Message-ID: <21710asstr$944723401@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: NewsWatcher!user From: themrlee@hotmail.com (The Mr. Lee) Subject: {ASSM} [*]The Uncertainty of the Meek 4/4 FF, FM (The Mr. Lee) Lines: 526 X-Original-Message-ID: NNTP-Posting-Date: 9 Dec 1999 03:57:48 GMT Date: Thu, 9 Dec 1999 02:10:01 -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: Lambchop, apuleius This post contains the final two parts of ³The Uncertainty of the Meek.² If you have already read the first three parts, you probably cannot wait for us to stop this introduction so you can get to the story. If you have not read the first three parts, why are you starting here? Get back to your newsreader and get the beginning before you read the end. Really. You most likely have already read the introduction to Part One. We will not bother you with redundancy. Read on, enjoy, write us at . Visit us at The Uncertainty of the Meek by the The Mysterious Mr. Lee Organization Part Four: Shaping Clay You probably have guessed the end of this story. Tom and I fall in love, have a beautiful deaf-child who communicates via the secret language, and are happy forever, or until the sun burns out. Well, it didnıt work out quite so nicely. Tom and I no longer had the easy excuse for moving towards intimacy. Perhaps he knew that I left Anne because of the feelings he drew forth from me, but if he did--and I suspect so--he did not deign to gloat. Our contacts became less frequent, yet still charged. They were trips shopping for housewares when my car broke down ten days after I moved into my new place. A Fellini retrospective. Dinner and drinks at McCormick and Schmicks. No walks in the park. They were too assertive for this timid woman. Too assertive, too dangerous. The friend I stayed with in Seattle, Cordellia, was ³one of us,² a lesbian I knew from my brief involvement with GALA in graduate school. Cordellia was a bookstore feminist and dyke, up on all the literature and news, but not too involved in the protests beyond an occasional letter. My fall from the demanding GALA environment was followed by her less dramatic taking of leave. We remained good friends, with an occasional flirtation, and once Anne had moved on, Cordellia came down for a long weekend. We didnıt discuss it. I didnıt expect it, but wasnıt surprised. She just came into my room, nude except a very short and thin t-shirt. I said, ³Yes,² and she slid under the covers with me. Cordellia was far more direct than any of my lovers. She kissed me forcefully, pushing her tongue between my yielding lips. She pulled her wet crotch to my thigh, rubbing herself while she mauled my breasts with over-urgent hands. She paused only to rip my tee shirt over my head and discard it. I was very distant from the whole experience, at least initially. Her mouth moved from mine to my neck, which she bit hard enough that I thought, quite calmly, ³Iıll have to wear a turtleneck tomorrow.² Yet, when she said, ³Youıre getting wet²--a command as much as a statement--I was indeed getting wet. She continued to manipulate me. Her lips and teeth moved slowly down the right side of my neck, first to my collarbone, and then to my breast. Before she reached my nipple, she grasped my shoulders with both of her hands and pulled herself to me tightly, while letting out a low moan. I felt her orgasm on my leg, wetter than any woman Iıd known. Her orgasm triggered a flurry of soft kisses up and down my neck and face. She continued to hold me tightly, scattering compliments about my body, like cheap candy on Halloween. It was obligatory in every sense, but powerfully erotic. She rolled off me, shocking my reddened skin with the sudden rush of cold air. She lay breathing deeply beside me. I watched her full breasts rise and fall, looked at her ribs as her lungs spread her taut skin over her large skeleton. Suddenly, I realized I was trembling, shaking with desire. I needed to come like I had never before. Was it the fear that she was done and wouldnıt finish me? Or was it something else? The question frightened me. Her breathing relaxed, and she turned to me, her skin glowing, her teeth bright in the moonlight room. ³Iıve wanted to do that for so long.² The words crawled out, some suppressed Southern drawl exerting itself. She kissed me gently, running her hands across my stomach. ³Youıre wet.² There was a smile, a hint of a laugh, in her words this time. Her finger pressed into my panties, just missing my clit. I shoved my hips toward her hand, desperate for more of her touch. ³Take them off for me.² Her hand moved languidly up my body and pointed to the window. ³Over there, by the window. Pull back the curtains.² I darenıt refuse. I slid off the bed, keeping my eyes on hers, and stood in front of the window. The trembling in my legs was almost under control. There was just a slight shake in my hand as I drew the curtains back, exposing my naked back and legs to the world outside. She licked her lips as I put an index finger inside the waist of by last remaining covering. ³Now. Pull them down.² I did, slowly, as if hypnotized by her presence. By the time I felt the cotton around my ankles, my tremble was nearly uncontrollable. My skin was raised into almost painful bumps, and the cold air was stimulating my nipples and clitoris to real pain. She stood up to stand next to me. She pulled me sideways and kissed me deeply, holding my face in her hands. Our passions were in long profile to any strangers walking on the street below. When she pulled me back onto the mattress, I thought she was going to provide me release, but instead she tortured me with kisses up and down my backside. Her tongue flickered against my spine and butt. She licked my feet, toes, and calves. She crawled between my legs and began fingering me, entering no more than a knuckle before pulling out. Her tongue probed my ass. I started to beg her to finish me. I swore I would do anything for it. Anything. She plunged two fingers in as far as they could. ³Give me head first.² She rolled away from me, onto her back. I turned over and started to move between her legs. ³Then I might let you get off.² There was no slowness in my ministrations. I found her clit immediately and sucked it between my lips. If it was too much stimulations, sheıd have to kick me off of her. I couldnıt wait for myself any longer. My hand reached for my desperate sex, but somehow, I couldnıt do it. I had to let Cordellia finish me. So I had to finish her. She pushed hard against my head with her legs as she let out the same, haunting moan as before. It was the cry of a Will-o-the-wisp on a foggy night. A terror you can never remove from your soul, the sound of absolute abandon, desire brought beyond the restraints of humanity. She went limp, her breath mere whimpers. ³Please, Cordellia, please.² I was sobbing. She got up on her knees and took me into her arms, gently caressing me. One hand ran through my hair while the other hand brought me the relief I was so desperate for. ³Come for me, baby,² she cooed, and I did immediately. It wasnıt the most powerful orgasm Iıd ever had, but it was strong enough to remind me that such ecstasy was possible, something Iıd forgotten in my years with Anne. ~~~~~~~~~~ My life slowly began to revolve around Cordelliaıs bi-weekly visits. We were completely incompatible, but that only made it more fun. She was witty, pretty, and perfect company for drinks in the fading sun. She drew a constant stream to our table, with whom she flirted, one and all. It was completely transparent and saved me from a word of conversation. She left Sunday nights, often leaving me with strange commands, like some kind of circus dominatrix. ³Donıt wear underwear this week.² ³Write an erotic poem in French for me.² ³Eat peaches, naked in you bathtub at 8:30 on Tuesday evening.² When sheıd return, sheıd ask me if I had done whatever silliness she had demanded. ³No.² I still sounded surprised that she meant her demand, even after the peaches in the bathtub. She would then ³punish² me by bringing me close to an orgasm, and then ceasing all attention until I begged her, promising compliance with her next demand, to return to my urgent needs. Then she got a job in Boston, and our affair was over. I didnıt cry, nor even sigh. I got my weekends back. I started translating short stories into Latin in my spare time. I had worked through some of the more interesting Flannery OıConnor stories when Tom called me again. It had been over a month, before Cordellia got her new job. A new print of ³His Girl Friday² was showing. In a moment of weakness, I had revealed to him my secret love of Rosalind Russell and romantic screwball comedies. I said yes more quickly than I wanted to. I dressed in my most frumpy, dyky clothes. I wanted Tom to get no illusions that our kisses meant anything. I was a died-in-the-wool lesbian, and no man would thrust me into confusion. If Tom noticed my wardrobe, he didnıt comment. ³Hello, beautiful.² Strange how happy those words make me. We laughed loudly. I donıt laugh loudly, but we did. Synergy is the term biologists might use. We had a surprisingly talkative post-movie meal. I told him about Cordellia. He couldnıt understand it--two opposites like me and her? I said, ³Sex,² with a shrug and a blush, and he nodded. There was a Ceci or Cecilia for him. I can never get those names straight. ³Sex?² I asked him. ³Green eyes,² he replied as if that explained anything. I let my hand linger on my drink, swirling the wine around the glass, letting it aerate while he let the story waft out. At least that is what I expected. He just smiled at me, swirling his own glass. Finally, I had to ask, ³Green eyes?² I hated having to ask. Asking is one of the categories of talking I try to leave to other people. He shook his head, glancing down at his wine. ³If you saw Ceciıs eyes. . .² Of course I hadnıt, but I remembered Sarahıs, and I knew how the right pair of green eyes could captivate one for weeks. I nodded. We talked some more. Mostly it was little statements that suggested larger truths. He was remarkably good at that game. Few people are. I think that is why so few people know each other. They demand too much be spoken, explain, written out in simple language, when everything that matters can only be explained in peripheral glances, images that disappear before they come into focus. Is life something you can diagram? Try describing the flavor of your last beer. It canıt be done. No writer, and Iıve read more than most people, has ever described beer so well that someone who has never consumed it would not be surprised by the flavor with their first sip. And beer is easy to describe. Try wrapping your love for your pet up in proper diction. Wrap a verb, some nouns, adjectives, and maybe a gerund around the last time you took a shower with someone. Or without someone. Words are husks, at best, and we have to fill them for ourselves with masa and fish if weıre ever going eat a tamale. Did I mention I love fine Mexican food? The last of our tamales and our empty wine glasses were swept away by the last remaining bus boy. ³Go?² A nod. ³Next Friday?² A nod. Different cars, different directions. I am not a horribly weepy person, but I cried all the way home. I wish I could isolate why, whether it was because I was enthralled with Tom, or was it because my heart ached for all I feared I was about to throw away. When you live the meek life, timidly going about your business without drawing much of the outside world in, it can be easy to let the few things which demand your attention to take all of it. So it was with Sarah for me. At sixteen, she took hold of my sexuality and defined it for me. I had never looked outside of myself enough to know if I was interested in anyone, whether boy or girl. I had assumed I would marry, but I didnıt put a face to it. When Sarah showed me that partnership could be a bond between women--lacking only in a ceremony-I had nothing to compare it to, no reason to suspect there might lie something else, or something more, in my blossoming womanhood. Sarah formed me in the night with her caresses and kisses, glazed me in the morning with her embraces, and fired me in the day with her frightening loyalty and boundless friendship. My shape was one that fit perfectly with hers, and no one else's. We were interlocking vases until she changed, evolved into a different form, leaving me without a match. I struggled to find a piece to fit her absence, but I was molded too tightly. And Tom? In my romantic heart, I wanted to believe he was Sarah molded with male clay--a new possibility to return to my freshly formed youth. But Tom was not Sarah. He shared a curve here and there--he had a handle to take in my secret language, and a spout to return it; he was just as hard, and just as giving--but to fit to his curves and lines, Iıd have to change. I saw that I already had. I saw the cracks in the mirror once I left Anne. The old shape was beginning to crumble, or maybe just lose its hard glazing. My mutability had returned. And I cried for that. Tom scared me because he was too hard, too self-assured, too thoroughly cast in his own mold. How could I, soft as clay lifted from the seabed, find my own curves if I were pressed against his? The vulnerability that shaping implied was too great to be born twice. ~~~~~~~~~~ Tom had a few women he could claim were chasing him. I, of course, did not, but managed to bumble my way into a one-night stand or two. Over the course of months, Tom and I began to see each other more often. I saw his occasional girlfriends. They usually broke up with him shortly afterwards, although one tried to take control of the situation by sleeping with me. None of them had green eyes, and more than one of them mistook my blues for green. I donıt believe his beneficent smile ever left his lips when he told me of their departures. Nor did he ever mention that they left saying it was obvious we belonged together. ³It didnıt work out.² ³She was busy at work.² ³I think an old boyfriend moved back.² No anger, no disappointment. Each woman I slept with made me angrier. Not at the women themselves--they were all like Cracker Jack prizes, something to be discarded, perhaps, but nothing you didnıt like. No, I was angry that they didnıt fit me better, that they could not master the secret language in a night. What I wanted most of all was that they mold themselves to me. I was a thirty-year-old lesbian hanging out at college lesbian bars looking for an impressionable young thing, coming out for the first time. I could guide her, shape her, be her Sarah. Tom observed this, but there was no judgement. Tom didnıt judge anything, as far as I could tell. He once said that the best way to induce good behavior was by example. So he lived it. He never once stepped into a college lesbian bar. ~~~~~~~~~~ We rented a George Cukor video and I ended up in his arms. No, I crawled into his arms. I made the move. I took control. He was all about space and time, giving me all I wanted. But now I was about closeness and immediacy. I forgot about the movie. I had decided Tom was to be mine. I let my hand gently bounce over his thigh and abdomen for most of the set-up. I took his hand in mine and caressed it, then let it go. I got up and got us beers, and returned with a kiss. His hands found my ass, but I removed them, speaking my secret tongue, ³let me lead.² I took him to the bedroom and sat him down on the bed. Tom looked at me wistfully, this new assertiveness of mine taking him by surprise. I just smiled in return. I slowly stripped off my shirt, knelt before him, and slowly removed his. With each unfastened button, I let my fingers drift inside and caress his chest. I had never explored a male chest. It was hard and hairy, with nipples that perked up with each touch and circle of my fingers. What muscle, what hardness. This was exciting, and scary for me, exploring a man for the first time. I lay him down on the bed after stripping off my pants, and slowly peeling off my panties. I eased him into his own nudity, feeling myself tremble with excitement and fear. Was I doing this right? I wanted him, I wanted him so, I could not have torn myself away from Tom right then if Iıd tried. This was my Sarah, reborn, in this hard, masculine figure. He took me in his arms, and as I eased the length of my body along his, I could feel his muscular legs slide between mine--oh, what a sensation! The long, hard, length of his leg touching mine, the firm muscle, the soft hairs caressing my skin. This new, unexplored sensation was so thrilling to me! A wave of emotion just washed over me as I rolled on top to Tom, my full and wanting body touching his. My face was close to his, our lips almost touching. I could feel him growing hard in the space just above my legs. I wanted to feel him so badly. I wanted this--and I wanted to be in control. I held his arms above his head and kept them there. I moved my face above his, left to right, threatening a kiss. My breath was hard and measured, his breathing matched mine. A trickle of sweat ran down the side of his fore head. ³Michi, I want you,² he whispered in a husky voice. I was trembling too hard, too much excitement coursing through my body for me to respond. I could feel myself growing moist against his hardness, his cock so large and wet against my soft parts. I began to slide back and forth atop him, my mouth still perched precariously above his, my breath still hot and panting. ³Tom,² I panted. My mouth came down hard on his, and our tongues met, exploring the warmness of each othersı mouth. I ran one hand down his chest, caressing the strong, defined ridges that made up his strong body. I let my hand strayed and linger over his nipples, one at time, feeling the softness, running hand through his soft chest hairs. I let my hand run down the strength of his body, I caressed the prominent ridge of his hip, down to his muscular, rocklike thighs. I gave Tom a good squeeze, and let my hand first curiously up to his hard cock. I caressed his balls, they felt almost like ice cream, soft, a tender with hair, and slowly moved up to touch this shaft. Was I doing it right? I let my fingertips play lightly on the tip of his cock, then I encircled the head with my palm, gave a soft grip, and stroked him gently up and down. Playing with him like this was like my first experiences with Sarah. There was an excitement in realizing that he was reacting to me. Somehow that sense had been lost over time, I knew my lovers would react when I touched them right. With Tom, the outcome of my touch was unpredictable. This male body was new thing, so to see the sexual need on his face, the reddening of his checks, the loss of focus in his eyes, as my hand moved faster up and down his shaft was sending me close to the edge. I was pressing myself into his thigh, needing that contact as much as he needed my hand. I wanted to let it build and focus on him, but ironically, his excitement was too much for me. I stoked him wildly as I focused on the orgasm building in me. His ³Oh, God,² and the warm fluid running down my hand was all that drew me away from the after image of my own orgasm. We lay next to each other, silent, for a few moments. I canıt tell you what I was thinking--I donıt believe I was, I was just there, blissfully. Then he pulled me up his body, and began kissing me with a needy passion. ³I didnıt intend for that to happen,² he said between kisses scattered about my face. ³What to happen?² I was baffled. Had he come to regret our sex? ³Coming right then. Iım not sure I can get it up again soon.² I had forgotten men have that problem. ³Thatıs ok. It was wonderful.² He kissed me gently on the lips and smiled. ~~~~~~~~~~ We drifted off to sleep with my body still draped over his. I slipped off him in the night, waking myself in the process. He slept on. I couldnıt get back to sleep, so I spied on his somnambulant form. His mouth was cracked, a slight smile at the corners. Once my eyes adjusted to the moonlight, I could see the movement of his eyes under their protective lids. He was erect again. Was he dreaming of us? I think I may have drifted off again, but it was an uneasy sleep I struggled to embrace, and soon I found myself sending my eyes over his body. We had fallen asleep with the covers still on the floor, so he was completed exposed to my view. The passion of the moment was gone, I was a documentarian, my kino-eye scanning him for differences between men and women. Were there so many differences? He had lips, fingers, eyes, and nipples. His body was made of muscle and ligaments stretched over bones, and covered with skin. His organs were the same, his mitochondria functioned the same as any of my previous lovers. Yes, there was the beginnings of a scratchy beard, and instead of breasts, he had a flat, muscled chest. His pubic hair continued into his stomach hair with only a change in color and texture, but not much in volume. His muscles were bigger, but Sarahıs athletic body hadnıt been that different. She didnıt have large breasts, and her muscles were at least as defined and hard. But the small differences did matter. It wasnıt the hair or the penis. It was the shape of his nose, the width of his wrists. The veins on his hands. There was a different smell. His lips were shaped wrong, as were his eyes. His features were almost coarse, even with his beauty. Tom had come to mean so much to me, but was this right? Should I be next to him? I couldnıt decide. ~~~~~~~~~~ Tom woke me with soft caresses. They were wonderfully comforting. I basked in them, feigning sleep. I donıt think he was fooled, but he continued with his gentle touches and kisses. I gave up the game with a sigh, and rolled to kiss him. He was erect, the tip of his penis pushing against my thigh. We kissed, but it was wrong for me. I was kissing him perfunctorily, not passionately. I was too confused to be swept up in the moment again, but too confused and uncertain to stop where were going. I was withdrawn, faking enthusiasm. It felt good, but I couldnıt lose myself in our loving. I let it happen, and tried to pretend it was as good as the night before. I suppose the disappointment was to be expected. Iıd heard that losing oneıs virginity was almost always an earthly experience, and few women orgasmed from it. When I was a lesbian, I felt that alone was a sure sign that hetero sex was good for producing babies, and little else. I understood when my lesbian friends who had started out in the straight life told me that hetero sex would one day disappear, as science untied copulation and procreation. Yet, Tom had never been a man to me. Not that he lacked masculinity, but my image of him was too intermingled with my memories of Sarah for me to allow him the degree of otherness that ³male² implied. I expected our union would be a continuation of my lovemaking with Sarah. Orgasms were free and plentiful for us then, so why not now, even if Tom, technically, is not her? I think not reaching orgasm wouldnıt have been so bad if Tom had not been so empathic. He felt my disappointment and took it inside of him, where he magnified it ten times over. He didnıt say a word--he wasnıt the pressuring type--but I could see it hidden in the corner of his eyes. The missing orgasm hung over us at breakfast, and we quickly parted for ³errands,² both happy to be away from the void it left. I wondered if he expected to conquer me, win me to the straight world with his manly prowess. I knew it wasnıt Tom to think like that, but men are, well, men, and men have giant egos which must be placated by women who need their sexual powers. ~~~~~~~~~~ We had another cooling off. We talked on the phone occasionally, and even got together for dinner or a movie now and then, but there was an edge there. The strange thing about the entire disappointment and distancing thing we were going through was that I truly had a great experience while we were having sex. It wasnıt miserable--it was joyful. I just didnıt come. I had to face the reality that Tom wasnıt Sarah reincarnated, and that was too crushing for me to bear. I donıt know what Tomıs problems were, but they weighed on him just as heavily. Two months went by. I was starting to miss Tomıs company. Our short visits and phone calls did not fulfill the need for social interaction I--surprisingly--had. For the first time since I ³got over² Sarah, I was lonely. Then I did the most surprising thing Iıve ever done. It wasnıt meek. It wasnıt timid. It was courageous and bold. I called Tom and told him, ³Hi Tom. Youıre going to come over tonight and fuck me until I come.² I held my breath for the fifteen seconds of eternity he waited to respond. His voice was the calm, comforting creature it normally was. ³Now?² ³Right now.² He fucked me. I came. He fucked me again, I came harder. I called in sick on Monday. And Tuesday. So did he. I was never so sore before in my life when I showed up work on Wednesday. Part Five: Myself, Finally Two months later, I woke up in Tomıs arm, hearing a dog barking outside. I opened up his porch doors and smelled roses and coffee, just like any other morning. We ate together, speaking only in the secret language, largely with our feet, which seemed to be the most talkative. I had Corn Pops, Tom had a cantaloupe half, two eggs, and beet/tomato juice straight from the juicer--he was always very healthy. I dressed and drove into work, where I finished translating a legal document into Italian for a shipping firm. Then I wrote my resignation and a note to Tom. If I say that I left because I fit too well, too tightly with Tom, I suspect many people would dismiss me as flighty, but it was the geography of our coupling that drove away. It was the precise way he could communicate ³Another bagel, please?² with a lifted eyebrow, the way he said I love you in the cant of toes and fingers, and elbows, all with their adoring regional accents in tact. It was the way he knew what book I was about to pick up from the coffee table, even before I did. It was the way he made eggs, scrambled to a perfect fluff, topped with the right amount of cheddar cheese in thin, quickly melting sheets, and placed my fork on the edge of the plate. The way he smiled when I came home. I had squeezed myself into all of those intimate cracks in his life, all of the spaces between his job and his many friends, and began to appear as the lines that both separated and held them together. To be so important to someone was to surrender to their dreamstuff; becoming a captive of their mind, their needs, their definition. Somehow, in my plodding way, I had become Michi Lorre, not Michi of the family Lorre, not Michi of Michi and Anne, not Michi Fielding; Michi Lorre. -- This story is copyright 1999 the The Mysterious Mr. Lee Organization. Reposting is expressly forbidden, except with permission. We at the The Mysterious Mr. Lee Organization adore feedback. Tell us what you liked, tell us what you hated, or just tell us you read the story. e-mail us at: TheMrLee@hotmail.com Visit our wonderful Website at -- If you enjoyed this work, take a moment to email the author. Your comments are their only payment. 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