Message-ID: <19767eli$9902080429@qz.little-neck.ny.us> X-Archived-At: From: Nick Subject: Argument by Nick (M/F comedy) 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: <3.0.1.32.19990207211646.007b14d0@pop3.demon.co.uk> Argument by Nick (Copyright: nick@cassandra.demon.co.uk Feb 1999) Note that this story is provided free for entertainment. You may copy it and distribute to friends but you may not make money from it or any part of it without my agreement, nor must you claim it as your own. This story is copyrighted to me (Nick) and I ask you to observe that. This story is of an adult nature, containing some sexually explicit scenes. I do not intend either for me or the reader to break the law in any country where it may be read, and so if for any reason the law of your country forbids you from reading adult literature, do not read any further. We lie in bed together, curled up back to back, trying to get to sleep. The fight is over for the time being, but our heads still teem with unspoken insults. Neither of us are quite that disgusted with the other that we are prepared to get up and find somewhere else to sleep, or to throw the other out, but it's pretty close. I hate that. For one thing I don't like sleeping alone. Christ! What does she imagine this is? I have to work with the woman after all. It's not as if Queen Vic-bloody-toria is still on the throne! Jenny is a very competent professional colleague. Nothing more. We lie there tossing and turning, trying to get comfortable, but somehow unable to find a position that doesn't become excruciating after a while. If I lie on my left side I can hear my heart racing. If I lie on my right side I have to face her. If I curl up, my knees seem to bang together and if I stretch out I get an uncomfortable kink in my side. It was only a peck on the cheek! Anyone would think I'd tried to shag the bitch, the way she carries on. I mean, talk about repressed. True, she was looking especially attractive and she did seem to monopolise my attention, but was that my fault? I try to lie still and think about other things. I actually try counting sheep, but as the white fluffy bundles start leaping over my imaginary fence, they start to look alternately like Wendy or Jenny. OK! OK! I'll admit it, I did cup her breast as I helped her on with her coat, but I was very discreet about it and she didn't mind. What I mean is, it didn't mean anything. Her nipple barely hardened. True it *did* harden, but I had let go long before it was fully erect. Besides I didn't realise Wendy had a full view of what was going on in the mirror. It's all a bit unfair really. A bit below the belt, even, but then women can be very unfair that way, can't they. I'm breathing steadily now. I've almost forgotten about the sound of my heart racing… damn, I've just woken myself up again thinking that very thought! Come on, now, a little self-discipline. Deep slow breathing. What did it say in that Yoga book? Can't remember. Don't need to remember. That's good. Wendy is still restless. Her breathing is ragged and I can hear frequent sighs and tuts. I am… slowly… drifting… Bitch! She sits up suddenly and grabs her pillows, plumping them up violently before throwing herself back down on the bed with a heavy sigh which leaves the bed rocking. I'm fully awake now, but I'm damned if I'm going to let her know that. I lie still and continue breathing evenly. Best to think of nice things. Things other than Wendy, that is. I cast my mind back to that time in the office when Jenny asked me if I was flirting with her. I denied it of course, but I'm not sure she entirely believed me. I smile, treasuring the look on her face. Dear Jenny, she really is a lovely woman. "You awake?" her voice, though barely above a whisper, cuts through the night like a foghorn. No I'm bloody not! She's probably thought of some other weakness in my character that it is suddenly desperately important to tell me about, or maybe she's decided 'after much consideration' that she can't bear to sleep with me after all. Well if I'm asleep she can hardly expect me to move. She, of course, is free to sleep where she likes. I continue breathing evenly, as she turns over with a frustrated sigh. "Bastard!" she mutters. My God, what a fidget, she is. She seems to be constantly making some adjustment. What *is* the matter with her? I begin to drift again, but then something happens and I am suddenly jerked awake, my eyes wide open. When I was a lad I went to an all boys boarding school. Many years of cohabiting with other young boys trained me to spot the signs of self-abuse from fifty paces. I would lie there listening with the others for the characteristic rhythmic rustle of sheets or the tell-tale soft groan and when our antennae detected an offender, on would go the lights and off would come the bedclothes. The distraught victim would then be dragged off for a cold shower. Happy days. To be fair I took my time working out what was going on right beside me. My excuse is that it was some time since my senses have been called on to detect such activity, but also its fair to say that I was only ever practised at detecting when other boys did this kind of thing - never girls. Anyhow it is more a combination of things that give her away. The fidgeting seems to have become more regular, her movements are sinuous too, but it's her tiny little squeak that reactivates that old antenna. I smile cruelly at the thought of pulling back the duvet to drag her off for a cold shower but I know I would expect a terrible revenge for even thinking of such a thing. Besides, the idea of my wife silently masturbating beside me far surpasses the mucky activities of my peers all those years ago in its erotic potential. From the tiny points of contact between us, I can sense that her body is as taut as a bow-string. It is quivering ever so delicately. God what a turn-on! There then follows a short assessment of priorities. Do I give up my pretence of sleep, turn over and take her in my arms? Do I replace her frantic fingers with my own and fill her void with my hardness, relieving her tension with a sighing climax? Do we settle our argument this way, or do I stick to my original promise to myself never to have sex with her until she apologised for her attitude? Stuff the apology, but short though the debate is, it is too long. Before I can do anything, she starts to moan. Stifled at first, as she still has the wits about her not to want to wake me, but as the intensity mounts all caution is thrown to the wind and the moan becomes a cry, then a series of cries as her entire consciousness is consumed by her orgasm. I know better than to move now. I know that after her orgasms her erogenous zones become no go areas. Sure she could do with a cuddle, she likes those, but in a sense I feel cheated. It is almost as if she has been unfaithful to me with… well herself. Besides right now I have pressing needs of my own. I have the hard-on to end all hard-ons to dispense with. For now, though, I must not even let her know that I am awake. As her body relaxes, I can sense that she is listening to me to see if she has disturbed me. Well, she may have disturbed the neighbours two blocks away, but me? No way! Quickly I resume my even breathing, while my hand tries to gently reassure my enquiring penis. Of course while looking out for signs of self-abuse in the boys dormitory, one also had to ensure that they could not detect it in oneself - abstention at that age was simply not an option. It is very much like firing a gun in that one has to learn to "squeeze" the trigger rather than pull it. Disciplines akin to those required for undergoing interrogation under torture were learned, and techniques to prevent the bedclothes rustling or the bedsprings creaking became second nature. I rarely received a cold shower, but the ever present possibility generated a frisson of danger that was itself even a peculiar aphrodisiac. And so it is with this background that I delicately start to slake my own lusts as she lies beside me recovering from her own exertions. As my imagination begins to work, a part of me keeps monitoring her, looking out for the sudden movement as she detects what I am up to, as well as checking for the signs of sleep. As her breathing slowly becomes more regular, I can become less cautious. A brief break in the story to make an authors note: S to r y c o p y right belongs to N i c k at c a s s a n d r a dot d e m on dot c o dot u k as should be stated at the top. Sorry for the interruption. Please carry on reading. At school, the only way to tackle the moment of orgasm was to turn over noisily, pretending it was simply a bout of restlessness. The resulting arc of semen across the bedsheets merely provided the kind of damp discomfort that boys became used to and gave the cleaner something to fantasise about when she stripped the beds in the morning. Lying next to my wife, this is hardly an option. A handy box of tissues by the bed provides a means to hide the evidence, but nevertheless I have to make sure my 'cannon', when it fires, is pointing well away from her. Everything ready, I allow myself to reach the point of no return, entering that delightful state of semi-consciousness as my testicles pump away their current batch of sperm and with it my tension. As my own orgasm subsides I relax, entering that delightful soporific post-(non)coital state that men are familiar with. One can forget the world and its cares, for now there is nothing left but to sleep. There is no need to concern oneself with anything until morning. The argument is forgotten, for the moment, as are the tax bills the work pressures and everything else. Even the fact that Wendy's regular breathing next to me has stopped, is ignored - though this is perhaps worthy of consideration… "Bastard!" I don't know whether it is the screamed insult or the kick in the back which propels me from the bed, that is the main cause of the fact that I am now, once again, fully awake. "You were thinking of her, weren't you!" she yells, switching on the light and glaring at me. "You filthy pervert!" I really hate this. I hate the fact that I am now out of bed and not in it. I hate the fact that I am now fully awake… again. I hate the fact that she is absolutely right. END If you enjoyed this, or have anything useful to say about it please e-mail me at : nick@cassandra.demon.co.uk -- +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | Archive site +----------------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | ----