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. All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as public
figures in the background, are figments of my imagination.  Any resemblance
to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

   The Wrong Question Uther Pendragon nogardneprethu@gmail.com MF wl

   "But Mom, I love him."

   "I'm sure you do, Sasha.  All I'm saying is . . ."

   "You think it's puppy love."

   "I don't either." Helen thought it was closer to 'bitch in heat' than to
'puppy love,' but saying so would be a sure way to lose her daughter. 
"Remember Steve?"

   "That was puppy love."

   "I'm not so sure.  The thing is, I was in love in high school."

   "With Dad?"

   "No.  We met in college."

   "Oh, yeah."

   "But there were boys -- boyS plural -- that I was in love with in high
school.  Give yourself a little time.  Go to college.  Meet an entirely
different assortment of boys.  If you still love John, fine.  Dad and I
don't dislike John.  We're just worried about your locking yourself in. 
And, another thing."

   "Yeah.  Seems this one is enough.  You think I don't love him."

   "I think you should wait.  But, if you don't, go to Dr.  Metcalfe. 
You'll have to pay your own bill, but I've already given her my permission.
If you ask for a prescription for the Pill, she'll give you one without
telling us."

   "You're saying . . ."

   "I'm saying that you should wait.  If you meet the man you want to spend
your life with in college, you'll always be sorry you had sex before
meeting him.  On the other hand, there are worse things to be sorry about.
And having a baby before meeting him is high on the list.  Anyway, you've
heard what I have to say."

   "Yes.  And you've said way too much."

   Helen thought Sasha had heard way too little.  She'd said it all, but
how much had her daughter heard?  But repeating herself wouldn't get any
more across.

   She left Sasha's room thinking it could always be worse.  She could have
asked, "But, Mommy, why are you certain that a woman is always sorry that
her husband wasn't her first?" But Sasha wasn't thinking that, wasn't
thinking about anybody but Sasha and -- maybe -- John.

   Thank God, when it was time for Bobby to have this conversation, it
would be with Terry.  And, thinking of Terry, it was time to go to bed and
report.  Terry was already in bed.  She could tell he noticed that she
didn't lock the door, but he was pretending not to look.  When she dropped
her robe on the chair, he silently lifted the covers.  She got in facing
him, and he straightened his legs.  He put the covers over her.  They were
facing each other from inches away.

   "Make any headway?" he whispered.

   "With a teen?  If hormones don't have mouths, how come she can hear them
so much better than she can hear me?"

   "She doesn't hear them; she merely obeys them."

   "Yeah." Well, Sasha would or, more likely, wouldn't follow her mother's
advice.  Helen hoped that she'd follow the advice about the Pill if she
didn't follow the advice about John.  Well, sufficient unto the day is the
evil thereof.  She stared at Terry with another worry on her mind.

   "Something wrong?" he asked.

   "Terry?"

   "Yes."

   "Are you ever sorry you weren't my first?"

   "After all this time?  I'll tell you, you are obsessing about the wrong
question." She wasn't obsessing.  The conversation had naturally brought
the question to mind.  "I'm damn glad you didn't marry Al."

   "You mean it?"

   "Of course.  He was your first; I'm your regular.  I may not wake up
every day thinking 'Helen could have married Al.' I only think about him
when you bring him up.  But I do wake up happy that I married you."

   Oh, Terry!" He meant it.  "Wait here." She went to turn the knob on the
door.  She dropped the nightgown on the chair.  When Terry swung the covers
back this time, his pajamas were under his pillow.  She backed in, and he
tucked the sheet and blanket over her before kissing her shoulder.

   "Bobby wouldn't." He was probably right; Bobby hadn't burst into their
room in years.

   "It's not locking out Bobby; it's locking out the world."

   "Love you," he said when his hand cupped her breast.  She could feel him
hard against the backs of her legs.  Good!  She wanted him; it was nice she
wouldn't have to work to get him ready.  His hand went between her legs as
soon as she rolled onto her back.  When he felt how moist she was, he
kissed her breast.  The suction on her nipple and the strokes on her clit
brought her from ready to eager.

   "Come in." He knelt between her legs and pushed into her.  Considerate
even after such a plain invitation, he left a hand between their bellies
with a thumb on her clit.  The thumb tickling her clit, the cock stroking
in and out of her, the mind that never worried that she had come to him as
used goods, all were the same man.  She felt herself soar.  She dug her
heels into the back of his knees to push herself up against him.  She could
feel it coming, looming over her.  And, then . . .

   It hit!  "Oh Terry." The climax threw her against him.  She felt waves
of fire coursing through her, followed by waves of pleasure.

   He was two strokes behind her.  She could feel him going out and in
through her spasms, and out again.  Then he drove into her; his face rose
above hers as he pressed her hips deeper into the mattress.  There was a
throbbing within her inner clutching.

   "God!" he moaned.

   Moments later, he was lying on her.  He was heavy, but it was the weight
of love.  She hugged him until he rolled them over.

   "Sorry," he said.

   "Don't be.  I love you."

   "And I love you." She knew he did.  What he'd said earlier had been more
convincing.  After a minute, they arranged themselves in the familiar
spoon. They really should put their nightclothes back on.  The hell with
it! She'd locked the door.

   "I'm just glad," she said as they settled into sleep, "that the
discussion with Bobby will be your responsibility."

   "Oh, I don't know."

   "Terry!"

   "Let's see if that one turns you on, too."

   "Silly!  Talking to Sasha didn't turn me on; talking to you did."

   "Hmm?  Well, it's nice of you to say so.  I love you."

   "Yes."

   The end The Wrong Question Uther Pendragon nogardneprethu@gmail.com

   My thanks to Denny for proofreading this.

   Another story of parents worrying about their child:
/~Uther_Pendragon/story/lock.htm, "Locksmiths"

   The index to almost all my stories:
/~Uther_Pendragon/index.htm