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Subject: {ASSM} {GALAGO} Let Us Now Praise Ordinary Women (Marc Proust) (MF rom)
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<1st attachment, "Praise_post.txt" begin>
NOTE: I posted this for Marc because he is away from home at the
moment. J.U.

                                                          ----
                                   
Copyright1999 by Marc Proust


Let Us Now Praise Ordinary Women 
by Marc Proust
October 19, 1999


*************(1)**************

     As I guided my powerful minivan down the
shadow-splashed lane, my head swiveled smoothly to keep her in
view as she washed her dark blue sedan. She took my breath away:
long, blonde hair; tight, wet, black top; dark-dappled blue-jean
shorts, extruding long, elegant legs. I waited until the very last
second to snap my head back where it should have been all along -
keeping my vehicle on the street - just in time to avoid killing my
long-time friend, brainy colleague at Remington College, and
right-fielder and equipment manager of our last-place softball
team: Hope Morris. 

     SCREEEEEEECHHH.....!!!!!!!! My van skidded to a stop
inches from Hope's quivering knees. 

     "AAAAAHHHH!! Jesus! God!...! You nearly *killed*
me!!!" Hope was beside herself, and quite out of character. My
own heart was thumping like crazy and I was shaking so hard I
could barely throw the gearshift into park and open the door.

     "Edward, is that YOU!! Christ!"

     I ran around to the prow of my sleek Fukuda van, and
began to profess my most profound apologies: 

     "Hope! I'm *sorry*. I was blinded by the sun and didn't see
you until the very last minute." 

     I don't know if she bought it or not; for a second I thought
she was going to tear into me with her little fists, but all of a
sudden she dissolved into tears and fell into my arms, her slender
back wracked with sobs. I held her gently and patted her heaving
back, even as I wistfully looked back down the shady street to my
blonde beauty, who contemplated my little scene with a sardonic
smile. The hose dangled limply by her side, and water poured out
over the hot, wet pavement by her new sedan. I heaved a sigh of
regret and turned my attention to the smallish person bawling in
my arms. 

     "Geez, Hope. I am so sorry. What an *idiot* I am. Come
on, I'll drive you home." 

     "That's OK, Edward, I'll be fine now. Really, you needn't.
I'm sure I should have looked where I was going. I'll walk." 

     From the burnished tint of her round sunglasses to the cut
of her plaid skirt, there was a lot about Hope's existence that was
definitely ill-planned and poorly executed. 

     She was not, however, ugly. Her hair, a lustrous chestnut
brown, caught the sun in a way that accentuated the bizarre
arrangement that she always wore. Was it supposed to be French?
Did it once appear in Vogue? She carried her affliction with a
splendid insouciance born of talent without grace.

     "Nonsense. You're shaking like a leaf. Come on; I'll buy
you a drink and then take you home. I know a very nice little place
just a couple of blocks away."

     "Well, all right. God! I am still shaking. Really, Edward,
were you drinking?" That admonition was far less than I deserved
for my stupid maneuver that nearly killed her.

*******************(2)*************


     Hope came from a very wealthy family. I always wondered
why she turned out so well, really: you don't associate brains and
fashion failure with big bucks. The money had, however, been a
curse in one regard: everyone knew that her husband, the notorious
Mitch Morris, had married her because she would some day inherit
a fortune. To say that he had not formed much of an attachment to
her over the years was putting it mildly. His romantic affairs were
legendary.

     The drink was a good idea. Hope's nerves settled nicely and
she was into her second Manhattan before it was clear that she
didn't drink much. She became quite talkative, much less
awkward, and she mixed her pleasantries with sophisticated puns
and wry humor. She appeared grateful that I would spend time
with her. On the way home she said: 

     "Edward, I'm almost glad you nearly killed me. That was a
lot of fun. It reminds of we when we were kids. Boy! *That* was a
while ago!" 

     "That was incredibly stupid of me. And I promise never to
do it again." 

     "Accidents." She said it with a sardonic lilt that reminded
me of an actress I couldn't quite place. "Will you be at the game
tomorrow?" 

     The game! Damn! I had forgot that our pitiful softball team
was playing the next day. I had planned to miss it. 

"Of course, I'll be there. I wouldn't miss it for the world." 

     As she got out of the car and walked to her door, the
reclining sun lit her up, a fading spotlight trained on the fabric that
stretched across the taut muscles of her ass. Slender, well-shaped
legs carried her up the walk. Before she got to the porch, my mind
was off on the oddest line of thought: what did Hope's cunt look
like? Was it one of those puffy kinds, the ones that almost look
babyish, with barely nothing in the way of labia? Or did she have
pronounced lips, even flaps like some women have, that hang
down dramatically and temptingly in full view?

     Was her clit large, or small; hidden even when aroused; or
out there, rubbing against the smooth fabric of her undergarments
to alarm and please her, even during the work day? How did the
transition occur from the cunt lips to that lovely space between
cunt and asshole? Was it abrupt, or almost imperceptible? And the
hair: sparse, spare, thick, or thatch? Could you see the slit through
it, or would I ... I mean, would one ... would one have to dig
through it to get to the crack? 

     Good Lord! What's the matter with you, Ed? What
difference could it make? You like them all! Each cunt has its own
mystery, its own beauty, no matter what it looks like. Yes, quite:
dorky, egg-head Hope's vagina was a thing of utmost, enchanting
beauty. That had never occurred to me before. It might have been
obvious, but it shook me. 

     As she turned and waved, her small breasts shook lazily
from side to side, and I sighed.


******************(3)**************


     At the game the next day, things went pretty much as they
usually did with the College team. Hope had a lock on right field;
she could hardly play. Mel in center was all right, one of those
no-hit, decent-field kind of guys. Kris was nearly as bad as Hope,
but she could catch better, so we put her in left. Elizabeth Jane was
tall: she got first base, but I wish she could stretch a bit more.
Terry was OK at second, and could even hit a bit. Third was a
mess: we tried a ton of people there with no luck, and finally
settled on Barry from Business. Our catcher was Mitch's choice:
Deborah, a real babe in Art (we were all pretty sure he was fucking
her brains out). And our pitcher-for-life was Mitch. He sucked. Oh,
yes; they put me at short since I had played into my sophomore
year at college. 

     We lost. That was a foregone conclusion. And, as usual,
Mitch was taken by surprise; at least he acted that way, cussing
and fuming and berating us all, as he hurled one fat, slow,
no-break, lob-job, weak-ass, soft ball after another.

     "Jesus, Eddie, where the Hell did you learn to play ball?"
he'd yell after another of his lame-ass pitches got clobbered for a
single through the infield. This began the minute we fell behind
and didn't let up till the game was over. I never bothered to answer
him, but today it really pissed me off, and by the bottom of the
eighth I had devised a plan to exact my revenge.

     The plan came to me all at once: I make Hope fall in love
with me. That should be easy enough: me, a handsome, shaggy,
tweedy, professor of English Literature, with a heart of gold, if a
tad low on ambition. She a dorky, brainy, wallflower, with tons of
ambition, but starved for affection. Along the way, I would expose
all of Mitch's affairs. She divorces the bum, feeling cruelly
deceived, on the one hand, and safely loved on the other. I then
dump Hope. Mitch has no fortune; I have no commitment; Hope
will get over it. Brilliant! 

     I began immediately. 

     "Hope, dear," began Mitch unctuously after the game.
"Deborah needs a ride home, and I promised her I'd take her. You
don't mind, do you? I'm sure Elizabeth Jane..."

     Before he could get any farther, I broke in: "No problem,
Mitch. I've got a large van, and I can help Hope take the bats and
balls. It's right on the way."

     The ride to her place was very pleasant. I am pure charm,
she is much less nervous than the day before, and after a few
moments of laughter over the pathetic team, we discuss a recent
movie and early English novels. I shrewdly discuss the humorous
underpinnings of late 18th Century England in the novels of Jane
Austen; she being a woman, I figured she'd eat it up, even if she
was a mathematician. I was right. We avoid any mention of Mitch.

     With a throaty purr, the Fukuda glides up the steep
driveway of the Morris' stately home, and deposits us, bats, balls,
mitts, and a bit more laughter and good cheer than I either
expected or am, in all honesty, prepared to deal with, at the front
of the two-car garage.

     I had forgotten that Hope was a good kid.

     I lifted the door and together we carried the equipment over
to the corner shelves where it was to be stored. She smelled
musky, feminine in that earthy way that too many women try to
shed with showers.

     I maneuvered closer to her than was absolutely necessary
and faked a stumble to gently collide with her rear. She said, "You
walk like you play short, Edward." What a comedian.

     I had to grab her to steady myself and, in so doing, I took
hold of her body just a little higher above the waist than decorum
would suggest, only slightly below her breasts, but close enough to
them that she would surely get the idea. As she turned, I nearly
kissed her, but didn't. I thought I detected a heave to her rib cage
emanating from her bosom before I removed my hand.

     We finished storing the equipment and I bid her good-bye.
I tried to let my eyes talk for me, like they do in the old movies -- I
thought she'd be susceptible to that sort of thing. My eyes said:
"Fuck me, now, if you're a woman!" But my lips said: 

     "Well, Hope, that's about it. I guess I'll be seeing you. Next
game's in three days." 

     "Ba..Ba..Bye, Edward. Thanks for the help." Then she
threw in: "I guess Mitch will be home any minute," as if thinking it
would make it happen. 

     I chuckled as I sailed down the avenue in my beautiful
vehicle. "Yep, Ed. You are definitely on your way!" 


***************(4)****************


     After two days, I couldn't wait any longer and called her for
lunch. By a stroke of luck I remembered that we were both
members of the College library committee, not that I ever went. It
gave me an excuse to call, though, which was all I wanted. She
was working at home that morning, and asked if I wouldn't mind
picking her up. I readily agreed, and by noon we were sitting in a
comfy cafe staring at post-modern bagels. 

     After a few minutes of discussing the state of the library, as
we picked at food, I subtly steered the conversation toward the
subject of women and their careers, noting with a hint of petulance
in my voice that being a white male these days was pretty damn
tough. I got just the response I sought. 

     "One thing that always amazes me is how you men can sit
there and bitch about your lives after centuries of running the
world. And for your information, Edward, it is *not* that easy for
women to make it in academia. It's just like it always was: if you
have sex appeal, doors open right and left. But if you are what I
call the Ordinary Woman, forget it. The pay is only eighty percent
of a man's, *if* you are lucky enough to get a job. And then they
stick Ordinary Women with heavy committee work that makes it
impossible to get tenure, while the beauties and the men are left
with tons of time to do research! Honestly, Edward, I am surprised
at you." 

     I had struck a nerve. Perfect.

     "Don't do you feel guilty about this, Hope?"

     She looked confused, as I had hoped.

     "What I mean, Hope, is that I am a bit surprised that you
admit so openly to getting ahead on your looks. Sure, your sex
appeal and stunning good looks have gotten you a full
professorship, but what have you done to help these Ordinary
Women?"

     Of course, I well knew that Hope was an internationally
renowned scholar in differential topology, and her full
professorship was gained through long hours of hard work, and
more energy, talent, and intelligence than Remington College
deserved. Plus, "stunning good looks" was something of an
exaggeration. 

     "Are you crazy, Edward?" 

     "What is that supposed to mean?"

     "It means that *I* am an Ordinary Woman; maybe THE
Ordinary Woman. People laugh at me. I'm ugly and I don't know
how to dress. My husband is fucking every cunt in town. And I'm a
geek!"

     Tears began to form at the bottom of her luminous eyes. I
watched, mesmerized, as they spilled over and ran chaotically
down her face. Her monstrous glasses began to fog up. For a
second I couldn't move, then I jumped up, sat next to her, put my
arm around her, kissed her cheek, used my free hand to dab at the
tears, and said:

     "Hope. Please. I was *not* kidding. I think you *are*
beautiful." 

     This was hard to say, because just then I was lying. I admit
it. My plan was more important to me than any harm I might
inflict on old Hope. I felt low, but pushed ahead. "Sure, you could
use a few tips here and there on fashion, but your natural beauty is
just beneath the surface." This was a lot closer to the truth, and my
self-esteem shot up.

     It didn't work, though, and all of a sudden Hope began to
cry, a great, copious lament that rang out in the small restaurant
like a dirge. I did the only thing I could have done: I kissed her;
right on the lips, and stuck my tongue in her mouth. That did work.
At least, it worked to shut her up, but it did nothing to stop the
gawking and tittering from every table in the joint. To my
amazement, the kiss affected me on a couple of different levels.
After a second - a long, astonished second on both our parts - Hope
said.

     "Take me home, please."

     The ride to Hope's house was silent. My few attempts at
conversation were rebuffed in a weary way. She didn't seem
particularly mad, more like sad and contemplative, and I could see
it. If you looked at it in one way, her whole world had been
revealed to be a bubble just waiting to be burst: flimsy, without
substance, a no-love marriage about to crumble and leave her
alone forever and ever. She must not have believed me.

     I was about to leave her at her door, when she said:

     "Edward, we have a game tomorrow. Would you mind
helping me get the damn stuff in the car?" 

     "Of course not." It was perhaps not too late.

     Once in the garage, I noticed an old stuffed-cushion couch
on springs that once probably stood on a porch somewhere. It was
dirty, but soft. It was now or never.

     As we reached up together to lift a huge bag of bats off a
shelf I let my body come in contact with hers. She made no
attempt to move away. As we heaved it into the back of the
Fukuda, she turned toward me to say something. I'll never know
what it was because just as she turned, I took her cheeks in my
hands and kissed her forcefully and lovingly on the lips. She threw
her arms around me and returned the kiss for all she was worth.
Her kisses carried an urgency that was uncommon and thrilling,
technically adroit and full of passion. It took a lot of self control
on my part not to get caught up in the moment.

     It was not long before my hands found her breasts, her
haunches, her thighs, her crotch. Hers roamed freely over my back,
down to my butt, and around to my penis, which was rapidly
swelling. We suddenly stopped our kissing, and without a word
began to undress, removing our clothes as if we were discarding
civilization: illicit love was nothing to take lightly.

     I watched her every move. There is a poetry inherent in the
act of female disrobing, and gawky as she was, Hope possessed the
mystery like every other female.. As she shed her ungainly outfit,
and took the rack of pins and barrettes out of her hair, and
delicately removed her weird glasses, an unexpected and glorious
transformation took place. Her figure was far from perfect; her
features were not classically beautiful; but the soft form that
emerged - the round breasts with lilting sag, the sloped shoulders
covered with chestnut hair, the curvy belly leading to soft, wispy
fur covering her mound - took me utterly by surprise. Without the
glasses, I saw her face was full of grace and charm.

     "Sit down." She commanded me, and I did it.

     I sat on the old porch furniture; my penis was fully erect.
Hope knelt and took me in her mouth, ran her hands up my thighs,
and looked me right in the eyes. She didn't move at all at first, but
then deliberately swung her head from side to side, and let her
tongue roll around the top of my swollen penis. Her technique was
strange and exquisite.

     Before I knew it, she let me go: my cock was free, and
freezing as her saliva air-cooled my sensitive flesh. Meanwhile,
her tongue was traveling down my shaft, very slowly, and before I
was quite ready, she took a testicle in her mouth and sucked it very
gently. As she did so, her eyes met mine again. I was going quite
out of my mind. I knew that I would not be able to stand much
more of this. There is something electrifying, yet terrifying, and
about having your balls in a woman's mouth. And Hope was
superb. She suddenly stopped, cupped my balls in her hand, and
began to lick the head of my penis again, and the little ridge of
skin under it.

     "Hope, you must desist, if you know what's good for you." I
said with a smile, knowing that without a change of plans my
orgasm would arrive too soon for either of us. "Now, lie down."

     We traded places. The old swing groaned as we did, and as
she arranged herself I noticed that her cunt had large, floppy lips. I
had not intended to, but I couldn't help myself: I knelt and gave her
a slow lick from her asshole to her clit, then stopped and blew air
gently over the area I had just tasted. The flaps of skin seemed to
stir, and expand, as I cooled them, quite contrary to the laws of
physics. I parted the lips, and looked for a second at the pink
geography before I used my tongue to explore her gaping hole,
poke her bump of urethra, and gently lash her erect clit. I even
sucked it gently, like a small cock, then abruptly stopped and
watched her writhe, desperately seeking more contact, I then rose
halfway and plunged my erect cock in her sopping cunt hole.

     I was very slow and deliberate and gave myself over to
pleasing her. I came all the way out; and went all the way in; I
fucked her slowly; I fucked her fast; I kissed her lips; I kissed her
ears; I sucked and licked her nipples; and ran my hands down the
back of her thighs and tickled the cheeks of her ass; I considered
sticking my finger in her asshole as I fucked her, but thought to
myself: "Do you know her well enough for that?"

     Control in these situations can be maintained only so long.
Hope was acting like an animal, humping and squealing, and
literally dripping fluid all over the place. After no more than five
minutes we were a frothy, slimy mess. I could no longer stop my
orgasm, and prayed that I wouldn't come before she achieved her
climax. It worked; she shook violently and growled in a low voice,
and I shot a gallon of come into her cunt. I smelled gasoline from
the old power mower in the corner.

     We clung to each other for a minute or two and when I
finally turned to face her, I was at a loss for words. She spoke first.

     "Well, Edward. I guess I should say 'Thanks for taking pity
on me,' but I don't feel like it. Let's just say, 'See you at the game.'
Now go, please."
    
     "When can I see you again? And I don't mean the stupid
game, Hope. I   really want to see you again."
  
     "Why? Didn't you get what you wanted?"
  
     Hope was actually pretty perceptive, and normally I would
have had to admit that, Yes, I pretty much had gotten what I
wanted. But I found myself saying:
  
     "Hope, that's ridiculous! I feel very close to you, and I
really want to get to know you better. Much better. Please say we
can have lunch again. Monday. If you don't want this to happen
again, believe me, it won't"
  
     Did I say that because it was necessary to the plan, or was
it true? I was having trouble telling. As she got dressed, I marveled
again at the odd cast of her beauty, and how easy it was to miss it:
as the clothes went on, the hair went up, and the glasses got
replanted, that beauty slipped silently away, leaving a frumpy
woman in a dirty garage. I got chills.
   

  ***************(5)****************

  
     Over the next couple of days I found myself in an unusual
state: I actually looked forward to our next game. When it arrived,
the result was the same: the team got clobbered, and Mitch
disappeared with the lovely Deborah, clearing the way for me to
take Hope home and secure a promise from her of lunch
the following Monday. She was definitely wary, but she said yes.
  
     I prepared carefully for Monday. One quick phone call, and
a much longer trip to a particular store, and I was ready. We met at
Henri's, a fashionable, quiet place in an upscale strip mall in the
shadow of one of the tonier suburbs. During lunch I turned on the
charm, avoided talking about our last encounter, and we ended up
making each other laugh quite a bit. I nearly lost touch with my
place in the space-time continuum. 
  
     With a small start, I remembered the time, and took her
hand. 
  
     "Let's go, Hope, we've got about 20 minutes. We should be
fine." I had checked; her classes were over for the afternoon.
  
     "Time for what? Where are we going?"
  
     "You'll see. I'll tell you, if you like, but I think it would
make a nice surprise."
  
     "Ok, Wonder Boy, surprise me."
  
     I took her to Le Salon Francais, the most expensive hair
dresser in Remington, and by her look I could see she was indeed
surprised, not to say a tad vexed. After feeble protest she sat down
and let Georges do whatever he pleased with her unruly chestnut
mop.
  
     I sat transfixed as Georges and a stable of young,
androgenous assistants began to titter and fly around Hope. In a
matter of minutes, a new woman began to emerge from beneath
his expert scissors: a more stylish and attractive woman,
to be sure, but it was not that she had become a ravishing beauty.
The change was more profound than even I had expected, and I
think I gasped as Georges finished up and twirled her around in the
chair. 
  
     "Well, OK, what's the deal?" Hope asked. "Am I worthy
now of a ship or two at least? Are you done with your little
experiment, Edward? Come on, I want to see!" You see, I had
removed her gargantuan glasses so they would not interfere with
the remarkable Georges' conception of beauty. "Give me back my
glasses!" She was serious now.
  
     It was time for the coup de grace. I took out from my coat
pocket the new, slim glasses I had picked up the day before, the
latest thing from Italy, and costing an arm and a leg. I slowly put
them on her, and dropped my jaw as I stood mesmerized by the
change.
    
     She looked at herself in the mirror, and then at me, and I
could tell  that she was pleased.
  
     "God, Edward, is that me? Well? What do you think? Don't
just stand there with your mouth open."
  
     "I think: incredible. Lovely. Just amazing. Georges, you are
a genius. A flat-out, French genius."
  
     "Merci bien, Monsieur. Yes, I think I have done the
imposseeblah: made the lovely lady even pretti-air."
       
    
  ***************(6)***********
  
       
     In the van, we said nothing. Everything I thought to say
seemed likely to impede the progress of our relationship. So I just
drove straight to my apartment. We marched up the stairs, walked
in the door, and methodically removed our clothes.
  
     I watched in awe as she carefully removed her top. Her bra:
no finer sight exists, I think, then the revelation of a friend's
breasts. Her skirt: form revealed; long legs, round belly. Her
panties: content revealed; female center of mystical edge between
lust and love. 
  
     Shoes. Socks. As each layer came off, I felt like I was the
most privileged guy in the world. Her chestnut hair, now
exquisitely layered, cascaded over the white of her shoulder,
drawing my eye to her soft, small breast, and stiffening nipples.
The little mound of flesh between her legs looked so utterly
feminine, I think I sighed in consciousness of being swept away by
forces immensely more important than any I had been willing to
deal with. I took her in my arms and just kissed her. My hard penis
pointed straight up to our chins, trapped by our powerful embrace.
  
     I wanted my mouth on every inch of her at once. I felt
powerless in her presence.
  
     After breaking the kiss, I held her lovely breasts in my two
hands, looked at them in turn, and then gently kissed each nipple. I
was about to make a move, when Hope said:
  
     "Wait."
  
     She sank to her knees, and took my large, hard cock in her
mouth. Her legs were parted, for stability I guess, and the visual
effect was electric: I could see the big lips of her cunt, inflamed
and puffy, poking through the sparse thatch around her pussy.
  
     As I've said already, Hope was a genius at sucking cock,
and she had me on fire in seconds. To keep me from shooting too
soon, she knew how to vary the rhythm, or stop sucking and begin
to lick from tip to base. She ran her tongue around the bulbous
head; she cupped my balls; she ran a finger under my scrotum,
towards my ass. And, then, she took my breath away.
  
     Before I knew what happened, she actually ducked under
and through my legs and came up on my backside. She reached
around and stroked my penis, wet and shiny from her saliva, as she
tongued the small of my back, and lapped her way down the backs
of my thighs and the area behind my knees. She was in constant
motion, and my erogenous nerve endings were so highly
stimulated that my brain was incapable of forming a rational
thought.
  
     The slithering tongue was like a snake. She moved up to
my back again, and then began to dart in a more central direction,
down the crack of my ass, as the strokes of her hand in front began
to reach a crescendo. Did I dream it or did she really say:
  
     "Bend over, Edward."
  
     I did. And as I did, I shifted my legs slightly to give her
more access, if that is really what she had in mind. My thoughts
were a jumble; my brain was fully overloaded by the strange and
intense sensations. The wet, slithering snake of her tongue kept up
its descent, but excruciatingly slowly; I began to try to move
myself closer, to get the ultimate sensation, one I'd never had
before, in spite of all the encounters of my long, lonely life.
  
     But she would not let me control the pace; she effortlessly
parried every thrust, and kept her tongue moving over buttock and
crack. Just when I thought it would never, ever happen, it did.
Hope's magic tongue reached the brown bud of my asshole. And
when it did, my world exploded in a white sheen behind my
eyes. As the sperm shot out of the end of my stiff penis, Hope kept
milking me, using an incredible, rhythmic motion to coax every
last drop of semen out of my cock.
  
     As I collapsed on the bed, she said: "Was it as good for you
as it was for me?"
  
     What a character! You had to love her. Where do I get
these cliches?
  
     I drove her home in time to cook El Mitcho's dinner, and
then went back to my apartment and allowed myself to miss her.
Acutely.   
  
 
 ***************(7)***********
  

     The next day I couldn't wait to call her. I went to work an
hour early and got nothing accomplished: all I could think about
was the day before. My Hope had been transfigured in more ways
than one. At 9:00 I could wait no more, and phoned over to the
math building. She was not in yet. Ditto at 10:00. I finally got her
at 11:00.
  
     "Edward! I'm really glad you called! I miss you already." 
  
     "I miss you, too, Hope. Listen, can we meet tonight for
dinner?"
  
     "I can't meet you tonight. Mitch has been acting strange
lately, even for him. It's as if he suspects something. But  he is
going out of town Friday and won't be back until Sunday. Maybe
we could do something then."
  
     Hope playing hard-to-get. I loved it.
  
     "It's a date. Friday at 6:00. And lunch every other day.
OK?" 
  
     "Well  OK."
  
     "I'll see you in an hour."
  
     I saw her every day that week and didn't have a chance to
touch her. I was feeling seriously deprived.
  
  
  *************(8)*************
  

     Friday finally arrived and we found ourselves in a dark
corner of Pomodoro's Grotto, a dive out by the by-pass rarely
frequented by university people. 
  
     Hope finished two glasses of wine before the seats were
warm. I had hardly touched my Pilsner. Partly, I was distracted by
her murky eyes; but she was drinking fast. She was on her third
glass, and had the bottle at the ready, when she launched into a
speech I think she had been rehearsing for a long time.
  
     "This is pretty weird isn't it, Edward? I find myself
developing feelings for you. What a euphemism: "feelings for
you"! Ha! We were pals as kids, but does that count? We really
don't know each other at all. Let me prove it to you. Ah! Quiet,
please. Let me talk. 
  
     "You probably don't know that I am extremely  earthy, not
to say kinky. Did you, Eddie? Mind if I call you that? I know you
enjoyed our encounter the other night, but did it shock you that
someone like me--dorky and brainy--could be so, well, lewd? Don't
answer. It's not every day, I could tell, that some ridiculously
ordinary woman places her tongue on your asshole. Don't deny it!
And don't you dare talk!
  
     "Do you know what I'm thinking now? I'll bet you don't. I'm
thinking how neat it would be to pull out your soft little penis, and
suck it like a big nipple. I want to suck your fleshy penis before it
gets big. I want to inspect the rings, and the head, the little hole,
the rolls of skin that hang down to your balls. God, is that weird!? I
want it to stay soft, and feminine, while I suckle it, but it won't. I
want to see what would come out. Mother's milk? No. You know
what, don't you? Don't answer. Ah! Who cares? It wouldn't stay
soft for me anyway  It would soon be hard; it's probably hard now."
  
     She refilled and took a long pull on the '98 Chianti della
Chiasa before resuming her bewildering monologue.
  
     "When you met me, did you realize that I hadn't been
fucked in over a year? That I had been storing up incredibly wild
fantasies? Listen to this shocker: even as we speak, I can imagine
you standing over me while I sit on the toilet. Yes! That surprises
you, doesn't it. My cunt lips are spread, and we are both watching
the piss flow out of my hole? Jesus God, I can feel that hot pee!
Would you touch me, Edward? Would you? Just my clit, as I hold
open my cunt for you? Don't answer--dontanswer, dontanswer,
dontanswer."
  
     She said it like a mantra, and I was way too shocked to say
a word. She filled her glass for the fifth time and continued.
  
     "And that's just the beginning. When I drive to work, the
shoulder strap between my breasts sets me off. It's a lovely sight
for you men anyway, isn't? Women in cars! GOD! I imagine I'm
naked and vulnerable, strapped and bound, waiting for you to
come and do whatever you want to me. My nipples get hard,
really hard, on the way to work. Sometimes I find myself touching
my pussy at traffic lights! I can't concentrate on differential
topology anymore! I am hopeless!"
  
     She looked in my eyes with real despair, then took another
long drink. 
 
     "At night, before my shower, I get down on all fours, like
some wild animal, and touch my cunt and asshole, imaging you
there, sniffing and lapping, ramming, dominating. My ass. No one
has ever had my precious ass. But that's 'cause no one ever wanted
it. Would you take it, Edward? Would you take your big dick and
find a way to stick it way up my asshole? Way up there, to really
fill me up, once and for all? DON'T answer! 
  
     "Sometimes, I want to steal your penis and fuck you hard,
in your new cunt and ass. I'm crazy! Sometimes, I want to explore
women as you watch. I have never touched another woman, but
now I want to stick a finger in my secretary's cunt while you
masturbate. Isn't that gross? Isn't it strange that I would even
think about the taste of a vagina at my age? Don't answer! Don't
say a word!
  
     "I want you to exalt me; I want to debase myself for you.
My feelings of excrutiating lust are inseparable from my feelings
of utter selflessness before you. Is this love? God help me, but I
have no fucking idea!"
  
     I would have said something here, as she began to drink
straight from the bottle, but I was speechless.
  
     "Garcon! Another bottle of your finest crappy Chianti!
Edward, you shouldn't have done this to me. I was getting used to
the religious life, so to speak. My vagina slept. Mitch was kind; he
couldn't help it if his football injury left him impotent (I know, I
know, he was lying about that). He treated me well, even if he did
cheat. I felt lucky that he didn't leave me.
  
     "Now. Now things are different. You gave Hope hope. Hah,
Hah, Hah!! Get it? Jesus Christ! I'm making a fool of myself.
There's only one thing to be done, Edward, if I am ever to
rebalance myself. I can't live like this. In short, you must--"
  
     In one furious motion, I leapt from my chair, grabbed an
oily Italian breadstick from the basket between us, lunged across
the checkered table cloth, nearly knocking over the candle in the
old wine bottle, and plunged it in her mouth before she could
complete the sentence.
  
     In a second I was around the other side, on my knees, with
her hand in mine: "Marry me, Hope! Marry me! I can't live without
you!"
  
     The idea came to me, crystallized within me... at some
point between the shoulder strap between her breasts and
borrowing my penis. Now, you can probably tell that I was getting
way ahead of my original plan here. Truth be told, I didn't have my
plan in mind when I blurted it out, and it just hit me that the
words out of my mouth coincided with the whole clockwork
artifice I had been building, but that it was mere coincidence that it
did so.
  
     Exhausted, drunk, tears welling up in her eyes, breadstick
protruding from her mouth, Hope looked more desirable than any
woman I had ever known. As she slowly nodded her head,
describing a great, vertical arc with the bread, my frozen face
melted from the inferno of inner joy. I was really nuts!
  
  
  ************(9)***********
 
      
     Mitch was most unhappy with the divorce settlement.
Seeing Hope and me so happy also rankled, but it wasn't as painful
as the lost millions. Without the cash, our Mitch is finding the
pickings around Remington considerably slimmer.
  
     To tell you the truth, I forgot about Mitch pretty fast. In
fact, I forgot about almost everything except the love of an
ordinary woman.
  
                                              THE END

Copyright 1999 by Marc Proust

Marc Proust
proust@usit.net


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