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From: bronwen@anon.nymserver.com (Bronwen)
Subject: "Well-Known Sayings" by BronwenSM (FM, cons)
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This story is © BronwenSM 1998 and contains explicit sexual
description. Not to be used without permission. And please don't read
it if you might be offended or if doing so is illegal where you are.
"Well-Known Sayings"
(MF, cons)
© BronwenSM 1998
@---}---}-----
They knew what they were about, those old wives, brewing up their
homespun mottoes. At least they did most of the time. The rest of
their finger-wagging is probably horse shit.
But when your husband comes home and tells you he's just found out his
only brother's dying in middle age, and sits there red-eyed, forearms
loose on the kitchen table, all those bedraggled wiseacre chickens
come home to roost. "Blood is thicker than water"; "home is where the
heart is" and, of course, "A good fuck is the best response to bad
news." ....Is that a new one on you? Oh, it's very popular round our
way.
When you're young and cynical it seems cool and free-spirited to
reject marriage and family ties. Once on the better side of 40
(believe me, this is the better side - it's far worse contemplating it
from 39) the authenticity of the song becomes apparent: "Freedom's
just another word for nothing left to lose." Ain't that the truth?
You don't get to choose your family of birth, but you can build your
very own when you grow up -- your own ideas, your own rules. Now it
so happens we were both born into good ones, but that hasn't stopped
either of us trying to make ours even better. Find the soul who's a
good fit for yours and all things are possible.
"The worst thing about dying," says James' brother, "is dying alone."
His wife left him three years ago. They had no kids. He wasn't a bad
husband: no drink, no drugs, no violence, no other women. He was a
cold husband. He kept himself to himself, including every tender
feeling. I suppose she just got lonely.
James says he'd have been like that if we hadn't met. He says he
learned about feelings from me. I think he rates me too highly. He
just needed a little encouragement. My husband is as warm as a hottie
bottle in bed on a cold night. Kind to the bone, this man of mine.
My love, my friend, my ally.
Our love -- and our gratitude for that love -- frames everything we do
in gold. No one would think us anything but ordinary if they saw us
roaming the garden center at the weekend. Him shambling along,
ill-fitting trousers, probably needs a shave. Me plump and pretty
shapeless now, at least inside my mid-length quilted parka. One child
in a push chair, one running at heel.
But as he sits here, strong gentle hands now twisting in his lap, a
single tear brushed hastily aside, the love in our shabby kitchen is
greener and more flourishing than any garden.
"My love, my poor love.... " I don't know what to say. "How long do
they think he's got?"
"Three months." His voice is dry, flat.
"Oh, sweetheart, I'm so very sorry." I stand up and move over to him.
"C'mere, babes, give us a cuddle. Let me love you up."
He shuffles to his feet. He looks defeated. I see the lines of my
dead father-in-law's face as they will look in his. I see him as he
will look when he is old. I take him in my arms with all the love I
have.
Hesitantly he brings his wooden arms up round my waist, and then I cup
his face in my hands. I want to kiss the stains on his cheek but
he'll shy away, I know. I'm not supposed to notice he's been crying.
So, very gently but firmly, I start to kiss his cold mouth.
At first his response is loving but without passion. He welcomes my
presence, but he's so scared, so sad. Then, as warmth slowly
permeates our bodies where they meet, he suddenly opens his mouth and
sucks in my bottom lip. Then he's running his tongue across the roof
of my mouth. He starts to return my kisses as if they will save his
life. Saliva puddles in our mouths, dampens our faces. I feel his
desperation, his starvation.
"Come here, love, come here," I am guiding him through to the living
room. We are still entangled when we reach the door but have to part
to get through the doorway.
Inside I drop to my knees before him on the rug and unzip his jeans.
No underpants as usual. He steps out of his trousers, undoes his
shirt. His cock feels so hot in my hand. It is already hard. I know
how much he loves fellatio -- does any man not? -- and I open my mouth
to take in that velvet plum. My only thought is to cherish him. I
look up to meet his eyes as I engulf him.
But this doesn't feel right and in an instant I know why. He feels
alone, stark, standing up there in the cold while I kneel at his feet.
I tug gently at his hips, urging him to join me on the floor.
He comes down slowly, knees stiff, joints seeming arthritic.
Everything about him has aged as a response to the wrenching news this
day has brought. Mortality stares him bleakly in the face. But I
will beat her off, at least for now. My face holds warming life,
holds endless love. My arms reach for him. 'Come to me,' I think.
'I'll make it better.'
Though, of course, I can't. That must wait on another proverb - "time
heals all wounds." But he needs something now. All my selves --
lover, wife, friend, mother -- stretch out to protect him, support
him. He is my baby, my precious one. He sinks down onto me and, with
sudden fluency, grips my shoulders as he plunges with long practice
straight into my depths. This is what he needs.
I am, for whatever reason, ready. It feels so right to have him safe
there. I feel like a harbor, I hold him tight. I hold him in my arms
as urgently as though I were carrying him safe from a burning
building.
He fucks as if he wants to break me open, stabbing deep and frantic.
What he really wants, my little love, my big hero, is to run away.
And, as this can't be done, he can at least hide for a while. He
can't go on at this pace, I think. He'll come any minute. But he
doesn't. He rides me wildly, on and on. A word flicks across my
brain. 'Apocalypse.' My whole soul watches him with tender anxiety,
so focussed on his pain that my own response takes me off guard and I
plunge, with a gasp, into orgasm like a barrel over a waterfall.
And that is what he needs to set him free. As he feels me clench and
spasm around his shaft, as he hears my "Unngh" of release, he starts
to come. And this is the most prolonged release I've ever known from
him. Again and again he pulses, until his deep grunts fade to high,
astonished whimpers. His legs are trembling. And then I feel the
wetness: between my legs, on my shoulder.
James is crying. And I hold him without speaking. If I make any
comment he might stop and he needs to let it go.
He cries for a long time, until he starts to sniffle. This reminds
him that he doesn't cry, so he stops. He doesn't like it much, but I
take his watery face in my hands and make him look at me.
"I love you, darling," I say earnestly. "I always will. You are not
alone. And you won't die alone. I love you. I'm here."
He wouldn't admit it, but that's what he needed to hear. I see
exhaustion and relief in his face. "I'll go and make us a nice cup of
coffee," I offer.
He smiles. "That sounds good. We've just got time for a bit of a
cuddle before I pick the kids up."
But when I return he's sound asleep on the rug, sprawled loose and
chunky. A tiny smile on his peaceful face. I fetch a coverlet for him,
and cuddle my mug as I watch his chest rise and fall. Fruitful love
twists a roof of leaves and fragrance over our heads on this desolate
gray afternoon...
@---}---}-----
If you enjoyed this story, please let me know at
bronwen@anon.nymserver.com. Remember Celeste's blow job principle.
All my stories are available at Hoot Island on
http://www.hootisland.com/bronwen/ - thanks to wyyrd, my kind host!
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