Message-ID: <21561asstr$943935002@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!edrn From: drspin@newsguy.com Subject: {ASSM} 'Connie, Dark & Mills' - PART 2 (MF watch, MF cheat) Lines: 168 X-Original-Message-ID: <81v8uk$2nts@edrn.newsguy.com> Date: Mon, 29 Nov 1999 23:10:02 -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: newsman, gill-bates Connie, Dark & Mills (MF watch, MF cheat) by drspin PART 2 (of2) - Connie's Encore (Connie speaks): I thought it was a dream and it was only the painful part of it that woke me to the fact that it wasn't. The man I dreamed was invading me was, in fact, invading me. I dreamed that I was helpless. Awake, it seemed as though I was indeed helpless. Now, looking back at it clinically, I don't know that I was. It seemed so; but I just don't know for sure. It was pain that brought me to reality and the consideration of my peculiar circumstances. A blunt stubby finger in your vagina, clumsily directed, will do that. It was only a stab of pain, though, and it followed a dream pattern of cat-like sensual acceptance of a warm hand on my legs and between my thighs. In my dream I sighed and opened my legs for the hand. But it wasn't a dream. I did that. I did it willingly, dreaming of it and coming to the reality of it gradually, slowly, like a swimmer coming to the surface from a deep dive. I let him in. I opened the door and let him in. This is not an account of the event. I guess it's an explanation. You see, I knew who it was. I didn't tell Bill that. I didn't know who it was until I saw his face a little later, but I knew as soon as I saw him and I knew why. I taught him once. I remembered him as a student who gave me aggravation when he was 15 or so and who I gave a certain amount of trouble in return. Jeff Wilton, that was his name. The kid, no longer a kid, fucked me in the barn beside my sleeping husband. Who wasn't asleep at all, as it turned out. Somewhere in the course of it, at some time, I crossed the boundary between dreamlike acceptance and active participation. I don't know when. But I do remember seeing Jeff Wilton's hard curved penis and I do remember wanting to take it inside me. I do feel guilty about it because I know full well I could have stopped it, and because I know it was thrilling because Bill was beside me, supposedly asleep, and I know it was thrilling because my illicit partner was a former student. It's still thrilling just to recall it. These things don't happen to a 34-year-old part-time teacher and happily married housewife. But they did. And more. Jeff Wilton had been a difficult rebellious boy and I should have guessed he would not have changed too much. A couple of weeks later I was sitting in an almost deserted café with my second cup of coffee when somebody paused beside my table. I looked up and recognised John Hassett, a young man I taught a few years ago. I wouldn't have forgotten him because he was an outstanding student on whom I spent a lot of time and effort. He asked if he could join me and I was pleased to allow it. "I'm glad I saw you here," he said after a while and idle gossip. "There's something I need to clear up." "Yes?" "Something...ah...awkward." "Yes?" John took a deep breath. "That idiot Jeff Wilton is telling people he...ah...had sex with you a couple of weeks ago." I was amazingly calm. "Is he?" "He's waving around a pair of pants and claiming they belong to you. I threatened to punch him out if he keeps saying it." Still calm. "You'd better not do that." He looked at me with wide eyes. Clearly he was aghast. "You're kidding," he said slowly. "They do belong to you?" I nodded, affirming it. "You mean," he said, grasping for words, "he..." "He did." I finished it for him. I was so calm, so relaxed, almost amused by it. I ought to have been running down the street screaming in panic. But something about me had changed. What was done was done and there was no point denying it. A silence was developing in length. John's face was showing a range of emotions, mostly incredulity but also a plain measure of sheer jealousy. He'd always been sweet on me, which I knew very well in that female teacher/young male student way. Eventually he got around to the question. "Why?" he asked. "Why him? He's such a jerk." "It was an accident. I was drunk and stoned at a party after a concert. I barely knew it was happening and I didn't know it was him until it was too late." Not quite true but truthful enough for the occasion. "He took advantage of you?" Damn. He was persisting. "Look," I said to make it clear. "I wasn't raped. It was very confusing, that's all. I didn't really know it was happening until it happened. And then it was too late to stop it." "You let him fuck you." It was not a question but a blunt and angry statement and I didn't answer. "And you let him take your pants as a trophy." Now I dropped my head. "I wasn't myself," I said. "You, of all people," he said, shaking his head in disbelief. "Mrs Stanton. Who would believe that?" And then, quickly, as it occurred to him: "What about your husband?" "He knows." John was looking concerned. "And forgives," I added. His face darkened. "I don't understand." He was still angry. "John," I said, appealing to him. "We can't talk here." And indeed the tables had filled and a couple of people were looking at us curiously. "I have a class to go to, so come around to my house tonight and we'll talk further. You obviously require a complete explanation and I'll do my best for you. Bill's away at the moment so it will be suitably discreet. Will you come?" He looked wary but then nodded. I recalled him as a middle teenager, eagerly accepting my praise, trusting me, putting his faith in me. Basically a shy boy. But he was a boy no more, and this was brought home to me when I showed him in that evening. Tall, broad-shouldered, flat-stomached in a tight cotton shirt. How old was he now? Maybe 22 or 23, I supposed. He was immediately apologetic. "I'm sorry about today," he said. "It's not my business what you do. But I thought he had to be lying and it was eating me up." "Sorry to let you down," I said. "But I'm hardly perfect." "I always thought you were." "You want to know what happened with Jeff Wilton?" "Mrs Stanton, I really have to know." So I told him; simply and bluntly but without description. I told him about the concert, the drink and the dope, the half-sleep dream and then the reality of Jeff Wilton, saluting mockingly and stuffing my pants in his pocket. And of my husband who saw and, understanding it, forgave. "What about you, John?" I asked, concluding. "Do you forgive me?" "It's not up to me to forgive you," he said flatly. I was looking at his eyes. It stood out like a neon sign what was in his mind. "I think you just wish it had been you," I said. He blushed deeply. I stood up, knowing what to do. "Can you stay the night?" I asked him. He did. His long-muscled body was a delight; so strong, so young, so attentive. I hadn't had such a night since the early days of my marriage; so long, so exhausting, so little sleep. Absolute wet sex and lots of it. He was my ardent boy and I luxuriated in it. He kept calling me Mrs Stanton and that was wickedly erotic. In the morning I made it clear it was a once-only thing. The town wasn't big enough for such an unbalanced affair and I loved my husband anyway. He accepted that and he forgave my indiscretion with Jeff Wilton. He said he did anyway, after I gave in to his request and allowed him to take a couple of Polaroid snaps of me sitting up in bed. His own special trophy, he said, for his eyes only. I shouldn't have done that, I know. But I wanted his forgiveness and by then I was very mellow about him. I hope I don't have cause to regret it. About Bill. I didn't tell him I knew who it was that night in the barn. So now I couldn't tell him about John Hassett, because that happened because of Jeff Wilton. If I wanted to tell him about John, that is. But now I couldn't. Oh hell. I don't know. I know something for sure. This sort of thing is going to have to stop. ENDS drspin@newsguy.com -- If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the author. Your comments are their only payment. 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