Message-ID: <20918asstr$942228600@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Message-ID: <19991028210514.15442.qmail@hotmail.com> X-Originating-IP: [209.206.36.238] From: "Jane Urquhart" Subject: {ASSM} {GALAGO} Let Us Now Praise Ordinary Women (Marc Proust) (MF rom) X-Post-Date: Thu, 28 Oct 1999 14:05:14 PDT Date: Wed, 10 Nov 1999 05:10:00 -0500 Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail Approved: Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d X-Archived-At: X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation X-Story-Submission: X-Moderator-ID: assm-admin <1st attachment, "Praise_post.txt" begin> NOTE: I posted this for Marc because he is away from home at the moment. J.U. ---- Copyright1999 by Marc Proust Let Us Now Praise Ordinary Women by Marc Proust October 19, 1999 *************(1)************** As I guided my powerful minivan down the shadow-splashed lane, my head swiveled smoothly to keep her in view as she washed her dark blue sedan. She took my breath away: long, blonde hair; tight, wet, black top; dark-dappled blue-jean shorts, extruding long, elegant legs. I waited until the very last second to snap my head back where it should have been all along - keeping my vehicle on the street - just in time to avoid killing my long-time friend, brainy colleague at Remington College, and right-fielder and equipment manager of our last-place softball team: Hope Morris. SCREEEEEEECHHH.....!!!!!!!! My van skidded to a stop inches from Hope's quivering knees. "AAAAAHHHH!! Jesus! God!...! You nearly *killed* me!!!" Hope was beside herself, and quite out of character. My own heart was thumping like crazy and I was shaking so hard I could barely throw the gearshift into park and open the door. "Edward, is that YOU!! Christ!" I ran around to the prow of my sleek Fukuda van, and began to profess my most profound apologies: "Hope! I'm *sorry*. I was blinded by the sun and didn't see you until the very last minute." I don't know if she bought it or not; for a second I thought she was going to tear into me with her little fists, but all of a sudden she dissolved into tears and fell into my arms, her slender back wracked with sobs. I held her gently and patted her heaving back, even as I wistfully looked back down the shady street to my blonde beauty, who contemplated my little scene with a sardonic smile. The hose dangled limply by her side, and water poured out over the hot, wet pavement by her new sedan. I heaved a sigh of regret and turned my attention to the smallish person bawling in my arms. "Geez, Hope. I am so sorry. What an *idiot* I am. Come on, I'll drive you home." "That's OK, Edward, I'll be fine now. Really, you needn't. I'm sure I should have looked where I was going. I'll walk." From the burnished tint of her round sunglasses to the cut of her plaid skirt, there was a lot about Hope's existence that was definitely ill-planned and poorly executed. She was not, however, ugly. Her hair, a lustrous chestnut brown, caught the sun in a way that accentuated the bizarre arrangement that she always wore. Was it supposed to be French? Did it once appear in Vogue? She carried her affliction with a splendid insouciance born of talent without grace. "Nonsense. You're shaking like a leaf. Come on; I'll buy you a drink and then take you home. I know a very nice little place just a couple of blocks away." "Well, all right. God! I am still shaking. Really, Edward, were you drinking?" That admonition was far less than I deserved for my stupid maneuver that nearly killed her. *******************(2)************* Hope came from a very wealthy family. I always wondered why she turned out so well, really: you don't associate brains and fashion failure with big bucks. The money had, however, been a curse in one regard: everyone knew that her husband, the notorious Mitch Morris, had married her because she would some day inherit a fortune. To say that he had not formed much of an attachment to her over the years was putting it mildly. His romantic affairs were legendary. The drink was a good idea. Hope's nerves settled nicely and she was into her second Manhattan before it was clear that she didn't drink much. She became quite talkative, much less awkward, and she mixed her pleasantries with sophisticated puns and wry humor. She appeared grateful that I would spend time with her. On the way home she said: "Edward, I'm almost glad you nearly killed me. That was a lot of fun. It reminds of we when we were kids. Boy! *That* was a while ago!" "That was incredibly stupid of me. And I promise never to do it again." "Accidents." She said it with a sardonic lilt that reminded me of an actress I couldn't quite place. "Will you be at the game tomorrow?" The game! Damn! I had forgot that our pitiful softball team was playing the next day. I had planned to miss it. "Of course, I'll be there. I wouldn't miss it for the world." As she got out of the car and walked to her door, the reclining sun lit her up, a fading spotlight trained on the fabric that stretched across the taut muscles of her ass. Slender, well-shaped legs carried her up the walk. Before she got to the porch, my mind was off on the oddest line of thought: what did Hope's cunt look like? Was it one of those puffy kinds, the ones that almost look babyish, with barely nothing in the way of labia? Or did she have pronounced lips, even flaps like some women have, that hang down dramatically and temptingly in full view? Was her clit large, or small; hidden even when aroused; or out there, rubbing against the smooth fabric of her undergarments to alarm and please her, even during the work day? How did the transition occur from the cunt lips to that lovely space between cunt and asshole? Was it abrupt, or almost imperceptible? And the hair: sparse, spare, thick, or thatch? Could you see the slit through it, or would I ... I mean, would one ... would one have to dig through it to get to the crack? Good Lord! What's the matter with you, Ed? What difference could it make? You like them all! Each cunt has its own mystery, its own beauty, no matter what it looks like. Yes, quite: dorky, egg-head Hope's vagina was a thing of utmost, enchanting beauty. That had never occurred to me before. It might have been obvious, but it shook me. As she turned and waved, her small breasts shook lazily from side to side, and I sighed. ******************(3)************** At the game the next day, things went pretty much as they usually did with the College team. Hope had a lock on right field; she could hardly play. Mel in center was all right, one of those no-hit, decent-field kind of guys. Kris was nearly as bad as Hope, but she could catch better, so we put her in left. Elizabeth Jane was tall: she got first base, but I wish she could stretch a bit more. Terry was OK at second, and could even hit a bit. Third was a mess: we tried a ton of people there with no luck, and finally settled on Barry from Business. Our catcher was Mitch's choice: Deborah, a real babe in Art (we were all pretty sure he was fucking her brains out). And our pitcher-for-life was Mitch. He sucked. Oh, yes; they put me at short since I had played into my sophomore year at college. We lost. That was a foregone conclusion. And, as usual, Mitch was taken by surprise; at least he acted that way, cussing and fuming and berating us all, as he hurled one fat, slow, no-break, lob-job, weak-ass, soft ball after another. "Jesus, Eddie, where the Hell did you learn to play ball?" he'd yell after another of his lame-ass pitches got clobbered for a single through the infield. This began the minute we fell behind and didn't let up till the game was over. I never bothered to answer him, but today it really pissed me off, and by the bottom of the eighth I had devised a plan to exact my revenge. The plan came to me all at once: I make Hope fall in love with me. That should be easy enough: me, a handsome, shaggy, tweedy, professor of English Literature, with a heart of gold, if a tad low on ambition. She a dorky, brainy, wallflower, with tons of ambition, but starved for affection. Along the way, I would expose all of Mitch's affairs. She divorces the bum, feeling cruelly deceived, on the one hand, and safely loved on the other. I then dump Hope. Mitch has no fortune; I have no commitment; Hope will get over it. Brilliant! I began immediately. "Hope, dear," began Mitch unctuously after the game. "Deborah needs a ride home, and I promised her I'd take her. You don't mind, do you? I'm sure Elizabeth Jane..." Before he could get any farther, I broke in: "No problem, Mitch. I've got a large van, and I can help Hope take the bats and balls. It's right on the way." The ride to her place was very pleasant. I am pure charm, she is much less nervous than the day before, and after a few moments of laughter over the pathetic team, we discuss a recent movie and early English novels. I shrewdly discuss the humorous underpinnings of late 18th Century England in the novels of Jane Austen; she being a woman, I figured she'd eat it up, even if she was a mathematician. I was right. We avoid any mention of Mitch. With a throaty purr, the Fukuda glides up the steep driveway of the Morris' stately home, and deposits us, bats, balls, mitts, and a bit more laughter and good cheer than I either expected or am, in all honesty, prepared to deal with, at the front of the two-car garage. I had forgotten that Hope was a good kid. I lifted the door and together we carried the equipment over to the corner shelves where it was to be stored. She smelled musky, feminine in that earthy way that too many women try to shed with showers. I maneuvered closer to her than was absolutely necessary and faked a stumble to gently collide with her rear. She said, "You walk like you play short, Edward." What a comedian. I had to grab her to steady myself and, in so doing, I took hold of her body just a little higher above the waist than decorum would suggest, only slightly below her breasts, but close enough to them that she would surely get the idea. As she turned, I nearly kissed her, but didn't. I thought I detected a heave to her rib cage emanating from her bosom before I removed my hand. We finished storing the equipment and I bid her good-bye. I tried to let my eyes talk for me, like they do in the old movies -- I thought she'd be susceptible to that sort of thing. My eyes said: "Fuck me, now, if you're a woman!" But my lips said: "Well, Hope, that's about it. I guess I'll be seeing you. Next game's in three days." "Ba..Ba..Bye, Edward. Thanks for the help." Then she threw in: "I guess Mitch will be home any minute," as if thinking it would make it happen. I chuckled as I sailed down the avenue in my beautiful vehicle. "Yep, Ed. You are definitely on your way!" ***************(4)**************** After two days, I couldn't wait any longer and called her for lunch. By a stroke of luck I remembered that we were both members of the College library committee, not that I ever went. It gave me an excuse to call, though, which was all I wanted. She was working at home that morning, and asked if I wouldn't mind picking her up. I readily agreed, and by noon we were sitting in a comfy cafe staring at post-modern bagels. After a few minutes of discussing the state of the library, as we picked at food, I subtly steered the conversation toward the subject of women and their careers, noting with a hint of petulance in my voice that being a white male these days was pretty damn tough. I got just the response I sought. "One thing that always amazes me is how you men can sit there and bitch about your lives after centuries of running the world. And for your information, Edward, it is *not* that easy for women to make it in academia. It's just like it always was: if you have sex appeal, doors open right and left. But if you are what I call the Ordinary Woman, forget it. The pay is only eighty percent of a man's, *if* you are lucky enough to get a job. And then they stick Ordinary Women with heavy committee work that makes it impossible to get tenure, while the beauties and the men are left with tons of time to do research! Honestly, Edward, I am surprised at you." I had struck a nerve. Perfect. "Don't do you feel guilty about this, Hope?" She looked confused, as I had hoped. "What I mean, Hope, is that I am a bit surprised that you admit so openly to getting ahead on your looks. Sure, your sex appeal and stunning good looks have gotten you a full professorship, but what have you done to help these Ordinary Women?" Of course, I well knew that Hope was an internationally renowned scholar in differential topology, and her full professorship was gained through long hours of hard work, and more energy, talent, and intelligence than Remington College deserved. Plus, "stunning good looks" was something of an exaggeration. "Are you crazy, Edward?" "What is that supposed to mean?" "It means that *I* am an Ordinary Woman; maybe THE Ordinary Woman. People laugh at me. I'm ugly and I don't know how to dress. My husband is fucking every cunt in town. And I'm a geek!" Tears began to form at the bottom of her luminous eyes. I watched, mesmerized, as they spilled over and ran chaotically down her face. Her monstrous glasses began to fog up. For a second I couldn't move, then I jumped up, sat next to her, put my arm around her, kissed her cheek, used my free hand to dab at the tears, and said: "Hope. Please. I was *not* kidding. I think you *are* beautiful." This was hard to say, because just then I was lying. I admit it. My plan was more important to me than any harm I might inflict on old Hope. I felt low, but pushed ahead. "Sure, you could use a few tips here and there on fashion, but your natural beauty is just beneath the surface." This was a lot closer to the truth, and my self-esteem shot up. It didn't work, though, and all of a sudden Hope began to cry, a great, copious lament that rang out in the small restaurant like a dirge. I did the only thing I could have done: I kissed her; right on the lips, and stuck my tongue in her mouth. That did work. At least, it worked to shut her up, but it did nothing to stop the gawking and tittering from every table in the joint. To my amazement, the kiss affected me on a couple of different levels. After a second - a long, astonished second on both our parts - Hope said. "Take me home, please." The ride to Hope's house was silent. My few attempts at conversation were rebuffed in a weary way. She didn't seem particularly mad, more like sad and contemplative, and I could see it. If you looked at it in one way, her whole world had been revealed to be a bubble just waiting to be burst: flimsy, without substance, a no-love marriage about to crumble and leave her alone forever and ever. She must not have believed me. I was about to leave her at her door, when she said: "Edward, we have a game tomorrow. Would you mind helping me get the damn stuff in the car?" "Of course not." It was perhaps not too late. Once in the garage, I noticed an old stuffed-cushion couch on springs that once probably stood on a porch somewhere. It was dirty, but soft. It was now or never. As we reached up together to lift a huge bag of bats off a shelf I let my body come in contact with hers. She made no attempt to move away. As we heaved it into the back of the Fukuda, she turned toward me to say something. I'll never know what it was because just as she turned, I took her cheeks in my hands and kissed her forcefully and lovingly on the lips. She threw her arms around me and returned the kiss for all she was worth. Her kisses carried an urgency that was uncommon and thrilling, technically adroit and full of passion. It took a lot of self control on my part not to get caught up in the moment. It was not long before my hands found her breasts, her haunches, her thighs, her crotch. Hers roamed freely over my back, down to my butt, and around to my penis, which was rapidly swelling. We suddenly stopped our kissing, and without a word began to undress, removing our clothes as if we were discarding civilization: illicit love was nothing to take lightly. I watched her every move. There is a poetry inherent in the act of female disrobing, and gawky as she was, Hope possessed the mystery like every other female.. As she shed her ungainly outfit, and took the rack of pins and barrettes out of her hair, and delicately removed her weird glasses, an unexpected and glorious transformation took place. Her figure was far from perfect; her features were not classically beautiful; but the soft form that emerged - the round breasts with lilting sag, the sloped shoulders covered with chestnut hair, the curvy belly leading to soft, wispy fur covering her mound - took me utterly by surprise. Without the glasses, I saw her face was full of grace and charm. "Sit down." She commanded me, and I did it. I sat on the old porch furniture; my penis was fully erect. Hope knelt and took me in her mouth, ran her hands up my thighs, and looked me right in the eyes. She didn't move at all at first, but then deliberately swung her head from side to side, and let her tongue roll around the top of my swollen penis. Her technique was strange and exquisite. Before I knew it, she let me go: my cock was free, and freezing as her saliva air-cooled my sensitive flesh. Meanwhile, her tongue was traveling down my shaft, very slowly, and before I was quite ready, she took a testicle in her mouth and sucked it very gently. As she did so, her eyes met mine again. I was going quite out of my mind. I knew that I would not be able to stand much more of this. There is something electrifying, yet terrifying, and about having your balls in a woman's mouth. And Hope was superb. She suddenly stopped, cupped my balls in her hand, and began to lick the head of my penis again, and the little ridge of skin under it. "Hope, you must desist, if you know what's good for you." I said with a smile, knowing that without a change of plans my orgasm would arrive too soon for either of us. "Now, lie down." We traded places. The old swing groaned as we did, and as she arranged herself I noticed that her cunt had large, floppy lips. I had not intended to, but I couldn't help myself: I knelt and gave her a slow lick from her asshole to her clit, then stopped and blew air gently over the area I had just tasted. The flaps of skin seemed to stir, and expand, as I cooled them, quite contrary to the laws of physics. I parted the lips, and looked for a second at the pink geography before I used my tongue to explore her gaping hole, poke her bump of urethra, and gently lash her erect clit. I even sucked it gently, like a small cock, then abruptly stopped and watched her writhe, desperately seeking more contact, I then rose halfway and plunged my erect cock in her sopping cunt hole. I was very slow and deliberate and gave myself over to pleasing her. I came all the way out; and went all the way in; I fucked her slowly; I fucked her fast; I kissed her lips; I kissed her ears; I sucked and licked her nipples; and ran my hands down the back of her thighs and tickled the cheeks of her ass; I considered sticking my finger in her asshole as I fucked her, but thought to myself: "Do you know her well enough for that?" Control in these situations can be maintained only so long. Hope was acting like an animal, humping and squealing, and literally dripping fluid all over the place. After no more than five minutes we were a frothy, slimy mess. I could no longer stop my orgasm, and prayed that I wouldn't come before she achieved her climax. It worked; she shook violently and growled in a low voice, and I shot a gallon of come into her cunt. I smelled gasoline from the old power mower in the corner. We clung to each other for a minute or two and when I finally turned to face her, I was at a loss for words. She spoke first. "Well, Edward. I guess I should say 'Thanks for taking pity on me,' but I don't feel like it. Let's just say, 'See you at the game.' Now go, please." "When can I see you again? And I don't mean the stupid game, Hope. I really want to see you again." "Why? Didn't you get what you wanted?" Hope was actually pretty perceptive, and normally I would have had to admit that, Yes, I pretty much had gotten what I wanted. But I found myself saying: "Hope, that's ridiculous! I feel very close to you, and I really want to get to know you better. Much better. Please say we can have lunch again. Monday. If you don't want this to happen again, believe me, it won't" Did I say that because it was necessary to the plan, or was it true? I was having trouble telling. As she got dressed, I marveled again at the odd cast of her beauty, and how easy it was to miss it: as the clothes went on, the hair went up, and the glasses got replanted, that beauty slipped silently away, leaving a frumpy woman in a dirty garage. I got chills. ***************(5)**************** Over the next couple of days I found myself in an unusual state: I actually looked forward to our next game. When it arrived, the result was the same: the team got clobbered, and Mitch disappeared with the lovely Deborah, clearing the way for me to take Hope home and secure a promise from her of lunch the following Monday. She was definitely wary, but she said yes. I prepared carefully for Monday. One quick phone call, and a much longer trip to a particular store, and I was ready. We met at Henri's, a fashionable, quiet place in an upscale strip mall in the shadow of one of the tonier suburbs. During lunch I turned on the charm, avoided talking about our last encounter, and we ended up making each other laugh quite a bit. I nearly lost touch with my place in the space-time continuum. With a small start, I remembered the time, and took her hand. "Let's go, Hope, we've got about 20 minutes. We should be fine." I had checked; her classes were over for the afternoon. "Time for what? Where are we going?" "You'll see. I'll tell you, if you like, but I think it would make a nice surprise." "Ok, Wonder Boy, surprise me." I took her to Le Salon Francais, the most expensive hair dresser in Remington, and by her look I could see she was indeed surprised, not to say a tad vexed. After feeble protest she sat down and let Georges do whatever he pleased with her unruly chestnut mop. I sat transfixed as Georges and a stable of young, androgenous assistants began to titter and fly around Hope. In a matter of minutes, a new woman began to emerge from beneath his expert scissors: a more stylish and attractive woman, to be sure, but it was not that she had become a ravishing beauty. The change was more profound than even I had expected, and I think I gasped as Georges finished up and twirled her around in the chair. "Well, OK, what's the deal?" Hope asked. "Am I worthy now of a ship or two at least? Are you done with your little experiment, Edward? Come on, I want to see!" You see, I had removed her gargantuan glasses so they would not interfere with the remarkable Georges' conception of beauty. "Give me back my glasses!" She was serious now. It was time for the coup de grace. I took out from my coat pocket the new, slim glasses I had picked up the day before, the latest thing from Italy, and costing an arm and a leg. I slowly put them on her, and dropped my jaw as I stood mesmerized by the change. She looked at herself in the mirror, and then at me, and I could tell that she was pleased. "God, Edward, is that me? Well? What do you think? Don't just stand there with your mouth open." "I think: incredible. Lovely. Just amazing. Georges, you are a genius. A flat-out, French genius." "Merci bien, Monsieur. Yes, I think I have done the imposseeblah: made the lovely lady even pretti-air." ***************(6)*********** In the van, we said nothing. Everything I thought to say seemed likely to impede the progress of our relationship. So I just drove straight to my apartment. We marched up the stairs, walked in the door, and methodically removed our clothes. I watched in awe as she carefully removed her top. Her bra: no finer sight exists, I think, then the revelation of a friend's breasts. Her skirt: form revealed; long legs, round belly. Her panties: content revealed; female center of mystical edge between lust and love. Shoes. Socks. As each layer came off, I felt like I was the most privileged guy in the world. Her chestnut hair, now exquisitely layered, cascaded over the white of her shoulder, drawing my eye to her soft, small breast, and stiffening nipples. The little mound of flesh between her legs looked so utterly feminine, I think I sighed in consciousness of being swept away by forces immensely more important than any I had been willing to deal with. I took her in my arms and just kissed her. My hard penis pointed straight up to our chins, trapped by our powerful embrace. I wanted my mouth on every inch of her at once. I felt powerless in her presence. After breaking the kiss, I held her lovely breasts in my two hands, looked at them in turn, and then gently kissed each nipple. I was about to make a move, when Hope said: "Wait." She sank to her knees, and took my large, hard cock in her mouth. Her legs were parted, for stability I guess, and the visual effect was electric: I could see the big lips of her cunt, inflamed and puffy, poking through the sparse thatch around her pussy. As I've said already, Hope was a genius at sucking cock, and she had me on fire in seconds. To keep me from shooting too soon, she knew how to vary the rhythm, or stop sucking and begin to lick from tip to base. She ran her tongue around the bulbous head; she cupped my balls; she ran a finger under my scrotum, towards my ass. And, then, she took my breath away. Before I knew what happened, she actually ducked under and through my legs and came up on my backside. She reached around and stroked my penis, wet and shiny from her saliva, as she tongued the small of my back, and lapped her way down the backs of my thighs and the area behind my knees. She was in constant motion, and my erogenous nerve endings were so highly stimulated that my brain was incapable of forming a rational thought. The slithering tongue was like a snake. She moved up to my back again, and then began to dart in a more central direction, down the crack of my ass, as the strokes of her hand in front began to reach a crescendo. Did I dream it or did she really say: "Bend over, Edward." I did. And as I did, I shifted my legs slightly to give her more access, if that is really what she had in mind. My thoughts were a jumble; my brain was fully overloaded by the strange and intense sensations. The wet, slithering snake of her tongue kept up its descent, but excruciatingly slowly; I began to try to move myself closer, to get the ultimate sensation, one I'd never had before, in spite of all the encounters of my long, lonely life. But she would not let me control the pace; she effortlessly parried every thrust, and kept her tongue moving over buttock and crack. Just when I thought it would never, ever happen, it did. Hope's magic tongue reached the brown bud of my asshole. And when it did, my world exploded in a white sheen behind my eyes. As the sperm shot out of the end of my stiff penis, Hope kept milking me, using an incredible, rhythmic motion to coax every last drop of semen out of my cock. As I collapsed on the bed, she said: "Was it as good for you as it was for me?" What a character! You had to love her. Where do I get these cliches? I drove her home in time to cook El Mitcho's dinner, and then went back to my apartment and allowed myself to miss her. Acutely. ***************(7)*********** The next day I couldn't wait to call her. I went to work an hour early and got nothing accomplished: all I could think about was the day before. My Hope had been transfigured in more ways than one. At 9:00 I could wait no more, and phoned over to the math building. She was not in yet. Ditto at 10:00. I finally got her at 11:00. "Edward! I'm really glad you called! I miss you already." "I miss you, too, Hope. Listen, can we meet tonight for dinner?" "I can't meet you tonight. Mitch has been acting strange lately, even for him. It's as if he suspects something. But he is going out of town Friday and won't be back until Sunday. Maybe we could do something then." Hope playing hard-to-get. I loved it. "It's a date. Friday at 6:00. And lunch every other day. OK?" "Well OK." "I'll see you in an hour." I saw her every day that week and didn't have a chance to touch her. I was feeling seriously deprived. *************(8)************* Friday finally arrived and we found ourselves in a dark corner of Pomodoro's Grotto, a dive out by the by-pass rarely frequented by university people. Hope finished two glasses of wine before the seats were warm. I had hardly touched my Pilsner. Partly, I was distracted by her murky eyes; but she was drinking fast. She was on her third glass, and had the bottle at the ready, when she launched into a speech I think she had been rehearsing for a long time. "This is pretty weird isn't it, Edward? I find myself developing feelings for you. What a euphemism: "feelings for you"! Ha! We were pals as kids, but does that count? We really don't know each other at all. Let me prove it to you. Ah! Quiet, please. Let me talk. "You probably don't know that I am extremely earthy, not to say kinky. Did you, Eddie? Mind if I call you that? I know you enjoyed our encounter the other night, but did it shock you that someone like me--dorky and brainy--could be so, well, lewd? Don't answer. It's not every day, I could tell, that some ridiculously ordinary woman places her tongue on your asshole. Don't deny it! And don't you dare talk! "Do you know what I'm thinking now? I'll bet you don't. I'm thinking how neat it would be to pull out your soft little penis, and suck it like a big nipple. I want to suck your fleshy penis before it gets big. I want to inspect the rings, and the head, the little hole, the rolls of skin that hang down to your balls. God, is that weird!? I want it to stay soft, and feminine, while I suckle it, but it won't. I want to see what would come out. Mother's milk? No. You know what, don't you? Don't answer. Ah! Who cares? It wouldn't stay soft for me anyway It would soon be hard; it's probably hard now." She refilled and took a long pull on the '98 Chianti della Chiasa before resuming her bewildering monologue. "When you met me, did you realize that I hadn't been fucked in over a year? That I had been storing up incredibly wild fantasies? Listen to this shocker: even as we speak, I can imagine you standing over me while I sit on the toilet. Yes! That surprises you, doesn't it. My cunt lips are spread, and we are both watching the piss flow out of my hole? Jesus God, I can feel that hot pee! Would you touch me, Edward? Would you? Just my clit, as I hold open my cunt for you? Don't answer--dontanswer, dontanswer, dontanswer." She said it like a mantra, and I was way too shocked to say a word. She filled her glass for the fifth time and continued. "And that's just the beginning. When I drive to work, the shoulder strap between my breasts sets me off. It's a lovely sight for you men anyway, isn't? Women in cars! GOD! I imagine I'm naked and vulnerable, strapped and bound, waiting for you to come and do whatever you want to me. My nipples get hard, really hard, on the way to work. Sometimes I find myself touching my pussy at traffic lights! I can't concentrate on differential topology anymore! I am hopeless!" She looked in my eyes with real despair, then took another long drink. "At night, before my shower, I get down on all fours, like some wild animal, and touch my cunt and asshole, imaging you there, sniffing and lapping, ramming, dominating. My ass. No one has ever had my precious ass. But that's 'cause no one ever wanted it. Would you take it, Edward? Would you take your big dick and find a way to stick it way up my asshole? Way up there, to really fill me up, once and for all? DON'T answer! "Sometimes, I want to steal your penis and fuck you hard, in your new cunt and ass. I'm crazy! Sometimes, I want to explore women as you watch. I have never touched another woman, but now I want to stick a finger in my secretary's cunt while you masturbate. Isn't that gross? Isn't it strange that I would even think about the taste of a vagina at my age? Don't answer! Don't say a word! "I want you to exalt me; I want to debase myself for you. My feelings of excrutiating lust are inseparable from my feelings of utter selflessness before you. Is this love? God help me, but I have no fucking idea!" I would have said something here, as she began to drink straight from the bottle, but I was speechless. "Garcon! Another bottle of your finest crappy Chianti! Edward, you shouldn't have done this to me. I was getting used to the religious life, so to speak. My vagina slept. Mitch was kind; he couldn't help it if his football injury left him impotent (I know, I know, he was lying about that). He treated me well, even if he did cheat. I felt lucky that he didn't leave me. "Now. Now things are different. You gave Hope hope. Hah, Hah, Hah!! Get it? Jesus Christ! I'm making a fool of myself. There's only one thing to be done, Edward, if I am ever to rebalance myself. I can't live like this. In short, you must--" In one furious motion, I leapt from my chair, grabbed an oily Italian breadstick from the basket between us, lunged across the checkered table cloth, nearly knocking over the candle in the old wine bottle, and plunged it in her mouth before she could complete the sentence. In a second I was around the other side, on my knees, with her hand in mine: "Marry me, Hope! Marry me! I can't live without you!" The idea came to me, crystallized within me... at some point between the shoulder strap between her breasts and borrowing my penis. Now, you can probably tell that I was getting way ahead of my original plan here. Truth be told, I didn't have my plan in mind when I blurted it out, and it just hit me that the words out of my mouth coincided with the whole clockwork artifice I had been building, but that it was mere coincidence that it did so. Exhausted, drunk, tears welling up in her eyes, breadstick protruding from her mouth, Hope looked more desirable than any woman I had ever known. As she slowly nodded her head, describing a great, vertical arc with the bread, my frozen face melted from the inferno of inner joy. I was really nuts! ************(9)*********** Mitch was most unhappy with the divorce settlement. Seeing Hope and me so happy also rankled, but it wasn't as painful as the lost millions. Without the cash, our Mitch is finding the pickings around Remington considerably slimmer. To tell you the truth, I forgot about Mitch pretty fast. In fact, I forgot about almost everything except the love of an ordinary woman. THE END Copyright 1999 by Marc Proust Marc Proust proust@usit.net <1st attachment end> Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. The post was sent as an email attachment and has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software. -- If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the author. Your comments are their only payment. 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