Message-ID: <6705eli$9712231404@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: losgud 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: X-Moderator-Contact: Eli the Bearded X-Story-Submission: 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 |