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


And the _next_ time I see him, it is _definitely_ working.  During the
hug, his hand swoops down from between my shoulders to give a few
gentle pats at the small of my back.  I reward him by pressing my
chest gently against his.  Then stepping back, I give him a wry
quizzical look he cannot miss.

Various circumstances saw me moving to the same city where my Aunt
Emily lives.  The two of us have always gotten along fabulously.  We
share enough of the genetic stew to keep things warm and cuddly, but
we have that plentiful dash of differences to keep each other's
eyebrows shooting skyward.  I knew that my cousin Margie and her
husband lived half an hour down the highway in a smaller town.  I had
no concrete notion of what their lives involved, other than the fact
that progeny was involved and had spilled into the plural tense.  She
was maybe involved in a bookstore, or a craft shoppe or natural foods.
Margie has done all that and more, but I can't keep the order straight
or current.  Her husband, I think, does something or another.
Plumbing supplies?  No, they live in an old house, and he's just
gotten good at plumbing repairs.  Growing up, Margie and I were as
close as cousins can be who see each other three or four times a year.
We've always kept in touch.  There's always the dumb old phone.
Mostly, though, she's a real swell letter writer, and has done much to
keep that art from withering in myself.  We've become great friends,
but at a distance.  Put us under the same roof for more than three or
four days and we're pecking at each other's neck.  Fortunately that
length of duration is a rarity.  I'd met her husband only twice
before.  At the wedding, like all men in tuxedos, he looked like an
alien invader from the penguin planet.  Later, a bunch of us shared a
forest lodge, at which time I revised my opinion to _M-m-m, Margie did
do herself_ real _good_.  The first time I met them one afternoon at
Aunt Emily's, I quickly resolved to visit Aunt Emily more often,
particularly when they happened to be up.  He was a bottle of wine in
the cellar.  Age had only _improved_ him.  I returned home, and was
panting all night long.  The times after that, I was so very
_intrigued_, to hell with my panties--they were hopeless--I needed to
go home and change my fucking socks!

At last, _this_ time, it has worked, _completely_.  His lips brush my
cheek as we fall into the customary hug.  His thin shirt can't deny
the crush of my breasts, the hard darts of my nipples.  Margie and
Emily are busy being Mom and Grandma hustling the kids inside.  I go
for bold, the moist tip of my tongue skirting his ear as a whisper,
"Hmm-m-m, so _wonderful_ to see you again."  Simultaneously our hands
drop way down, abandoning backbones for fleshier squeezes below.  I
score my point stepping a leg between his.   The press of my pubic
bone against his thigh is well answered by a hardening against mine.
Our fingertips meet as we pull apart.  The redness risen to his face
surely matches my own.  We aren't blushing.  We are pure and simply
_flushed_.

Everything is just perfect.  There's no need for me to work it any
more.  I absolutely don't want to spoil things.  Once inside the door
I turn my flirt knob as low as it goes.  I sit in my chair content,
behaving, waiting.  I cross my legs slowly, stretching the free foot
while rolling my ankle.  I cross my arms low and arch my back just a
bit to give my breasts a rolling lift upwards and outwards.  There's a
twinkle to my eyes that is natural, and I offer a very warm smile but
only when such a response is called for.  I offer a nice view of my
fine backside as I linger in the doorway to the kitchen, hesitating in
a half turn to ask whether anyone else would like more coffee.  In my
most shameless gesture, I cradle my cup between my breasts.

He obviously adores Margie, and prettily dotes on the two mobile
children.  But just as obvious is that he hasn't seen much action
beyond his own two hands in quite awhile.  Margie hardly spares two
words on him.  She of course has her hands, and thoughts, already
quite full.  Their youngest is still several months shy of a year.  I
can just see his heart stammer and sink, watching him watching her
when she whips out a tit to give the kid some suck.  Much has been
made of the unreasonable mixture of jealousy and sorrow and sense of
deprivation that new fathers feel at the sight of such.  And their
feelings do seem unreasonable, until you flip the coin, give the
biological imperative a twist.  What if the guys shat out the kids?
What if their cocks went immediately from being fleshy appendages of
sexual delight to purely utilitarian spigots?  What if what you had
loved to cuddle and nuzzle and kiss and lick and squeeze and suck was
suddenly off-limits?  How would you feel if not only was your man
pulling out his penis all the time, but it was so much bigger than
ever before?  And you were left to feel like an absolute monster for
regretting that the whole display was strictly for the benefit of the
hungry baby?

I wait for my cue, the inevitable discussion as to which inane video
to pop in the machine.  They all seem to involve talking animals.
I've known too many of that type in my life to want to stick around.
I notice that his eyes are nicely glazing over as the various
prospects are discussed.  I stand and go to the bathroom.  Returning,
I stifle a forced yawn.

"Tired?" Aunt Emily diagnoses.  "Surely you're not leaving before the
feature presentation?" she continues with a good-natured smirk.  

"Well, I really should be going, but with the facilities at hand I
guess I better stick around until the coffee runs through me." 

"What do you mean?" Margie looks up, surprising me that she had heard
a word of the exchange.

"Oh, my toilet," I waved a dismissing hand, "it's imitating my
landlord.  It quit work this afternoon, and I'll be out of luck until
Monday morning.  And then only if I'm incredibly lucky.  Usually he
regards Monday as the start of a brand new five-day weekend."

"All weekend?  Honey," she looked over at Bob all doe-eyed, "why don't
you go over there with her and fix it.  I know how much these movies
bore you.  We'll be okay with the kids.  You know," she returned to
me, "Bob's become quite the expert.  Our old house and all those darn
pipes, they should just give him a Master Plumber's License."

"Really?" I answer with sweet innocence.  "Would you really come over
and take care of me, Bob?  I mean, it might be a big job, not that I
have any doubt you can handle it.  That would be so _wonderful_."  I
turn back to Margie, "You don't know how lucky you are to have a man
around to take care of these things."

"Oh, you better believe I do.  And now, you don't have to worry about
tools or anything.  Bob always carries his around with him."

"I bet he does."

I extend my leaving to make my good-byes nice and proper, but even so
I'm in my car and have it backed out on the street waiting so he can
follow while he's still inside barely done fumbling for his keys.

It'll take Bob about two seconds to fix the toilet.  He can save his
tools for later.  A quick finger job will do the trick.  Boy will I be
green with envy.  The only thing wrong with the toilet is that the
chain from the stopper has come off the handle lever.  I needn't take
the top off the tank to know that.  I did that when I did that, which
is to say that I could fix it myself since I was the one who unhitched
it.

I lied more directly, slanderously, about my landlord never coming to
fix anything, when face it, he is far too eager to become my personal
handyman.   His promptness tends to sway into the realm of the
precognitive.   Virtually the day after I signed the lease I would
come home nearly expecting to find a little note from him on the
kitchen table explaining how he'd been in to do this, that and the
other.  Initially I was a little grateful, not that I expressed it in
anyway he dreamed.  Finally I got fed up.  It's not like he replaced
the ailing old refrigerator, as I once inquired, which seems to
operate on the principal that it's the frost build-up that keeps
things chilled.  Nor did he replace or repair the kitchen floor,
despite several requests.  Hit one of those loose squares of lino on
the run and it's nearly the death of you.  Down on the bum you go,
_hard_, which I did one time too many towards the first of my third
month there.  I had an evening of bill-paying ahead of me that
evening.  As I stood up nearly in tears, the first thing I saw was the
little white square of his latest cheer.  I stuck a note of my own in
with the rent check, then stamped and licked the envelope and stormed
down to the postbox so I couldn't change my mind.  _Dear Mr. Wiley_,
it read, _if you won't come into my apartment to do the things I ask
of you, then please stay out.  I am quite capable of changing a light
bulb, and seeing as I buy them myself, I prefer to wait for them to
burn out before I do_.  His notes stopped, but my underwear drawer
kept looking like it'd been visited by a herd of horny hamsters.
Finally I left a note in _there_ stating _STAY OUT! OR I'LL CALL THE
COPS!!_  The lease stated that I couldn't change the lock on the door,
so  I did the old detective trick with scotch tape.  The next day both
door and drawer were popped, so I turned around and went right back
out.  I bought locking bolts for every window, and an alarm for the
door.  I think Wiley's a total jerk, but I'm certain he's harmless.
The gun I got to keep bedside is for the potential of the immense
pleasure should I get the chance to blow away the stupid old nasty
bastard.  The next day I came home to find the cops _had_ come.
Nothing was touched, and the intruder was apparently frightened away.
And I doubt he'll be back in that capacity.  I _almost_ feel sorry for
the immense mound of shit he likely had to scrape out of his pants
after hobbling home.

We're barely parked when he's immediately at the back of his car
trying to lift out a tool box the size of a steamer trunk.  I can see
him exuding an aura of nervousness masking a more primal excitement.
I take a quick dab of a dainty little scent, then flutter over to him
like a butterfly dripping with pheromones.

"Wouldn't it be better to come in first and figure out _exactly_ which
tool will suit the job best?"

"What?  Oh.  Yea.  Okay.  You're right.  That makes sense."

I lead him up the stairs, a few steps ahead, putting a natural little
shake in my tail for his benefit.  Once inside, I play the hostess for
propriety's sake.  He wants for no refreshment, so I introduce him
directly to my bathroom, and leave him to it.  

"You'll have to forgive me the mess, but I really wasn't expecting
company.  I'll be right back to offer assistance after I check my
messages."

I don't own a fucking answering machine.  No one is so important and
no news so urgent that they can't call me back.  When I hear a taped
voice start talking about the beep, my answer is a quick _click_.
When I rule the world, there will be a massive roving squad of
enforcers, and people caught driving and talking on car phones will be
issued a swift bullet to the brain.

What I _am_ doing is changing apparel.  Shoes and socks get kicked
under the bed.  Off comes the clingy shirt.  I _peel_ off those pants.
In exchange, all I get is a gauzy robe which hits above mid-thigh
that, _darn_, I can seem to get tied very tightly.  Meanwhile, Bob's
in the bathroom, checking out my message.

I've decorated the shower curtain rod with an assortment of fantasy
lingerie.  Genuine seamed stockings, some fishnet, with accompanying
delicate garters, a couple of teddies and baby dolls, and a wide
rainbow assortment of matching panties and bras, which, really, are
manufactured less for tits and cunts than they are for cocks.  The
display is to show that I don't indulge in those dowager drawers with
waistbands up to your ribcage.  I mean, I've worn all these things,
but not all that often.  They're for when you want a little extra
fancy wrapping on the present.  All those ruffles and lace make for a
good show, but they're hardly the height of comfort.  I like a little
frill and the racier cuts, the dainty patterns, but I prefer this done
in cotton.  That spun polyester shit is like cheap earrings:  flashy
and fun and good for the great evening, but on a regular basis they
give you infections.  A woman has to be able to _breathe_.   I'll
gladly surrender the cases of crotch rot to the gals too dumb to
understand.  

For emphasis, and as counterpoint to my freshly laundered delicates,
I've added several pairs of satiny sundries I'd worn through a long
morning full of wicked self-pleasure.  These I'd left draped atop the
lid of the toilet tank in a little wicker basket like a cache of
potpourri.

I hear the toilet flush and refill, then the taps gurgle on and off.
I hadn't mapped out every detail, but it's becoming apparent that
Mohammed isn't going to be coming to my magic mountain anytime soon
enough, so I go off in search of him.  I slink around the door frame
and linger.  Bob's down on his haunches, resting on his heels.  

"Done already?  And here I was coming to see if maybe you needed some
help adjusting your wrench."  Believe you me, it _needs_ adjusting!

I step in and squat down in front of him.  The position does nothing
to help keep the front of my robe together.  I hadn't changed my
underwear, precisely for the effect of this moment.   They're a very
sheer pale lavender blue embellished with tiny burnt pink roses.  The
panties are quite damp in the crotch, and exposed like this waft up my
secret scent of sea spray to complement the bra, which doesn't have
cups so much as scallops, lending my breasts to the look of twin
Venuses heaving up out of the surf.  Bob mumbles something about
thinking my sink needs a good plunging.  My gaze flickers back and
forth between his eyes and the evidence of his plumber's helper, while
I answer with a gaspy little groan, "You sure got that right."  I can
tell he needs a tiny push, so I reach down with my forefinger and give
it the lightest little stroke.

In a flash I'm on my back and he's at my breasts nearly weeping.  I
blink and we're in bed, his head buried between my thighs.
Everything's whirling and twirling and I'm gushing and quivering and
crying.  Finally I get that big pacifier in my mouth, but it hardly
helps to calm me down.  It's flailing around so much I have to _work_
to keep it between my lips, and I'm going overload crazy.  I don't
know where the pump is, but this thing is a balloon.  It keeps getting
bigger and bigger until it explodes, and I can't keep up with it,
there's a river of jizz running down my chin.  Rather than let up, I
just keep going.  I'm coming again and again like a washer stuck on
spin cycle, and this juicy piece of nasty meat doesn't seem to want me
to stop either, so I keep sucking away, up and down and all around.
It starts to go soft but then it stops.  Skipping that nonsense, it
swells again and gets stiffer than ever.  Either I have the right
touch, or I'm a very lucky girl.  I pull away and twist around,
dragging his face to mine.  Our tongues are frenzied eels darting out
of their lairs.  We're lapping the taste of ourselves off each other,
mingling them together in long and deep and nearly desperate kisses.
Finally I just _push_ him away.  His look is as startled as if I'd
slapped him, slapped him and then picked up the phone and called his
wife to come get him.  Swiftly I reach around for the pillows.  I
nestle my head on one then tuck the other under my ass.  I pivot my
hips upwards while I spread several fingers and stroke around my
swollen vulva, my other set busy circling a nipple and cupping a
breast.

"Come on, baby.  Come on and _ride the tiger!_"  Bob's on me and in me
before I can count one.  By two I'm off in the ether.  Three orgasms
later I'm on all fours, with the back view of my charms raised high on
display.   After that the rapture is so run-on I even quit counting
positions.  We wind up full circle, my arms and legs wrapping him to
me so fiercely he can barely thrust.   "Now, Bob, now," I moan,
"give it to me now!"  He lets loose a groan that measures on the
Richter scale, rattling china a mile away.  Cinematically, the film
goes to black and white, flashing back and forth like a strobe between
positive and negative stock.

I keep him locked atop me so tightly he can't escape my clutches even
after he's withered completely.  He rolls off me and out of me only
when I let him.  For twenty minutes the room is empty of any sounds
but after gasps and sated sighs while we are cuddling and kissing and
caressing.  Eventually I slide out of bed and slip from the room while
he drifts in his manly narcotized doze.  I saunter back in and wake
him with a pan of warm water and a soapy cloth.  "Can't have you
returning to Emily's reeking like a cathouse."  I start bathing his
genitals, and immediately sense trouble.  Staring at him sternly I
say, "I knew this was a bad idea from the start."  Bob of course looks
stricken.   "How _dare_ you waste my time," I snarl at him.  "Here I
try to do something nice for you, and what do you do?"  The poor guy
has gone an incredible mixture of pale and blush.  I make my face go
real soft.  "You bad boy you," I whisper, "I get you all cleaned off,
and then you get all hard again.  What am I supposed to do now?" I
lick my lips, "_You_ tell _me_."  He utters a sort of gurgle.  I smile
and hoist myself up, then impale myself on him.  I ride him at my
leisure, performing every trick I know.  The best part is knowing that
he thinks I'm doing it all strictly for him.  Little does he know that
from the first shove I'm in the throes of a low- grade orgasm that is
in no danger of ever fucking ending.  I smile and smile and smile
until I decide it's time to end his torture, reaching around behind me
to jiggle his nuts.  I doubt there's but a drop or two left in his
sack, but the letters spread across his face spell heaven.

Bob's ready to sink into coma land, so I rouse him and clean him up
again, kissing and cooing as I work, "You poor neglected wonder you."
I help him into his clothes, "If it gets much later, you'll have had
enough time to go out and buy and install a brand new toilet," then
guide him on his jelly legs to the door.  "Don't worry, honey," I
assure him, "after this," I give a big juicy kiss, "my lips are
sealed.  It took a lot of _hard_ work, but you got my plumbing going
just _wonderful_."  He stands there on the threshold, face aglow,
stammering to get some words out.  I shush him.  "Hate to touch and
go, but anytime you want more, you just let me know."  And I know
he'll be back for that, at least once for corroboration.  Likely he'll
try to take me in Emily's broom closet if he gets half the chance.  I
figure he'll be worth at least half a dozen more damn good throws.  In
the meantime, I like to think he'll persuade Margie to lay down a lot
and rediscover the ecstasy available right there between her own two
legs.   I give him another kiss, then nudge him out the door.  "Oh,
and Bob?"  He stops.  I swing my hips and give him a saucy stare.
"Take my advice.  Better gargle and brush your teeth real good before
you kiss anyone else.  You still taste like pussy."

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

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

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