Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 

   Talking to a Stranger Uther Pendragon nogardneprethu@gmail.com MF wl

   "Bev," Bill repeated, "What's wrong?" I kept my silence.  "Why won't you
talk to me?" He repeated that question five times before I gave up.  You
can't outwait Bill.  When he is on a track, only direct action gets him off
-- if that.

   "My mother told me to never talk to strangers."

   "Stranger?  We've been married three years." Four, but who's counting?
Not the numbers man, that's for sure.

   "And you're stranger than anyone I ever met." He laughed at that.  Bill
has his faults, a single-track mind, inability to take a hint, and a rotten
memory -- to mention just the immediate problems.  He also has his virtues.
One is that he can laugh at himself; he can even enjoy laughing at himself.

   "So, what did I do?" He looked at me.  "What did I forget to do?" He was
getting warmer.  I was hungry, and he wasn't dressed for going out.  I
looked in the 'fridge to see what could make a quick meal.  His lunch was
still there.  He'd be famished when he thought of food.  Right now, though,
he was thinking about placating me -- and well he should.  "Aren't you
going to tell me?" Not this time.  "Did you call and I didn't get back to
you?"

   He took out his cell.  He keeps it on silent, but listens for messages
at set times -- after lunch and after dinner, for example.  There were
several messages.  The third one was from his mother.

   "Hello, darling.  Happy anniversary.  Now remember to set your alarm for
four o'clock.  Leave yourself a note to listen to this again.  Dress in a
suit, take plenty of money, and pick up Beverly at work.  Take her out to a
nice restaurant to celebrate your anniversary.  Love you both."

   He looked ashamed.  I tried to look stern, but couldn't hold back my
laughter.  He took me in his arms and hugged me.

   "You laughed!" he said.  "Have you stopped being mad at me?  Should we
go out like Mom said?"

   "You are totally hopeless."

   "And helpless.  I can program for myself, but I can't live without your
direction." That was a wild exaggeration.  He'd been employed (if underpaid
for a programmer) when I met him.  He'd kept himself fed, dressed, clean,
and punctual with nobody's help.  His apartment had been far neater than
most bachelors' places.

   "Seems to me you did for thirty-five years."

   "Not lived." Which was sweet of him to say.  So, if not quite ready to
say that I forgave him, I stopped pouting; pouting is a stupid way to spend
your anniversary.  The dinner was great, if a late meal.  After we got back
to the house, I stopped him for a kiss in the garage.

   This was one of the virtues associated with his faults.  When Bill
kissed, his attention was on the kiss.  I was thinking of next steps; I'll
swear Bill wasn't.  I broke the kiss, and we went inside and upstairs. 
Separate undressing, separate bathroom times, but we finished in the same
bed.  Bill sleeps naked, and I did this night, as well.  I left the bedside
lamp on.

   This kiss lasted even longer than the one in the garage.  If his mind
wasn't going beyond the kiss, his body was; I could feel his erection press
against me.  My only response was to lick his lips.  Soon, our tongues were
licking each other.  I broke the kiss to roll over on my back.

   "Have you forgiven me, then," he asked.

   "Yes." After all, he was the man I'd married four years before.  I'd
known he couldn't multitask back then.  And his attention, his entire
attention such as few other wives ever receive from their husbands, was now
on me.

   "Oh, I love you."

   "And I love you, too." I took his hand to guide it to my breast.

   He didn't need more direction than that.  His mouth soon followed his
hand, and his hand went lower.  I basked in his attention.  The breast he
kissed -- the right one -- grew warm; the warmth concentrated in the peak
when he sucked it.  I grew warmer under his hand cupping my mound while his
fingers stroked my labia.

   As the stroking reached my clit, the warmth grew into fire.  We were
silent except for our breathing.  He concentrated on his task; I
concentrated on my feeling.  I tensed as the fire burned brighter within
me. It coiled up, smoldered down as his kisses trailed down my breast,
leaped even higher as he managed to stroke and suck at precisely the same
time.  The fire spread to my toes and my scalp.  Then it exploded in my
center.  I convulsed.

   "Oh, Bev," Bill said.  He always reacts to my orgasms as if they were
something rare I'd created instead of something he'd done for me.  He
slipped two fingers deep into me, but left them motionless while I caught
my breath.

   As I sank down into the bliss of afterglow, he leaned over to kiss my
left breast.  Soon, his clever fingers were rubbing over my G-spot.  The
warmth spread again, concentrated again.  This time was even better because
I had his fingers to convulse around.  He may have thought so, too.

   "Darling," he said, "I feel it." When his fingers slipped out, they went
directly to my clit.  It was so sensitive that the fires started
immediately.  I must have convulsed again in less than a minute.

   "Darling," he said again.  I felt his fingers at my entryway.  He could
go on forever; I couldn't.

   "You!" I managed to croak.

   "Love you," he said.  He climbed between my knees, kissed each of my
nipples once, and positioned himself.  I watched his face as I felt him
slide into me.  Cool, his cock smoothly spread me and filled me.  It was
such a confident piece of such a diffident man.  Seated as deep as he could
go, he shifted onto his elbows and put a hand on each breast.  "I love
you," he repeated.

   "And I love you, too." I answered just before he started to move.  The
coolness disappeared as he spread warmth, then fire, with every stroke.  I
felt myself rising to meet his strokes as he sped up.  "Bill," I cried as
the fire burned though me for one more time, "Oh, Bill." He took another
stroke or two, hurling himself against me and into me.

   "Bev!" he said as he pulsed inside me.  He lay on me, heavy, sated,
warm, and dear.

   When he rolled off, I turned the lamp off and backed into a snuggle with
him.  He put the covers over us and then his arm around me under the
covers. I held that hand.  Four years is a long time.

   But not long enough.

   The End Talking to a Stranger Uther Pendragon nogardneprethu@gmail.com

   Thanks to Denny for proofing this.

   For a story of another couple's fourth anniversary:
/~Uther_Pendragon/brennan/fourth.htm

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