Message-ID: <21347asstr$943056602@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Message-ID: <19991119125715.77687.qmail@hotmail.com> From: "Joanna De Brito" Subject: {ASSM} {Joanna} A Posteriori (M/F) Mime-Version: 1.0 Content-Type: text/plain; format=flowed Date: Fri, 19 Nov 1999 19:10:02 -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: dennyw, kelly, Lambchop A Posteriori by Joanna (joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com) July 2000 Copyright 2000 Joanna de Brito All commercial rights reserved. Non commercial use of this story is permitted as long as I am kept informed of that use by e-mail and all author and copyright messages remain intact. An attractive brunette was peering over my garden hedge, staring at me from under the shadow of a giant horse chestnut. I'm not sure how long she'd been there. I could hear nothing over the noise of the electric mower. Even now I'm not sure what made me turn. Something did. "Excuse me," she said. "Do you think I might have a drink of water?" I was hot and irritable. Perspiration was stinging my eyes, was running across my face, and was soaking my clothes. I switched off the mower and waited for the motor to wind down. I didn't want to talk. My overriding thought was how I could get rid of her. "Pardon?" She walked tentatively along the hedge towards me, stopping by the gate. I could now see her properly, her youth, her appeal. "Would it be asking too much to trouble you for a glass of water?" she repeated sluggishly. "It's so hot and I'm feeling a little faint." She smiled wanly and fluttered her eyelashes, trying to overcome my obvious reluctance. I couldn't deny that she was a stunner: lustrous hair, a gorgeous face, bright green eyes, oh, and she this body too. What a body! Her large breasts were bulging over the top of a subdued red dress. She also had a wonderfully tight waist, nice hips and long legs. She was a dream. But that's all I do nowadays: dream. There was a time when I would have been after her, chasing her panties, fast talking, trying to wangle her out of her clothes. How long ago that now seems. Times change, we grow older, perhaps wiser. Somewhat under duress, I brought her the water and she took it gratefully. My, she was sexy. Despite being an old semi recluse I had to admit it. It's such a long time since I've thought about women: such a very long time. Yet, I rued, that's where I must now condemn her: to my thoughts. I wasn't in her league; we were chalk and cheese, she and I. This one could afford to be choosy. She wouldn't look at me. I was too old, ancient: why, she must be ten years my junior, she was hardly more than twenty. She sipped the water, thanking me appreciatively, while I waited impatiently for the glass, conscious of how dirty I was, how sweaty, how unworthy. "How are you feeling?" I inquired. The more I looked at her, the more concerned I was because she seemed exhausted, dehydrated. I recalled an incident that had occurred several years before when I had been training for a fun run in the London Marathon. The day had been hot, just like today; I had been ill prepared and I had become dehydrated. I remembered sinking to my knees, exhausted, drained. How thankful I had been when an Indian man had come over from a house nearby and had given me a lift home. What made me remember that? I could empathize. "Would you mind if I sat down?" she asked breathlessly. "I'm not usually like this... I don't understand... I was fine a couple of minutes ago. The heat..." I took her inside and sat her on the couch in my living room. It's a small room, and it was quickly and easily filled by the pungent musk of her perfume. I was intoxicated by it. She smelled so sweet; so alluring. She reminded me of lost days, distant, remote. "Let me open a window," I fussed. "Give you some air." Without waiting for her reply, I opened it wide. Immediately and without warning a wasp sailed in. It was as though it had been waiting just outside specifically for this invitation. She was nervous. She was scared of wasps, she told me. She shrank apprehensively to the far side of the room. I waved at this yellow intruder, once, twice: it didn't want to go. I swore at it profusely which words it seemed to understand, because at last it bid us farewell and went. "It's gone," I said victoriously, sitting down opposite her. She smiled politely, weakly. "Thank you. Do you think I might have some more water?" She held out her empty glass, which I took. "Have you come far?" I inquired, getting up and walking into the kitchen. "Where do you live?" It was the wrong question. I wasn't sure why, but it put her out of sorts. "No, not far," she said at last, rather vaguely, irritably. I tried offering her a drink, something stronger than the water she had asked for. She declined; water would be just fine, she said. I turned on the cold tap and allowed it to run for several seconds. Then I refilled her glass and then brought it back in. I hesitated. "Do you have any friends that I can call? Someone that could come and collect you?" I handed her the glass. She thanked me. "No," she said, shaking her head firmly. "No. No friends." She held the glass tightly, anxiously looking round the small room at pictures of vultures, warblers and cormorants, running her hands through her long dark hair. I sighed. I was beginning to regret having invited her in. I'm not particularly a sociable person. I find conversation hard at the best of times and when, as now, the other person doesn't contribute their fair share, I quickly give up. It was only her body that was keeping me interested, that sensuous, carnal magnificence. "What do I call you?" I inquired. Surely I couldn't go wrong with this one. She didn't answer. One last try. "My name is Greg," I offered. "Greg Isitt." "Yes," she shivered. "Yes?" "Yes, your name is Greg. I know." "You know?" I stuttered, pausing. What? "How do you know?" She chose instead to answer my earlier question. "My name is Nicki." I pondered. "Nicki," I repeated the name thoughtfully. "So how do you know me? Have we met before?" I examined her carefully as I spoke, trying to think where our paths might have crossed. Her round face, green eyes, long brown hair, curled into tight ringlets, all was unfamiliar. She wore large looped gold earrings, a fine gold chain around her neck, an amethyst bracelet. These meant nothing to me. Her body too, those breasts... I was sure that if I had come across these charms before, I would have remembered them. She sipped at her water. She was half way through the second glass. "No," she answered. "We haven't met." "Yet you know my name?" I pursued. "Yes. You see, I'm sorry, I must apologize. I told you a little fib in the garden. I'm sorry. It's... You see, well, I've come a long way to meet you." To meet me? Why should she want to meet me? Who was she? It's at times like these that random thoughts shoot through your mind and you try to find something, anything that makes sense. Was she a private investigator sent to entrap me, perhaps? I didn't think so. She had no motive. I have no wife, no girlfriend, no one that cares enough even to dislike me. A long lost relative perhaps? Might that be it? This seemed just as unlikely. I'm not well related. She was not the right age to be my illegitimate daughter by some ancient forgotten relationship: that, I reflected, would require me to be about ten when she was conceived. Beyond that, it was all so improbable, I just don't have enough relatives. Who then could she be? I racked my brains yet could think of nobody. "I think you owe me an explanation," I insisted, clasping my hands tightly together and rather dreading the answer I was about to receive. She looked up at me uneasily. "It's rather a long story," she said. "I'm not sure that you'll believe me." "Try me." She had looked up, but I noticed that she couldn't hold my gaze. "Are you a betting man?" she asked timidly, playing nervously with the top button of her dress, pushing it in and out of the buttonhole. "I've been known to accept the odd bet," I admitted, rather suspiciously. In fact, this was an understatement. Gambling is my weakness. I can rarely turn down a flutter. "Would you accept a bet from me?" She placed her water on the floor between her feet. I was aware that she was deftly changing the subject. This had nothing to do with her turning up in my garden, or whatever it was we had been discussing. This was something else, a new agenda. I shook my head. "I don't know. What sort of bet?" "Very simple," she said. "A toss of a coin, winner takes all. You see: I need somewhere to stay. I've come a long way and I don't have too much money." She saw my concern. "No," she said, raising her hand abruptly. "I'm not after your money. It's of no use to me. I just need somewhere to stay for the night. This couch will do fine, I'm not asking for anything more. I wish I could pay you, but, well, I can't. Instead, a toss of a coin. If I win, then you'll let me stay until morning. I won't get in your way, I promise, or interfere with whatever you may be doing... If I lose..." She paused. She wasn't finding this easy. She must be pretty desperate. What kind of pickle was she in? She picked up her water from the floor, sipped it, and rather flustered, continued: "I don't know, what can I give you? What would you want from me if I lost?" She fixed me an anxious stare with her bright green eyes, frightened, fearful, affecting that strange illusion of childish innocence. I was still playing a waiting game. I didn't trust her. "I don't know," I pondered. "What can you offer?" She thought for a moment, hesitated. "I don't know. Are you, are you gay?" "Gay? No, I'm not gay," I spluttered. She'd caught me by surprise. "Why ever would you think that?" "Isn't it obvious? You don't have a girlfriend. Haven't had a girlfriend for a very long time." I stared at her dumb stricken. Is that what people were saying? Who? The neighbors perhaps? She sat back on the couch, watching me carefully, enjoying the confusion she was creating. I frowned. "How do you know that? What do you know of me?" "I only know what I've been told. You haven't had a girlfriend for seven or eight years, you're miserable, lonely, and spend most of your spare time bird watching, the feathered variety, although you have been known to frequent the odd strip club." I blushed. "You're an investigator," I alleged, standing up. "Who told you all this? Are you trying to blackmail me? What is it that you're after?" My confusion had a calming effect on her. She was enjoying herself. It was fun being mysterious. It imbued her with power. "You haven't got enough money to make it worth my while," she shrugged simply, then smiled, softening. "I'm not here to hurt you," she said gently. "Just because I've found out a few things about you doesn't mean I intend to use that information to harm you." "What then?" She wagged her finger tauntingly. She wasn't finished with me yet. "Later, we were preparing a wager, remember?" Oh yes, the bet. Despite her protestations about not meaning me harm, I remained very much on my guard. "Why do you go to strip clubs?" she asked with feigned innocence. "Do you like looking at naked women?" "I would have thought that was obvious," I declared. She mulled over my answer. "What about the teasing? Do you like it when a woman teases you?" I didn't answer. "What about me? Do you think I've got a good enough body?" She raised her hand to the top of her dress, fidgeted again with the top button, pushed the button into the buttonhole. "Do you think I would make a good stripper?" I couldn't stop myself from looking at her. She certainly had the body. I told her so. "So would you like it if I undressed for you?" I flushed red. "I couldn't expect that," I stuttered, rather guiltily. You see, my penis was giving a very different answer. This bird was sex turned to flesh, and yes, I wanted to de-feather her, to have her clothes littering my floor and her, naked, in their midst. "You must like looking at naked women," she mused. "If you didn't you wouldn't have gone to those strip clubs." "No. Yes." "Or perhaps you don't think I am as pretty as the women who undressed for you there?" "You are very pretty," I admitted. "So would you like it if I undressed and let you look at my body? Let you look as much as you like?" I didn't answer, couldn't answer. "I could dance or move in somewhat, suggestive ways. Is that the kind of thing that turns you on?" I couldn't help but stare at her body. I knew that I was doing so rather lasciviously, but I couldn't help it. She was turning me on in a way that hadn't happened for years. She pushed her breasts together, looking down at where the tops were barely contained by her low cut dress. "Wouldn't you like to see these? All of them?" "Yes," I admitted at last. How could I deny it any longer? "Then this is my bet," she said triumphantly. "If I win, you let me stay here until tomorrow morning. On the other hand, if I lose then I will undress for you, in whatever way you tell me, however you want, and you may look at me, make me move, make me touch myself, in whatever way you say." Consider the facts: she was a sexy woman; there was a good chance I was soon going to have her in my living room stripped to the buff; I hadn't done anything this exciting or adventurous for years: yet, I couldn't shake this feeling that I was being manipulated. I was uneasy. "I don't seem to have much to lose," I said dubiously. "Oh, yes," she countered, "You can lose. More than you can possibly imagine. But I don't expect you to understand that. Not yet." Despite my doubts, I couldn't escape my nature: lascivious. My dick was taking a definite interest in matters, a majority interest. Mentally, I was already undressing her, removing her pale red dress, unclipping her bra, pulling down her panties. I couldn't stop myself. Mentally, I had already won the bet. She leant back a little further into the couch, opening her legs, letting the skirt of her dress ride up her legs, tempting me. "What do you say?" she purred. "Do we have a bet?" "A bet," I agreed. "So what about a coin? Do you have a coin?" she asked. I reached into my trouser pocket and pulled out a fifty pence piece. I held it out for her to take. "No, you do it," she said, rubbing herself over the top of her dress. God! What was she doing? What sort of person was she? I cleared the phlegm in my throat and prepared to toss the coin. "Who calls?" I asked, rather matter of fact. She grinned, rubbing her tits openly over her clothes. "You do. While the coin is in the air." I hesitated. She was most definitely embarrassing me. "Are you sure about this? If you're in trouble...." "Toss the coin." I placed it on my finger. "You're sure?" "Do it." I flicked the coin into the air. "Heads, I cried, watching it flip head over tail several feet into the air, and then fall silently into the carpet. I looked down at the coin. A reverse. Tails. Damn! I found it difficult to keep the disappointment from my face. Oh, well. "Never mind," she said, sitting up and immediately refastening the top button of her dress, then straightening her clothes. "There'll be other opportunities, I'm sure." I had to fight the urge to take her in my arms and kiss her. I wanted to so much. I wanted to peel off her dress, then her under things. I wanted to take her upstairs and stick my thick tool into her juicy twat. I was confused by her contradictions, the incompatible messages that she was sending. Did she fancy me, or was she using me? I had little real idea. "I'd better put the lawn mower away," I said. My disappointment was still obvious. "Don't fret," she pleaded, rather patronizingly, squeezing her boobs together and making them bulge for my benefit. "You may have lost the battle, but there's still a war to fight." I remained noncommittal, scowling. "There's some egg and bacon in the fridge," I volunteered reluctantly. "If you're staying then you may as well make yourself useful." I sighed. "I suppose you're hungry?" "Yes." I knew it. "Do you think you could manage to rustle up some lunch while I finish off the lawn." She said that she would try. So while I went outside to cut the grass, I left her in the kitchen. It took me about half an hour to finish the lawn. Then I unplugged the mower, cleaned it and put it back into the shed. When I came back inside, I found Nicki still in the kitchen. It was a hive of inactivity. She had got the eggs out of the fridge and they were sitting on the top. She had got no further. I stared bemusedly at the eggs. "Are you okay?" I asked. "What's wrong?" At once, she rushed over to me and threw her arms round my neck. "I was going to cook you lunch," she wailed, "but I didn't know how to cook them." "Eggs?" I queried wondrously. She was hanging from my neck, sobbing into my dirty, sweaty shoulder. I could feel the musk in her hair. "You can't cook eggs?" I was completely taken aback because she was really heartbroken. This wasn't a pretense; her tears were real. I put my arms round her and comforted her, holding her tight, feeling her body melt into mine. "Didn't anyone ever teach you?" "I'm sorry." she sniffed. "Can you forgive me?" I smiled and thawed. How could I remain cold and reserved in the face of such emotion? Am I such a monster? "Of course I forgive you. There's nothing to forgive. I'm just a little surprised that's all." She lifted her head from my shoulder and managed a watery green smile through her tears. Then she dissolved back into my arms. "You're sure?" "Of course I'm sure." And that was Nicki. She was this wonderful contradiction. She was an adult, god, was she an adult! She knew exactly how to tempt me with her sexuality, how to work her eyes or play with her clothes such that she could send me into delirium. Yet she was also the smallest of girls. There was ignorance, wonder, and an implicit trust that were all truly childlike. Adult suavity and childish naivete were combined in her in such equal measure that you couldn't ever quite see where the one ended and the other began. "Go set the table," I commanded, taking hold of her arms and disentangling her from my shoulder. "You'll find knives and forks in that drawer." I pointed. "Don't worry. If you give me a few minutes to shower and change, I'll cook the eggs." I was surprised. You know, it's actually fun to be able to cook for someone else. For so long I had cooked only for myself! I found some sausages, mushrooms, fried some bread. Yet while I cooked I was also anxious. There was too much mystery in the house. Mystery in a woman can be taken to extremes. Nicki definitely had far too much mystery for my peace of mind. I kept asking myself: Who is this strange nymph that has wandered into my life? Why all her secrets? "Oh look," she cried from the living room. "I love old photos." I looked through the doorway into the living room. Amongst my bird photos she had found a family picture hanging on the wall. These things become so much part of the decor you forget they are there. I hadn't looked at that picture for years. "Not so much of the old," I joked. "That's me you can see there." "I thought it must be. And is that your sister?" "Yes," I nodded, my suspicions returning instantly. "But how did you know that Jane was my sister?" I was becoming paranoid. I regretted the question as soon as it had popped out. She looked up, hurt. "Who else would it be?" she asked reproachfully, her lip quivering. "You can tell. She looks just like you." "Hmm," I said, hiding my apology. I wondered whether it was Jane that had given Nicki all her insider information. Hmm, maybe. I left Nicki looking at the picture and went to dish up dinner. She was not at all appreciative when I came in with two full plates of food. "You should be careful," Nicki said dryly, sitting down at the table. "My grandmother says that it's not good for you to eat too much fat, too much cholesterol. It'll catch up with you in later years." How dare she criticize my cooking? What right had she? When she couldn't even fry an egg herself? I grinned. "Your grandmother's not here to eat it. So do you want this food or not?" "Absolutely." "Then stop complaining and fetch the ketchup." ******* It's amazing that you can spend time in conversation with someone, and yet not find out anything about him or her at all. That evening, we spoke together of ornithology, of local history and we also had a lengthy disagreement over who should sleep on the couch. Yet nothing too personal. I discovered that she lived with friends, had problem hair, adored her cat, and that her mother was Austrian. Yet nothing too personal. She told me that men are becoming effeminate due to traces of detergent found in drinking water, that Humphrey Bogart was a totally crystalline actor, whatever that means, and that her father was the most wonderful man she had ever met. Yet she told me nothing personal. She told me everything and anything except for the one thing I wanted to know. She didn't tell me why she was sitting in my parlor drinking my coffee, eating my biscuits and enduring my presence. It was nearly ten o'clock when she finally asked if she could take a shower. I found her a towel, some old pajamas and left her to the bathroom. Downstairs, I put away the photo albums, tidied the kitchen and began to think about bed. Upstairs, the water was running and I heard the calming verse of a lilting melody. It's remarkable, I thought, just how many things can change in the course of a single day. When she'd finished, she came back down. I knew she would. We still had to resolve the argument regarding who should sleep on the couch. She trotted down the stairs, appearing in the doorway a moment later wearing only the top half of the pair of blue striped pajamas. She was also barefoot. I was somewhat astounded by the casualness of her attire. "Aren't you cold?" I asked. "Cold? Why should I feel cold? It's the middle of July." "Okay," I conceded. "Not cold. That was the wrong word. What I mean is, don't you feel at all nervous dressed like that in my company?" I was now certain that she was trying to seduce me. I had been almost certain before, but now I was sure. You just don't pick up a man, maneuver your way into his home, and then appear at bedtime wearing only half a pair of pajamas unless you want to fuck him, not in the big 2000 millennium year. So the sixty-four thousand-dollar question was, why was she trying to seduce me? I've been around too long to believe that it was the strength of my personality or my reputation as a fantastic cocksman. It couldn't even be my money that she was after. I had some, certainly, but not sufficient to warrant being hustled in this way. It was something else. She blinked. "Why should I feel nervous?" I spoke firmly, calmly, just as you speak to a small child. "Nicki," I said. "You're alone in a house with a guy you don't know. When you dress like that, with everything almost showing, it does things to a guy, it sends certain signals. It's risky." She stared at me through her clear green eyes, brought her arm across her breast, and began toying with the top button of the pajamas. God, did she know what that did to me? "Am I," she murmured. "Am I doing those things to you? Right now?" "Yes," I erupted. "Yes, by god. Yes, Nicki you are." "Oh." "Do you always carry on like this? It's not fair. How do you know that I won't take you upstairs and rape you?" She wasn't fazed at all by the question. "I rather thought," she replied hesitantly. "That if you were going to do that, that you would probably do it down here." I was incredulous. She was loopy, plain loopy. "And that doesn't bother you?" "A little," she admitted slowly. "But only because it's probably more comfortable upstairs." "This is stupid." She was pulling my leg, winding me up. She couldn't be serious, yet she stared through eyes that were perfectly sincere. I sensed that she was probably making a fool of me! "You want me to fuck you, is that it?" I demanded angrily, annoyed. No reaction. "This isn't a game, Nicki," I reprimanded. "You don't know me, don't know what I might do. I might hurt you, injure you, kill you even." "No," she challenged me adamantly, her green eyes sparkling. "You wouldn't do that. I know you wouldn't. You see, my grandmother told me so much about you. She told me how kind you were, that you would never turn me away. She told me that you get lonely, about your birds, and about the strip clubs too." "Your grandmother?" "Right." I rubbed my ear idly. For the life of me, I couldn't think who this girl's grandmother might be. Bizarre. It had to be someone who knew me well... Unless, that is, a nagging voice kept insisting; unless this entire affair is a scam, something Nicki has invented; unless, the nagging voice suggested, I was being taken for a fool. I kept my guard firmly raised. "Does your grandmother have a name?" "Of course she has a name. She has the same name as me. Rather, I have the same name as her. It must be that way round. I was named after her, you see. Her name is Nicola." I shook my head, thoughtful. "I don't know anyone called Nicola." "I didn't say that you did," she said lightly. "I said that she knows you." This was blowing my mind. It didn't make any sense. If Nicki was only going to talk in riddles, then I'd had enough of it. Except... "So your grandmother doesn't reckon I will do you any harm?" "Didn't," she corrected softly. "Past tense. My grandmother passed away. She died. But before she died, she told me that it's been a long time since you've had a woman and that I should be prepared for you to be amorous." "Amorous," I spluttered. The presumption of it! "Did she put you up to this?" Nicki grinned cheekily. "'Uncontrollably amorous' were her exact words. She said if I pushed hard enough, I would push you over the edge, and that then things would get interesting." "And that didn't put you off coming here and staying in my house?" "It made me all the more determined. You see, she also said that you would never hurt me, that you can't hurt a fly. I know that I haven't told you who she is yet, and so none of this makes much sense. But she used to be a very different kind of person until you brought out something unique within her. You caused her to achieve her potential. She achieved greatness, real greatness. I wanted to thank you. You see, it's because of her that I can be here." I shook my head. "It's all riddles. I don't know your grandmother. Are you sure you've found the right person? It is me you're after, Greg Isitt? You see, this makes no sense, none at all." She grinned. "Of course it doesn't. But it will. Wait until tomorrow. Tomorrow it will make perfect sense." She came up to me and kissed me on the cheek, softly, sweetly. Once again she had become the little girl. She put her arms round me and hugged me. This too, she did in the manner of a child, not that of a grown woman. She looked up into my face and grinned. "I can feel your penis sticking into my tummy." She was right. The touch of her body against mine; her smell, fresh from the shower, feminine, perfumed; the sight of her fair legs barely covered by the pajama top; her breasts, braless, hanging loose inside the pajamas: all these were intoxicating me, arousing me in a way that I could not control. I tried to pull away from her, disgusted with myself. But she was holding on to me. "Don't feel bad," she entreated. "Don't you understand? I want to feel your penis against me! I want it and the terrible thing is that I can't tell you why. Oh, I really hate these secrets. How I hate them!" She gripped my arms, pinching them so hard I nearly had to tell her to stop. "I've just told you how I feel," she rasped. "You've heard me. So what are you going to do about it?" I was totally lost, confused, aroused. Yet through the mist and the fog, one truth seemed to stand tall: Nicki wanted me to fuck her. "Shall we go upstairs?" "No." I stamped my foot. "What?" "No. No I won't go." Her voice was hoarse, breathless. "So what are you going to do about it?" "I'll carry you. You are going upstairs with me, Nicki." Her bright eyes widened, not from fear, something else, her jaw dropped. "No." As I lifted her off the ground, her pajama top fell back to reveal her panties. She saw me looking, yet she made no effort to cover herself, she allowed me to look at her. The tease! She was wearing a black G-string flecked with red lace. Any doubt I might have had was instantly dispelled. This was not the garment of a lady's own preference. It was not the garment of womanly comfort. It was a garment worn for the particular purpose of enticing and teasing a man. I carried her upstairs and flung her onto my bed. I was smoldering with desire and she knew it. "You're right at the edge," she accused. "I'm not." "You are, at the very edge, and if you're not careful... You do understand what you're doing? You understand that I haven't said yes to you." "And do you understand that you're wearing my pajamas," I countered, hardening my voice. I stared straight at her, eyes burning. "Give them back, now." She pouted obstinately. "No." "Give them to me or I'll spank your butt," I growled. "I'll smack it so hard that you won't be able to sit down for a week. Give them to me and let's see what you're really made of." She reddened deliciously. I think she understood that I had just stepped over the edge, that there was no going back, but it didn't stop her play-acting. She would make a fine actress. "May I go to the bathroom to change? Please." "No," I insisted, stamping my foot. "Here and now." "You are very cruel." "As your grandmother predicted." Her hand moved nervously to the top button. I had seen her do this several times, but now, under compulsion, for the first time she slid the button completely through the hole. She kept hold of the pajamas, preventing the panels from gaping open. "And the rest," I demanded. She moaned softly, and slipped the other buttons undone. The dark blue cotton parted allowing me to witness the divide of her breasts, the luscious foothills of her majestic Himalayas. I reached forward and roughly pulled at the shirt of her striped pajamas, twisting it open. She didn't move, simply allowed me to do it, allowed me to stare at her, at her heavy breasts waiting quivering for my inspection, at her large dark nipples already hard and prominent. God, I love large breasts! I could see her G-string just as clearly. There was nothing of it, just a small wisp of black nylon that barely covered her, its edges speckled with crimson red. The slut must certainly have shaved herself for her mound was almost totally exposed, only the puffy flesh of her labia was concealed, its outline contoured through the thin black nylon. I reached forward and took hold of the waistband, such as it was. She gasped, sucking in her breath and regarding me accusingly, waiting anxiously for what we both knew was inevitable. I tugged on the flimsy waistband, dragging it over her hips and the nylon from her pussy. God, just look at that! What a sight! Her slit was totally bare, shaved completely. I could see every detail, her mound, the folds of her lips, the gash itself. Why, she was as smooth as a newborn baby! My dick swelled like it was a sausage balloon into which hot air was being blown. Quickly, frantically, I began tugging at my own clothes. "God, where did you learn that?" I choked, unable to look away from her bare twat, pulling off my shirt. Rather shyly, she let her legs fall apart. Instantly, her lips separated revealing the soft pinks of her pussy. "Do you like me?" she breathed coyly. What a stupid question! I dropped my trousers and pulled them off. My cock was barely able to fit inside my underwear, such had it grown. There was fire in my belly, and she had put it there. She stared at my groin, discovering for herself the indisputable answer to her question. As she watched, buggy eyed, I pulled down my underpants, releasing my throbbing erection from its confinement. "Fuck!" she murmured, sitting up, watching me handle it, play with it. "She told me it was big, but I didn't realize." "Who told you it was big?" I asked, pushing her back from her sitting position and mounting her. She was still wearing my blue striped pajama top, but it was no longer concealing anything so I was content to let it stay. She wrapped her legs around my back, squeezing my erection against her open pussy. "Do you want to talk or do you want to fuck?" she groaned, rubbing her crotch against my cock, making sure of my answer. "I want to fuck." "Then stop messing about and stick your stupid cock into me. Can't you see that my cunt is aching to have you inside me?" In fact, she didn't wait; she did it herself. She grabbed my erection and pushed it into the right position. I lowered myself, pushing slowly my penis inside, deeper and deeper. I could feel the lining of her cunt stretching, her muscles pulling her open to accommodate the girth of my tool. We kissed, mouths open, tongues touching, clinging, grappling. Her breasts were pressed against my chest. I grabbed them, kneading them roughly, feeling her eager response, the shallow gasp, the desperate sigh. As I continued tweaking her nipples, fondling them, caressing them, she began to ride my cock, thrusting herself onto it, pressing it against the sensitive areas around her clit. "Who are you?" I wheezed, rocking back and forth, fingering her teats, rubbing them gently. "Your guardian angel," she gasped between breaths. I groaned. I knew I couldn't last much longer. It had been a long time since I had fucked anyone and my machinery was super sensitive, over sensitive. I tried to slow, to keep hold of my load, but it was an impossible task. She had hold of my hips and was rocking me, setting her own pace. How could I fight against that? She must have seen the dread in my eyes, the fear of disappointing, because she kissed me firmly, fully, arching her back to get better leverage. "Don't worry," she cried. "Don't stop. If you want to, just do it. Keep going." I was sure that she hadn't come yet, but she squeezed harder, pushed violently, led me resolutely towards the final precipice. "God!" I cried. "I can't..." "It's all right," she moaned. "Do it. I want you to come, I want you to come inside me." "I can't... I can't... I'm sorry." "It's okay. Do it. Please. Give me your come." I gasped, cried out, my tool was trembling, shaking, erupting. "God!" I groaned, gripping her shoulders, pinching her hard, submerging my penis inside her steamy swamp. Inside, my come splattered against her rocky cervix, spurting time after time and filling her long love tube. She grabbed hold of my hair, used it to pull my mouth onto hers. There were tears in her eyes: of happiness, I hoped. "Thank you," she cried. "Thank you, dear Greg." Her appreciation left me confused, baffled, because as far as I could tell, she had not come at all. ************* Next morning. I lay in bed, half awake, half asleep, my mind cloudy, misty, fogged up. Her pretty face rested happily upon my shoulder, her naked breast was pressed unconcernedly against my side. She was sleeping, her breathing soft, regular and relaxed. Through bright green satin curtains, undrawn, a blue sky beckoned a new day, the birds sang of their happiness with the world and two young boys kicked a football with fantastic dreams of becoming the next Renaldo. What had become of my dreams? Where were they now? Eight years ago I had been full of hopes and aspirations and confidence. I had been the morning bird singing his exuberant song, alive, youthful, forward looking. But then, had come that moment of anguish and pain proceeded by years of slow suffocation. What had I become? What on earth had I turned into? Nicki shifted restlessly in her sleep. Unconscious of her actions, she contentedly rubbed her naked body against mine; unaware of the effect this was likely to have. Her hand lay idle upon my chest. I kissed her gently. When she didn't stir, I grew bolder. I slowly slipped my hand onto her breast, touching her nipple with the tip of my finger. Still there was no reaction. I was curious. I waited a couple of minutes before slowly tracing the outside of her nipple with my finger. I was now fully awake; sleep had left me. I wondered how far I could excite her before she too began to awake. The thought triggered an instant reaction in my lower regions, and my flaccid cock began to harden. I tickled her nipple for some time, gently, furtively. Although I had the joy of seeing it lengthen and harden, I was disappointed that there was no further reaction. Still she slept. I was going to have to attack her pussy if I wanted to witness any kind of upheaval. I tickled her firm nether cheeks idly while I worked out how I could gain access. She was lying against me, one leg drawn over my thigh, resting upon me. Although I could fondle her back and ass, and I could cup one of her breasts, I would have to move her if I wanted to reach any of her secret places. This was risky; she might well wake up. How was I going to shift her from her side onto her back? My only practical option involved taking a chance. I would pretend to be moving about in my sleep. I grunted; yawned, then turned sharply with feigned irritation, pulling my arm from under her. More fidgeting, a groan, and my arm fell conveniently and deliberately across her tummy, my hand coming to rest in the middle of her shaved pussy mound. Perfect. I lay still for a few minutes congratulating myself, allowing her disturbed sleep to calm and deepen. I was twitching to get my fingers into her pussy, to make it drip with excitement; to make her come, but I daren't yet. As I waited expectantly, I could feel my dick moving unbidden upon my thigh as it hardened and lengthened. How deep was her sleep? Would it be possible to get my tool inside her without her wakening? Was that possible? How far could I go? Slowly my finger wandered across her bare mound in search of her outer lips. Finding them, that digit slipped inside, barely touching her, parting the skin of her inner lips in search of her clit. God, she was wet. Not just a little wet, but she was drenched. What was going on? I was pretty sure that I hadn't done that. I'd played with her nipple, sure, but Nicki was just simply way up there in the clouds. I wondered. Was this bitch right now dreaming erotic thoughts? Was she even at this moment conjuring up images of her perfect man? An imagination that knew how to satisfy and who never came too early? Was she right now copulating with this guy, feeling the ecstasy of his touch and the magic of her first never- ending orgasm? How could I ever compete with such an ideal? Through the bright green curtains of my room, the sun was now shining, casting its rays across the room and striking our naked bodies. It was warm, comforting. I kept fingering her, gently but steadily. I knew from unfortunate experience that this girl didn't come quickly. It would take some time. Her breathing pattern was changing. It was becoming faster, less regular. Was she awake? Was she just pretending to sleep, enjoying her early morning wake-up call? I couldn't know for certain. I wasn't sure it even mattered. I just kept working away at her pussy, laboring in the wet. Now, a thought, I began a second line of attack. Leaning across, I took a nipple in my mouth, licked it, teased it, chewed on it gently. God, what breasts! I could live in such breasts. I kissed them, sucked them, each time gravitating back to her nipples, using my tongue to vex them. Her breathing was erratic, she was groaning in her sleep. Could she really still be asleep? Imagine: if I could penetrate her and she woke in the middle of an intense orgasm, what an achievement that would be! I rolled onto her, careful not to burden her with my weight. Slowly, I maneuvered my cock into place, slipped it where my finger had been and gently slid it inside. She groaned. Her eyelids were fluttering rapidly. Was she dreaming? I believed that she was. I was sure that reality and dream were now combining, that my cock, immersed inside her, was also present somewhere within her dream, a dream that was assuming its shape from the fucking she was receiving. How deep was her sleep? I wasn't sure. I couldn't believe that I had got this far. I was pounding her pussy, juicing her up, and she was reacting, responding, while, I believed, even now she still slept. I whispered into her ear, a third line of attack. "You're so sexy, Nicki. You turn me on so much. God. I can't believe how you turn me on." There was a catch in her breathing, a moan almost. "Can you feel how hard I am?" I pursued. "It's you who is responsible for that. Every bit of my stiffness is down to you, to your gorgeous tits, your hard butt and your bare pussy. Can you feel my cock, how long and thick and hard? That's how much you turn me on." At last, her eyes opened, green, bright, widening in surprise as she saw me upon her and what I was doing. Her arms reached up instantly and clasped my back, her fingernails digging into my flesh. "Don't stop," she cried. I had no intention of stopping. Rather, I increased the pace of my strokes, beating her sopping twat with my hungry balls. Her face was flushed, alive, hot. I could smell her perspiration perfumed with my body lotion. Our bodies slid against each other, up, down, back, forth, sensitizing, sensitive. She was almost there. I knew it. I could see on her face that her body was reaching its peak; she was coming, she was orgasmic. Still I kept going. "God, thank you," she whimpered, her breathing raucous, her green eyes wild. I didn't let up, just kept pounding her, sending her into shivers of euphoria. "Yes," she cried. "Yes, oh yes, oh yes." Still I didn't stop, couldn't stop, just kept kissing her, riding her, fucking her. She came twice. Only after the second time did I begin to think about coming myself, only then would I allow myself to shoot my wad. And I came, and came and came yet more. Afterwards, when we'd finished we lay against each other, spent, happy, smelly. My hand caressed her breast, with fondness, affection: these things rather than with any implied sexual intent. Her fingers fondled my hair. I stared through the window. The young boys were no longer playing football. It was quiet outside. "Can I stay for breakfast?" she asked. The question brought a pang to my stomach because I didn't want her to leave. Loneliness is a terrible affliction. "Stay as long as you like," I said offhandedly. "I'll go after breakfast," she said. I was disappointed. It was a huge anti climax. But she spoke quite definitely: no disappointment or regret or argument. Don't mistake me. I wasn't in love with her or anything daft like that. We'd only just met; we hardly knew each other. It was just that holding her warm naked body, feeling her affection, her need; these things exposed within me feelings of my own, ones that I'd managed to hide for many years. Of course, she must go. I understood that. She must have family, friends. It was for myself that I felt sorry. There was to be no breakfast, however. I realized suddenly that we'd emptied the fridge the previous evening. I had nothing to cook. If I'd been expecting her visit, if she'd been invited, then I'd have stocked up. As it was, she'd caught me by surprise. "It's not a problem," I said cheerily. "It won't take me a moment to get some things. It'll only take five minutes to pop down to the High Street." She decided to come with me. We parked the car and were on our way to the small supermarket when she saw a little cafe tucked between a shoe shop and a bakery. Instantly she grabbed my arm and pulled me to her. "Will you buy me a cream tea?" she asked eagerly, urgently. "Nobody has ever done that before." "For breakfast?" I queried. "It's only ten thirty. How about later?" But she was a six year old asking her father for sweets. She was persistent, desperate, and in the face of such pressure, how could I resist? She pulled me across the road, holding my hand. She was giggling, flimsy, superficial. She led me into the small cafe and dragged me to a table by the window. The tables were packed closely together. Cheap pictures hung awry on the walls. The carpet was threadbare. It was cramped, anachronistic. A young waitress, buxom, with brown hair and green eyes came over to serve us. Nicki stared up at her with a wide faraway expression. I was concerned. "Are you all right?" I asked her; worried that she might be feeling faint again. She nodded absently. I ordered two cream teas and sat back on my chair watching Nicki. I couldn't get over what a sexy woman she was, and how much she had wanted, actually wanted me to fuck her. It has a weird positive effect on the ego when you know that another person desires you. After a short wait, the waitress returned with our order. It was uncanny how much she resembled Nicki: they might be sisters. Or was it me? Now that I knew her, had fucked her, was I now doomed to see Nicki's likeness in every woman I met? The waitress placed our things on the table. I smiled, thanked her, and she left us alone. There was energy, an excitement about Nicki that I didn't understand. She was far more thrilled than a pot of tea and a scone could possibly warrant, even if it does happen to be the first time you've encountered them in combination. I fussed, but eventually I dismissed her agitation as being the child in her, the part that hadn't grown up. She picked up her scone and took a bite. "Why don't you have a girlfriend?" she asked indelicately. There was a fleck of cream on her lower lip. "Because I'm an awkward bastard to get on with," I confessed, pointing tactfully to the cream. She wiped it with her serviette. "So it has nothing to do with Stephen?" I paled. Here it was again. How come she knew so much of my past? It made me doubt her, everything she'd told me. There was no grandmother, I decided. There couldn't be. I would have remembered someone who knew so much. I was rather short when I spoke. "How do you know about Stephen?" I snarled. "Come on, tell me the truth, Nicki." She shrugged. "It isn't such a secret. It was in the papers. I read the accounts." Affection was soured and replaced with suspicion. My brow creased. "So who are you? An investigator? What are you after? Stephen died a long time ago." "January 22, 1992," she agreed lightly. "No. I'm not an investigator. I'm just curious, that's all." Stephen was my brother. On the evening of January 22, 1992, we had been driving home from a birthday party. It was winter. There had been black ice on the road; the car had skidded into a ditch. I had walked away without a scratch; Stephen had died outright. I had been driving. "There are some experiences that never leave you," I said carefully. "They make you question. They change you: not always for the better." These were sad thoughts and they made me melancholy, they always do, and nothing Nicki subsequently said or did had any effect on my spirits. Suspicion and regret reigned. I paid the bill and we left. We hadn't gone far when Nicki remembered something. "I forgot," she said suddenly, rushing back inside. "I won't be a minute." When she returned I demanded of her what she had forgotten. It had sounded like an excuse, a ruse, and so, in the mood I was in, that meant she must be lying. She told me that she was returning something she had borrowed. I was mystified, dubious. I didn't believe her. We never did have breakfast. I guess the cream tea soured the appetite. Something did, anyway. I thanked her, kissed her, and watched her walk out of my life. ********** That evening, there was a knock at my door. When I answered it, I was amazed to find the waitress from the cafe standing there. She was radiant, alive. She looked so much like Nicki, a few years older, perhaps, but peas from the same pod. It couldn't be coincidence. "Yes?" "You've got some explaining to do," she demanded. She was agitated, angry, worried. I didn't understand what I could have done. Had the bill I had used to pay for the cream teas been counterfeit? A bizarre thought, that, but I could find no better. I stared at her dumbly, at a loss. She thrust a picture into my hand. I gazed at it for a long time without understanding. "What's the meaning of that?" she asked, defying me to find an explanation. Explanations would not be easy. You see, the picture was of me; but the waitress was in the photograph too. I had my arm round her waist and we were both smiling. But there was more, something was wrong with the picture, puzzling. The photo was of me, and yet it wasn't. It was of her, and yet not quite. I was much fuller in the face than I have ever been, past or present. My hair was receding, and it was flecked with gray. I don't yet suffer from either of those misfortunes. One the other hand, while she was certainly gorgeous, she wasn't quite the person standing before me now, fingering the top button of her dress. She was heavier, fuller in the bust, savvier about the eyes. Sitting on the floor were two children, a boy and a girl. They were about eight to ten years of age respectively and were smiling at the camera. Behind, there was a banner, drawn by a child and hung on my living room wall with blue string. It read "Happy Anniversary Mum and Dad, 10 years." I looked up, perplexed. "Where did you get this?" I asked. "Your girlfriend left it in the cafe. What's going on? She's a wide one, that one. Did you know, after you'd gone, she kissed me? What's it about?" I looked back at the mysterious picture. "Turn it over. Look at the back," the waitress ordered. Obediently, I flipped the photo over. On the reverse somebody had written a few words in orange crayon, "Daddy, aged 8 yrs, April 2010." "I think you'd better come in," I said to the young waitress, still staring at the words. "My name's Greg by the way. Greg Isitt. Can I ask yours?" "Nicola," she said, stepping into my parlor. "Nicola Parker. Now what's this about?" A Posteriori by Joanna (joanna_de_brito@hotmail.com) July 2000 All comments welcome! -- If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the author. Your comments are their only payment. Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +----------------' Story submission `-+-' Moderator contact `--------------+ | | | | ASSM Archive site +-----------------+--------------------+ Newsgroup FAQ | | --- | +--------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | This newsgroup is moderated by ASSTR, an entity supported by donations. | | If you enjoy this newsgroup, please consider making a donation to help | | Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository keep providing this free service for you.| | Donations: | \_________________________________________________________________________/