Message-ID: <6705eli$9712231404@qz.little-neck.ny.us>
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/Year97/6705.txt>
From: losgud <lushgod@hotnomail.com>
Subject: RP--Touch And Go
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
Reply-To: see@iglou.com, end@iglou.com, note@iglou.com
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: <349FFDE8.7CDF@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 

	
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.

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?_ 

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."


=========================
Like? Yes? No? Comments welcome.  losgud@hotmail.com
=========================
I am archived at DejaNews under "Author" name:
LUSHGOD@HOTNOMAIL.COM


-- 
+--------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `------------+
| story-submit@qz.little-neck.ny.us | story-admin@qz.little-neck.ny.us |
| Archive site +--------------------+------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ |
<http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/><http://www.qz.to/erotica/assm/faq.html>