Message-ID: <22850asstr$950767804@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!edrn From: DrSpin Lines: 261 X-Original-Message-ID: <88fk2k$1b5@edrn.newsguy.com> Subject: {ASSM} A Bit Of Consolation (MF cheat) Date: Thu, 17 Feb 2000 01:10:05 -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, kelly A Bit Of Consolation (MF cheat) by DrSpin February 2000 * The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to drspin@newsguy.com =========================================================== Standard Disclaimer: I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is to it. If any reader is offended, and I would be surprised to hear it, he/she should not have been here in the first place and only has himself/herself to blame. If this story is relocated, please leave my name intact as the author and please include my email address. =========================================================== I was home on my own and happy to be there after the dramas of the last few days. I'd spent the morning pottering about and now, after a cool shower and the first of a few cold beers, I was settling down to watch the big football game on television. I cursed the doorbell, prepared to send the interloper away with alacrity. But I could hardly do that. Melanie. Of all people. She looked terrible. "Melanie," I said, trying to keep the surprise out of my voice. "Are you okay?" She looked at me steadily. Tears welled in her eyes and started rolling down her cheeks. No, obviously not. Like you do when you're a man when women start to cry, I opened my arms and she scuttled in against my chest, sobbing quietly. Sighing inwardly, I put away the resentment at missing a good football game. She was my son's girlfriend. Was. They broke up three days ago. He was going to Italy to continue his studies. She was staying home. Their four-year relationship was over. He was looking forward to an exciting life and career. She was alone and devastated. "What am I going to do?" she asked pitifully in a moist sniffling murmur. My shirt was already patched wet with her tears. "You'd better come inside," I said, prising her gently away and taking her hand. Andy and his mother were 200 miles away sorting out the details of his trip. He was leaving in a couple of days and wouldn't be back. It looked like they'd dumped me with a nursemaid job. Melanie sat on the couch, knees together and head bowed. She sniffed and then coughed tragically, straight blonde-brown hair falling forward over her face. The teary hangdog look didn't suit her. She was the girl- next-door type, freshly pretty enough in that clear-eyed clean-lined healthy-lifestyle naturally-19-year-old sort of way without being anything like beautiful. If I had to pick one word to describe her, I couldn't do any better than 'neat'. She looked as though she would attend church religiously every Sunday morning and, by God, that was perfectly true. She did. She lifted her head. "I came here today to collect something personal," she said. "Andy left it for me in his room. Do you mind if I get it?" I shook my head. Why should I mind? She stood up, took a deep breath and left the room. Soon she was back, carrying a manila folder. "Sorry for crying all over you," she said. She was nervous, obviously trying hard. "No problem," I said, trying hard myself to be gracious. And at that moment the folder slipped in her hand and the contents slid out and fell to the floor. We both bent hastily to retrieve the scattered items. They were colour photographs. The one I held showed Melanie standing wholly and brazenly naked in a sunny outdoor setting. We were kneeling together on the floor, side by side. She saw that I saw, and I was too surprised and thus too late to pretend I didn't. "Well, that's torn it," she said, mildly in the circumstances. Then: "Does it shock you?" I continued to look at the photograph. "Not really," I said carefully. "I guess I knew you had that sort of relationship." I held the photograph of Melanie naked in my hand and she knelt beside me, looking at it. "My breasts are too small," she said in matter of fact fashion. She didn't seem to be looking for a counter compliment. She pointed with her finger and touched the picture. "See? Out of proportion with my hips." I handed her the photograph. She took it and slid it into the folder and scooped up the scattered others. "Sorry about that," she said. Like she'd spilled a glass of water. She stood up and I did too. At close range, my eyes dropped involuntarily to her breasts contained in a close-fitting pink woolly sweater-thing. She watched me intently. "Too small," she repeated. "Unfortunately." I stepped back three paces and sat on the couch for all sorts of reasons. I shrugged vaguely. "Well," I said in a drawn-out manner. Nothing further. I couldn't think what to say. "Andy thought so," she said. She was wearing faded blue jeans and she looked leggy and tall. She had a neat and crisp triangle of light brown pubic hair and a flat smooth tummy. Not that I could see it, but I knew it from the photograph. Andy was right. She was not chesty, but she had dramatic stand-out nipples like .45 calibre bullets. I'd never seen such prominent nipples. They were nearly dangerous weapons. "He was always going on about my lack of definition, as he called it," she said. And then she started to cry again. Jesus. I stood automatically and she came into the circle of my arms again. She put her head on my shoulder and I could feel her breasts, small though she said they were, pressing points into my chest. Maybe not the breasts. Maybe it was those freaky steel-capped nipples. I kept my hips turned away from her, necessarily, and it was making me stand awkwardly. I patted her gently on the back, right on her bra strap and the lumpy back clasp. Messages ran rapidly to my brain and I was trying hard not to hear them. Do nothing, I kept telling myself. Say nothing. Do nothing. Just look and act sympathetic until she goes home. But she was burrowing into me, nuzzling her head against my neck. Her hair was tickling my ear. "You're so nice," she murmured. "You've always been nice to me." Well, perhaps. Like, nice dog, nice cat, nice pussy. Nice pussy indeed. The explicit photograph was still on display inside my head. Hot damn. I screwed my hips aside even further to avoid frontal contact. I found that instead of patting her sympathetically on the back I was stroking her in long sweeps, my thumb hooking repeatedly on the bulky bra catch. So I stopped doing that right away. She drew back her head and looked up into my eyes. Not far up, because she was a tallish girl. She had a quizzical look in her eyes and I could read it with ease. She liked to be held, especially today, and she was feeling warm and comforted and, just now, without warning, an impulse had got loose in her bloodstream which was something to do with comfort and something else to do with being held in close by a man stroking her back and something else again. She tilted her face and put up her lips to be kissed. I shouldn't have. Clinically, I should not have. But as you all know only too well, it's not that easy to be clinical in such situations. I couldn't not kiss her. She was too much right there in my face. The only way not to kiss her would have been to stop supporting her body, drop her on the floor, run out the back door of the house, climb on the roof and wait there till dark. So I kissed her. Or maybe I kissed her back. Whatever. In any case the deed was performed. I know how to do it very well. I'm a mature guy who's had lots of practice. I kissed her and it lingered, twining and wrapping and pressing. In the process full frontal body contact came about between both parties and she could not have been in any doubt about my level of interest in her proximity. Again she drew back slightly and looked into my eyes. A tiny smile twitched on her mouth and a clutch of emotions showed in her eyes. I saw the ripple of a thrill there, a trace of forbidden encounter, a hint of fear, a smoky wisp of lust, a slow surge of pleasure and, unless I was mistaken, a hard steel-grey glint of triumph and a flickering spark of revenge. She was liking it and she moved in to kiss again. "Mr Gibson," she said huskily after a couple more minutes of close encounter. "You should have given your son advice on kissing. You're much better." I winced. I tried to wriggle away but now she had her arms locked behind the small of my back. "Look, Melanie," I started. But she darted her mouth at me and we were kissing again. Now she was skidding her abdomen aggressively across the trapped but painfully-hard penis which was contradicting my concern about the proprieties of the situation. I was deep in trouble. She was making little noises in her throat and her hand snaked down and traced between thumb and forefinger the length and breadth of my erection. She withdrew her face from mine. "I think there's something else you have over your son," she whispered. "Melanie," I said, still trying. "You teach in Sunday school." "I believe in God Almighty," she replied, "but I stopped being a virgin over four years ago." God be praised, we fucked three times that day. She stayed the night and it kept happening at regular intervals. She stayed the next day and it happened less but it happened better. And the next night too, which took us into Monday morning. I cooked breakfast for her before she left. "This should go into an instruction manual for girls who have their hearts broken," she said, chomping enthusiastically through toast with her strong white teeth. "The remedy is simple: Go fuck the boyfriend's father." "Sounds a bit simplistic," I said. "And maybe just a bit too cold-blooded." "But it works," she said smugly. "I feel lots better." Something struck me suddenly. "Hey," I said. "When did you decide you were going to sleep with me?" "The night before I came over," she said. "You scheming little fiend! That business with the crying. And with the photographs. It was all a set-up." "The crying was real." "What about the photographs?" "I staged that," she said, pleased with herself. "You think I'd have left them here with good old careless Andy? I had them stuck under my jumper." "Melanie, you deliberately seduced me." "So? Any regrets?" "Well, I guess not. Not now anyway. Too late for that. But why? Why me? I'm old enough to be..." "My father," she finished for me. "True. But I've always had a bit of a soft spot for you. It was a good way of finishing off good old Andy and it got me over the blues good and proper. Don't worry. It's a one-off episode and I won't cause trouble. It's time for me to move on anyway." "I've been used," I said. "Only women get used," she said succinctly. "Men just perform on cue." Brutal truth. When she returned that night, I told Helen of Melanie's tearful visit. "Poor girl," she said sympathetically. "Oh, she's much better now," I said. "I fixed her up. She just needed a bit of consolation." ENDS * The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions from) comments and opinions from readers and is invariably motivated to respond. 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