Message-ID: <23666asstr$955743046@assm.asstr-mirror.org> From: "joseph_lawrence " X-Original-Message-ID: X-Sent-Mail: off Attachments: Sunday_Morning.txt Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit Subject: {ASSM} PC: REPOST, Sunday Morning (full text): MFF, 1st Date: Fri, 14 Apr 2000 16:10:46 -0400 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: Vulpine, dennyw This is a post of the full text of my story "Sunday Morning" for the purposes of entering the Pendragon Challenge. Its also for those folks who might want one file instead of three. It includes many minor clean-up edits, especially in what I first posted as part 1. --== Sent via Deja.com http://www.deja.com/ ==- Share what you know. Learn what you don't. ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ This post has been reformatted by ASSTR's Smart Text Enhancement Processor (STEP) system due to inadequate formatting. ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ <1st attachment, "Sunday_Morning.txt" begin> All rights remain with the author. Possession of a copy of this text does not imply permission to distribute it, other than for no fee and in its entirety, including this notice. This story is true and autobiographical. Truth though is in the eye of the beholder and as this is my story, it is also my truth. It happened, just as you are about to read, over ten years ago. I still sometimes wonder if it was just a dream, something I imagined or pieced together from countless fantasises. It *is* in my real experience; it does not contain many of the absurd conventions of fantasy sexual encounters. Judge it by the measure of your own experience, for it is in mine. This story is for adults, however that might be defined in your country. In mine everything recounted below is legal. Compared to many stories of this type it is probably tame in terms of 'steam', but for all that I hope you enjoy it as much as I enjoyed writing it for you. I needed to write it; to allay the ghosts of my memories. Joseph Lawrence, Copyright 2000 Story: Sunday Morning 1. The Top Room. I lay on the bed alone. It was an old fashioned single bed, the sort that's prone to squeaks from its rusting frame and creaks from its darkened varnished head board. I kept the pace down, so as not to let the rust betray my actions. I was twenty-one and my lightly clenched hand slipped over thin lubricated latex. The sensations it gave me through the crinkling rubber lit up the darkness in my head but left the darkness around me as thick as ever. I prayed that hardly a sound would leave the room while within there could be no doubt as to what I was doing. It didn't take long, my head filled with red, my breath fell from me and my heart pounded even faster than the beat of my hand. My loins tightened, holding high above the bed for a moment before they exploded, filling the latex with liquid latent humanity. In the long blank seconds that followed I became aware once more of the darkness around me, and the warmth of the bed around me. Had I, in my moments of oblivion, given myself away? I waited, holding my breath against the tightness in my chest for precious seconds so as to listen for sounds of movement around me. None came. It was a little after three in the morning. In that highest room in the house I did not lay in my own bed. Around me a foreign household slept, or I hoped it did. In the room below me slumbered a friend, a early-forty year old mother. In the room next to me, separated by a thin partition, lay her sixteen year old daughter. Two floors below, curled up with each other for companionship slept two dogs. No one made a sound. If they had heard me they were keeping silent about it. In my hand I shrank; slipping out of the now cooling latex. Another fantasy had passed. I slept, consigning the problem of disposing of the evidence to the morning. *** Light softly sifted in through the closed curtains. I smiled to myself. Thoughts from the night drifted into my mind, pleasing thoughts, powerful thoughts. Here I was on a Sunday morning in someone else's bed. The trouble was it was their spare bed. The room was nothing new to me, it had all started a year before. The house was owned by a teacher. She and I shared a passion, but no passion, for folk music. Every Saturday night we went to a club and listened, and in her case occasionally joined in. I drank a beer or two, and more often than not we all ended up at someone's house until the small hours. At first I had driven myself home each time, but later, and with not a little fear of the dangers of driving after drinking she had offered for me to stay the night at her house. Her daughter, sixteen but still in some ways a lot younger, wanted nothing of all this. She had her own friends and went out with them to places we knew nothing about. She still clung on to some girlish things; she still loved to ride her pony and went all giggly at mention of many of the more womanly practical things that had come into her life over the past few years. She was beginning to make her own way in life, and as it generally does, her way meant 'not her mother's way'. There was no father. Her parents had divorced soon after she was born and her mother remained single. She had had a few men friends, though none had lasted longer than six months. The last had been a mandolin player by night, and an electrician by day; he had left two months ago. Apart from me, the house was filled with females; I was outnumbered. I had been fantasising about the daughter the night before. It was her face that filled my head just before it briefly left this world. It was just a fantasy of course, as were thoughts of the mother. There was no love between any of us, though I was considered almost an honorary member of the family. In a sense I was rather more than the daughter, who, in her patchy growth towards womanhood, spent less and less time in the house than I did! For all that she was a likeable girl, beautiful in an unassuming way. She was not a child, but she was, and she knew it. There were boys in her life, one or two that her mother knew about, and while they did go to her room there was no indication that they did anything else other than to listen to the latest records; not too loudly either. The daughter did her teenage rebellion in other, softer ways. I wondered what she wore in bed to cover her young curves. She held her breasts high with little assistance from any garment. She would not discuss the matter of support with her mother, preferring to giggle and leave the room in embarrassed amusement. I wondered if she had ever taken off that nightwear for some acne- pocked stick insect of a teenager. Maybe she had; for all the remnants of her girlish youth, it was difficult to see her clad in haloed white. Her mother, on the other hand, carried the scars and sags of years of disappointment with men. I stood no chance with either of them, especially as I was a rather socially inept but friendly virgin. I was harmless, and they both knew it. They knew I'd never force my advantage, if indeed I had one. They knew that they were just my friends, and maybe that's why the door to my room opened then and through it stepped the daughter. She covered the few feet to the window and opened the curtains and then looked round to me. Now I knew, and it fitted both her body and her character perfectly - a 'Forever Friends' night-shirt. She stared for a moment. Obviously she had not expected me to be there, or had forgotten my likely presence. She smiled, "Hello." I didn't know what to think. Here was the vision of my dreams standing before me in all her innocence and not a lot else. Frankly I suspect I was the more embarrassed. No, I know I was the more embarrassed, for she stood before me confidently, but was that confidence born of innocence or knowledge. How could I find out? Did I have the guts to find out? I tried, "D, d, d..." I stammered, making my doubts clear, "d, dddoo you know what a girl like you can do to a man st, st, st, sttanding like that?" My mind raced with dreams: of her lifting her night-shirt over her head, or her walking to my bed, of her lifting the covers and sliding her tight body in beside mine. My body responded silently. "Standing like what?" she said, her nipples clearly visible behind the print. Was she the innocent, or the tease? I made my point plainer. "A attractive sixteen year old girl. Standing in little more than a night-shirt. I mean, its enough to make any man..." then I realised it was best not to go there. This whole episode had gone on long enough, and was beginning the threaten my long term presence in the house. "You think I'm attractive then?" "Well..." "Do you?" She giggled disarmingly. I swallowed and lifted my head a little. "Yes." "How?" "Don't you think you ought to go and put something on before you get me carried away?" "Would you really? Get carried away I mean?" Even though I knew it would get me into deep trouble I told the truth, "Yes. Now go on." She smiled at me and walked out, leaving the door ajar. The moment had passed, and with it the danger. Whatever my fantasies, the realities of intimacy with a sixteen year old while her mother lay, probably awake, in the room below were quite a different matter. Different enough to dissipate any excitement her lithe presence had caused. Drawers opened and closed in the room next to me. A door opened close by. A footstep creaked on the floorboards of the landing. I closed my eyes and breathed out in relief. When I heard my door close I opened them and my breath left me. She stood, naked now, by my bed. She was close enough to touch. With her night-shirt had gone most of her girlishness. This vision, this dream was a woman, albeit a small one, petite but perfectly formed. Her breasts curved tightly, her nipples standing proud and firm. Her short dark hair complimented perfectly by the thin mat that topped her legs. She was close, but so far away that I dare not reach out for her. My body tensed and sprang into readiness, but I knew I could not allow myself to do what I was ready for. My heart filled my chest as my manhood filled my loins. "Are you carried away now?" she said smiling in a confidently matter of fact way. I didn't know what to say. I was a virgin, and while I knew what I should do in theory I had no idea of what to do in practice. I also knew that with her mother just below us I must do nothing. Why did she have to tease me so? "Are you serious? Or are you just playing with me?" "Very serious," she said with pleading eyes, "please help me." "Help you? How can I help you?" "Do you have to be so dumb? I'm offering myself to you and you have to ask how?" "I'm a frightened virgin, and your mother is asleep in the room below. If she finds out what's happening here she kill me." "Please! I need you." "Do you need me in particular? Or will any man do?" She looked hurt, "Go on, make fun of me. Don't you like me? Don't you like what you see?" "I love what I see, you're beautiful, and any man should be proud to know you, but I can't be that man." "Yes you can. I know you don't love me, you never will, but right now I need to be a woman and not a girl. Please, let me give myself to you." "...and I to you," I said in involuntary agreement. She stepped closer. A wisp of a scent more powerful than any exotic perfume reached me and stoked the fire in my loins. She spread her legs a little, and the wisp became a gentle breeze. It took my hand and, pushed on by a trembling fearful heart, drew it out from under the covers. I reached out for her wrist. She held herself stiffly and closed her eyes with an intake of breath. With the heat of her skin on my hand I stopped, frozen by fear, anticipation, self-doubt and inexperience. She opened her eyes and looked down. She drew her arm away, only to bring it forward again to take my shaking hand and bring it gently to her breast. She closed her eyes once more. I had never felt such a feeling before. She had placed my hand with my fingers resting on her outstretched nipple. I was surprised how full it felt, I was surprised at how her breath changed - heaving and gasping - as I slipped my hand slightly to one side. I paused. Her breath shallowed slightly, though it was still laboured. I pulled back slightly, only to have her thin fingers grasp my hand and press it back to her breast. Beneath my fingers now I could feel pimples in the disc around her nipple, which I tentatively brushed to and fro. She leaded forwards and tipped her head to kiss my forearm, "I'm not made of glass. You can do whatever you like." Partly from inexperience and partly from wanting to make the moment be as memorable as possible I answered, "I want to do whatever you like. You're the one who matters. I want you to be happy." She looked into my eyes and taking my hand again, she moved forwards, slipping my hand over her belly and to her thigh. She brought her nipple to the side of the bed and with words unspoken asked for me to kiss it. I leant forwards, my hand moving lower, my instinct overpowering my intellect. I knew this must not happen, yet here I was letting it happen, and wanting it never to end. I opened my mouth a little, readying my lips to close with her flesh. I stopped and tilted my head to look up. Our eyes met again and she nodded, smiling at me to go on. I sighed and felt the warmth and fullness of her breast on my lips and the wirey roughness of her hair on my fingertips. She brought her hands up to rest on my head, holding me lightly to her. I felt the radiant heat of her readiness on my hand and the strength of her thighs on my palm. I latched on to her nipple and rippled it at the end of my tongue. I had never felt anything so beautiful in my life. I licked and sucked on her breast for what seemed in those fast running moments like hours, all the time my hand tentatively touched, probing ever further with each stroke. First touching her hairs, then drawing back to stroke her thigh. Then moved forward again to run the tips along the borders of her hair. I remember, in my haze, remarking that the hair that adorned her was not soft and downy as I had expected, but hard. She just nodded between gasps and closed her eyes to savour the sensations. Growing bolder, I brought my hand up to lay on her belly above her hair then ran it down her other thigh that twitched momentarily before slipping further away. Her movement caught me by surprise, bringing my fingers fully into her bush, pressing onto the yielding fatty flesh below. I panicked, drawing back sharply, my teeth pulling past her nipple. "Careful!" she gasped sharply. "What's the matter, don't you like what you feel?" "I love what I feel, I just... I just don't know exactly what it is that I'm feeling." "Come here again, and I'll show you." I paused, more afraid than at any time since the night before. "Come on. You might not know what you're feeling, but you're feeling it well. Come..." She raised her hand to my head, and arching her back a little, she drew my head back to her breast. In the sharp light of the early morning her skin looked almost flawless, and her breasts seemed the most wonderful things in the whole world. I sighed once more as my mouth touched the rippled tumescent nipple. With me back to her she reached for my hand once more and took my middle finger between hers. "Don't be afraid," she said in a voice twice as gentle as her years. With that she guided my hand to her hair- covered mound once more, pressing my finger to the top of the parting that I only knew from fleeting glimpses in magazines and in books. "It's ok," she said, "you can touch what you like." The thoughts that rushed through me terrified me. Her warm mound was filling beneath me, a heat rose from below, a heat that combined with the delicious exotic scents to drive my finger downwards. She shuddered as her lips parted slightly allowing my fingertip to slip a little into her, but it was only a fraction, a tiny foretaste of what it promised to give. For the first time I began to realise that my dreams might be about to come true, and that the next thing I was to fill might not be just a condom. Somehow, in my ex-teenage mind, I had thought that once between a woman's lips my finger, or anything else that I could place there, would disappear without trace into an almost liquid heaven. It didn't. My fingertip drew over full flesh, hot, full, but not liquid, nor was there any trace of the delicately scented hole which I had expected. The scent, while wonderfully enticing, was rich and complex; a powerful melange of fruit and smoke. Somehow it reached deep into me and pulled at me, calling me to taste its riches, to imbibe it and wallow in its heady grasp. Yet still I had not found its source. It had found me, but I knew not from where it came. I slipped my finger lower. Another misconception that was instantly destroyed was that a woman's pussy opened at the front of her body. Even in my confused excitement I could clearly tell I was having to curve my hand more and more to go under her. Then it happened. It took me totally by surprise; it shook me, forcing me to gasp loudly. My finger slipped easily to the depth of the nail between her folds. The flood of scent told me that I had found the source of her incredible hold on me. The realisation held me tight; I was in a woman; I had found her. She moved once more, giving me easier access. I ran my finger up and down exploring the extent of her, but never further in. Her inner lips felt almost rubbery, but with her fluids on my fingertip they slipped easily underneath me. She reached down with a hand once more, urging my finger up. I almost felt cheated as she forced me out of her to rest between her upper outer lips. She gasped and breathed urgently. I didn't know what I was doing, but her hand on mine drew me back and forth over the warm folds of flesh, each time sending a gasp to her mouth. I stopped sucking on her breast. She slipped her free hand onto the back of my head and once more drew me to her. She knew what she wanted from me, even if I had little idea of what that might be. Cold, a rush of cold air over my thighs. Cold air and a pressure taken off my loins. Filled with her scents and passion, I didn't care what had happened, until a warm hand grasped me firmly. She stroked at me quickly and urgently. A woman was actually touching me! I dropped my finger down, slipping through her folds and into her. I pushed it in, in into her, in deep, as deep as I could in my inexperience. She cried out, though not in pain. For all her tightness and dryness of earlier she was now open and inviting, yielding and giving. Her hand gripped tighter, stroking me faster. I felt the start of the tightness in my loins, I felt the gentle scrape of her hair on my knuckle, I felt the surge of her chest and the rush of her heartbeat. I arched off the bed, she tugged at my hair and my finger slipped in and out of her lucious folds. Then she froze. I carried on with my motions, made oblivious to the world by her delicious and heaving body. She released me suddenly and grabbed at my hair, pulling me away from her. I carried on probing her with my fingers, but she writhed back and I slipped out as she put herself out of reach. I open my eyes and looked to her. She tipped her head to the door. My eyes followed. As my gaze reached it, all signs of my excitement fell away. Here was I, lying naked with a filled condom lying halfway down the bed, with an equally naked sixteen year old whose heart still beat the rhythm of arousal as her mother looked sternly on both of us. No words were spoken; none would have been able to express the intense embarrassment of the moment for any and all of us. I felt acutely ashamed. I had abused the mother's trust by allowing myself to take advantage, or some might say abuse, her only daughter in broad daylight under her own roof. I knew my time there was very limited, probably to enough to get dressed and hurry off, and I would never darken her door again. "Young lady! Get down those stairs at once!" The daughter dropped her head in shame and stepped out, slipping behind her mother's robed form. I felt I deserved everything I was no doubt about to get. "What on earth do you think you were doing?" My stammer fell away. "I couldn't help myself!" "You certainly did help yourself! She's only sixteen for God's sake!" With that she stormed out leaving me wondering what I should do next. Should I get dressed and slip away? Should I try to apologise? Should I defend the daughter's honour and ruin my own? Should I drop her in it for the sake of my pride? Should I stand my ground unrepentant, after all we were consenting adults... in law at any rate? Somehow I couldn't bear to get off the bed. As I dithered, the threatened storm broke below me. Voices in accusation and anger, voices raised in despair, then nothing... nothing. How could I leave now, breaking the silence? How could I even move for fear of the noise that it might cause? I knew my welcome in the house had expired the moment her night-shirt had touched the floor. Then I heard crying. Gathering my clothes, I dressed as best I could, finally tiptoeing to the door. I opened it painfully slowly and carefully. I stopped to work out how long it would take to get out of the house, then realising that I could do nothing to help the situation I stepped out along the hall. I passed her room door, still with one of those name plaque's on it. I turned the corner to go down the next flight and stopped. Ahead the mother's door lay open. I would have to pass it to get out. I pressed on filled with nervousness. I got to the door but dare not look in. I passed it quickly and quietly. Only one more flight and I'd be free, one more flight of stairs to get to the rest of my life, just one... 2. On The Stairs "Where do you think you're going?" My instinct told me to run. I held back. "Well?" The mother called again. In fear, I turned. While she could hardly do much to me, she could, and indeed had, make me feel worse about my hideous self than at any time in my life. In the doorway she stood, her robe done up more tightly than it had been upstairs. "I..." "Yes? What do you have to say for yourself?" "I'm sorry." "What for?" "For abusing your trust, and for loosing all my self-control." "Come here." I looked at her as if to say "are you serious?". She grew insistent, "Come on, get yourself in here!" I walked forwards to the door. She stepped backwards and to one side revealing her bed. The covers were ruffled, and seemed almost as if there was someone lying there. "That bed is too small for the both of you. Use mine." My instinct spoke yet again. While I had gone over this sort of situation, and many other equally unlikely fantasies over and over, I had never been able to prepare myself for the reality. My instinct said "Run!" I turned and was about to obey when her voice called me back once more. "Stay." Another voice joined her from the bed, "Yes, please stay." I looked into the room. The mother reached out her hand to me to allay my fear. I moved forward, into the room. A motion caught the corner of my eye. The bed cover was moving, revealing the daughter, all of her, releasing once more that intoxicating scent. I stepped forward again. I heard the door close quietly behind me and saw the daughter part her legs in front of me. She drew her knees up and I saw for the first time the delicate folds that I had already but touched. Her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, lifting her breasts against the dappled morning light filtering in through the still closed curtains. The shafts caught her young skin, elegantly smooth and perfect, and back-lit her pubic hair so that it glistened and glowed slightly. She drew her knees apart further; I looked on her as a startled rabbit looks into headlights. Without taking my eyes off her I hurriedly slipped off my clothes, fumbling ungracefully with the buttons of my shirt. She laughed gently, smiling at my awkwardness and a little later at my shyness as I dropped my underwear. Her laugh melted when I at length stood full length before her. She stretched out a hand toward me, beckoning me on, asking for me. My body was ready for anything. My mind reeled from everything. Then I saw that tears fell from her deep brown eyes. I stepped forward and leant over her, brushing the drops away from her cheeks. Leaning down I kissed her forehead and she grasped me once more. This time she didn't stroke me; she pulled me, urging me on to the bed. She let her nearest knee drop the bed, and her free hand pressed to my side, inviting me to join her on the bed. I wanted to explore her more, to see what made this little vision of feminine loveliness so inviting. I wanted to bathe in her, lick up every last drop of her, to devour her. She wanted more, and the force with which her hand pressed to me said she wanted it soon. It was my turn to draw back. "Please!" she pleaded. "It's ok," I said reaching down for my trousers and fumbling in the pocket. When I had found what I was looking for I turned to her, standing by the bed. I leant over to touch her, she arched her back to meet me. For a moment my hand hovered close to her mons, my palm almost touching her hair. "It's ok," I repeated as I leant down further to grasp her nipple with between my lips. My free hand found hers and held it tightly, a rectangular foil packet between our damp palms. I pressed my other hand to her, and felt the dampness that had made her hair glisten. Gone was the dryness of before, replaced by an all pervading slipperiness. Gone was the tightness, replaced by a willing openness. "Am I ready enough for you?" she asked. "Yes. Oh yes, you're hot and ready," I replied as I caught my breath. "You've opened like a flower and." I curled my middle finger, slipping between her lips and on into her. I pushed my hand down; my finger went in further, deeper and warmer, as she moved to accommodate me. "I can't tell you how ready you are, you are so beautiful, and so beautifully female." That's what I really thought. Gone were any thoughts of her as a young girl, gone too were any of her femininity. What I felt through my fingers and smelt and touched was all female and nothing else. I prayed that I could be all male to her. I slipped another finger between her now gaping lips, her wanting flesh yielding to my touch, her heat growing moment by moment. "I'm sorry," I cried as I drew away from her breast, "I have to do this." A desperate need had grown in me, I simply had to give in to it. I withdrew my fingers and ran my hand down her thigh, my other hand mirroring the motion as I twisted my body round. I pressed out with my hands. As first she resisted. "Please, oh please," I moaned; moments later her resistance melted and she let my hands press her legs wide apart. "Forgive me," I said as I reached out with my tongue to taste her. The feelings of love and life and lust mingled and overwhelmed me as I ran the tip of my tongue over her puffed lips. I slipped my hands up her thighs, clasping her outer lips and pulling them wide apart. Her scent filled me and I drank it in. My tongue slipped between her inner lips, lapping up her moistness. She had an almost metallic taint now, it mixed with the fruit and smoke and carried me deeper into her. I suddenly plunged my tongue into her as deep as I could. I wanted this never to end, for her to be mine forever. She squirmed and writhed beneath me, straining for the best stimulation. I withdrew my tongue and ran it up her lips to where they met in a hooded fold. She cried out, a wordless cry, a timeless cry, a worldless cry. For me too the world had gone. All there was now was this woman. This woman who now held me and pulled me closer.. I don't know what she felt as I licked on her lubricated flesh. If her feelings were even half as good as those which her tongue gave to me then she must have been higher than the clouds. While she gave my glans no more than three or four sucking strokes with her lips, it's a feeling I'll never forget. A moment of pureness, a moment of joy: a moment together. Her lips on me made me lick her faster. I slipped two fingers back into her, she was so wet and open they went in so deep that my other fingers, bent tightly back, pressed hard against her steamily humid mons. She drew her breath in short gasps, her thighs clammed with sweat, her chest pumped with her breathing and fluttered with her heartbeat. Suddenly her mouth left me and her hand pressed on my hips, pushing me down her body. I didn't want to rise from her glorious depths, but her hand insisted vigorously. Reluctantly I rose from her and followed her urgings. She pushed me until I got on the bed and then moved over her to lie between her legs. I held myself up above her as her chest heaved powerfully below. I felt her hand fumbling beneath me. I rose up a little and then felt the chill touch of the latex. She rolled the condom over all of me in two or three movements. I felt so alive, so electrically alive that I had to fight off the urgent feelings deep in my loins. She pressed her hands to my buttocks, urging me forwards. "Now," she gasped, "do you want me?" "Yes, oh yes I want you. Help me, please help me." I was afraid. I was about to fulfil my wildest dream yet I knew not what to do. I didn't know how best to position myself and I was afraid of hurting her. The last thing I wanted to do was to hurt this perfect fresh flower. She sensed my fear and with one hand guiding me she pulled me to her. We touched, latexed glans on silken lips. Twenty-one years of life had passed for this moment, twenty-one years of preparation for this instant and now here it was. She drew in a deep breath, and fought to retain it. She pressed on my buttocks and I pressed forwards. Everything had prepared me for a fire in her, but she did not burn me. I had half-expected her to launch heavenwards there and then and for ever after, but she didn't. I expected some resistance, but there was practically none. We were together, albeit by the smallest of depths, and surprisingly it was not at all like my fantasises. It was much more; it was a warmth that suffused my being. It was an openness that embraced my heart. It was like nothing I had ever felt or imagined. It was simply beautiful. Yet it was not pleasure; it was the joy of spring, the rush of flight; looking down from upon the earth in all its beauty. It was the day and the night, the winter and the summer, and with a gentle movement forward it just got better. On outstretched arms I lifted myself and looked down and pulled back. I saw my shaft disappearing between her hair and on into her. I knew then that this was really happening. After eight long years of self-satisfaction only, I was making love. I pushed forwards again, she rose to meet me, my shaft disappeared as our bodies came together fully. I felt a new need. Still all this beauty could all be just a dream. Dropping lightly on to her chest I moved a hand down her side, caressing her hips before slipping it round to where our bodies met. I withdrew a little and slipped my hand past her hair. There, between our still yet heaving bodies, I felt my shaft and her full inner lips pulled out a little as they stretched around me. It was real, it was really real. It was real. At last it was real. I pushed in hard, she rippled deep inside and I drew back and pushed again. It was real. Out again. A real woman. In hard. Inside a real woman. Out and in. Deep inside. Out and in and out and in. Hands clasping on me. In and in and in. Breath short. In, in, in. Cry out, pushing deeper than ever. Hard in, hold in, coming in.... The world came back to me slowly, and with it came guilt. Even my shaft seemed to shrink guiltily away. In the heat of the moment; heat like no other moment; I had forgotten that there were two people in our union. While the teat now slipping from her was filled with ample evidence of my ecstasy, where was the evidence of hers? In my virgin's rush I had forgotten her and had taken my pleasure totally selfishly. I shrank away from her even faster. I had failed her, and my failure lay hard on me. In my dreams I had always given her what ever she needed before I took myself. But as the golden memory of my finger on both my rigid shaft and her succulent lips reminded me, this was not a dream. It was real, and in reality a virgin male could barely hope to last any more than a few thrusts on his first time. I was no different, I knew that now, but it didn't make me feel any better. I had failed to satisfy, or even get close to satisfying her, and I felt disgusted by myself. I desperately wanted to thrust back into her, and thrust and thrust and thrust until she cried out in unending bliss for me to stop. I lifted my spent body, but I hang uselessly, the condom teat trailing limply through her hair. I looked down, vainly hoping the sight of her would rouse me again. I smelt her scent, as strong ever. I slumped on to her and started sobbing, whimpering. "I'm sorry. I'm really sorry. I failed you. I was useless." She stroked my head softly and reassuringly. Her other hand cupped my softness. "I don't call this useless," she said as she rolled the teat between her fingers. She pulled it, the latex slipped off easily. She dropped the condom and then gently took me between those fingers. She slipped them back and forth, lubricated by my semen. Her touch, while not unwelcome, had little effect. I had been lead to believe that even the first time boys, and in the stories they always seemed to be boys and not men, would re-grow instantly and be able to go forever. This, I reminded myself was not a story. It was real, and in real life things are different. "I call it useless. How can I make you come? I need to make you come." "Touch me. Hold me. Stay with me now. I still hold the memory of your fullness inside." I wasn't sure what she meant. I wasn't sure if she had come, maybe while I was away on my own climax. I rubbed her breast with my cheek; it was still firm and wanting. I reached down to her mons and beyond to her gaping pussy. She was open wider and fuller than I had thought possible. She radiated heat, desire and passion. She shuddered at my touch, she lurched as my hand slipped over her lips, she moaned as my fingers pressed into the opening I had filled. Lips on nipples, mouth over breast. Fingers on her other nipple, rubbing, caressing. Teeth gently nipping, nibbling at her turgid buds. Fingers slipping in and out: one then two then three. Her legs straining, her thighs opening wide to give herself fully to my touch. Her inner walls surging around my fingertips. Her dampness covering everything, coating her, making her good enough to eat from head to toe. Reaching into my soul, her scent reached so deep into me that I had to please her, I had to give her what she so desperately needed; what I desperately needed to salve my soul. She gasped over and over, never once saying a clear word. She had closed eyes on a head thrown back hard. Her heart thumped under her breast, her hips lunged and bucked. She reached for my hand and pulled it up. I thrust in as deep as I could and felt, at the tips of my fingers, the side of a rounded protrusion deep within her. It felt strong and powerful. It was not at the end of her, rather it was to the front, or as she was lying, at the top. I had seen the books, but their two dimensionality had never prepared me for this. I know knew that all the stories of boys probing past a woman's cervix were wrong, for here it was, and there was no way a man's glans could turn at the close to ninety degrees necessary to do it, or be strong enough to open it. It felt utterly wonderful and female, and it managed what her fingers alone had not done; I was stiffening strongly once more. Her body arched, her breath shallowed, her hand gripped mine and pulled it out and up. Guiding my finger she showed me where to touch, and showed me she wanted considerable pressure. Now, with my fingers rubbing frantically at her clitoris and one nipple and my tongue flicking over and over the other, she opened her mouth and caught her breath. She went stiff, holding her body rigidly off the bed. She uttered just one word from her breathless mouth, "Now!" She clasped her thighs tight around my hand as beneath her flesh began to tremble. I rubbed, licked and fumbled on as her breath began again in desperate gasps interspersed with thrashings of her body. She was alive and yet dying. I wanted so much to share this moment with her, I wanted to have given this to her while joined with her. I wanted it to be like the stories, but it wasn't. I was a spectator to this spectacle of human desire, this was something so private that I felt almost as guilty for seeing it as I had been for not providing it. With one last breathless lurch she collapsed onto the bed, clinging desperately tightly on to me, looking through me with unseeing eyes. 3. Out the Door Her grip slowly loosened and our bodies, twined together from head to toe, lay one atop the other. No sounds came from us other than those of our breathing. Even that subsided in time. At some time her eyes had closed, and now she looked almost as if she was sleeping. I hoped her dreams were wonderful ones. Our breathing came together, slowing all the while. There seemed to be little need now for my erection and so I let it subside with our breathing. All my wanton lust was gone and the woman beneath me turned back into a girl. I pushed up from the bed with my arms to relieve her of my weight, she held my back down with her embracing arms; she wanted me to stay. Eventually she opened her eyes and looked at me. I wondered what thoughts were in that head. I hoped they were not for more, not just yet. Her lips broadened to a smile, then, raising her head a little, she kissed me. It was not a full kiss, more an innocent peck. Had she been a few years younger no doubt she would have considered me as her surrogate `uncle'. As it was, it wasn't a lover's kiss. She dropped back and said quietly, "Thank you." "For what?" "For that." I felt confused. What had I done? I had done no more than, as they say, what had come naturally. I had done nothing more than follow my instincts, and made a complete mess of it. My confusion must have shown on my face. "For treating me like a woman and not a girl. So many boys just want to get inside girls for themselves. You know." I wasn't entirely sure I did know. Was she saying some boy, or boys had `got inside her', or just that they had wanted to? I couldn't believe she had been a virgin. Her confidence and straightforward determination to get what she knew she needed told me that. She had been totally unafraid to stand before me naked, totally unafraid to tell me with her hand what I should do. Her orgasm had been uninhibited and wonderfully free from fear or apprehension. Then there was the matter of her hymen, or rather the lack of it, but then how was I, a mere virgin myself, to know of such things. I had little idea, as indeed I still do, of precisely where a virgin's hymen is, or what it feels like, or what it feels like to break it. I knew nothing. "I wanted to get inside you." "Yes, but that was different. You didn't just want it, you needed it; didn't you?" "I'd have lived without it." I realised that was not what she might have wanted to hear. "I mean I've lived long enough without. well, long enough to know there's no harm from being alone." I lifted myself from her, releasing the warm, humid air from between us. She didn't protest, letting her hands slide from my back. I rolled over, the chill of the open sheet feeling harsh compared to the luxurious warmth of her body. The air was filled with the scent of our passion, and the daylight streamed in cutting beams over our heads. Dust danced in the light, myriad specks softly cascading, swimming through the hard shaft. I watched them for a moment as I felt our bodies touch, side by side. I knew how they felt. "Toast?" I sat up, bolting up. "What?" "Toast. Orange juice, tea. Er, I can get something else if you'd like." I grabbed for the covers, clutching them to my chest as if I had been a maiden from a historical novel. I frantically pushed the folds over the daughter. She giggled. "Oh come on, its not like you've got anything I've not seen before. And as for you young lady, it seems like only yesterday that I had to give you all your baths." "Mother!" Now she too grasped the covers to her protectively, and slunk down under them. Laughing, the mother said, "Come on now. Shove over and get this lot down you." The images that rushed through my mind were like something out of a horror comedy show. I saw her open her robe, allowing it to billow like the sails of a majestic tall ship. Where did that wind come from, and why wasn't it ruffling my hair? Her hair turned to snakes and her breasts grew mountainous. She thrust them forward with a cackling laugh, "There, my pretty, take this, all of it!" I blinked. She stood beside me; her robe still firmly fastened. Her hair hung down around her shoulders; she had not yet put it up into its customary bun. "Hurry up, it'll get cold." I shuffled across, pressing my buttocks against the daughter's, she smiled at me and slipped across to the edge of the bed. I reached round and tidied the pillows before somewhat theatrically smoothing down the cover for the tray. "Don't even think of getting in here!" "Why ever not? It is my bed!" No, this could not be happening! "Don't worry. I'm only joking." She smiled and sat on the flattened cover. She turned and placed the tray on my legs. "Toast?" I asked as calmly as I could. "Er, is there any marmalade?" "Somewhere. Though I don't want any sticky fingers in my bed thank you very much." Beside me, still almost fully under the covers the daughter laughed. I closed my eyes and sighed inwardly. "Doesn't anyone knock before coming into a room around here? Who's next? The d... d... dd... dogs?" The mother leant down and picked at the covers with her fingers. Smiling, she drew herself back up, triumphantly holding a wisp of grey hairs, "No, too late!" *** Toast and tea in bed on a Sunday morning. A pleasure like no other. Well ok, maybe not, but a distinct pleasure nonetheless. The smoky, tangy, fruity scents of sex were replaced by the smoky, tangy, fruity scents of marmalade on toast. The two, while similar in words were as unlike as could be. The tea was welcome too. The air filled with the sounds of contented crunching and munching. It was a totally different room from that which it had been only minutes before. That was past, this was now, and now was good too. The daughter took a bite and put the remaining corner of toast down on her plate, resting it on the covers over her thighs. She sat up now, rather awkwardly holding the covers over her breasts with one arm while eating with the other. She sat close to me. I saw her plate wobble, and reached to grab it. She saw it too, but seemed happy to let me play the gentleman. I took the plate and raised it to her. She nodded, smiling, play-acting the genteel lady. The mother turned to reach for her cup that she had wisely left on the bedside unit. She turned, reaching out with one arm while instinctively holding out other to balance. Her elbow knocked my shoulder. I lurched over, knocked slightly off balance. I pushed the daughter, she let go of the plate. The toast dropped. It landed on my stomach to one side of my navel. It landed marmalade down. "Oh I'm sorry!" the mother exclaimed. "Here, let me clean it up for you." "No!" but I was already too late "It's ok, I'll...." She had reached down, slipping her hand gingerly between the edge of the covers and my body, careful to avoid any contact. She dextrously picked up the toast between two fingers and lifted it up, dropping it on the plate that she then took and placed out of harm's way. I sat dead still. Marmalade is sticky and doesn't mix well with bed linen. The daughter giggled quietly at my self enforced awkwardness. Moments later I felt a cold dampness on my exposed flesh. I was a man, and men don't have these things, but mothers invariably do. Useful things apparently - moist wipes. Either she was being extra careful or she was taking liberties, for she could have wiped that marmalade off ten times in the time she took to wipe my body. She scrunged the wipe up in her hand and flicked it over her daughter and me. It described a graceful arc and landed in that other thing that mothers always have, a waste bin in the bedroom. She might have had a bin, but I had something all my own; I had my own flat, but it had never witnessed scenes like this. I laughed gently to, and at, myself. I had feared she might make a move on me. Now it was clear she wasn't going to. The daughter dropped the cover, turning it back in a swift yet gentle movement, exposing a lot more than my stomach. The mother reached down to me, placing her hand on my stomach, reaching lower. I tensed up anxiously. I wanted to say no. I wanted to run away. I couldn't. "May I?" The daughter replied, "Please." Fear kept me silent. Fear of what was happening. Fear that shot through me as the mother's hand slipped through my pubic hair, much as mine had done through her daughter's. I loved this, and wanted it. I feared this and wanted it to stop. The weight in the bed changed as the daughter got out, leaving me alone. I tracked her as she walked to the end of the bed, as every hair between my legs was thrilled by delicate fingers. She didn't leave; she walked round the end of the bed and down the other side to her mother's caressing form. She reached round her mother and released the tie to her robe, pulling the now loose cloth from around her. Her mother lifted her free arm and the daughter slipped the arm of the robe off. Then the mother's once free arm curved round to me. It slipped under my balls and palpitated them with outstretched fingers. Seconds later her other arm was free too, and she rolled over, pressing her breasts against my chest. "Can you feel the fire in my heart?" I swallowed hard. "Yes, I think so." She made it clearer. She reached for my hand, pulling straight it to her pussy that she made more available with a simple lift of her thigh. "That's not your heart." I said in an attempt at defusing humour. "Same difference." Maybe she was right. The heart is traditionally the seat of love. Poets and others have expounded on its glories and revealed its secrets for millennia. All the while keeping almost silent about the passion that burns below. She was alive to it, she had nothing to hide from it, and nothing to hide from me. Her body exuded an urgency unlike anything her daughter, or I, had. She wanted sex, she wanted it bad, and she wanted it now. I was afraid I couldn't supply it. She was obviously far more experienced than her daughter, and she knew her own mind even better, if that were possible. She also knew precisely what she liked. That frightened me. While I was technically no longer a virgin, the reality of my own expression of sexuality was hazy and confused. I was still experimenting, and would be for years yet. I wanted to try this, have a go at that; she wanted me now, her way and wasn't going to take no for an answer. "No! I can't do this!" She seemed taken aback. Despite all my fears, or perhaps because of them, she backed off. "Why? Don't you fancy me?" "No. I mean yes. Of course I do." "Well then what is it? This is my room, my bed. This is my body and I feel I should be able to do what I like in my own room with my own body." "Yes, of course, but not with whoever you want." "Why not?" "They might not want it too." "Yes... you're right." She got up from the bed and went over to where her daughter stood with her robe. She slipped it back on. "I'm sorry. I got carried away. Can you forgive me?" I lay exposed, afraid, alone... but still powerfully erect. I watched in dismay as she drew the robe around herself, covering her pussy. Both she and her daughter were natural, neither shaved at all, at least not that I had noticed. Standing up, the folds of their pussies hid coyly, nestling the dark locks of pubic hair. I wished to part that hair. I wished to fondle those folds. I wanted to caress the lips within and to lick the succulent flesh beyond. I wanted her. "I'm sorry. It was a shock to see the two of you like that." "What?" She stopped. Holding the tie of her robe in her hands. "It was like you two had all this planned. I felt as though you'd tricked me." "Oh no!" cried the daughter, "It wasn't like that at all. I just wanted to help my mother. You know, to share what I had with you." "And I just wanted to...." but she somehow couldn't go on. "Why not take it off," I said. "Pardon?" "Your robe. Please." The mother looked at her daughter. The daughter looked back. The mother dropped the ties and placed her hands on the flaps. She opened it, letting it drop off her shoulders, the fabric running down her arms on to the floor. I looked at her. I looked at her daughter. For all the years there wasn't much real difference. Lighter hair on one maybe, breasts tighter and firmer certainly. Skin clearer possibly, but the look of desire in their eyes was the same, and. yes, the scent, richer even, spicier, darker. Ah yes, the scent. There really was a difference, and now the daughter's came to me too. The two were distinct, even in that room that reeked of sex, and marmalade. "Please may I..." I felt like one of her pupils, though I doubt she'd ever have heard this request in any of her classes, "...I just need to taste you first." Her breasts rose and fell in the sharp light. Her hair shone freely. Her body glowed. My erection tightened and strained. She looked straight into my eyes and stepped forwards to the end of the bed. She climbed on, tucking her lower legs behind her; walking on her knees up the bed. She shuffled over me, not touching me at all. She brushed her hair over me, but took no notice of my stiffness. I felt the heat of her pussy on my stomach as she carried on up the bed. Her thighs straddled my chest. Two more shuffles and she brought her pussy right up to my head. She was wide open, her modest inner lips hanging free, all puffed and open. I reached round, running my hands up along her thighs. "There, take what you need." "Ooo, I will. This is what I need," I said as my fingers sifted over her outer lips and pulled them apart. She reached over me to grab the headboard top rail and lifted herself up to me. My tongue remembered what to do. I went straight for her clitoris hood. Flicking it and licking up and down its shaft, the head buried tight below. She gasped and surged upwards. I tipped my head back, and now that the position was right, slipped my tongue under her and thrust it into her lubricated folds. She rode me, at least that what I imagine the stories would call it. She lifted herself rhythmically up and down, only an inch or so, but powerfully and strongly just the same. She drew in breath noisily through her almost closed mouth. She held her eyes tightly shut. She threw her head back. Her pace grew urgent. "No! Not yet!" she cried, pulling away from me. Her body shook, her hands clawed at the rail, her thighs clasped. "Have you?" I asked in my innocence. "No, Not yet," she replied as she shuffled back down my body. I felt a hand grasp me. I saw her two clinging on to the headboard for support. The hand tipped me forward to contact tight flesh stretched over trembling thigh. Still she moved back, lifting herself up. For a moment I had no idea why. Then, as the contact changed from bare skin to warm slip I knew. "Thank you," she said as two hands clasped her hips and guided her back and down. I grunted as she formed around me. I had expected her to be looser, used and sloppy. Everyone said that young girls are tighter than older women, especially after a child. That's not always true, in the mother's case it certainly wasn't. Maybe it was just the weight of her organs and skin hanging down, maybe it was that she was naturally tight, maybe all women are made that way. Whatever it was she opened around me perfectly tightly. I didn't just slip in, as I more or less had with her daughter. I felt her accommodating within, deliberately opening to me, letting her weight force me deeper. I wanted to thrust immediately, but I kept still, languishing in the sensations surrounding me, bathing in her heat and musk. Then she stopped. She stopped leaning back, and held still, breathing hard. Should I thrust up, or stay still? Was she, like me, feeling the wonderful sensations she was giving? Maybe she wanted more stimulation like her daughter? She had seemed to have loved my tongue. I reached down between us, the back of my hand to my chest. Inside she seemed to open up, become slightly distant even, though her heat and lust remained. She kept her eyes shut, so she did not see my hand sliding over my stomach. Arriving at my own pubic hair I lifted my hand, lifting one finger higher than the rest. My touch must have come as a surprise, she cried out the moment I touched her clitoral shaft. She let go of the headboard and, no longer supported, dropped down fully on to me, almost crushing me. I filled all the space she had created within. To be honest I doubt she had created any space as such at all, rather it was more probably simply a weakening of her grasp on me with her vaginal muscles. I filled her and I gasped out at the sensation. She took three deep breaths and then looked down at me. She opened her eyes and smiled at me, "Thank you," she managed to gasp. Then she reached up to the headboard and took some of her weight from me. Now she began to ride me for real, strongly; the bed creaking under our motion. Her lifts were long, and time after time I nearly slipped out of her altogether. I ached, I strained, I lurched, I thrust to meet her. When I did slip out, a hand from behind took me and guided me back. While another came down from the headboard to bid me to relax. I suddenly realised there was nothing between us. My fear was recklessly not of disease. My fear was of having a daughter, in years to come, while having The Daughter. Even that seemed unlikely; I could not come, even if I had been able, no matter how much I wanted to, and I did want to. Oh god, how I wanted to! "No... condom!" I managed to blurt as the headboard began to knock on the wall. "Stop!" Her head rolled from side to side and looking down as best she could she gasped, "No need. Pill!" Suddenly she ground down on me. Her breath gasped in, out, in and in. I reached up and cupped her breast. She cried out, and she pressed me tightly within. She let go of the headboard and clasped her hands around my body just below the ribs, pressing down strongly. She thrust her head down, opening her staring eyes. She trembled around me, pulses of power deep within surging out - one, two, three-ee-ee, more breaths, four, cry out again, a long cry, but not a loud one as her lungs pumped air out, five and then a weaker six. She trembled and shook above me. Her body took her over completely, the fire within burning her up, consuming her. For maybe half a minute she clasped tightly to me. Her breathing subsided and slowly her composure returned. Oh yes, she had indeed not taken no for an answer. She opened her eyes again, this time they saw clearly. They burned into me and smiling, she leant over, rolling both of us over on the bed. Her manoeuvre took me completely by surprise, apparently it did her too, for it didn't quite come off and we disconnected as my legs hit the sheets. She was in the position she wanted, flat on her back, knees up and bent, me between them, but I was all over the place. I heard a laugh from behind me as I awkwardly drew a bent leg from under me. "What now?" I asked naively. "Take me. I'm all yours." "Am I all yours too?" "Take me and find out." Repositioned above her I drew forwards, hoping that I'd be able to slip into her easily. I should have known better, but then I'd not had much practise. "Here," came a familiar voice, "let me help. I've done this before." I wish I could have said I wanted to take the daughter rather than the mother, but the truth was that this time I felt no guilt, and apart from this slight practical inconvenience, felt rather better about my experience with the mother, so far at least. I had not come too soon, though that was more to do with having come only a short while before than with any skill. She had come too, though that was due mainly to her having known what she was doing, and not letting my inexperience spoil her experience. She knew how to take her pleasure; now it was clear the daughter seemed to have trusted rather more to luck. A hand once more reached to me. I felt it close on me, I felt my the tight ache in my glans. I imagined what it might be like to come inside a woman, I had only ever imagined it so often before. I had of course, but I felt I had somehow missed it, maybe it hadn't happened, though the lack of it happening now spoke differently. "Relax, take it easy. Don't try so hard. There's plenty of time." Was there? I had this urgency drilling into me. `Thrust, thrust, thrust. Come, come, COME!' It shouted. "I don't normally do this," she said quietly. "What?" "Like this. I ought to thank you." "What for?" "For not being so big." There's nothing more likely to ruin a man's passion that a negative compliment, but that's what it was, a compliment. She went on, "I'm not big down there." She could have fooled me, she seemed wonderfully welcoming and had glorious muscle control. "I'm not. Somehow I always seem to pick the big ones. That's why I like it on top." "Big ones?" "Yes, if they're on top they just thrust as deep as they can." `Just like I did earlier in your daughter,' I thought. "They hurt me, over and over. That's why I go on top. I can control the depth. Then you went and ruined it." "I'm sorry." "Don't be, it was wonderful. You went in to your full depth, and it wasn't too much, it was. I needed that." "Not too much? So are you saying I'm small, but perfectly formed?" "No," she said with a smile that carried a look mother's look of `you silly boy' "You're just perfectly formed. I'm the one who's small. I took you then because I needed you so much. I took you and I'm sorry." We were going round in circles. "So why are you still lying there waiting for me?" "I can come again, and I know you need to." I felt the daughter's hand on mine as it supported me on the bed. She held it tight. "You're almost there now," the small voice said beside me. "I'll be with you. I'll be with both of you." The tightness in my glans was gone; the painful rigidity of the shaft having subsided a little. I didn't feel like a `big boy', and according to the mother that's precisely the way she liked me. I lifted my chest and head up, tilting my body so that my hips drove forwards. I slipped in. No, I thrust in. "Yes, that's it. Take your time." I don't know if I did or not. I don't know if it was seconds or hours. I do know she felt as female as and even tighter than her daughter, despite her weight being in different places and pressing on different parts of her. I know she worked within to make my pleasure complete. I know she cried out more than once. I know she held me tight. I know I filled her with my semen, just a little, but I did it in the end. All the time the daughter stayed close to me, holding my hand. Whatever else may have happened I do not know. It all ended with me gasping, grunting, shaking and quivering between her thighs as she quaked, clasped, shouted and heaved with me. *** Later, while the mother and daughter had a bath, I lay alone. I supposed they were, in the words of the song, washing that man right out of their hair. That's why I didn't follow them to the bathroom; I didn't want to wash the women out of mine, I wanted to keep their musk and their memory for ever. The room seemed strange to me, I had never been in it before, not to study it at least. It was filled with alien things, feminine things that made me feel like an intruder, as if I was a thief rifling through their most private drawers for anything valuable. I saw a pair of smooth black panties lying on the floor. I had stolen something more precious than any jewels, and my accomplices were washing their hands of me. My flat beckoned, my bolt hole from the world. It was time to leave. A few minutes later I stepped quietly out onto the stairs and slipped away. From the bathroom came the sounds of pleasurable washing; splashes interspersed with gentle laughter. I passed by, head low. I passed by in the shadow of the stairway, praying to enter the full light of day alone. I reached the ground floor and saw the front door ahead. Just ten feet and I'd be free. Feeling all of the thief of innocence and love that I was I stealthily trod the tiled hall to the door, finally reaching up to open it. The day lay ahead, the rest of my life lay ahead. The light flooded in upon me, painfully bright, eating at my guilt. I stood spotlit by the sun. I stood for all to see that here was a miscreant, a reprobate, one who had satisfied his lust without real love with two women, two who must surely hate him. "Thank you." I died there by the door. "Th... th... than...?" "Yes. I thank you for everything. For being careful and considerate, and for treating my daughter like an adult. She needed that. So did I." She looked pained, as if the effort of opening her mouth to speak was almost too great. "I don't make a habit of this sort of thing you know." The mother went on, "I see so little of her; I felt this would probably be the last chance we'd ever have to do something together - as mother and daughter." I looked at her for a few seconds before nodding in stark realisation. Why had they kept on thanking me? Why? Whatever I had done I must have done something right after all. I now knew it had been a wonderful, amazing, day after all; one I'd never forget, but one that I'd never repeat. "See you at the club next week?" she said, more asking than reminding. "Yes, I'll be there." I turned to go. "You'll be needing the spare room again then?" "Will I?" "I think..." I stopped her. "I know I will. Just the spare room. I heard you don't make a habit of some things." Half-smiling, half-sighing, I turned and walked up the path, through the gate and along the road to my car. I didn't hear the front door close behind me. There was no one else about in the balm. It was a little after three in the afternoon. Postscript: I did show up the following week, and the next and the next. Nothing like that day ever happened again. We never spoke of it. A year later the mother met another man. He played the fiddle, how could I compete with that? I took the photographs at their wedding which took place in a country village some hundred miles away. I never saw them again. I went to the wedding with my new girl-friend; the village pub mistakenly giving us a double room, calling her my wife. There would be no mistake now; that though, is another story. Joseph Lawrence, Copyright 2000 <1st attachment end> ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ Notice: This post has been modified from its original format. The post was sent as an email attachment and has been converted by ASSTR ASSM moderation software. ----- ASSM Moderation System Notice------ -- Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated. +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ | alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: | | FAQ: Moderator: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Archive: Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository | |, an entity supported entirely by donations. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+