Message-ID: <4738eli$9710091416@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: losgud Subject: New Story--Touch And Go [3/3] Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Nntp-Posting-User: [unauthenticated] Path: qz!not-for-mail Organization: The Committee To Thwart Spam Approved: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: X-Original-Message-ID: <343D1BC9.6D34@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 [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? 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