Message-ID: <39966asstr$1040389803@assm.asstr-mirror.org> Return-Path: X-Original-Message-ID: <200212200745.AAA25682@nyx.nyx.net> X-Nyx-Envelope-Data: Date=Fri Dec 20 00:45:02 2002, Sender=anon584c, Recipient=ckought69@hotmail.com, Valsender=anon584c@localhost From: anon584c@nyx.net (Uther Pendragon) Reply-To: anon584c@nyx.net X-ASSTR-Original-Date: Fri, 20 Dec 2002 00:45:01 -0700 Subject: {ASSM} rp "Forget All That 03" {Pendragon} (MF rom wl lac) [3/12] x-asstr-message-id-hack: 39966 Date: Fri, 20 Dec 2002 08:10:03 -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: dennyw, IceAltar IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18, or otherwise forbidden by law to read electronically transmitted erotic material, please go do something else. This material is Copyright, 1997, by Uther Pendragon. All rights reserved. I specifically grant the right of downloading and keeping ONE electronic copy for your personal reading so long as this notice is included. Reposting requires previous permission. If you have any comments or requests, please E-mail them to me at anon584c@nyx.net. If you save erotic stories, and you prefer that other household members not be exposed to them, I recommend that you use a file zipped with the PKZip option -spassword. (Where the password that you choose would, presumably, not be "password.") This still leaves the titles of the files and the fact that they are encrypted open to anybody. All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental. FORGET ALL THAT by Uther Pendragon anon584c@nyx.net Part Three: Once again, The Kitten had her breakfast before I had mine. This time, however, we managed to arrive in the kitchen at the relatively respectable hour of nine-thirty. Bob's father got up as we entered the room and reached for The Kitten. She reached out her arms and was transferred. As soon as he had her, she started exploring his pockets, which were filled with stick-pens. "Don't worry, dear," Katherine said, "they've all been washed, and the caps won't come off." After breakfast, we actually got The Kitten out of her grandfather's arms and onto the quilt. She promptly rolled off. "I think," said Bob's father, "that we'll have a bare tree this year." We filled him in on some of her latest feats. That led to what Bob calls her "fan club," coeds who come to his office while she is there and I'm in class. Which, in turn, led to my experience in the class. "I haven't got the last paper or the final exam back yet, of course," I said. "I got 'A's on the mid-term and on the first two papers, sort of." "There was nothing 'sort of' about it," said Bob. "I saw the grades." "Well the exam was only a number grade. And there was the first paper." "The exam was a 93," said Bob. "That's an 'A' in anyone's book. He told you that the first paper was an 'A' as far as the course went." Then he explained to his parents: "They read the books in French, not translations, and discuss them in English in class. Jeanette assumed that the papers were to be written in French. She handed in her first paper in French. The other students wrote in English, as the teacher expected. He marked the paper with a *prominent* A." He was only telling half of it. "He also wrote extensive criticisms of my French. It isn't up to academic standards." "French academic standards," said Bob. "Well, yes. He said that almost everything that I wrote was acceptable in some kind of French writing, but that I jumped between obsolete usage and journalistic vulgarism." "I ask you," Bob said to his parents. "Does that sound like a reason to reduce the grade of an American?" They agreed with him. "Anyway," Bob said, "he *gave* it an 'A.' She did her work on time, which many did not. She was graded on class participation, which we don't know. Every piece of work that she got back was graded 'A.' Anybody can goof on one piece of work, and any teacher will cut your grade if you do. But I'm betting on an 'A' for the quarter. And she won't bet." "With you?" I asked. His parents laughed. Bob's bets are notorious. "I never said that I wouldn't get an 'A.' I just said that the grades that I had received so far were sort-of 'A's." I took a deep breath. "And I'm not going on with the course," I finished. Bob's parents expressed dismay. Bob and I had discussed this thoroughly, and he agreed with me. He let me carry the ball, however. "Another thing the professor told me was that I fitted in the group rather badly. My French is the best in the class. He thought that my experience gave me insights that the students eight years younger don't have. They *do* have, however, much more grounding in literature study than I have. I really skipped a level. He suggested that I go back and take some courses at that level, and also some English literature courses." "It seems like such a long time, dear." "It really isn't a *longer* time," Bob said. "She needs so many hours to graduate, so many hours for a major, some of those have to be upper-division. As long as she has enough upper-division courses, taking the lower division courses moves her toward a degree just as rapidly. She didn't convince me, however, until she reminded me of how this whole affair started." "I began to study French," I reminded them, "because I wanted to study something, but also because I thought that my grounding in French had been weak. I started as near the beginning as I could. Then you gave me the wonderful course, and I started over. That's one thing that I have over the other students, I took the time to get really grounded in the language. I wasn't aiming at French literature when I started. If I want to spend a lot of effort and time studying that, then I would be foolish to resist getting the firmest grounding possible. "Besides, any slowing down on reading literature, (and that is really what would be easier in these courses, they don't expect as much command of the language, so they assign less reading). Any slowing down in the reading would only mean more time to work on the translation." "Don't you think," Bob's father was speaking to me, but he was looking daggers at Bob, "that you've given up enough for his career?" "Not necessarily. It's his paycheck, but it's my income. My prestige, too. But I'm not giving up anything, this time. First, I *want* the grounding in literature. All I said was that there is always as much French to read as I can find time for. Second, it is *our* work. When those books are published, my name will be on them too." Bob had fought for that. The books are two translations of French government documents from a century ago. Bob is the editor, and is writing a commentary putting the documents in historical perspective; I'm the translator. The one on the foreign-office documents is nearing completion. The one on the colonial-office documents has a long way to go. When he got the agreement to put my name on the title page, I hadn't cared. Now I think that I might like to translate something else one day, and a byline can't hurt. "But" said Bob, "is she grateful for all the benefits that the collaboration gives her? No!" Actually, I am grateful. Bob was just pointing out that the collaboration is critical to his career. I hugged him to demonstrate that I was grateful. "Not good enough," said Bob, "I want a kiss." So we had a medium-hot kiss; his parents were watching, after all. "As long as you're happy, dear," Katherine said. "A practical point," Bob said, "is that general courses in French literature will probably transfer. Specialized courses might not. We don't know that I'm staying at Grand Valley forever. Jeanette might want to graduate from another school." "Not transfer?" asked Bob's father. He is a widely-read man, knowledgeable in several fields beyond management. It's easy to forget that people not immersed in academia don't know these rules. "A college won't give you credit for a course if *they* don't teach it. It doesn't matter how good that course is, how well taught, or how advanced. They wouldn't give her credit for a course in Balzac unless they teach a course in Balzac. Most schools try to be reasonable, but.... Didn't you" (speaking to his mother) "run into that?" "Not really. Education departments teach the courses required for a state certificate. I certainly wasn't interested in another BA. So if I had the course that North Carolina would accept for the certificate, I didn't take it again. Otherwise, I took that course." That led to a long three-way discussion of the strengths and (mostly) weaknesses of the teacher- certification and teacher-education processes. I mostly stayed out of it and, as it went on, lay down with my head in Bob's lap. I must have dropped off. Bob shook me. "You're going to have a hungry daughter in a second," he said. I sat up and unbuttoned my blouse. I had to think before I remembered which breast was next, I was so logy. I opened the nursing bra as Katherine brought The Kitten over. Bob looked at me for a moment and asked, "Would you rather be in the rocker?" "I'll stay down here," I said. Climbing the stairs with The Kitten on my breast seemed beyond me at that moment. "I'll go into the other room," said Bob's father. "Am I disturbing you?" I asked. "I could go upstairs." They had given us such a nice place for baby care, and I had ignored it. "Mom," said Bob, "please sort it out. I'll get the rocker." "Russ was offering because he was afraid that he was disturbing you, dear," Katherine said. "Was he?" "No. I thought I was disturbing him." The only person whose presence while I was breast-feeding counted as disturbing was Bob. He keeps leering. I just hoped he wouldn't in front of his family. "Was she, Russ?" "Not in the least." At that statement, there came a loud slap at the bottom of the stairs. We all listened for more sounds but only heard Bob's heavy tread on the stairs. "Dear," said Katherine when he appeared carrying the rocking chair. "Well, they call them throw rugs," Bob said. "Why did you mention the rocker, dear?" "Because she didn't look comfortable on the sofa. We have a rocker at home, and she prefers that for nursing." (When I don't use the bed, which I do in the middle of the night or when Bob is playing his games with me.) Bob put down the throw rug, softly this time, and put the rocking chair on top of it. The Kitten objected to moving from the couch, but she was happy as a lark once we got rocking. She and I began our usual conversation. The others watched us for a minute before Katherine led them into another discussion. Given the choice between The Kitten's meaningful glances and the politics of global warming, I paid the adults no attention at all. They had gone into the kitchen before The Kitten was done. "Bob!" I called. His father appeared with a dishtowel draped over his shoulder. "Did you want burping service?" he asked. I redid my clothes while he politely fastened his attention on The Kitten. Perhaps it wasn't politeness; he seldom looks at anything else when he has her to hold. "'The KING of PERu, WHO was EMPeror too ...'" he recited. The Kitten seemed quite content. It must have sounded like Papa to her, it certainly did to me. "You two are so much alike," I said. "Two?" "You and Bob." It made sense. Bob had been five when Vi was born; he hadn't invented how a father deals with his daughter, he had learned it. "That would be a compliment from anyone," he said, "but from *you*." It sounded like his voice was cracking, and his eyes looked misty. I'm not sure that I had meant it as a compliment, but it would have been disloyal to say so. "I think The Kitten believes so, too," I said. "She is certainly comfortable with you." He tried to keep her on his lap through lunch, with predictable results. He ended up with his plate, glass, and silverware a foot back from the end of the table. The Kitten tried for the tablecloth, but her grandmother grabbed the other end. "Aren't you glad we decided to eat in the dining room, dear?" she asked. Katherine has had years of experience in a third-grade classroom, and that was after raising Bob. I have yet to see her fazed. Bob and I went for a walk after lunch (and after he loaded the dishwasher). This one was longer than the day before, and we didn't disgrace ourselves by anything worse than holding hands. We got back while his father was feeding The Kitten her vegetables. "All we are saying," Bob's father sang, "is give peas a chance." The Kitten was entranced. Not open-mouthed, but entranced. It's remarkable that a girl who tries to put everything else in her mouth can get so resistant to putting a spoon in there. He played with her until she was cranky. Then she came to Maman until she fell asleep. Dinner was much quieter. I nursed The Kitten first, and she stayed in her car seat and amused herself most of the time. We returned her to the quilt for a while. Then she shared the couch with us, wanting to be handled only by maman and papa at that time of night. "Oooh," she said. "No, Kitten," Bob said. "It's not August. It's December. Say day-som-brrrr." "Oooh." "No, Kitten. It's not August. It's December. Say day-som-brrrr." By the fifth time, his parents were shaking in laughter. "How long does this go on?" Katherine asked me. "Until she gets tired of it. She has a toy that squeaks when she squeezes it. She plays with either one for up to twenty repetitions, then her attention wanders." Hearing me, The Kitten decided that she needed comforting. She reached over and I hugged her. "Move over," I told Bob. He scooted to the end of the couch. He picked up The Kitten for a moment while I arranged myself. Then my head was on his lap and The Kitten was lying on my tummy. She made a half-hearted attempt to reach my breasts through my blouse, but she wasn't hungry at all. Then we quieted down. "Did we bore you with our talk this afternoon?" Katherine asked. I shook my head. "Comforted," I said. "She doesn't want to say much," Bob explained. "It shakes The Kitten." The elder Brennans were almost convinced by my ten years of telling them that I regarded their discussions as spectator sports, but they keep worrying that I feel bored or afraid to participate. The talk went on until The Kitten started to root for my breasts more seriously. I went upstairs. When Bob brought the rug upstairs on his third trip, I was lying on my side in the bed nursing. "They're very nice people," I said. "They are that. Do you want me to pull off your jeans." "Please." He left the panties on (for a wonder) and left for his evening time in the bathroom. He sat in the rocker while The Kitten nursed and played. I murmured to her about the day. He roused himself to change her and tuck her in while I had my bathroom time. Neither of us was wide awake. Something about the season and the talk and the comfort had relaxed us to somnolence although I, for one, had enjoyed a sinful amount of sleep over the last day. Facing each other, we shared a sleepy kiss that seemed to go on forever. Bob scratched my back. That felt so good that I turned over to give him real access. Soon my seat was pressed back into his lap with predictable consequences. "Junior, at least, is awake," I said when I felt the warm firmness against my seat. "The lone one surrounded by three sleepyheads." "He only wants to be surrounded by one of them," Bob said. When I leaned back against him, Bob moved his hand from my back to my front. He kissed my shoulder blade every once in a while. He stroked all over my stomach, a habit he developed during my pregnancy. Then he started to play with my pubic hair. He kept his hand warm against my lower stomach while two fingers just reached the beginning of my lips down there. He pressed one into one lip, and then released it and pressed the other finger into the other lip. Junior, firm against my hip, seemed disassociated from the rest of Bob's gentle, comfortable, laziness. I raised my right knee, hardly knowing that I was doing it. Bob, taking the hint, moved his hand lower. When he had a finger well between my lips I could relax and lower my leg again. He stroked between those lips and kissed my shoulder blade. Neither of us was in any hurry. And then I was. I stiffened a little. "Bob, please," I said. "Like this?" He meant by his hand alone. I didn't want that this night. "Like the forest." He shifted, I shifted. I used the opportunity to grab three tissues from the box by the bed. I put them in my left hand. This position works best if I lie in a fairly bent posture, which deprives my back of all Bob's warmth. Junior had wilted a little in the long wait. I reached between my legs to help him in. I gave him a few strokes along my valley to get him nice and slippery (and fully hard) . I placed him very carefully and pressed back. Bob moved forward and up in the bed. We were joined. After a few strokes, Bob stopped to scratch my back again. I arched my back in appreciation, which further impaled me. Bob would stroke in and out with exquisite slowness, and then pause, and then start up again. It felt lovely, not particularly urgent, but quite voluptuous. I don't know how long we drifted like that, but the time came that Bob didn't pause after a few strokes. His hand found my mound again. He did pause while he was all the way within. I pressed back against him and opened my legs. One of his fingers touched my center. Almost immediately I tensed. He was grunting, I think I was silent. He stroked faster and faster within me all through my climax. Then I felt him pulse and spurt inside me. I clasped his hand to me, everything else being out of reach. When I felt him start to slip out, I passed him one of the Kleenexes. We dabbed ourselves off. I pressed back against his chest. He reached his arm around me and held me between my breasts. I hugged this arm until I fell asleep. I responded to The Kitten's first soft cry. Quite awake, I nursed her in the rocker instead of the bed, telling her all about Christmas. I must get a book on French Christmas, my vocabulary is weak on all sorts of domestic subjects like that. When she was finally done, I pushed Bob until he turned over. I hugged him for a long time, neither awake nor quite asleep. Continued in Part Four. FORGET ALL THAT Uther Pendragon anon584c@nyx.net 1997/12/24 1999/12/30 2000/09/10 2002/12/20 This is the third segment of the last story (so far) in a series of stories about the Brennans. The next segment is: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/brennan/fat_b.htm Parts 4-6 The first story in the series is: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/brennan/forever.htm "Forever" The directory to the entire series is: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/brennan.htm Brennan Stories Directory The directory to all my stories can be found at: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/index.htm -- 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: | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+ |Discuss this story and others in alt.sex.stories.d, look for subject {ASSD}| |Archive at Hosted by | +---------------------------------------------------------------------------+