Message-ID: <4736eli$9710091415@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/Year97/4736.txt> From: losgud <lushgod@hotnomail.com> Subject: New Story--Touch And Go [1/3] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Nntp-Posting-User: [unauthenticated] Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: <usenet-approval@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded <story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Story-Submission: <story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Original-Message-ID: <343D1A3B.7FC7@hotnomail.com> ========================= 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 -- +--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+ | story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us | | Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | \ <URL:http://www.netusa.net/~eli/erotica/assm/> .../assm/faq.html> /