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From: losgud <lushgod@hotnomail.com>
Subject: New Story--Touch And Go [2/3]
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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 [2/3]


Anyway, there I was on my stomach on the floor watching television, my
younger brother behind me hogging the sofa.  It was late--our parents
were already asleep--and we were both dressed for bed.  I was done
with all that flannel and nightgown shit, doing just fine with a
t-shirt and panties.   I knew damn well he wasn't paying much
attention to the movie.  He was young enough that what with the
variables you couldn't be sure.  But I was sure that he'd crossed the
threshold--the signs were all too obvious.  In the past year he'd
become secretive and surly and suddenly interested in doing all his
own laundry.  I mean, the kid was forever locked up in his room, and
he was washing his sheets like five times a day. I didn't need to look
to know what sort of bedtime reading he'd have slipped under his
mattress, but I did.  Very much the advanced preparation course of
studies.  I hadn't even considered you could do anything more than
poop with that other hole. If his eyes had been his cock, penetration
would have been achieved.  I was pissed off enough at him to start to
twitch a little just to torture him.  You know, scoot around on my
pillow to get more comfortable, feeling my tee ride up another inch or
two, the panties pull a little tighter.  I surprised myself to realize
that I was getting more than a little turned on.  Finally I shivered
and tugged everything back down, then barked back without turning my
head, "Give me the afghan, I'm getting chilly."  I knew he'd refuse.
"Come on, you got the whole sofa, give me the damn afghan."  Of course
he said no.  I got up and stomped over there to get it.  No way would
he surrender it, especially at this close range.  He was leaning with
his knees up; even with his legs straight he'd be making quite the
little pup tent.  I yanked that cover off.  He was still contained in
his pajamas, but there was no mistaking what was contained therein.  I
watched the flush spread up his neck to the tips of his ears.  It was
so cute!  "Oh my, _what_ have we _here_?"  I took my voice down to a
husky whisper, "Don't you know what to _do_ with that?   Because _I_
sure do."  At that, the damn thing bobbed around and poked out the fly
all by itself.  I giggled, self-consciously but _shamelessly_, "Say, I
bet that's not the only trick that thing can do."  I bent down, opened
wide and said _aaah_.  I'd barely touched tongue to tip before I had a
mouthful and a half.  I swallowed, licked my lips, then gave it a big
long kiss.  My panties were _on_ the floor.  "Okay," I said,
straddling him and scooting up to his face, "now you kiss me and see
what happens."  The boy may have had no direct experience, but I was
delighted to find that he'd been _studying_ those instruction manuals.
And what he didn't know, he learned _real_ fast.  His eyes were hardly
the only part of his face glistening when I lifted myself back up.  By
then he was standing well back at attention.  I slid off his bottoms,
peeled off my shirt, then nestled back down for a long slow ride.
That whole summer was one long slow ride.  The horny little bastard
would jump me at the breakfast table if he had half a chance.  And if
he did, I'd let him.  Mostly he didn't, simply because I found it
impossible to wake up before lunch. My bed was _very_ warm every
night, and my room just _stank_ like the seashore.  And what a
smorgasbord would awake me at noon.  Needless to say, I had him doing
_my_ laundry as well.  Which he was _happy_ to do.  I'd be leaning
over the washer and we'd unbalance the load.   Christ, our parents got
so worried they nearly sent him to a psychiatrist to figure out why
their mopey little adolescent son was suddenly cheery as a Christian
all the time.  I led them away from that line with lies.  Don't
question, just be grateful.  Like, and show your gratitude with a big
increase in my spending money, since I'm the one he's been banging his
nuts off with.  Keeping them drained and dry and the size of peas.
There might have been eventual complications except that there was a
time frame already rigidly emplaced.  His special summer school would
end exactly when I went off to college that fall.  Fortuitously, my
final weekend in town coincided with what our parents historically
called their Lost Weekend, an annual event that tended to blur into
the several days before and after the definition, in which they and a
couple couples they were famous friends with motored a few hours away
to a big lake and a rented houseboat.  Around the time I was old
enough to be the designated baby-sitter in our household I
comprehended as much as I cared to about what that whole scene was
about.  For that final year, I planned a festival of so-called sin.
As the dutiful daughter, I was sitting on the baby on the hour and the
half hour.  While they were off swabbing the decks or whatever, we
were busy _profaning_ every surface in the house.  I would set my
alarm, and the poor boy would wake up to find his wet dreams bursting
into reality.  While they on the water were gorging on grilled
everything and gallons of cocktails, we barely stopped for a crust and
a sip.  I'm not sure what surprised him the most:  that a girl could
scoot down and redirect him to that other hole, or that a finger
tickling up his could make his withered weary thing rear and roar like
a stallion within moments.  We were up way late that last night,
setting records that still stand in my book.  Having fucked away the
morning like cats, we had a long languorous bath together, then
lunched like royalty.  Then by mutual agreement, we dozed away the
afternoon, our rest continuing well into the evening.  After that was
my treat.  My treat, and decidedly my pleasure.  I kept count and kept
clock.  And kept control.   I had 47 orgasms, from mild and smiley to
where the cresting of pressure was nearly enough to burst my eardrums
out and send blood shooting from my nose.   He was moaning and
groaning throughout, pleading and threatening to kill me.  I made him
wait six hours, and when I finally let him explode I was afraid for
fifteen minutes that his heart had burst.  He was willing it,
murmuring, _let me die now, please, let me die now_.  We whispered and
sighed until nearly dawn, enjoying a last slow quiet fuck along the
way.  Before he left to be in his own room when our parents dragged
home, I informed him, "You have the knowledge now.  From now on, any
girl you want, all you have to do is coax her into going your way.
But be wise and beware and be choosy with this power," I intoned,
feeling at the time that I was sounding like an oracle in a bad movie,
"because once you get a girl in your bed she'll never want to leave."
Several days later I was ensconced in my new dorm room, and it was
quite a number of years before I saw my brother again.  For other
reasons, I'd purposely chosen a college so far on the east coast that
I never need go home again.  The distance was so great that not only
was it impossible to come home for Christmas, I could barely manage to
send a card.  By that winter, I'd secured a summer job just a spit
from campus.  Four years later I was deciding on graduate school--the
scholarships and grants and work-studies sounded much better that some
dumb long-term job--when my brother went off to college in the nethers
of the west coast for reasons undoubtedly similar to my own.  I began
to view doctorates as badges to be sewn on your sleeve.  The only
restriction seemed to be the length of your life span's sleeve.  He
paced his engagement so that he had his Masters in his pocket first.
I was too far afield to attend the ceremony, though I did break with
my postal phobia to ship them a nearly priceless--which I'd managed to
secure at nearly no price--carved jade interpretation, albeit
abbreviated, of the _Kama Sutra_.  I'd thought to include a note
admonishing the couple not to open it until the honeymoon.  I received
an exquisitely engraved thank you note, written and signed in her
hand.  The text of the note was a staccato of exclamation marks.  It
wasn't until three years later that I got to meet and greet the happy
couple.  Happy was hardly the word.  I'd unfortunately placed myself
within close enough distance to be shamed into attending a family
reunion.  My brother and his wife and I shared adjoining rooms in the
hotel.  I wasn't surprised to find she was A+ in smarts and wit and
personality.  Genial and friendly and warm.  And the packaging!  Tits
like silicon can only aspire to imitating.  Meaty but still slinky,
legs like _that_.  Waist and hips out of a painting.  An ass, in the
vernacular, that just won't quit.  Her face would make the cover of
any month of _Vogue_ run off and ruin their mascara.  But as far as
the looks went, it was like no one had ever bothered to tell her, and
she'd never seen a mirror.   Too often I've witnessed the general
truth that the more luscious the packaging, the meaner the contents.
Gorgeous women who dole out their passion in direct proportion to the
latest weight of karats on their fingers.  It was rather refreshing to
watch her in action.  What I found rather amusing was mostly viewed
with mortifying embarrassment.  They'd been married for enough years
the flame under the pot of love was supposed to have been turned down
to just an occasional simmer.  There weren't any extraneous rings to
slow down her fingers, and every moment she pretended no one was
paying attention, she had her hand slipped down the front of his pants
to fondle her personal Excalibur.  There was quite the party all night
long in the next room.  I had to smother myself with the spare pillow
and diddle myself to sweet dreams.  At the big breakfast the next
morning, their eyes were just beginning to glaze over with sleep.  I
nudged my brother, "Sounds like you learned your lessons _real_ good."
He just gave a little grin.   Then his eyes widened and his grin grew
larger.  Other parts of his anatomy were evidently enlarging as well.
Even unflappable me was a little shocked when I realized that that
unstoppable slut had her hand in his lap and was discreetly jacking
him under cover of the tablecloth.  Then I noticed that she was
staring around his profile straight at me, with a long languid smile.
It was precisely those unmoving lips which answered the question I'd
been harboring unasked.  The two had obviously kept no secrets from
each other.  And likely there would have been a little tap-tapping on
the connecting door if I'd been able to alter my itinerary and stay
over an extra night.

That would have certainly been an evening so well worth the effort
that I've been juggling the logistics of another meeting ever since.
Generally in such situations, if a woman is willing to share her man,
she's panting to share herself as well, which is always pure delight
as far as I'm concerned.  While the configuration might seem opposite
of ideal, I'd say it works out about equal.  The instances when I've
been the one girl have been grand.  If you get the timing right, you
can find yourself getting fucked almost constantly _all night long_.
And not to mention the treat I've experienced of reaching the peak
with my cunt, butt and mouth stuffed with cock.  That, ladies and
gentlemen, is a hell of a lot of cock.  Imagine creaming like crazy
while they all explode in unison.   The problem is that guys are so
shy about each other.  They'll applaud each other but I guess it's too
_homo_ to go the half-step further.  I could lay back with my hands
behind my head and come like a tiger just watching two guys getting
acquainted.  The furtive, tentative exchange of hands on foreign
members evolving into a hard sucking sixty-nine, but that's a rare
sight indeed.  That's what I like best about being with another
couple.  You reach that point where the guy's lying back looking so
sad and spent.  The fantasy of his life, albeit a common one, has come
true, but now he's blown his wad and is recumbent in sorrow that the
show is over.  The two of you have been playing around throughout.
Now you face each other.  You each possess succulent lips and soft
nimble fingers and pretty breasts topped with nipples still erect and
aching.  It's only natural.  Your breath is still heaving.  As you
kiss and fondle, the air is heavy with the muskiness of sex.  Your
vulvas are still full and flush from hearts pumping like mad.  One of
you is dripping that big load of sperm, so of course the other bends
down, and surely one good lick deserves another.  Naturally, the sight
of two women's heads buried in each other's thighs is enough to make
any dead man groan and live again.  Or two women plying and playing
his cock with dueling tongues.  When all else fails, the old tickle
the prostate never does.   Even if the boy never does get bouncing
again, it hardly matters.  He's got a fully equipped mouth and a pair
of dancing hands which he's not going to let go to waste, and then
it's like having three girls tumbling in the sheets.  And that's
something I'd never pass up.  One of the most wicked pages in my
memory scrapbook involved a Memorial Day weekend at a lake-side
cottage with two perpetually horny women.  Assuredly, every single
moment of that weekend was memorial.  I don't even _recall_ the lake
itself.  But the problem with the All-Female Revue is that too often
there's an implicit _totality of commitment_ that's just not my piece
of cake.  I mean, it's the icing, delicious and super sweet and I
_will_ lick the whole bowl clean, but I'll always be wanting to fill
up on a big old piece of the cake itself.  Sometimes I want my legs to
be spread wide apart because there's something _crammed_ up between
them.  A couple of skinny wriggly fingers don't fill the bill, and
call me a traditionalist, but I have absolutely _no_ interest in
having a big buzzing tube of polystyrene shoved up _my_ twat.
Battery-powered isn't the voltage of my dreams, and the idea of
looking down and seeing a power cord trailing away like a rat tail to
the closest outlet, well, my major concern is about _sexy_ not
_safety_.  I've seen those pliable rubber monster dicks up close, and
all I have to say is you'd never be able to wash the smell of it off
you.

Marriage is of course out for me.  I've done enough of the steady
boyfriend thing to know that.  I have only _one_ use for a man around
the house, and it isn't to have someone to change the washers in the
kitchen sink.  Any wench with a wrench can turn that trick.  But in
doing so you risk erasing about half the sense of household
obligations in most guys.  You retire for a little of that afternoon
delight, and afterwards it's like because they knocked your socks off,
they expect you to do something about the fact that they don't have
any clean socks for the rest of the week.  Here's a major clue to my
philosophy of life:  I don't do other people's dirty socks.  Never
have, never will.  Your lack of clean socks is _your_ problem, and I
will never be so grateful for anything as to allow your problem to
become mine.  Do what I do:  break down and go to the laundry or break
open your wallet and go buy some new.  It isn't that familiarity
necessarily _breeds_ contempt, but it is such a chore to avoid the
potholes when a road gets particularly well-worn.  Habit, as Beckett
noted, being the ballast that chains a dog to its own vomit.  In
something very new, the both of you lying dazed in the afterglow where
limbs and bedding are tangled together into a single entity,
eventually the notion occurs that a bit of nutrition might be just the
fuel to propel another round, so you slink out of bed.  If he lets you
make it out of the room, you hustle back quickly with a little
something you rustled up in the kitchen.  Blink, and it's a year later
and _Hey baby, I just sent you to the moon, so what's for dinner
anyway?_  A grabbed snack being not enough.  You're supposed to run to
the grocery, cook the meal, then clean up the whole mess, _in
post-sexual gratitude?_  Hey buddy, _fuck that!!_  Pilot to copilot,
yea I went to the moon, but I believe you took the trip too and saw
_all_ the same stars.  The worst part, I suppose, is the scary
hypothetical life together.  Maybe, luck being with you, the two of
you still bang away like crazy every morning or night or both, but
then there's that dead air of the evenings in the living room.  I'm a
confirmed atheist.  What would married life become if incrementally
your husband began to worship that antichrist called television.  I
shudder at the vision of having to listen to a fine strapping man
conversing about cars and sports.  I enjoy the metaphoric innuendoes,
and back seats can be terribly cozy, but otherwise my concern for cars
is limited to the function of them being big ugly objects I can get in
and at my commands they take me where I want to go.  Sports interested
me for a millisecond in college when I briefly considered taking on a
team for the sheer experience.  I couldn't decide on which sport,
considering I found the various physical archetypes equally repulsive.
As well, several other grotesqueries occurred to me, luckily in time
for me to not so much back up as simply not go forward.  Imagine the
room full of dudes hooting and chanting and giving each other
high-fives.  Then there was the frightening notion that after getting
about a third of the way through the starting line-up, I'd wind up
taking my pleasures against the background drone of a bunch of spent
guys boasting about their batting averages.  The most chilling thought
was if you do something like that just once, next thing you know you
have the entire Math Team outside your door wanting to come in and
collectively solve some unknowns.  A bunch of tallow heads wanting to
make you their mascot, and not understanding why you don't consider
that an honor.   I'm supposed to _want_ to share my living room for
life with a mentality like that?  Honey, they don't make a cock large
enough to provide just compensation for enduring _that_ sort of
ordeal.

Although getting married isn't for me, getting married men definitely
_is_.  That's what makes marriage such a great institution:  it
readily identifies the better brand of man.  I mean, I stay away from
a match that's on the skids anyway, having no desire to be
misconstrued as somebody's savior.  I do particularly loathe the
professional tom cats.  I was at this party once, cozied up on a sofa
with this guy, and his left hand was doing some pretty heavy kneading
of my thigh.  And _yes_, I was _liking_ it mighty fine, _thank you_.
If I'd been wearing a dress, his fingers would have been brushing
against some rather damp panties.  If I'd been wearing a dress, his
hand would have been up out of sight, and I wouldn't have noticed at
that precise moment the band of pale flesh at the base of his ring
finger.  But I did, and I called him on it.  He started in on that
stuttering shit about being separated.  I replied in my coldest tone,
"You will be after I ring up your wife."  Even without a dress, I'm
sure he could smell how close he'd gotten.  So he downshifted into the
whiny cliché about how his wife didn't understand him.  "I think she
understands you _exactly_.  Keeps her legs clamped closed so she
doesn't have to spend every Monday morning at the clinic getting a
dose.  Smart woman your wife."  I fixed him with a withering stare.
"As for your _problem_, get a divorce, or take your stupid little
friend," giving a mean backhanded slap to his bulge, "into the
bathroom with you more often."

I'm no Suzie Homewrecker, mind you.  I like best a guy who loves his
wife, loves his family, loves his life.  He's just forgotten what it's
like to have a woman who gets all juicy just at the sight of him.
He's solid in his orbit.  I'm just an asteroid swinging around, and we
go _BANG!_  He wobbles a lot, but doesn't stray from his trajectory.
If he comes around again, hey, we go _BANG!_ as much as he wants.  If
he gets too guilt ridden, or starts having second thoughts about the
meaning of his orbit, hey I fly out of range.  There's plenty of other
big hard moons in the solar system.  I don't want to steal any woman's
husband, I just want to _borrow_ him for a little while.  Return him
in better shape than when I got him.  Leave him energized, renew some
forgotten possibilities.  Call me a marital aid.  Through him to her
remind them that a _satisfactory love life_ can mean much more than
sleeping late Sunday morning, or having a quick little lie-down
themselves during the Saturday afternoon nap.  Drag a guy behind a big
tree in a busy park in broad daylight, pull him out and hike your
skirt and give the throaty command, "Fuck me right here right now!"
and you know what you get?  Well, naturally, some wild and crazy sex.
But afterwards, when his seed is dripping down your leg, your seed is
gnawing at his memory: _God, I'd forgotten.  We used to do stuff like
this.  All the time.  And it was great!_  And then the initial
question of _Why did we ever stop?_ becomes superseded by that of _And
how do we start again?_ 

========================= End Part 2 of 3 =========================

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

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