Message-ID: <14754eli$9808281555@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Subject: {Mat Twassel} Bed and Breakfast Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-transfer-encoding: 7bit Content-type: text/plain; charset=US-ASCII 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: <6a3c8663.35e2a7e3@aol.com> Bed and Breakfast by Mat Twassel (for Diana) ============= I was about to leave for work when the phone rang. Laura answered. "Who was that?" I asked when it was over. "Karen," Laura said. "She won't be able to make it for breakfast." Every month or so Karen and Laura went out for breakfast. I knew Laura looked forward to these meetings. Karen is intelligent and fun, and surely it's a nice change from Laura's usual morning routine of coffee and newspaper, piano practice, exercise, and more piano practice. "Is Karen okay?" I asked. "Jeff has a fever and isn't going to school. He threw up six times." "Great," I said. "I'd go to breakfast with you, but Rollie's got another one of those 'must attend' Y2K meetings." "That's okay," Laura said. She hugged me. Her breasts through her nightshirt felt sleepy-soft and nice. "Thanks for thinking of me," she whispered. For a moment I thought maybe I could miss Rollie's meeting. Phone in sick, or something. As if reading my mind, Laura told me I'd better get my butt moving. "You know how Rollie is," she said. "But when are these Y2K things going to end?" "2001 if we're lucky," I answered. Laura smiled. I couldn't resist giving her one more kiss. Oh, such sweetness. Finally she pushed me away. "Now go!" "What are you going to do?" "The usual, I guess. Make some coffee. Make sure the kids get off to school." "You could write me a letter," I suggested. I don't know what made me think of it. "A letter?" "Something, you know, sexy. And mail it to my office?" She chuckled as she pushed me out the door. Half way to work I forgot all about the letter. Three days later it arrived. Dear Mat, You're so sweet. You're my sweet curly-headed honey bunny. I wish I could tickle you. Thanks for thinking of me this morning. Are you thinking of me this morning? What are you thinking? I wish I could sneak up on your thoughts. See them and hold them and feel them. Do you think of me? Do you think good things? I'm babbling aren't I? I'm not used to letters, to writing. I keep thinking I should be writing a grocery list. Lettuce. Cheese. Carrots. I'll try to be sexy for you. Be patient. First I'd better call Karen. Find out if she needs anything for Jeff. Back in a sec. Hi again. Busy. I left a message. Where were we? Sexy stuff. My pen resists going that way. I think of... oh, I don't know how to say it. Shopping lists are easier. Lettuce, carrots, cheese. That lettuce is going to be wilted if we don't watch out. Want me to tell you a secret? Okay. I said that without knowing what secret I was going to tell. Do you believe me? Here goes. Ropes. What if I tied you up to the bed? The trouble is I don't know the knots. I guess you could teach me. You know knots. You know so many things. Anyway, I'm thinking of you tied up on the bed. We'll figure out the knots later. I image big heavy rope, like the kind that holds ships to harbors. Not laundry line. When I was a little girl, I watched Grammy Busha hanging laundry. She was really good at it. There was a sack full of clothespins. Grammy was so short she could barely reach the line. I liked the bedsheets best. Big and white and freshly damp. I'd slide my face and fingers along the fabric. I always assumed someday I'd be hanging out laundry. And then Grammy died and we always used the drier after that. You're naked. Nude. Nothing on, lying on your back, in bed, ropes on your hands and feet. You can move, but not much. Your little tusk is so sweet, all nestled in its nest. Then you see me watching you, and you smile, and immediately your tusker begins to grow. I like the way it does that. From something almost shriveled it stretches up, like flowers stretch towards the sun, but in cute little intervals, like a little boy hopping up the front steps. Hop hop hop. Oh, my tickle bunny. My little boy. Penis. I wanted to write that word. Penis and then cock. Penis becoming cock. Tusk. Sweet and strong, the stem stretched straight up, the hat so cute and hoping. One 'p' in hoping. Penis. Penis in my mouth. No, we're not there yet. Don't get ahead. Don't make me get ahead. Besides, you can't move. You're all tied up. It's nice to have you this way. Do you like what I've written so far? I'm going to touch myself a little now. Just a little. For flavor. I wish you could watch. Maybe you are watching. Maybe I'm standing at the foot of the bed, fully clothed, watching you, your eyes, and your tusk straining straight up. You can't move. I start with the nipple. Through the shirt. I'm wearing that brash orange and navy tee, the bold stripes across my breasts. Makes them look fatter, don't you think? The nipples push. Mm, feels good under my fingers. Finger and thumb. Pinching lightly. Now a little harder. Just a little. Makes me squint. Makes me feel good. Good and hot. I think about taking my top up. I think about taking my top up, but I don't. My breasts feel fat and full. Nipples plump as berries. Darker than they were before our babies. Do you miss my pink nipples? The way they were? Oh well. Can't be helped. My breasts are fatter, though. I'm fatter. Not much fatter, though, right? Not too fat? You tell me I'm not fat, but still... but still. It's hard not feeling that way sometimes. I'll listen to what you say. You're so good to me. You love me, don't you? I can't hear it enough. I don't feel fat when you're filling me. I feel... I don't know, like liquid, sometimes a warm pool, fully fluid, like water touched by sun and rushing down down down. Waterfalls. All this is going through my head while I play with my nipple under my shirt. The right nipple. The left one feels neglected, but it's fattened up, too. Twins. I've taken both hands and pulled my shirt tight. I've rocked my shirt up and down. Don't laugh. One thing... gripping my shirt at the bottom has brought my hands closer to my lap. Or it did until I wrote that last sentence. I wanted to touch the place. I can feel the beginning of wetness. I'm wearing those cotton Calvin Klein workout shorts. I'm thinking about putting my hand on my mound. Just my palm. No fingers yet. Just pressure. Pressing lightly. My nipples are like little knots. Tight little knots. You're good with knots, aren't you? My mound wants. I move my hand down. Down my belly. You watch from the bed. I need your eyes there. Your tusk is straining up. Gleam seeps from the tip. Just a touch of gleam. I'd like to touch it with my tongue. Just the tip of my tongue. You'd see the silver strand stretch up as I moved back, stretch up and snap. Sticky, like a spider web in the sun, a single strand, so sweet, I can almost taste it. But I'm not going to suck you just yet. First I'm going to touch myself through my workout shorts. Just enough to get my own gleam going. I cheated. I rubbed a little. I made myself squeak. Just one shy squeak and then I stopped. On your back in the bed you can see my fingers sneaking under the waistband. My middle finger carefully eases into the crease, avoiding the clit at all costs. Yes, I'm wet. Wetter than I would have thought. The sheets dried in the bright sun. One day I asked Grammy what made them dry. Was it the sun? "Yes, Laurie," she said. "The sun and the breeze." "But how?" I asked. She explained. "The sun fizzles the water up, and the breeze carries it away." She used that word. "Fizzles." I thought it was funny, like soda pop poured too quick overflowing the glass. When you come it's like that sometimes. When I milk you with my hands and you bubble over, all white and creamy, it's like soda pop exploding, but no breeze to carry it away, so I have to suck quickly, or there'll be a mess, and we'll have stains on the sheets. No, I'm not going to suck you yet. I'm not going to touch you either. Not yet. Be patient. When you come, does it feel like a fizzle? Does it ever feel like you're choking, like you drank too fast and swallowed the wrong way? And you think "now I'm done for" but it feels good all the same, good in a deeply dangerous way? By now your meeting with Rollie might be over. You might be back at your desk, working working working. You're so brave. So brave and so handsome to work that way. I could never do it. I will reward you. I will touch myself some more. That's your reward. My fingers are working. Work work working. On my nipples. On the top of my mound. I'm standing at the foot of the bed doing this for you. I'm pretty ready now. Pretty ready to do what I'm going to do. What I've been planning. You've been patient, so now... if I can be brave... if I can write it right. First I scrape my finger along the underside of your tusher. Your tusher tusk. I love to see that little jerk. So sweet and strong he is, your tusher tusk. He wants me. And then I get up on the bed. And carefully, ever so carefully, I ease aside the crotch of my CKs, and lower myself. I lower myself until the tip of your tusk just touches me. My gleam place. Your tusk kisses me there. Oh sweetie, I can almost feel it. Oh, god, I want to go down so much, to sink swift and full and all the way, to be filled in one gulping pushing rush. But I won't let myself do that. Just a kiss is all you get. For now. And I give you a pretend kiss with my lips, through the air, like movie stars to their hordes of admirers. I see myself stepping onto a train car, an old- fashioned one. The platform is crowded with beautiful people. They've all come to see me off. The wind ripples through my hair. There's a band in the background. I purse my lips, blow them all a single kiss. And then I slip into the train, into the private compartment. Waiting for me is a silver bowl of perfect strawberries, and a crystal goblet brimming with Champagne. Both of these on a smooth walnut writing desk along with perfectly white pages and an elegant ballpoint pen. "Dear Mat," I write. Do you want me? Do you want me as much as I want you? I can't wait. I meant to tease you with more kisses. Your tip just touching my gleam. I meant to do at least six more of these teasing kisses. But I can't. I sink all the way down. Oh love! You're so good in there. You always are. There is nothing like it. Nothing like being filled that way. You like it too. It is perfect. It is the way we were meant to be. Don't move. Don't even twitch. Just feel how perfect we are. How snug and full. Just feel. Oh honey. Anything else is extra. Carefully, slowly, I move up and down six times, once for each missing kiss. I come all the way up, but not quite enough to let you come out, and I go all the way down, and I wait at the bottom, and then when we've adjusted to the pleasure, I give you six squeezes, the kind that make us both shiver, the kind that make you twitch, the kind that could make you come if I did one more without rising up. I then I get off. No, not get off "come." I take myself all the way off of you. As I slip out of my pants and shirt, I admire your tusk, so gleaming with my gleam, all slick and cunty. I suck it then, your tusk, taking it immediately deep into my mouth until I can't take any more. I taste me on you, the strangeness of my sap. There's a buzz to it, like summer air. I suck harder, giving in to your want, but not all the way. Almost, but not quite. You want me so bad, you boy. I hold the stem and lick and tease. You squirm. I lick some more. I turn myself so that my bottom faces you, so you can see the openness, and how much I want you, the wet gleam pooling there, and I lick and suck, suck and lick, keeping you near the edge, wetting you until all the flavor of me is off, is in my mouth, swirling there like another kind of cunt. And then I turn and kiss your mouth. Kiss you so you can taste my cunt on my tongue, taste my gleam all over my lips, taste that tingling summer buzz you've given me, and at the same time I catch your tusk with my cunt, I capture it and hold it and fuck it. I fuck you as we kiss, and in an instant you can't breathe for coming, you explode inside me. Fizzle doesn't come close to describing it. You come and come and come. Yes, my honey, my sweet big fucking boy. You come so hard and good. Yes, honey. You do! And here's why I tied you up. Do I dare do this? After all this I'd better. Okay. Okay. After you've come, after you've flooded me full and happy, I slither up your body and put my cunt against your mouth. And somehow you know what I want. I want your tongue to taste me. To taste my just-fucked cunt. To taste your seed swelling and swirling in there, mixing with my juices. I fuck your face and your tongue just as earlier I fucked your cock. The hot flow flows out of me flooding your mouth. My clit brushes your nose. I fuck my clit against your nose. I fuck you until I flood your face with me and you, with all our essence. I fuck and fuck and fuck. I do it until I come, oh waterfalls of coming until I can't come anymore. And then I come again. I do. Oh god, I do. You're not mad at me, are you? Do you still love me? Oh, honey. Dare I mail this? Oh dear. I wonder if Karen ever writes letters like this to Joe. I wonder how Jeff is doing. I'd better call. Oh, could you stop on the way home and pick up some ... yikes, it'll be days before you get this, if I mail it at all. You make me crazy sometimes, you know? I'm crazy for you. I love you. Laura I didn't get much work done in the next hour. Part of the time I was thinking about our bed. It didn't have the right kind of bedposts. I called The Towers. "Do you have any rooms with old-fashioned beds in them?" "Old-fashioned?" the reservation clerk asked. "Like four-posters. Not necessarily a canopy. For today? Now?" They did. Then I telephoned home. Laura didn't answer, but she seldom answers when practicing. Working her way through Rachmaninoff's "Etudes-Tableaux, Opus 33," I imagined, as I spoke to the answering machine. "The Towers, room eleven-thirteen, two o'clock. Under your wrap wear the orange and blue tee shirt and the CKs, okay? Leave a note for the kids to order pizza for supper." I had to hurry. I phoned the hotel again and made sure a silver tub of strawberries would be in the room along with some champagne in a bucket of ice. I phoned Saks, the one in the mall across from The Towers, and ordered a single crystal goblet to be delivered to the hotel immediately. I told Beverly I was feeling a bit strange and was taking the rest of the day off just in case. I stopped at a hardware store and bought the closest thing they had to hawser-- twenty-eight feet of it sliced into four seven foot lengths. At one thirty I checked in, picked up the parcel from Saks, and borrowed a corkscrew from the barman. "My wife will be here at two or so," I told the desk clerk. I handed him a twenty. "Just give her the key... she shouldn't need any assistance." The room was perfect. I undressed and opened the champagne. I'd never opened wine while nude before. I adjusted the curtains to let a large square of light fill the bed. I took the ropes out of the hardware store sack and stored the sack in the closet with my clothing. I rinsed the crystal goblet and dried it thoroughly with one of the fluffy face towels and set in on the table next to the champagne where the afternoon light made it gleam. I took the bedspread and quilt from the bed and bundled them into the cupboard. Now the bed was bare except for the crisp white topsheet and two plump pillows where my head would be. Laura's right: I'm good with knots. I hitched each rope length to a bedpost, and I fashioned a hangman's noose in each free end. I sat in the bed and put a noose over each foot, then tightened the knots. I slipped my hands through the other openings and drew them taut simply by pulling. Then I waited. I tried not to think of anything. Images of Laura kept coming to me. The way she looks when she's playing piano. The way she looks when she's coming. The way she looks. I took a deep breath and tried to will away my excitement. I studied the paintings, the wallpaper, the slowly shifting light. Someone knocked on the door. I didn't answer. I closed my eyes. I'll pretend to be asleep, I thought. I could hear the card-key working the lock, the door swinging open then clicking shut. I held my breath, and I'm sure I grinned, for I could smell Laura's perfume. She was looking at me, smiling, a mischievous smile of friendly naughtiness. There was a long moment of pulsing quiet. "I think I'll have a sip of this champagne first," she said. After that she didn't say anything, she just set about doing all the things of her letter and more. It couldn't have been more wonderful. A long time later she untied me. "Could you have gotten free?" she asked. "How did you tie yourself up. I don't imagine you made the bellboy do it?" I grinned at her and gathered her into my arms. We relaxed into each other, and she fell asleep for awhile. I felt utterly content. "What are you thinking?" she asked. I regretted missing the moment of her awakening. "Nothing much," I said. "Just glad that Jeff was sick the other morning." "Me too," Laura said. I wondered how much of all this she'd tell Karen the next time they had breakfast. ===== Bed and Breakfast by Mat Twassel Note: This piece, dedicated to Diana, follows (in so far as I am able) the Malinov Formula #27A Comments welcome: mmtwassel@aol.com Original Malinov stories at: http://www.gslink.com/~dcain/xanadu/erotica/ More Mat Twassel stories at: http://members.aol.com/Mmtwassel/index.html -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----