Message-ID: <15421eli$9809182240@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: "Jane Urquhart" Subject: (Jane Urquhart) EROTICA 101 (humor; FM cons) Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d 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: <19980915011819.29711.qmail@hotmail.com> WARNING: This story doesn't contain much explicit sexual matter, but there's probably enough for the usual warning. If you are under 18, or live in a jurisdiction in which such matter is illegal, please stop reading now. This story may be archived on free web sites but is not to be distributed without this note and the name of the author, changed in any way, or sold. Please do not re-post without consulting the author. Copyright 1998 by Jane Urquhart. INTRODUCTION: I don't usually stick an introduction in front of my stories, but this one needs one. For one thing, it verges on blatant self-promotion. But what can I do? See, this guy who has read most of my stuff wrote me a nice letter the other day praising my latest, and then he asked me a question. His wife is, it seems, a great romance reader, but she doesn't even know about the sex stories on the Net. He thinks she'd like them, but he doesn't want to upset her with one of those 100-proof stroke stories he reads all the time. So would I please tell him which of my stories he should start with to ease her into the sex story world? So I recommended a couple. Then this happened. Well, I think this happened. Oh, nuts! MAYBE this happened. EROTICA 101 (Humor; FM cons) by Jane Urquhart "Hey, Michelle, I want to ask you something." I was deep into one of those novels where a big hairy Scot was distressing a damsel no end when my husband produced this remark. Since talk of any sort is not one of his big things, I swam up to answer. "Yeah?" I'm always gracious when people interrupt my reading. "I wanted to ask you," he said, "if those romance things you read all the time are sexy." Now as far as I know--and I ought to know if anybody does, right?--sex is not one of my husband's big things, either. To be fair, his technique does seem to have improved a little in recent months, but he's still not one of those guys I hear about that's always wanting to make out on the kitchen floor. And not very romantic, either. So this question sounded mildly interesting. "Well, sure," I said. "They're love stories. So they're kind of sexy, yes." "No," he said, looking slightly embarrassed, as if he'd seen me sitting on the pot or something, "I mean, do they describe sex much, go into any detail?" "Well, no," I said. "Not to any great extent. The men are always feeling up the heroine toward the end of the book, but the chapter always seems to finish when the really heavy breathing starts." Now I began seriously to wonder what this conversation was in aid of. "See," he said, "I found this stuff on the Internet I thought you might be interested in. Sex stories." "No kidding?" I said. "I knew there were some there, but I assumed they were just crap--you know some guy sticking his ten-inch tool into this pneumatic blonde chick or something. I like real stories." "No, really," he said. "There's a lot of that, that's for sure, but their are some real stories, too, good ones." "Fancy that," I said, having no faith whatsoever in his literary taste. But what the hell, we were actually having a conversation, right? I was getting downright mellow. "Why don't you print me up one, then? I wouldn't mind taking a look." He said, OK, he would, and shut up. I went back to hairy old Scotland in the 1440s and forgot all about it. The next day he handed me this printout, maybe fifteen pages altogether. I read it that night. It's about this clunky babe with good legs getting laid under a palm tree on a desert island. She likes it. I would, too. It even turned me on a little. I handed it back to him. "Not bad," I said. "At least the grammar's good, but there's not much of a story, really. You got anything that's maybe a little more complex?" "Actually, I do," he said. "By the same woman. This one's true, she told me." "She told you?" I said, amazed. "You write to these people?" "Sure," he said. "They like to hear from readers--they don't get paid. Anyhow, I asked her a few months ago when it first came out if it was true, and she said it was." "OK," I said, "Make me a copy, please." He did, and he gave it to me when he got home from work the next evening. It was at least twice as thick as the first one. It looked long enough to be a story. I read it at lunch the following day. More like it. Same woman, but this time it was a long, involved story about her seducing her best friend's husband. Again with details. Interesting details. The hero, I guess he was, reminded me of Mike, my husband. Clueless. But the story part wasn't bad--they act like real people, even go to some ditsy opera, and all her worrying is even kind of funny. And I find it turns me on good this time. I even found myself thinking of my best friend's husband, who is a hunk. If hubby was reading this kind of stuff, I thought, then how come I'm getting eight hours sleep nearly every night? So that night after supper I asked him that very question. "Well," he said, "I try to save it up for Saturday nights. We both need to be awake at work, you know, so we need our sleep." OK, maybe this is true. Not that I need to be all that awake at work, but OK. And I had noticed that Saturday nights were a tad more active than they used to be. But that's not all I wanted to know. "I notice," I said judiciously, "that these people seem to engage in certain activities we don't." "Yeah," he said, turning bright pink. "I've always been afraid you'd think it was dirty if I tried anything different." "Dear Heart, you might ask," I said, exasperated, "You could say something like, 'Would you be upset if I practiced my cunnilingus on you?' I don't think I'd divorce you if you asked that." He looked a little surprised and said, "Well? Would you?" "Would I what?" I said. "Divorce you or be upset if you wanted to practice cunnilingus on me?" "Either," he said, smiling at last. "Well, I certainly wouldn't divorce you for that," I said, "and I guess I'd allow you to practice at least once to see if it was worth while." I'd allow him to practice until he got a gold medal. Hell, I'd give him a gold medal myself. "Really?" he said. "Gee, I'm amazed! I thought you were just too straight for that. Actually, Janey says in one of her stories that women don't turn that down, but I didn't think it applied to you." I got up out of my chair and headed for the bedroom. I took off all my clothes, took a shower, and looked back in the living room. He was still sitting there at the computer, reading something. "Hey!" I said. "Come and practice. Now." Strike while the iron is hot is my motto. And I got into the bed. He came in, looking sheepish again, and took off his clothes. I had a sheet over me, but there was plenty of bare flesh in view. Maybe not enough, I thought, and pulled the sheet down a foot or so. I have boobs that Janey woman would give anything for. "How long since you read the story?" I asked while he was taking off his socks. He blushes again. Good God. "I read it just after I made the printout," he said. "I wanted to make sure it wouldn't be too raw for you." "It wasn't," I said. "Do you remember what she made the guy do?" "Yeah," he said. "She told him to stroke her right ankle and he got the wrong one." "Right," I said. "Now I want you to do just what he did, OK?" "Like act out the story?" "Exactly," I said. "You brought it home. What did you expect?" "Can I kiss you first?" "You may," I said. Dividends already. But my vagina was getting warm and just a little damp, and I wasn't sure just how much foreplay I was interested in. So he climbed into bed, managed to get an arm around me and gave me a big kiss. More of a kiss than I'd had in quite a while. Tongues wrestling, arms squeezing. I guessed all that time he spent on his computer wasn't wasted after all. Then he backed down to where my ankles were, pulling off the sheet as he went. It was a little chilly. If I had my druthers, I'd sleep in a hooded sweatshirt, but I couldn't expect action wearing that, could I? We have to sacrifice for our art. But so far it had been a hell of a lot of sacrifices and not near enough art. Anyhow, he pulled down the sheet and began to stroke the ankle gently. This writer babe at least gave good directions. No major complaints about that, but by that time I was getting eager for the main event. I restrained myself, but I did open my legs wide enough for a six-lane highway. He followed the directions, finally getting up to my tiny little quim, and I was liking this quite a bit. He kind of burrowed around. Her directions get a little vague at this point. I decided to put in a footnote. "What you do now," I said helpfully, "is use your hand to open it up a little. I wouldn't mind a few little strokes with your finger, either." Compliance followed. He really is a nice man. He finally got his tongue in and started trying to eat my clit. I about jumped out of my skin. "Whoa!" I said. "Take it easy, for God's sake! Just kind of flick it a little. Warm it up, so to speak." He retreated, slowed up, and things got better. Not much later I was holding his head and yelling, "Go for it!" Well, all that fairly heated him up, and we went on to a rousing, three-star fuck. I got to thinking the Internet was, indeed, going to revolutionize life as we know it. It sure as hell was revolutionizing mine, and I was all for it. The next evening Mike came home wearing this knowing grin. He grabbed me and kissed me hard, bending me over backwards like some kind of flamenco dancer. Well, shiver my timbers! Casanova, move over! Wherefore art thou, Romeo? This was MY HUSBAND! Who wants to cook when romance beckons? "Let's send out for pizza," I said, coyly. "OK," he said. "I brought home a bottle of red wine, it'll go good." Wine? This guy sits on the couch whenever he can watching some stupid game and drinking a six-pack. I didn't know he even knew what wine was. All right, I wasn't that familiar with it myself, but I'm adventurous. I'll try anything. But Mike? "Wine?" I said. "Where'd you get that idea?" "Same place," he said. "The way I figure it, this Janey really knows how to live. Her father was a war correspondent, and her mother is still an actress, and they've got money, you can tell. She has this job she doesn't think much of, but it sounds OK to me--better than being an assistant manager at a tire store. I think she just does it for fun, or something. Anyhow, she seems to have a good time, even if she is a little dumb sometimes. And she drinks red wine, and her characters all drink wine, so why not try it? It's supposed to be romantic." I was getting a little jealous. He really liked this babe. I came straight out of the potato fields--Fort Kent High is not a major institution of higher education. But my family is respectable, my father's a farmer, and I'm no dummy. I read a lot, and it's not all romances, either. I know when something's fishy. First thing you know he's going to buy a silk shirt or something. And maybe get himself a college girl. Hell with that! But I didn't say anything. Well, not much. Mike had to struggle to get the damn bottle open. He had this corkscrew, but it didn't work or something, and we had cork all over the kitchen counter. I took the bottle and put the wine through a tea strainer and we drank it out of orange juice glasses. After the first couple of sips I thought it wasn't too bad. Unusual for Mike, but not bad. The pizza man came pretty quick. I was almost as hungry as I was curious. "How old is this Janey?" "She's thirty-four," he said. "Her birthday was July 12." I relaxed a little. The babe's over the hill. Way over. "And how do you know these details?" I inquired. "Oh, it's all in the stories," he said. "Does she write to you a lot?" "Nah," he said. "I send her a note when I read one of her stories, and she sends back about two lines of thank-you. Polite, but not much else. Why the quiz?" "I don't know," I said. "Have you got another one for me tonight?" "She's supposed to be writing what they call 'vanilla,' but I don't know about this one," he said. "You up for some pretty wild stuff?" Wild stuff? Moi? (I saw somebody in a movie say that. Very hoity-toity. I'm working on becoming a sophisticated woman.) "I guess I can handle it," I said. "If it's really filthy, I'll throw it away." Like hell. After I finished it I'd give it to my friend Jeannette at work. She's on the perfume counter and thinks she's really hot stuff, but we get along pretty well. So we finished the pizza and made out a little but didn't do anything hot. He wanted to watch some baseball game--something about a home run record. I read a copy of Cosmopolitan I picked up after work. Had some interesting stuff in it. I got tired of the Cosmo by the eighth inning and started on the new story. Well, now. We sure as hell weren't going to act this one out. No way. It was about "a small informal orgy" with Janey's friends. Still, I did smile a little when I thought about Jeannette's husband. Nothing's impossible. When the game was over and he came back to earth I told him I'd read the story. "How'd you like it?" he said. "Not bad," I replied calmly. "In fact, pretty good. I don't think we can afford Florida, but it's summertime, so we can go down to Ogunquit or Wells for a day or two. You want me to call Jeannette now?" He was practically out of his chair. "Now, wait a minute!" he shouted. "It's just a story for God's sake! I bet it isn't even true. Are you out of your mind?" "No," I said, "I just thought you were showing me these things so we could do some of the things they did. What people like Janey and her friends do." He was getting mad. I was about to giggle. "Goddamn!" he said. "What's the matter with you? You know I wouldn't ask you to do anything like that!" "You don't want to throw a leg over Jeannette?" "NO, I don't want to throw a leg over Jeannette!" he said. "And I don't want that bastard Doug pawing you, either!" I pouted. "So who's gonna paw me, then?" "I am, you silly bitch!" he said. I always like it when he calls me names. Proves he's got blood pressure. "You are?" I asked innocently. "When?" "Now!" he said, loudly, and jerked me out of the chair. Back into flamenco position. He's pawing at my boobs. Goody! First thing you know we're in the bedroom, in the bed, and if you think this McGwire person I keep hearing about can hit home runs, you just don't know my Mike! After it was all over and we'd calmed down a bit, just lying there cuddling, he apparently thought things over. "You were kidding, weren't you?" "Well," I said, "I got your attention, right?" He smiled this loopy smile and said, "You sure did!" "By the way," I said, "I haven't read anything in those stories about blowjobs. Janey opposed to that? I wouldn't object to a little research, say, tomorrow." We're lying there like two hogs after a good feed, naked as jaybirds, and he blushes. Again. "I didn't know you'd even heard about blowjobs," he said. "Well, I did," I said. "I've just been hearing about them since I was ten, that's all." I didn't think there was much point in talking about that time in my last year of junior high. But I did think that anything that kept him interested in lying around naked with me was worth discussing. You got to understand--Mike may not be totally swift about personal relationships, but he's big and strong, and he makes good money, and he's going to go back to school part time in the Fall to finish his business degree. I love him, too. A lot. We're going to have about eighteen kids. But not right away. "Actually," he said, "I think Janey's partial to cunnilingus. She wants her women to get theirs. But in her last story she did mention blowjobs a little." "Printout. Tomorrow," I said. "Well, OK, but I don't know if you'll like this story. It's not a Janey story--says so right at the top. It's about the author and this old geezer--he's pushing fifty, for God's sake--getting it on in some big hotel down the coast. But it's full of this literary kind of stuff and moonlight and so on. The sex is good, though--maybe her best yet." It sounded pretty good to me. I like "moonlight stuff" a lot. "Tomorrow," I said, "Without fail." I kind of dragged around the next day, but how much energy does it take to sell underwear in a mall in South Portland? I mean "lingerie." Mike looked like he'd just done the Indy 500 on foot when he got home that night. "Here," he said. "I ate a sandwich at work I'm going to bed. Now." He handed me another thick printout. "I love it when you talk dirty," I said. He just looked at me and grinned, then started shucking his clothes. I was a little bushed myself. No action that night, not by a long shot. Lunchtime the next day was devoted to a careful reading of this major literary effort that Mike found not quite his kind of thing. I understood it, all right. All of it. I thought it was terribly romantic. Especially the blowjob part. Well, there's no point in going into any more details. Let's just say he found my efforts worth while. Not to say "world class" like his favorite heroine. But quite satisfactory. We were coming up on our first anniversary. We were doing all right, for my money. In all areas. I wasn't picking potatoes, and he wasn't working in a gas station. What more can you ask? There was, however, one thing I still wanted. So I got Mike to show me how to send e-mail. He also taught me how to find the newsgroups and I started reading stories on my own. I found some I really liked. Then I wrote to Janey. "Dear Mrs. Urquhart: "I think my husband is your biggest fan, and I like your stories, too. But I want to ask you a big favor. You see, Mike is a little shy, but he thinks everything you write about is just super. If it's OK with you, it's OK with him. Anyhow, if you could bring yourself to do it, you could help me turn one of my favorite dreams into reality. I sort of get the idea you won't like it much. But I want you to write a story for me--one that'll give Mike some new ideas. "You know this writer Crimson Dragon? She's really good, but I don't think Mike reads her stuff. Crimson writes these real sweet stories with a twist. I'd really appreciate it if you could write one like some of hers. Nothing heavy--just a sweet story where there's a little friendly bondage. "Yours truly, "Michelle Lefebvre" ----THE END---- -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----