," she'd responded.
"Didn't feel lonely?" That had been her complaint when we'd
tried that position long before. It does separate all of of our
bodies but the critical parts.
"Felt loved," she'd answered. "All my family loving me."
She'd extricated her hand from mine to hold The Kitten to her
breast. Then her left hand had pushed its way between my thighs.
I'd parted them immediately but warned her, "I can't hold
back if you do that. There won't be anything for later."
"Don't want later. Want now. Want my husband." Excited by
both her words and her hand, I'd resumed my rocking from side to
side. Rocking like that I had slipped a mere inch into and out
of her slick warmth. Her eyes locked to mine had communicated
her love as clearly as her feather-light caresses to my scrotum
had communicated desire. When she had tightened herself around
me in time to my strokes, I'd lost it. She'd greeted each pulse
of my seed with a quiet "yes."
Anyway, it was time to pack The Kitten back up. I did so,
looked for Jeanette, and headed for my classroom. This was the
bottleneck of our schedule. If she were running a little late,
she'd head for the classroom where I was to teach next. She was
not there, however, and I brought The Kitten inside. We had two
minutes until the scheduled beginning of class, but the fuss at
my entrance made clear that no one would settle down before
Jeanette arrived. "Oh Professor Brennan, can I hold her?" were
the first words that I heard.
"She stays in the car seat" I ruled. "Her mother is
expected momentarily, and this is a class in history. It's time
to turn in your papers." But then I relented. "You can look if
not touch. Isn't she the cutest baby in the whole world?"
"Does that question count on the final grade?" asked one
coed. There is one smartass in every class.
"Thirty percent," I responded. "What's your answer,
Deborah."
Deborah, who was a joy to have in the class when -- and only
when -- we were discussing history, answered, "Sorry Professor
Brennan. I have a nephew who is *really* the cutest baby in the
whole world."
"Well, I'll excuse you in that case. But if you plan to
become a professional historian, you'll have to put aside these
personal biases and respond only to the objective facts." For
some unfathomable reason the entire class broke out into roars of
laughter at this.
"Hello Kitten," came an unmistakable voice from the doorway.
"Are you keeping Daddy's class entertained?" The Kitten
brightened noticeably at Jeanette's appearance. Jeanette grabbed
the car seat and the diaper bag; she knew that time was critical.
"Parlerons," she said to me. "Nous t'aimons."
"Je vous aime." I responded, before turning to the class.
"Europe," I said to them, "is a matter of physical geography in
one sense. In another sense, it is an idea. Three of the great
seedbeds of civilization were in contact with each other, Nile,
Mesopotamia, and the Indus. The lesser, but still early,
civilization of Crete was in touch with Egypt. With the spread
of Aryans, or speakers of Indo-European languages, contact with
Indian civilization was interrupted. Meanwhile other groups,
most notably the Phoenicians came to the fore. Joined by various
Aryan groups which had now adopted civilization, these formed a
multicultural exchange of ideas and trade. We might say that the
Eastern Mediterranean civilization had begun.
"This civilization came to be politically dominated by
successive semi-barbarian Aryan groups from its edge. First the
Persians, then the Macedonians, and finally the Romans." If they
absorbed one percent of that summary, they were faster on the
uptake than I have any right to expect. Mostly, I was dropping
the hint that the history we studied had a history of its own. I
took a breath and slowed way down.
"In one of the most troublesome provinces of the Roman
Empire, a strange sect arose, and spread, and is spreading still.
Christianity was not European by birth, but it will define Europe
for the rest of our study. And it is the subject of this week's
selections." They were back in the classroom and starting to pay
attention. They moved into the arguments historians make around
the birth and spread of Christianity.
"Schweitzer's approach is theological, not historical," said
one student. He was summarizing what the editor had said and
making me suspect that he had read the introduction and not the
passage.
"Right," I replied. "He was a theologian dealing with a
theological question, and his summary -- which is what we have
here -- was theological. But he raised one methodological point
which every historian should be aware of. What Schweitzer did in
his book was to look at a long sequence of studies of "The
Historical Jesus," and look at each author's positions on
theological and moral issues aside from that book. Guess what?
"Each author's description of Jesus' positions was a good
description of his own position.
"Now this is an extreme example, but it is a common danger.
When you 'go behind' your source texts, you are in danger of
replacing uncertain or conflicting reports with definite-but-
imagined events."
This started them off. I like teaching, and I especially
like teaching majors. A "problems" course like this one is about
doing history more than it is about the particular issues. Read
one source and you have a clear idea what happened; read five
sources and you have some glimpse of the real questions about
what happened. You also see the questions which the secondary
sources had to struggle with.
Maybe two-thirds of these students were interested in such
questions. One or two others engaged themselves deeply in the
particular issues. Half of the interested group actually
considered these questions between discussion sessions instead of
reading (maybe) the book and winging it when the talk started. A
minute before the class was scheduled to end, I started handing
back the papers from the week before. However interested in the
discussion, they were more interested in grades. Some of them,
however, wanted to hammer down points that I had moved the class
past. I walked out into the hall before responding, "Anybody who
doesn't have class can follow me to the cafeteria."
Four took me up on it. Two were still arguing with each
other when I left for my lecture class on "Intro. to Western
Civilization." Those students straggle in over the first eight
minutes of class and would bolt if I ran one minute over the
scheduled end of class.
Then I spent several hours in the library. Jeanette and I
are working on a book which involves a small slice of the
diplomatic records of France. The diplomatic history of one
country, however, necessarily involves other countries. I have a
long list of names, some of them of dubious spelling, which were
mentioned one time or more in the correspondence. So I look in
disintegrating copies of *Who's Who* and then the index of book
after book for some reference to the person who might fit that
name.
When I left those bright lights for the outside dusk, my
mood paradoxically brightened. I'd found two possibles, and I
was convinced that a birthday celebration awaited me at home. My
pace quickened.
Jeanette was nursing The Kitten in the rocker when I got
home. I took a minute to hang up my coat before lounging in the
doorway to watch. "Voulons nous laisser ton papa nous regarder?"
Jeanette asked her.
"I get to watch," I argued. "I haven't had my welcome-home
kiss yet."
"She says that you can listen to Maman's report on her day
in class, but any watching has to be surreptitious." Which is
pretty fancy vocabulary for a four-month-old.
"So! How was your day?"
"Well it started out nervous," she said. She was talking to
the baby again, speech in the pauses of nursing. "I mentioned to
Papa last night. I wasn't sure that Professor Schwartz. Wanted
the paper written en Francais. We read the books in French. But
we talk in English in class. But I wrote my paper in French.
And didn't think to wonder until last night. So, when he asked
who was ready. I said that I wasn't sure. Half the class
laughed. I asked whether he wanted it in French or English. All
the class laughed. I could have dropped through the floor. 'Are
you ready in either language?' he asked. I said 'yes.' He
finished collecting the papers.
"Then he asked me to go first. I got up, stumbled a little
in my talk. Then I took a deep breath. Like Papa says to do. I
read the entire paper in dead silence. 'Are there any
questions?' the professor asked. There were none. 'Are there
any comments? No?' He called for another paper. The boy read
it in English. The other students asked some questions. Then
two girls went through the same process. The questions were
rather savage on one. After the last paper of the day he
mentioned me again. 'Mme. Brennan doesn't know the procedures.
You think that is very funny. But she can do three things. She
can write French and speak French. And she can present a paper
after the class has laughed at her. In January, she will know
the procedures. Which of you will learn one of her three
accomplishments by then?' Ta Maman wasn't the only one blushing.
"Anyway. Several students made nice afterwards. I had to
stay. Sorry for the trouble I caused. But it was a great day."
She drifted off into murmured French. Finally, "Finit tu? As tu
fini totalment? ... Il nous guettait ouvertment?" She turned
to me. "She says that you have to do the burping because you
weren't sufficiently surreptitious."
"What's the French for 'sufficiently surreptitious'"? I
challenged. I don't think that you can spy overtly, even in
French.
The shirt was on its second day, anyway. I dumped my
pocket, tossed a diaper over my shoulder, and took The Kitten
away from her mother. For someone who had decreed this change,
she looked less happy about my "punishment" than I felt. Once on
my shoulder, however, her back was being jarred too often for her
to remember where she would rather be. "Wherever I am" [pat]
"there's always Pooh" [pat].... When I got to the part about
dragons, I laughed. Christopher Robin put words in Pooh's mouth
just the way Jeanette put words in The Kitten's.
I might object to Jeanette's game of presenting the baby's
position on all these issues if I didn't like positions so often.
A couple of weeks earlier, I'd been in the grips of my fall cold
and sleeping on the couch to avoid passing it on. In the middle
of the night, I'd awakened to the covers being moved. I had soon
stiffened in her cool hand. By the time I'd figured out that my
groin was hardly likely to be freer of germs than my head, her
warm lips were on my glans. If my erection had come easily, my
release had taken a long time. But she had tongued and sucked me
in her warm mouth silently, patiently, even eagerly. After I had
come, she spat it out onto a Kleenex and wrapped me in the covers
again. "She said to tell you that we miss you," she had
whispered. After she'd visited the bathroom, she returned
directly to the bedroom without another word. I had asked her
the next evening -- professors, unlike students, don't miss
classes for colds -- whether I had been suffering from delusions.
"Well," she'd said. "We *do* miss you."
The patting produced a bubble with an unfortunate amount of
milk. "Maman went to such effort to produce that and get it into
you," I said while Jeanette rushed to keep the spill on the spit
cloth.
"Papa just wants you to drink a little less," she said. A
calumny. Between growth spurts I do a little tasting, but I have
never asked her to leave some for me. I have to check the
quality of my daughter's nutrition, don't I?
I make a good spaghetti sauce if I say so myself. Jeanette
had thawed some out for dinner and kept the water on simmer for
the spaghetti. It's a meal I enjoy, but not what I would call a
feast these days. We had a nice, long, warm, kiss before dinner.
"Welcome home," said Jeanette. The Kitten had a wind-up mobile
to entertain her and only interrupted us once. It's what passes
for a quiet meal for two these days. We discussed the world's
events. The stock market was trembling.
"It's a bubble," I said. "The first of these were The
Mississippi Bubble and The South Seas Bubble. They lasted a
couple of years. This one has gone what? twelve? fifteen? You
can't really tell, the beginnings are indefinite, but the ends
are certain."
"Bob, I was reading that a thousand dollars put into the
stock market was guaranteed to be worth more than a thousand
dollars in twenty years."
"Not quite. What the fine print says is that if we put all
our savings into the stock market and took no benefits from it,
reinvested every dollar of dividends and even paid the taxes on
those dividends out of other earnings, then we'd be certain to
break even. And that's a lie. My father says that the people
promoting a particular stock would be thrown in jail if they
dared present the arguments that the people promoting the stock
market as a whole do."
"Thrown in jail?"
"Well... The official penalty is prison. Stock swindlers
don't serve prison time. But every stock offering has to say
that previous growth doesn't guarantee future growth. He has a
long list of investments that 'couldn't go down' which later
crashed.
"Let's ask him about this at Christmas, if it isn't moot by
then. This bubble could last another two years; sometime I'll
tell you about Disraeli. It could burst tomorrow. I remember
this much of what he told me: a stock can be valued at the
dividend it is paying now; it can be valued at the profit it's
making now; it can be valued at the increased profit you think
that it will make in the future; it can be valued at the
increased price that you think that others will pay for it
sometime in the future.
"Marketers call the last, 'total return.' The dividend plus
the increase in price is the 'return' on the investment.
Economists call it a bubble or the 'greater fool theory.'
"Anyway I'm talking too much. I'll put you to sleep."
"No you won't. Anyway, why was everybody laughing in
class?" So I told that story. "You do overuse that phrase."
"But it is true." And, on that cue, the cutest baby in the
whole world cried that she was tired of being wet. Maybe she was
tired of being ignored. She certainly was drenched, but that
only seems to bother her sometimes. "I think she's had it," I
told Jeanette after the change. "It was a big day."
"Try to keep her awake until she's hungry again." So I
talked with The Kitten and enticed her with a rattle. She's
figured out that the noise is the result something that *she*
does. She's also figured out that Daddy will give it back to her
if she drops it; in case we ever get her a dog, she practices
playing fetch with her father. We also played "Ferris wheel"
until I was tired. She was wide awake, if a little fussy, when
her mother came in. "I'll take over for a bit while you do the
dishes," she said. "She gets hungry faster when she sees me."
"No dessert?" I still had visions of a chocolate cake with
chocolate icing and 31 candles hidden somewhere.
"Not tonight."
After I did the dishes, I went back to the bedroom to check
on the schedule. Jeanette was lying on the bed in just her
jeans. The Kitten was nursing. The only light came in the door
from the dining room. "Are you on a deadline?" she asked. I
thought a minute. I could get through the next day without any
work tonight.
"Brief case needs to be repacked." A college teacher lives
a different life on Tuesdays and Thursdays than he lives on
Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays.
"After that, would you like to cuddle?" This is what is
known as a rhetorical question. I switched the contents of my
briefcase from the first life to the second and put the briefcase
next to the outside door. However overdressed Jeanette was, I
stripped before coming to bed.
We used to each have our own side of the bed. When Jeanette
nurses, however, she lies nearly in the middle. I get whichever
side, this time the left, doesn't have a baby. For a while, I
just spooned into Jeanette's back and held them both. My left
hand covered much of The Kitten's back and my right could reach
Jeanette's forehead and toy with her hair.
I started to kiss her shoulder. Some cuddle times she
objects to that. "I just want a cuddle," she can say. This time
she murmured something encouraging, if unintelligible. She
snuggled back against me. There isn't an awful lot of places one
can kiss in that position; but two of them, the back of her ear
and the corner of her neck, are special places for Jeanette. I
worked up to them slowly. She shivered when I finally kissed the
spot on her neck. The shiver must have reached her breast,
because The Kitten stirred and stiffened. "Ta mere aime sa jeune
fille," Jeanette told her. "Et ton papa aime sa jeune fille."
"Et ton papa aime ta mere," I added.
"Ta mere l'apprenait," Jeanette said. She rolled her
clothed butt against my semi-erection, which hardened in
response. "Et ta mere aime ton pere *beaucoup*. Mais tu dormira
bientot." And we would have to limit our expressions of love
until The Kitten was asleep. I retreated to the less sensitive
parts of Jeanette's back until The Kitten slumped against my
hand.
Then I had to get up. The Kitten can't quite sleep through
a burping, but she gave a good imitation. "Bring me a washcloth
when you're done, okay?" Jeanette said. This was less a request
than an offer. When I brought the cloth, Jeanette carefully
dabbed the breast on which The Kitten had been nursing.
Once on the left side of the bed, I kissed her deeply before
kissing a line down to her left breast. I kissed all around that
breast before settling down to the nipple. The Kitten had been
so sleepy that she left a little, and -- being as gentle as I
could -- I sucked it out. "You got dessert, after all," Jeanette
said. And it was much sweeter than anything you can pour from a
bottle. The main treat, however, was that I was sucking from the
woman I love.
I stopped immediately when she pushed on my forehead. "I
love you," I said.
"Love you, too. Do you think that you could help with the
jeans?" I pulled from the bottom as she held on to her panties.
When I'd hung the jeans up, I turned to take the panties from her
hand. She was still wearing them.
"Want help with those too?"
"Please." I pulled on the bottoms while she raised herself.
I pulled slowly, watching for the first line of her pubic hair to
be revealed by the slowly moving band of elastic. It wasn't.
Instead, there was a pale mound, naked as the day she was born.
By the time that I could see the lower lips, equally bare, I was
totally hard. "Happy birthday," she said. I couldn't think of a
reply. Instead I bent over and reverently kissed the smooth
mound area.
"Oh love!" I finally managed.
"You like it?"
"Oh darling!" It wasn't a matter of whether I liked the
smooth skin better than the lovely hair which normally graced
that area. Jeanette had done this for me! She was trying to
entice me. And succeeding, she did whenever she tried. For that
matter, Jeanette is often enticing without trying at all.
I scattered kisses over all the shaven skin that I could
reach from that position. I smelled the faint menthol left over
from the shaving cream and, cutting through that, Jeanette's own
heady scent. My final kiss was on the point where her lips meet
and the crease begins.
She took my straightening from that position as a cue to
roll to her side. After I clambered into bed behind her, I
planted one kiss on the point of her hipbone before we arranged
ourselves into the familiar fit. Far up the bed I could see
Jeanette's face, between her lovely breasts, in the light from
the doorway. I was in fainter light, however, and could just see
the pale lips before me. I kissed and licked their surface. I
parted them gently to reveal a thin reddish line between.
Then I got a full taste of her essence. The flavor is
indescribable, and indescribably heady. My erection hardened to
the point of pain, but I was too busy with my tongue to worry
about it. Staring into her eyes, I licked the little nubbin. I
could see her abdomen tighten, then feel her thighs tighten
around me. When her eyes broke from mine, I spread my lips to
cover the clitoral area. I sucked gently. One last lick took
her over. She shuddered and gasped. Then she moaned. Then she
collapsed.
We lay entangled. I pulled the sheet from under my legs to
cover her. The room was warm, but not warm enough for her amount
of perspiration. Slowly her breathing returned to normal. "Did
you enjoy your birthday present?" she asked.
"I still am," I said. I kissed her mound lightly to
demonstrate.
"Do you mind if the rest waits till Saturday?"
"There's more?" I asked quite honestly.
"I don't have to bake you the chocolate cake I had intended,
but did you really think that your parents had forgotten you? Or
Mrs. Baker!" She had a real point there. Mrs. Baker, my
father's secretary, is the keeper of his calendar. One of her
jobs is to remind him when his children's birthdays and other
events are coming up. It sounds cold, but he didn't have
business appointments scheduled the evenings of school plays. "I
have those packages hidden away. They're part of the party on
Saturday. I was too busy for the cake the last two days.
Besides, I wanted you to appreciate my gift in splendid
isolation."
"I'd rather appreciate it in the context of my lovely wife.
Besides I can't stand the sight of blood."
"You really liked it?" As if I hadn't shown my appreciation
quite recently, or -- for that matter -- as if I would criticize
anything that she had done when I was lying like this.
"I really like it. Couldn't you tell? I can wait till
Saturday for the rest of my gifts if I get to play with this
one." That got her giggling. I kissed the newly-shaven mound
for a while before moving off toward her thigh.
"Aren't you going to come up here?" she asked.
"Later. I'm going to play with my birthday gift for a
while."
Jeanette, already more-or-less covered by the sheet, pulled
the blanket over her as well. I had breathing room near my head
but no clear view outside the covers. I concentrated on taste.
And, a little later, touch. While my mouth was
concentrating on the top part of her labia; I treated my fingers
to the bottom part. I gently rubbed the inner lips against each
other. Gradually, she responded to my fingers, lips, and tongue.
I slipped one, and then two, fingers inside her. Then I turned
them so that the heel of my hand was against my chin. It isn't
the most comfortable position for me, but the results are worth
it. I wiggled those fingers until I could feel that their pads
were on the little bump deep inside.
I gently massaged that bump until Jeanette stiffened. I let
my fingers rest while I licked her clitoris as gently as
possible. Then I licked the entire area around it. When her
breath caught, I let my tongue rest and went back to my fingers.
"Bob?" she called.
It wasn't the sort of question that needed an answer. But I
gave one anyway. Keeping my fingers still, I pursed my lips to
kiss all the clitoral area. "Ihm hmmm," I said. I think she
heard me, but I know she felt me.
"Bob?" I kept up a light suction there, and tasted her once
with my tongue. "Bob?" I eased up on the suction, but resumed
the motion with my fingers. Her hands gripped my head through
the covers, clutching me tighter against her. She was almost
there, but I didn't want to hurry. Again, I stilled my fingers
and returned to very light licks over the area around her
clitoris. "Ah?" I began an in-and-out motion with my fingers,
making sure that the pads still were rubbing the bump. "OHH!" I
placed my lips on the area without any suction. I was still
rubbing with my fingers. She moaned and stiffened further. I
sucked hard and sped up my finger's motion. Moaning
continuously, she went over the edge.
She clutched around my fingers again and again. I kept them
moving when I could. The clasp of her hands held me there while
the motion of her hips tried to throw me off. Still maintaining
the suction, I flicked my tongue across her clitoral area each
time she tightened around my fingers.
I love my wife, and Jeanette is an adorable woman in
situation after situation. The moment of her orgasm, however,
transcends other situations. Being present, especially being so
intimately present as I had been, is a nearly-religious
experience. I lay with her thighs clasping my head and her
vagina clutching my fingers, inches from the epicenter, and
gloried in the proximity. I felt awe at what I witnessed, and
smugness that it was a response to my ministrations.
Finally, she relaxed. I withdrew my fingers and took the
breath that I hadn't realized that I was holding. The scent that
came with that deep breath nearly took me into my own climax. I
shook. It was the wrong time to disturb Jeanette with any motion
of mine, even if I could manage it. So I lay there and sang,
"Bob loves Jeanette, Bob loves Jeanette, ..."
"Are we going to sleep like this tonight?" Jeanette asked.
I used to sing that to her the last thing at night. I haven't
used it much lately.
"I'm willing," I said, although I would wake up awfully
stiff if I did.
"I'm not. Come on up here."
"Indian giver!" I said. "Okay. G'bye birthday gift." I
gave the naked slit one last, lingering, kiss before extricating
myself. Jeanette turned onto her back. It took a bit of time
for me to wash my face, turn off the light in the next room,
rearrange the covers, and slip in next to her. "You are
indubitably the sexiest woman in the whole wide world."
We had a nice kiss. My tongue licked hers, hers pushed into
my mouth, I sucked it. We rested lip-to-lip for a minute before
I kissed all over her face and ears. I was stroking her side
throughout. When I settled back down, I arranged the pillow to
raise my head enough that it was barely touching her arm. Then
we settled down to another slow kiss with our tongues playing
tag. When I stroked between her legs, the hairlessness surprised
me anew. With the preparation she had already had, she was soon
ready for my finger's entry. I gathered moisture from within her
vagina for each upward stroke.
When my finger first passed over her clitoris, she gasped in
my mouth. I broke the kiss. "I love you," I said. And love her
I did. For the third time that night, her abdominal muscles were
tightening in preparation.
She reached towards my groin before I thought that she was
quite ready. "Bob, please," she said. I kissed her mouth quite
briefly before getting into position. I slipped up and down her
valley four times, being careful to pass over the very top each
time. She reached down to position me. Then I slid into her
warmth.
Her heavenly softness slowly enveloped me. "Darling," I
said.
"Oh yes," she said. And it was yes as I stroked in and out.
I was afraid that the voluptuous clasp would take me over before
her, but I needn't have worried. My fourth stroke brought a moan
from her, my fifth met a much greater tightness. Then she was
rhythmically tightening around me as she was writhing under me.
Her moans were rising in tone, and they were only interrupted by
brief, sobbing, inhalations.
I thrust in and out through that clasping. I was losing the
ability to restrain my own orgasm. "Love you!" I managed to gasp
out. Then I drove into her and grunted and gasped and shook and
gushed. And dribbled. She was still clasping around my organ as
it softened.
After I collapsed over her, her rigid form went through one
last, long, shudder. Then she lay under me as limp as I was.
When I finally caught my breath and moved aside, she was
nearly asleep. My "I love you," went unanswered.
I woke to The Kitten's crying in the middle of the night.
Jeanette, despite the maternal instinct, slept until I placed her
baby on her breast. She must have wakened during the feeding,
though. The Kitten was back in her crib in the morning.
The End
Forlorn
Uther Pendragon
nogardneprethu@gmail.com
1997/12/12
2000/07/14
2010/11/01
This is one of a series of stories about the Brennans.
The next story in the series is:
elise.txt "For Elise"
The first story in the series is:
forever.txt "Forever"
The directory to the entire series is:
brennan.txt Brennan Stories Directory
For a non-Brennan story about another couple who manage to
cope with a child while also enjoying a sex life, see:
another.txt
"Another" </a>
The directory to all my stories can be found at:
index.txt
Index to Uther Pendragon's ftp site