From: bckrub@aol.com (Backrub)
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories
Subject: Backrub "Once... You're Rubbed... By Amy... " (mf, rom)
Date: Sun, 11 Feb 1996 17:01:49 GMT

		 Once... you're rubbed... by Amy...

[This particular story is based on an unfinished (the creep! <g>)
story by Amy , posted on a.s.s. a few months ago. I have rewritten the
story and finished it, but from the man's perspective. The original
story was wonderful, IMHO, but it begged for an ending. And since I'm
a guy, I changed a few things. I said this was rewritten from the
man's perspective and, hey, we also tell things differently sometimes.
One of the reasons I liked the story was it did such a great job of
expressing the magic and insecurity of first meetings, of the
beginnings of relationships. I've had a few pretty magical beginnings,
so the story particularly appealed to me. Please understand that "Amy"
in this story is now a fictional character. I've never had the
pleasure of meeting Amy and she's attached, even married. We have no
personal connection. This is work of fiction, and although I tried to
remain reasonably true to Amy's original theme and story line, an old
"ex" of mine figures into some of the character development. Amy has
shown that SHE can tell the difference between fantasy and reality,
and I'm reasonably sure that I can. I hope that you can do so as
well.]

	It would be more interesting if I could say that it started
out as a normal day, but it didn't start that way at all. This is the
story of how I met this fascinating woman, her best friend, and her
dog. The story also involves Brad Pitt, but his involvement is sorta
beside the point. Perhaps I should stop for a moment. I'm sure he's
NOT beside the point to lots of the women who are reading this.
Already, just at the mention of his name and the prospect of his
appearing in this story, I'll bet at least a dozen of you have already
made adjustments to your clothing to permit easier and earlier access
when I mention his name again and particularly if the story involves
his taking off his shirt. We'll, if that's all that's going to turn
you on, then rezip your pants. He's in the story, but not for long and
he doesn't go home with you, he goes home with... well, that would be
giving things away.

	Since this story is about a big event in my life, you might as
well know a bit more about me. My name is Mike, I'm 37, 6'2", 175
lbs., long black hair, tied in back during business hours. I run a
bookstore in a medium-sized Mid-western city (based on the non-coastal
definition of "medium sized"). After getting shot and watching friends
die in the service, finishing college and working at a marine biology
lab, teaching high school and working with environmental groups, I
"settled down" to owning and managing this bookstore. I've always
liked bookstores. They attract interesting people, and allow you to
keep a roof over your head without completely becoming an adult. Since
this is a university town, there's a market for all sorts of
interesting stuff and I don't have to depend on Jackie Collins and
Stephen King (Jackie? Stephen? Just kidding, OK? You are the LED of my
cash register, my bottom line, my cash cow, especially around
Christmas). This city, and my connections, are substantial enough so
that I can get promotional events from publishers and authors. That's
how Brad Pitt fits in. Mr. Pitt (OK, Brad, I'm not calling anyone
younger than me "Mr.") had written a book on fly fishing in the wake
of "A River Runs Through It," and we'd met a couple years before. I
got up the nerve to call him and he agreed to fly in on his way to New
York for a book-signing event. After we'd finished for the day I
suggested stopping at a bar for a few drinks. He demurred, in keeping
with his desire not to be mobbed and maintain some semblance of
privacy. So we (Brad, me and his bodyguard Barney) walked from the
bookstore and I went into the bar, leaving Brad and Barney outside
talking with a few normal people like normal people. Barney, by the
way, is the size of the other one, but is neither as upbeat nor as
unnervingly obnoxious as the purple dinosaur.

	I noticed her almost as soon as I walked through the front
door. She was a regular in the bookstore, looking charmingly clunky
but also with an unmistakable concentration of intelligence. She
bought and had me order computer books, "Bart Simpson's Guide to
Life," a few cookbooks. You are what you read. I'd always noticed her
but never had the courage to introduce myself or talk with her beyond,
"That'll be $24.95, ma'am."

	So I walked through the door of the old "Brew and Barf," spoke
briefly with a few friends sitting near the door, looked around and
there she was, sitting at a table across the room with another woman
who I recognized as one of her friends. I didn't hesitate to wave and
smile but after an initial warm set of return smiles, I was faced with
the age-old "do you make a fool out of yourself - again" dilemma.
Hanging out with Brad all day left me with a nice false sense of
invincibility, so I strode across the bar, came up behind her and
briefly clamped my hands down on her shoulders.

	"So, never seen you here before! Come here often? What's a
nice woman like you doing in a place like this? Any other cheesy lines
you haven't heard yet tonight?" Like I said, I excel at making a fool
of myself. I was in good form.

	She said "Hi," I asked if I could sit down, we went through
formal introductions (Me Mike, You Amy, She Shelly) and began
stumbling through small talk. The stumbling included her tossing her
drink onto the floor, where it found it's place amongst the sawdust
and I don't want to think of what else.

	These woman were sharp. They didn't play it up, and they might
have felt nervous being too intelligent around a man, particularly
when they did not yet know that I adore smart women. But after talking
about life in town, I got them to talk about their work and from that
point on I was Butch Cassidy, asking myself, "Who ARE these guys?"

	I was having a great old time. I felt very comfortable and I
had the impression the feeling was mutual. After a while, Shelly got
up and said she had to get home to ensure a clean house for visitors
the next day. Shel was a delight, but my heart skipped a beat knowing
that Amy and I might now be able to concentrate more on being socially
awkward one-on-one and not caring about it.

	I should note as an aside, that when Shelly left the bar she
literally walked right into Brad Pitt, who was still talking with
people just outside. She shrieked, "You're Brad Pitt!" He laughed and
within two minutes he was thoroughly charmed. That night Brad Pitt was
doing housecleaning into the "wee hours" talking with Shelly while
Barney sat in the living room mumbling about how his employer was
beyond his comprehension. I don't want to say more except to suggest
that you take a look at the June issue of People Magazine and to say
that now, when Shelly has an orgasm and she's looking into Brad Pitt's
eyes, she's no longer holding a movie magazine in her spare hand with
his picture.

	Back to the bar.

	With Shelly's departure I was faced with the anticipation of
spending time "alone" with Amy, or at least as alone as you get with
friends briefly stopping by every so often; and also the fear of
screwing up big time. I suggested trying out the video trivia games.
She was slightly resistant at first but after mutual, "we got through
the SATs OK didn't we?" stories, we grabbed one of the boxes and dove
in. Of course while she spent some time apologizing for not knowing
much of anything, she was, of course, very bright. Use of the video
terminals also required us to sit close together and I was very
pleasantly treated to almost constant thigh-to-thigh contact, her
scent (unfortunately in competition with the cigarette smoke and Eau
de Bud wafting through the bar) and her wonderful habit of tugging on
hy shirt sleeve or making some other physical contact every time we
got something right. Since our areas of intellectual strength
complemented each other, that happened quite a bit. Earlier in the
evening I had been subconsciously aware of how much I wanted more
simple physical contact with her, and now that it was happening I felt
high. Hormones that had been sitting around on "standby" were going
onto "yellow alert."

	After a while she complained about the smoke getting to her
and I suggested going for ice cream and fresh air. We went across the
street for ice cream and on our way out a friend of hers came from
behind us, surprised her with a "hello" and he walked with us for a
block or two. Then he excused himself to return to his girlfriend at a
bar, squeezed her hand and she kissed his cheek. I felt a quick twinge
of jealousy ( not healthy at this point, huh?) or need and attempted
to cover it over by stumbling over, "Lucky guy."

	"Well now, don't feel jealous," she said, as she gave me a
peck on the cheek. "There, feel better?" She laughed and wiped
chocolate from my cheek.

	We were standing in front of this alley and, I swear I didn't
really think about this before I did it, but sometimes the Universe
just tells you the right thing to do. I had a vanilla cone and she had
chocolate. I took her hand gently and said, "I've got vanilla, but I
sorta want some chocolate." I took a lick of my ice cream, she took
one of hers I pulled her to me and I kissed her. Really kissed her.
She started to giggle as we exchanged ice cream and when we parted we
both were a mess: ice cream covered lips and chins and shirt fronts.
We looked into each other's eyes and, in perfect unison said,
"Mmmmmmm... ice cream."

	We laughed and licked ice cream from our faces, fingers and
lips like ten-year-olds. For me, that kinda sealed things. I had been
feeling more and more comfortable and more and more attracted, but
something about the ice cream, the kiss that was both playful and a
bit nasty, and the sharing of the thoughts of Chairman Homer, ensured
that once we were reasonably de-creamed I reached for her hand and
didn't let go very much after that.

	We continued walking around town, looking in store windows and
talking, until she reported that she needed to pee, which led to a
decision to go back to her place. The offer and the moment were still
very real time, unplanned, not contrived. I had no major expectations
and felt that having many might screw things up. But I also knew that
I had to make sure she knew that I didn't consider our meeting to be
just another casual evening. We got into her truck and, after a few
minutes of silence I jumped in. "You know, I had come to the bar to
meet some friends after this reception at the bookstore, but when I
got there and saw you... well I went over and talked to them for a few
minutes. They wanted to go bar hopping and get all shitfaced but I
didn't want that. I went over to see if you were still there and I'm
glad you were. I don't want to make you feel uncomfortable or
anything, but it's been really nice, and very strange, I'll admit, to
find someone who I can just be comfortable with. I know some guys are
jerks and some women are bitches, and I can't find many people who I
just enjoy being around, you know."

	She looked a bit awkward and part of me cringed about making
the statement, but then she said,"Well, I do know what you mean. Shel
and I are sorta that way but I've been surprised at how well we've...
meshed? I mean, I've known of you for some time from the bookstore,
but only really met you tonight, yet it's like we've been friends for
a while. Weird, huh? But enough of the mushy stuff, I think we're on
the same wavelength, but I think I should warn you... I live with
someone."

	In a second, my heart violated the laws of physics by
plummeting at faster than 33 feet-per-second-per-second. I went for
the Olympic stumbling transparent dork award, "Oh... I didn't mean
anything... well maybe I did but not really, I mean I, hummmina,
hummina... I," sounding like a cross between Woody Allen and Ralph
Cramden, as she snickered and said, "Yeah, I live with my dog,
Chelsea! Man, I've sorry, but I've always wanted to do that to
someone!"

	My heart returned to better-than-normal and I kidded her about
being a tease (actually, I think I used the word, "creep," but in an
affectionate sort of way). She continued, "She's a little hyper and
loves people, just like her owner. But she's the only one who humps
legs."

	"Darn!" I replied, laughing.

	"I just thought I'd warn you before you saw this black ball of
fur flying towards you."

	"Well, I'm a member of that union. My old black lab Rita used
to squirm into bed between an old lover and I after we'd made love
(her turn her to flash a look of mock jealousy), roll over onto her
back and expect to get a double belly rub. Which, of course, she
always got. We used to kid about our Rita would come over and plant a
paw on my knee as if to say to the woman, "Hey, he was mine first.""

	She opened her front door and a medium-sized "Chien D'amour"
jumped all over Amy doing her "Oh Boy! Mom's home!" dance. Then she
started in on me and I decided I might as well surrender to the
doginevitable. I slid down to the floor with her, played with her,
scratched her behind the ears and petted her while she licked my face,
nuzzled me and looked generally happy. The conversation went something
like this:

	CHELSEA: Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy!
	ME: Isn't she a good, good girl!?
	CHELSEA: Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy, oh boy! (Tail wags faster)
	ME: Yes! She's such a good dog!
	CHELSEA: OH BOY, OH BOY, OH BOY!(Pins me to the floor and licks my face)

	While I was committing acts of unspeakable pup love on the
kitchen floor, Amy lit some candles, grabbed glasses, ice and a bottle
of Coke, turned on the stereo and said, "... whenever you're finished
with the dog... "

	She lived in a nice place, which clearly reflected her mix of
intelligence, informality, earthiness and slight disorganization. We
talked while I checked out her bookshelf (occupational compulsion) and
amongst the computer books, guides to Midwestern wildflowers, and some
pretty classy fiction, I noticed several volumes on massage.

	"Does this stuff really work?" I asked.

	"Well, for what ends?"

	"Well just for relaxing and stuff. I've thought of going to
one of the people here in town, but never know if it's really legit,
you know? I'm only really interested in a backrub, not anything else."

	"At your service," she said, tabling her drink and rolling up
her sleeves. "I'm not a professional or anything, but I've read my
books, taken a couple of courses and I please my friends. Beats $40 an
hour."

	My bluff, or innocent inquiry at any rate had been called.
"Uh... okay... uh what do I do.?"

	"Whatever you want. If you want to keep your shirt on, that's
fine but then I can't use oil. If you want to take it off, that's
fine; hell, if you want to strip naked that's fine and we'll do the
whole head to toe thing. Just remember, and this is the official
volunteer massage rap: that this is a massage, a gift I willingly
give to you and expect nothing in return, and one in which I hold
strong to respecting your rights and desires. A lot of people are
really uncomfortable about this stuff but there's really no need to
be. Like I said, it's your game."

	"Let's stick with the back for now, eh?" still taken somewhat
aback, for all my talk about liking women who are assertive.

	She positioned herself near the edge of the sofa and I sat
with my back to her, between her legs. She placed my arms over her
knees to spread my arms. I heard a squirt of oil and a few second
later I felt her strong, warm oiled hands on the back of my neck. I
felt a rush up my spine and my shoulders immediately started wondering
what the hell was going on.

	"Remember, now, this is much easier for me if you give me
feedback. Tell me if I'm being too light or too hard or if I need to
stay in the same spot for a while."

	I think she heard me sigh contentedly. I'm sure she didn't see
me bite my lip.

	Her hands were simultaneously intuitive, strong and gentle;
she literally flowed over and through my back, leaving soothed muscles
and nerves wherever she went. I felt pretty comfortable to begin with,
but as the minutes went on I felt even more so, allowing myself to
moan, grunt and even dog whimper (Chelsea raised her head in question
from across the room; Amy laughed, gave me a light dopeslap and
teased, "Oh, stop!"). After moving down my back, back up again to my
shoulders, her hands moved around my neck and chin to my chest. She
massaged my chest and stomach, and I felt her moving over me. I felt
her warmth, her scent, her hair as she began to envelop me. By the
time she reached the edge of my pants I was hard and I thought I felt
her nipples in that state as well. Her head was next to mine. I turned
my head and whispered into her ear, "Please don't stop," kissed her
ear and leaned my head against hers.

	She moved further on top of me , moving me onto my back as she
unbuttoned my pants, undid the zipper and rubbed oil onto the
washboard flat of my stomach and then into my pubic hair. I reached
down and slid my pants down as she moved completely on top of me. I
reached around and held her denim-covered ass in my hands and began to
knead as her hands encircled my cock, rubbed it with oil and stroked
it, leading to an amazed whimper on my part. I nudged my head under
her and between her legs, rubbing my face between her legs. She
continued, including a number of motions I suspected were
unprofessional as far as masseuses are concerned. I reminded myself to
take a look at her massage books later and see if they mentioned a
stroke involving spanking the palm of her hand with a man's penis
listening to the sound that makes and making a lascivious "Oooo!"
sound.

	I moved and flipped her off of me, smiling dopility at her and
saying that "turn about is fair play." I told her I didn't have her
experience but I certainly felt motivated. It was her turn to have a
bluff called as I stripped off the rest of my clothes while staring
right into her eyes. Part of my brain began a mini research project
about the last time I felt this great, and soon abandoned the effort
as pointless. She stood and slowly shed her clothes, and as soon as
she had done so - actually before she's removed her socks - I took a
step forward, took her into my arms, grabbed her ass and rubbed as I
kissed her long, deep and smooth. She ground her pelvis into my thigh.
I felt her need and rejoiced in it.

	Changing to repeated shorter kisses, I moved one oiled hand in
front between her legs and slid fingers over her mound, which was
already damp. She shuddered as my fingers slid back and forth over her
lips and clit and my other hand rubbed her ass. She reacted through
the hips grinding against my hand and her lips and tongue
communicating her needs to mine. My mouth moved down to her neck and
began to lick and nibble and I slid one finger into her wet slit and
another from the other hand into her clutching anus. I pulled up on my
front hand to rub her clit hard as the oily hand slid back and forth
and my fingers moved in and out of her. She held me even tighter and
it was her turn to whimper, moan, and breathe desperately through her
teeth. I felt her nails dig into by back and her hip movements became
desperate as she came against me, all over my hands. After she stopped
pulsing I removed my fingers, held her tight for all I was worth and
lowered ourselves to the sofa. She whispered, "So sweet, so sweet... "
into my ear and I melted once again.

	She led me to her bedroom, and we heard padded feet in our
wake and a slumping sound across the room as we moved onto her bed. I
placed her on her back and kissed her again and again as I caressed
her breasts. I kissed my way down her body and, finally, slid my hands
beneath her to cup her ass cheeks and pressed my face into her musky
wet cunt. I licked her with long, slow, wet strokes at first, tracing
her lips, drawing them into my mouth and running my tongue, stiffened,
up and down the length. She reached down, took my head in her hands,
ran her fingers through my hair, pulled gently on my ears as I ate
her. She became aroused quickly and I responded by licking her clit,
sucking it gently, and slipping a finger into her. She panted,
squirmed, whimpered and bucked herself up at my mouth. Finally she
grabbed my head hard, said, "That's it, that's it, right there, do it,
yeah, do it like that," pressed my face hard into her, as she ground
herself against me and came, loudly. I rubbed my face into her wet
cunt, still licking until she slowed and called me "Baby."

	I moved up on top of her and took her into my arms. She
reached down and wrapped her fingers around my hard cock. She placed
it against her pussy and began sliding herself against my erection as
she spoke. "I don't wanna break the moment. There are condoms in the
drawer, but I don't have the energy to reach over and... yeah!"

	I had already taken the hint. Instead of slipping inside of
her, I rubbed the length of my cock repeatedly over the length of her
pussy. She moved up against me, her eyes glazed over and she moved her
hands over my back and neck as I ground down against her and kissed
her. I rubbed my slippery cock back and forth over her pussy again and
again. I felt her begin to shudder, she groaned "Oh shit!" loudly and
grabbed me down on her as she came. She felt me tightening and her
voice calling my name and whispering "Sweet baby," pushed me over the
edge. Several very large spurts splatted over her stomach and breasts
and quickly became smeared over both of us as we held each other
close. As we rearranged ourselves slightly I heard a thumping from the
foot of the bed. I looked down and say Chelsea's wide, happy dog eyes
and the tail wagging against the floor where she lay watching.

	"Goddamn pervert voyeur dogster," was the last thing Amy said
as she nestled her head into my chest and snoozed.