Message-ID: <26104asstr$967551002@assm.asstr-mirror.org> X-Original-Path: extra.newsguy.com!newsp.newsguy.com!edrn From: DrSpin X-Original-Message-ID: <8oft63$2tjm@edrn.newsguy.com> Subject: {ASSM} The Lacklustre Blonde (MF, cheat) ~ an Iron Writers story Date: Tue, 29 Aug 2000 08:10:02 -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: IceAltar, RuiJorge The Lacklustre Blonde (MF, cheat) by DrSpin August 2000 [An Iron Writers story] See http:// www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Rui_Favorites/www/Iron/ =========================================================== Standard Disclaimer: I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is to it. If any reader is offended, 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. =========================================================== * The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com * Ruthie edits my stories expertly. Nat inspires and does my web site. =========================================================== The road is straight on the Nullarbor Plain. There's not a genuine bend in it for hundreds of kilometres. Blot, blot, blot. The straight-line paint marks in the centre of road loom up monotonously in the headlights and flick at your eyes hypnotically. It was an hour since I'd seen anything but the road markers. No traffic, either way. No lights of habitation. Nothing. In the passenger seat beside me, a woman I scarcely knew sat silently, wrapped in her own thoughts. She didn't want to be here, rolling away the kilometres with me. I didn't want to be here either. Nullarbor means treeless. It's flat and forever. It gives you nothing. "Helen?" I asked tentatively, trying to get used to her name. Mrs. Rasmussen no longer seemed appropriate. She shifted in her seat, dragged back from wherever she'd been hiding. "Yes?" "Did you know they were even having sex?" She shifted again, discomfort apparent. "No," she said. "I mean, I didn't ask and I wasn't told. I guess I didn't think about it." "You know," I said, "I didn't think about it either, and that was stupid. It just didn't occur to me. I keep thinking about her like she's ten years old." I shook my head slowly, wondering for the 20th time why I'd been such an idiot. Helen snorted. "Ten years old? Chris, she's gorgeous." Yeah. I guess she was. "But she's still only fifteen," I said. "Sixteen," she said sharply, like a few months made all the difference and her apple-cheeked boy was more a victim than a perpetrator. Yeah. Sixteen three months ago. I wasn't appearing much of a father. Couldn't even get my only child's age right. Helen Rasmussen had three kids. Eric was the middle one, and they say the middle child is the rebellious one. He'd been taking my Rachel out for nearly a year, not exactly with my blessing, but what the hell could you do about it anyway. I didn't not like Eric. Didn't like him much either. But his parents were vaguely okay, and I had tolerated him. Not any more. Eric was seventeen and, if I had any input, would not reach eighteen. The cocky prick had done a flit with my gorgeous daughter, snatching her into the shiny new car given to him by a soft mother on his 17th birthday, leaving sunny Perth in a tearing tyre-squealing hurry to head across the Nullarbor Plain for bleak and windy Adelaide. He didn't bother to leave a note. Bless Rachel, she did. Kids are fools. They think that's all there is to it. Oh well. She loves Eric and she's off and away with him, and see you later, folks. There you go. Simple as that. Why on earth would we worry? Note in pocket, I marched the three streets to put the pressure on her best friend, who buckled in a few seconds and blabbed it all out. The runaways were heading for Adelaide, where Eric had friends, to start a life together. Yeah, right. Like fuck they were. Next stop, Eric's house, and Helen Rasmussen at the door, open-mouthed and shocked. Eric did what? She had a general lead on an address of Eric's two friends. I wrote it down and told her, grimly, I would be leaving for Adelaide within the hour to fetch Rachel back home. She insisted on coming. Her husband was a naval officer and he was away for another two weeks. Phyllis, my wife, was ill. She was always ill, more or less, but that's another story. Helen wanted to handle Eric. I think she was afraid I'd break his pretty face, and she had a point. In the end, to save time arguing, I agreed. She might be useful at that. Five hours later, out on the Nullarbor, she'd said not much. I looked over at her, a tired blonde, in more than one sense. Everything about her was lacklustre. Her mouth was tightset, expressing a few years worth of general resentment. Middle age can be cruel to blondes. * * * "When did you first have sex?" Her question came from the dimly-lit passenger seat where she huddled herself against the door. "What?" I heard her, but my mind was a long way from dealing with it and I needed a half-second to reorganise. "Sex. You. Your first time. How old were you?" I frowned, thinking. "Depends," I said cautiously. "What do you mean by sex?" She straightened in her seat. "Fucking," she said impatiently. "When did you first fuck a girl?" "Sixteen." She said nothing but the silence said it all. "So how old were you?" I asked. "Fifteen." We digested these things for a while, and the car rolled on towards Adelaide. "I was a bit wild," she said, after a time. "But, Helen, did you run away from home?" She laughed. "No way." "I was a bit wild too," I said. "For a while." I sighed. "But I have to tell you it's been a long, long time since I was even in the wild ballpark." "Hah," she said, and there was bitterness mixed with the humour. "I haven't even had sex in six months." "Hah," I said. "At least nine months for me." Several kilometres of straight road passed under the wheels. "Would you fuck me?" she asked. "Hey?" I was genuinely startled. I'd been recalling a 16- year-old girl with ginger pubic hair. "You heard," she said. Then, hastily: "No, no. I don't mean, will you fuck me. I mean, would you. Am I a woman a man like you would fuck?" Well, was she? I steeled myself not to look at her. No good could come of looking at her, up and down, measuring and calculating. I wasn't that insensitive. "Sure," I said, breezily. No choice, really. Had to say it or cause a chasm of offence. Of course she wasn't going to let it go that easily. "Why?" Why? Hell, I'd fuck Margaret Thatcher to break the drought, but that wasn't going to be the appropriate answer. "You're an attractive woman," I said. "Very fuckable. Never thought otherwise." She grunted dubiously and lapsed into silence. We hadn't come one-third of the distance and Helen Rasmussen was asking if I'd fuck her. Strange times. Well, would I? Damn right I would. Hypothetically. If it was there for the taking. I hadn't formed a real image of her. Yeah, she was okay. She would have been pretty once. Not a bad figure. She was certainly all woman. Yep, I would. Hypothetically. My cock was unhypothetically hard, and I jiggled around surreptitiously to find it a more relaxed position in my pants. I had to make an effort not to bring a comforting hand down from the steering wheel. I was sure she was watching me. She was. "I guess you masturbate a lot," she said, matter of factly. "It's all right. So do I. What else is there to do?" The hell with it. I dropped a hand from the wheel and adjusted myself more comfortably. "How old are you, Chris?" "Just 40." "Ah well," she said. "There you go. I'm 44, nearly 45." "Not much difference," I said gallantly. "Big enough," she said. "I was born in the Fifties and you in the Sixties." "Meaning what?" "Meaning I'm too old." "You're not too old for anything, Helen. Remind me, how often did you say you masturbated?" "I didn't say," she said softly. "But put it this way - I'm a couple of hours overdue." For some reason this struck me as enormously funny. I was roaring laughing. Then she was too. After a while I coughed and stopped. She kept giggling sporadically. "Well, I needed that," I said, wiping tears from my eyes and trying hard to concentrate on the road. "My pleasure," she said. I laughed again. "If you insist," I said, seeking to extend the joke. "Go ahead. I won't take my eyes off the road." "You know," she said, "I think I might." And, amazingly, she did. Not that I watched, but at the edge of my vision I saw she had an arm up her dress, and she rustled. "Whew," she said, after not much time at all. "Now I feel better." "Wow," I commented. "Are you always that fast?" "No," she said. "I guess you were primed and ready, then." "Yes. First time I've had a witness. It added a bit extra." "Just a little quick one, Helen?" "Actually," she said, "it was a monster. I internalised." Internalised? Ah yes. I got it. "Imploded rather than exploded. You're lucky. I don't have that option." A prominent roadside sign flashed up and passed behind us. "Kalgoorlie in ten kilometres," I said. "We'll stop for fuel, coffee, and a short break." * * * Her face was etched with impish humour. I hadn't noticed it before, but I guess it was only now that I was really looking. She'd been the Rasmussen woman, mother of troublesome Eric. Tonight, going on 10:45, she'd become Helen, compulsive quick-button masturbator. We sat opposite at a fast-food outlet, refuelling ourselves with junk and coffee. I'd started this journey thinking she was tired, uninteresting, and washed-out. I got it wrong. That happens when you make quick assumptions about people. "A grown-up woman like you ought to be ashamed of yourself," I said, mock seriously. "But you're not at all, are you?" She had dark-blue eyes, near violet, and the edges crinkled as she smiled. "Best fun I've had in ages," she confessed. "It's like fantasy land. Must be the unreal situation." "This may be a deeply personal question, Helen, but we've been getting deeply personal anyway. You're obviously a sexy and attractive woman. How come you're not getting your quota at home?" She shrugged. "He's lost interest in me. But he's always been a bit of a dud in bed. Shocking thing to say about my husband, I know, but it's the truth. I got tired of taking the initiative. It gets to be embarrassing after a few years. What about you? What's your problem?" I echoed her shrug. "She's been ill for the past two years, on and off. Sex just seemed to fall off the agenda. I haven't strayed, although I probably could have. Not sure why. I just don't seem to want to handle the complexities of an extra-marital affair." She nodded sympathetically. "Same here. I'm not looking for romance." "Yes," I agreed. "What we both need is occasional uncomplicated sex." "That'll do me fine," she said. "There's a motel around the corner," I said. She rattled her coffee cup into its saucer. "Let's not waste time," she said. * * * I was a slobbering ape. Woman. Hole. Fill it. Now. The last vestiges of civilised behaviour stopped me from ripping her clothes, but everything still came off in a tearing hurry. She was soft and white. Her legs were open. I was between them in a flash, questing, pushing, thrusting, slamming. The red mist lifted. It was over. I didn't know how long it had taken. Not long, though. Maybe only a few seconds. "Oh hell," I muttered guiltily, speaking into her soft shoulder. "Sorry about that." "Nothing to worry about," she said, stroking my back. "I never felt so needed and wanted in my whole life." I rolled away and rested. Too well. I woke with a start and she was walking back from the bathroom, showered and damp, with a towel wrapped around her waist. She smiled to see me awake and sitting up on the bed, but she appeared nervous. She was wary about the way I was looking at her. She didn't need to apologise. She was built solidly the way a lot of women tend to be when they pack the weight and worry of a few years on their figures. But she had fine good legs and plump breasts that had lost only a little to gravity and advancing age. No need to be clinical, however. I loved that look of the wrapped towel and the bare breasts. It was one of life's sexier sights. My cock picked up its head and started to climb, reaching out towards her. She sat down on the bed beside me and took hold of my erection in her hand. "Good," she said. "This is all I seem to have in my head tonight. I restrained myself in the shower, but if you were still asleep I was going to have to bring myself off again." She pushed me backwards and I complied, lying flat on the bed. "I'm used to taking the lead," she said, straddling me. "Indulge me, Chris. I've come to like doing it like this." Curious. I can go forever when the woman is on top, but when I'm on top I have trouble holding it back. Must be all to do with basic and primitive thrusting, and the biological urge to penetrate, plant seed, procreate, and then push off back to the hunting of woolly mammoths before the sun goes down and the sabre-toothed tigers come out to play. Eyes shut, she appeared to be in her own world, leaning forward, then back, sliding, writhing. Her lips were moving as though she was talking to herself silently. I lay back and watched, pleased to be useful. Helen squirmed her way to a climax. I think. There was much grimacing and frowning, tension in the pelvis, and taut thighs. Not a sound, though. "You seem orgasmically quiet," I observed when she opened her eyes. "You learn that from years of masturbating in bed beside a sleeping husband," she said. "No need now for agonised silence," I said. She wriggled lasciviously. "Make me noisy," she said. A challenge. I shoved her backwards and she squeaked in surprise. I sat up and untangled myself, then manhandled her like a side of beef, flipping her over. I lifted her hips and she got the message, sliding her knees under her stomach. She was presenting, offering. "Not anal," she said hastily, as I gripped her around her thighs. "I don't like it." "Not this time," I said, sliding directly into her vagina. I took her with long, steady strokes while she arched and pushed back at me. Powerful feelings of lust, abandon, and glee swept through me. God, it was good. It had been an awful long time since anything was as good. My mouth was dry. "We're animals," she panted. I kept on pushing into her with long and steady strokes. "Yes, isn't it great?" "Fuck, yes," she said. "Jesus, I think I might be going to make a noise." I tightened my grip on the soft flesh of her thighs and pounded into her, picking up the tempo. "Oh my," she gasped. "Things are happening." Rumbles, a rising moan like a fast approaching wind, and then it was on her in a flash. She shook in shock. She shrieked. Violence threatened. And just as suddenly it was past and she was still and calm. I grunted and pressed into her, shooting from my depths into hers. Done. Spent. Empty. All gone. I withdrew slowly and rolled away, mentally and physically exhausted. "Oh fuck," she said softly. "I think I made a lot of noise. Years of discipline have gone down the drain." * * * We were ready for the road again, checked out of the motel, car fuelled up, ploughing through a substantial breakfast back at the fast food outlet. I made a call home from a pay phone without expectation. Answering telephones did not normally fit into my wife's illness patterns, but duty nagged at me. She didn't answer, and I pressed the code to retrieve any messages on the answering machine. There was one. It was from Rachel, my errant daughter. I listened, hung up, stood silently for a moment while several options ran through my brain, and returned to Helen at the table. "You wouldn't believe it," I said. "The kids are on their way back home. They never made it to Adelaide. Rachel said they realised they were making a big mistake, so they turned around and headed back." I looked at my watch. "They'll be in Perth by mid-morning." Helen looked at me steadily over her coffee cup. "So that's it," she said. "All over. We're on our way back too." "Not necessarily," I said. Her eyes crinkled with amusement. "You want us to run away together? The kids show good sense and return home, but we don't? Come on, Chris. That's not real." "Tempting, though," I said. "I admit it crossed my mind. No, it's not real. But I have an alternative plan." "Yes?" "What if I hadn't made that phone call? We'd have gone on to Adelaide. Maybe we'd have spent a day or two there." "I like it," she said. "But we won't be going to Adelaide," I said. "No?" She sounded disappointed. "One motel is like another. Let's just stay here for two days." "I like it," she said. Guess this was going to make delivering stern parental lectures difficult when I finally made it home. ENDS =========================================================== * The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions from) comments and opinions from readers and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to: drspin@newsguy.com The Stories of DrSpin are at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www =========================================================== http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/ -- 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. | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+