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From: losgud <lushgod@hotnomail.com>
Subject: New Story--Touch And Go [1/3]
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=========================

The following is total fiction.  Any resemblance etc. is a product of
your imagination.  This work is meant as ADULT entertainment.  If the
laws where you sit say you're too young to read this, go away and turn
yourself in to the thought police.  Even thinking about sex is dirty
and nasty and will warp your mind forever.  Go watch a movie or play a
game that ends with a body count in the high four figures.  Death and
destruction are good clean fun.

©1997 losgud.  Personal use just fine.  Archiving okay.  Absolutely NO
for- profit use permitted.  Reposting without notice is frowned upon.
Tampering with the text (rewriting) is illegal.  Copyright violations
will fall under the jurisdiction of my principality, where the
punishment is to discourage repeat offenders.  We cut your fucking
hands off!

=========================

M/F  Inc  Cons  Humor

Note:  This was my first attempt at erotica, so accept my apologies.
It does go on forever.  Astute readers will recognize it as an early
incarnation of my "Weekend" story that sort of spiraled out of control
into a kind of "My Life As Sex" imbroglio.  I'd be particularly
interested in hearing from any female readers.  Does this work for
you?  The great distance from reality aside.  Or should I stick to the
male perspective of my later pieces?  Enjoy!


TOUCH AND GO [1/3]



The next time I see him, I know it's working.  I give him the big hug
he's not sure what to do with, but he's actually bending this time,
pliant like he really is made of flesh and blood not plaster and
paint.  The very first time I thought, _My god, Margie didn't marry a
man, she just went to Menswear and paid extra for the mannequin that
was modeling these clothes_.  He squirted out into daylight, his mama
slapped him to the tit, and that was the first and last hug he's ever
had.  Men are like cats, they have to be handled a lot when they're
young.  Otherwise they won't come and jump in your lap when you call
them.   They'll just sort of skulk around at the edge of the room,
staring at nothing with their big wide eyes.  Who wants something
pretty in the room if it doesn't ever _purr_?  You could just tell he
came from a family that believed touching wasn't one of the five
senses but one of the seven deadly sins.  Like the big mean guy from
the Old Testament is standing up there all poised, legs apart and arm
upraised, ready to _hurtle_ down that bolt of lightning.  Little boy
skins his knee and runs crying to his mama:  don't comfort him, that's
_incest!_  I mean, read Genesis for what's not written down.  You got
your Adam, then you got your Eve,  and soon enough, sure enough, along
comes Cain and Abel.  Okay, fair enough.  But then all of a sudden
there's all this begetting going on all over the place.   What, is
there like a blank page back there somewhere?  Hey, there ain't but
one way to bridge that gap.

This business of touching being a bad idea--no way!  I well remember
the occasion of my momentous discovery.  There I was in the bath like
any good cliché.  I was still quite a few years away from being
anything but a boy from chin to hips, but I had my finger down poking
around the difference that did exist.  Hey, this feels _good_.  Hmmm,
even better.  Omagawd! that feels _great!_  I kept on to the point
where I thought, girl, you better quit this right now before you
_break_ something.  And did I stop it? you may well ask.   I most
certainly did not!  I came like a crazy bitch, shrieking like a little
banshee.  It's a wonder I didn't have the whole house pounding on the
door.   Fortunately they were all down in the den watching the t.v.
turned way loud, some horror film with enough screams to cover my own.
After that I decided to keep this new play confined to my own room.
There wasn't all that ceramic tile, and a pillow will smother just
about any sound.

The big event came one weekend when I was having a slumber party over
at my best friend's.  We were both thirteen and had recently become
official women.  It was that very night I realized not only was Renee
no longer my best friend, she wasn't someone I even wanted to know.
For Renee the greatest mystery of menstruation was why in the world
blood should come out of her pee-hole.  She was that uninformed.  Here
I thought we'd talk talk talk about boys boys boys, practice kissing,
maybe get so excited we'd start fondling ourselves or each other.
Instead she was up every five minutes making another fucking bowl of
popcorn.  Her only other planned activity was mooning and sighing over
these magazines full of teen idols, without knowing why except that
she was expected to.  I'd been deflowered in the saddle at a riding
academy the summer before, but in all other regards I was quite
virginal.  The only hands that'd caressed the new bloom of my body
were my own.  As for the deed itself, the details I knew were sketchy
but a bit more accurate than most girls'.  I knew that boys got big
and _hard_, which was how the dance could begin in the first place.
All that spunk and stuff wasn't in my vocabulary, but I did know that
what happened to boys wasn't that stupid nonsense about them peeing up
inside of you.  I knew enough to know that glossy-stock paper wasn't
going to do the trick for me.  I had a feeling that if you pulled down
their pants, all those airbrushed boys would be smooth as Ken dolls
between their legs.  That didn't seem very promising!  After the old
sow had consumed about twice her weight in popcorn, there was
automatic lights-out.  I lay there beside her in the bed, hopelessly
wide awake.  I thought about diddling myself right there and then, but
I couldn't quite slip into the _mood_.  To say that Renee was snoring
was just the first washing of color in a painting.  The sound she made
was the sound gravel would make if only it could speak.  For awhile I
was certain she had popcorn backed up clear into her gullet, that she
was listlessly choking to death.  I remember distinctly thinking that
that would be absolutely the best thing in the world for her.  Alas it
did not come to pass.  And each breath she did give was filled with
the stench of pig fat and burnt kernels.  When she turned flatulent,
that was my cue to go.  I certainly was not feeling at all
romantically inclined.  Finally I decided I had to pee.  I got out of
_that_ old bed.  The first step to getting out of that old house was
to get out of that fucking _room!_  I hit the hall and soon made my
business.  I'd intended to go to the bathroom, but then I thought it
better to just squat and piddle on the carpet.  If it left a real
mess, I figured they could always go out and buy a dog and beat it.
Not really knowing what to do next, I wandered around through the rest
of the darkened house.  I thought of turning on lights the better to
snoop through drawers.   Instead I wound up in the kitchen.  I knew I
was supposed to feel like I'd just won first- place but I wasn't
really thirsty, and I couldn't think of any food that wasn't
repugnant.  I thought about whipping up the final bowl of popcorn to
seal Renee's doom.  But just about then I stepped beyond the bend of
the counter and saw the bar of light beneath the door on the other
side of the kitchen.   This, I knew, led to her dad's study.  I went
over and opened it.  He was sitting back to me on a small sofa
watching t.v.  It looked like some very low-grade detective film.  "Hi
Mr. Martin," I went, "find a good movie on t.v.?"  I swooped around
and swung into the couch, and barely had time to recognize that Mr.
Martin had the top of his pants flapped open to the bottom of the
zipper when I saw, nearly simultaneously, that the VCR was on and that
there were quickly two detectives- -man and woman--cornering two
criminals--male and female--in a vast warehouse of props.  I must have
blinked when all the clothes came off, because suddenly the screen was
fat with close-ups of lips and tits and fingers, then cunts and cocks.
Maybe there was an oral-on-genital interlude in there.  The most of it
looked like an educational film on slaughter houses, but there was
enough good stuff in there to make me realize I was still major bush
league in the category of potential fun.  I was blushing and sweating.
I'm sitting there in my nightie.  Sure it's flannel, but frilled and
cut way short and saucy.  It's a curious blend of sleepwear, a
conspiracy of designers and barely pubescent girls.  And beside me is
this man, Renee's dad no less.  His hands are in his lap, harmless and
motionless, seemingly intent on holding up what looks like a billy
stick.  It didn't take too long for him to fuck me.  Not to mention
the fact that it didn't take too long for him to fuck me.  He was
decent enough to wear a rubber, though it was indecent how he didn't
even have to stand up to fetch it.  Immediately afterward he was
insisting that I never set foot in his house again, except maybe
Saturdays after lunch when he stayed home alone from the familial trek
to the mall, ostensibly to mow the lawn.  Listen, as far as I was
concerned, my ticket out the front door was stamped _one-way_.  I'd
definitely been done better when I did the job myself.  My main
thought was that I'd be wanting a whole lot more of sort of that in my
life, though not from that particular source.

As for this incest taboo, I think it is a bit overboard.  If it makes
for a strained family situation, maybe it's not in the best interest.
But if it's two people saying _Hey, this is fun!_ where's the harm?
Avoid the unhappy endings if possible, as if that doesn't happen all
the time anyway in more conventional couplings.  Having a brood of
monsters _is_ a bad idea.  But hell, thump back to the Bible, that gap
before there were suddenly all those patriarchs running around all
over the place.  If you combine theology and genetics, you come to the
one conclusion that humanity itself is a vast race of inbred monsters.
We stand on two feet, we feed on burnt cows.  We engage in
recreational sex.  Actually, I was lying on my stomach, having
consumed nearly an entire big bag of potato chips.  As for the other,
I wasn't hurting, but it had been awhile.  

I didn't have any steady boyfriends.  I'd learned not to even bother
with boys my own age.  They were all like bombs set too sensitive:
you'd just be getting it out of their pants and they'd explode in your
hand.  Like popping the cork on a bottle of champagne, only to have
the whole thing foam all over the floor.  None of that fast food and a
two-minute mile for me, thank you.   I found a couple of nice guys in
the grille over at the community college.  They were thicknecks to be
sure, guaranteed _Losers of the Future_, but an evening with them
would be fine dining, a good movie, then back to their places for the
smooth hand of experience.  Of course, the whole business of a classy
restaurant and a showing of a foreign film was intrinsically related
to keeping me under covers.  The guys knew they wouldn't run into
anyone they knew any of those places, and wouldn't have to endure any
cradle-robbing ribbing.  They never invited me to their dances--thank
god--or any sporting events--double thank god.  They'd die to dive
between my thighs, but would rather die than to be found out.  That
suited me just fine.  My favorite response was one fellow who was
actually hurt to find out that I wasn't at all hurt by this situation.
I told him, "Hey, you take me out and show me a good time, then you
take me in and show me a _real_ good time.  Why the hell would I want
to hang out with all your stupid friends?"  When I got tired of these
dull guys, since I baby-sat for fun money, I had a steady diet of my
favorite dads. The Hobarts were big cocktail party maniacs, though he
came to be a big fan of plain tonics with a twist when he learned it
was worth his while to keep his equipment in working order.   The man
had been blessed with the deluxe model, and he'd bothered to read the
directions.  They'd get home--a house torn from the pages of _Nouveau
Tacky Dream Home_--and basically he'd grab a gold-plated monogrammed
bucket, squeegee her out of the car seat, then pour her into bed.  It
was nearly embarrassing, but fortunately she was too much a lush to
ever question why it took him an hour or so to run me home when the
distance was a quick five minute walk.  The sex was great, but even
the backseat of a big car gets to seeming seedy and cramped after a
while.  And I never did like the ritual return from the bedroom, Mr.
Hobart jingling his keys with a leer, "Hey hey, baby, guess it's time
for me to _drive you home!_"  Just for that instant, I would regret
every moan I'd ever let him hear.  Not that I wouldn't go on and moan
a whole bunch more a few miles down the road.  I can't say I was
particularly upset the night that kept dragging later and later until
the police were knocking on the door, there to explain the tragedy of
the Hobart's car being wrapped around a bridge abutment.  I later got
the full story from the snoopy daughter of the couple who were in the
backseat getting a ride.  The crash left them rattled but well in the
land of the living.  Mrs. Hobart had grabbed the steering wheel and
given it a big bad yank.  They'd been fighting in the front.
Apparently, the stupid jerk never bothered with a quick wash after
leaving me.  And one night, proving that in this day and age miracles
do still happen, she'd stirred out of her coma enough to decide she
wanted some action.  Darting down, she'd found him shrunken and sticky
and stinking of a fragrance that wasn't her own. I suppose thinking
such a thought was such a great strain on her brain that it simply
shut down and she passed back out, and then didn't remember anything
until the next time she was suitably massaged by the magic elixir.  At
any rate, I was on duty that night as usual, so I guess my little twat
wasn't in the line-up of suspects.  That closed the cover on that book
rather neatly.  I couldn't have orchestrated a better ending myself.
And it was all for the best, seeing as I'd started scheming some
dreams for Mr. Keith.  I mean, the Hobarts' children were actually a
matched set of mean-spirited, spoiled, nearly insane little terriers
that I was on the verge of strangling anyway.  No doubt they met with
a more kindly demise at the shelter than they would have soon found at
my hands.  Mr. Keith was another on my regular rounds.  By contrast,
he was well-dressed, well-spoken, well-mannered, well-intentioned,
well, well just about well-everything.   He was intelligent and
handsome, his house was very nice without a trace of ostentatiousness,
and his children were two little darling angel girls.   The whole aura
was of some heaven blessed television situation, the flaw in the gem
being that several years back, Mrs. Keith had been swiftly put through
the pacings of some raging cancer.  He'd mourned properly and worked
through his grief, then dutifully set out to do right by his girls and
himself.  I could not figure out what the problem was, but the poor
man was the world's biggest flop at dating.  None of the ladies he
went out with would consent to a second show.  I got to wondering if
he was endowed with a Vienna sausage or what.  But it seemed there
could hardly be time for that to come out for consideration.  It got
to be that an evening out for dinner and the theater would take about
as long for him to drive over, get the door shut in his face, then
stop for a drive-thru burger on the way back.  I mean, he would
literally be back within the hour.  I'd barely have the girls in bed.
I'd begun to suspect that he wasn't even going out on dates at all
after awhile.  He'd just go wander around for a bit and then come home
early, after which we'd wind up chatting for hours--on the clock, mind
you.   But not once did he commit any sort of indiscretion.  I started
getting more than a little antsy, so one evening I let him come home
and catch me playing with myself, arranged so that the first thing he
would see walking in the door would be a full view of my swampy
crotch.  Boy was that all the nudge he needed.  I was quickly sitting
on his baby four or five times a week.  His dates became walking out
the front door and around to the side of the house to watch for the
light in the girls' room to go off.  As for his dating dilemma, all I
could figure was that he hadn't ever met a woman to match his
schedule, who wanted to fuck before going out to dinner, then again on
the way to the theater, and then a nice long nightcap at the evening's
end.  It got to be were Mr. Keith wanted to hire a second sitter so we
could have a go in the garage before the girls went to sleep.  I knew
I'd have to make other arrangements once he started hinting at
marriage.  First I gave him the dash of cold water, reminding him that
I still wasn't legally old enough to consent to sex.  And then I
hooked him up with Ms. Spill, a lovely divorced friend of my mother's
who was rumored to have an absolutely rampant appetite.  The way some
women buy their panties labeled by day in packets of seven, well, Ms.
Spill would buy them in sets of seven, so instead of Monday-
Tuesday-Wednesday-etc. she'd have Monday-Monday-Monday-etc.  It wound
up being a perfect second marriage for the both of them.

========================= End Part 1 of 3 =========================

Like? Yes? No? Comments welcome. losgud@hotmail.com

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