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VOOR split second before own climax
"Voortrekkers" {Pendragon} (MF rom wl)
VOORTREKKERS
by Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
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, 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.
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.
# # # #
VOORTREKKERS
by Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
Part 1
While Bob was away getting the rental truck, I packed the
few things we had needed over the night and morning. It was a
whole morning's work to load the truck after he got back. We
went up to check the apartment one last time. We didn't want to
leave anything behind, and we wanted it nice and neat for the
landlord's inspection. We needed to get our whole deposit back.
The living room was clean, and our stuff was gone or packed
in the two bags that would ride in the front with us. "Goodbye,
house," I said. I was surprised at my sadness in leaving that
apartment, with its antique plumbing and left-over furniture. I
hadn't enjoyed the place. Everything important would be in the
small truck that we had rented. Everything *really* important
was standing beside me.
It held the memories of our two years of life,
however. I had always wanted us to be a family. I'm still not
quite certain of everything that this entails. It means
structure, but it means more than that. I know that we have
become a though. Bob and Jeanette had moved in to this
apartment; the Brennans were moving out.
The living room having passed inspection, we moved to the
kitchen. This time, it was Bob who said, "Goodbye table." Our
bed conversation had tended toward monologues by Bob, lovely
ones. ("I like to listen to Bob," I had told his once.
"It's one of the things you have in common," had been Vi's
reply.) Other than that, Bob and I -- who used to discuss
everything -- had fallen into discussing immediate trivia. After
a visit to his parents, we'd established a pattern of current-
events discussion at table. It's part of being a family.
When we got to the bedroom, Bob checked out the surfaces. I
simply stared at the bed. I had entered marriage fully
determined to satisfy all Bob's sexual needs and expecting to
enjoy doing so. Sexuality is one thing, sensuality is another.
That bed was where I had learned the difference, and where Bob
had enticed me into sensuality.
The night before had exemplified that. Bob had kissed me
everywhere, ending in his favorite place. His hands, lips and
tongue had teased me until I writhed in anticipation, then had
guided me through spasming satisfaction to exhausted repletion.
I recovered in his arms, feeling the hot hardness of his desire
on my thigh. Once, I had been embarrassed by his erections; now,
at least when we are alone, my reaction is smugness. We had
kissed for a long time before I had cradled him and he had
entered me.
People joke about the "missionary position" but I had been
able to hold him everywhere, in my arms and legs and mouth and
vagina. It had been a time of licking and movement and friction
and lust but also a time of whispers and pauses and hugs and
love. It had not been his exciting me, delicious as that can be.
Rather, it had been our exciting us until neither could stand any
more. Then I had touched him in the ways he can't resist. The
feel of his ecstasy and his seed spraying into me is the ultimate
aphrodisiac. I had followed him, and our throes and our collapse
were two more pieces of togetherness. I had fallen asleep in my
beloved's arms, but I had been the one hugging him after I had
come back from the bathroom in the middle of the night. I had
hugged him in that bed, for the last time.
"Goodbye, bed," I managed to croak out. Bob must have been
remembering that night too.
"All the sheets are packed," he said. We both tried to
think of a way.
"Do you think he'd notice anything if you flipped the
mattress?" I asked.
"I hope not. I flipped it this morning."
"Chair?"
"Chair!" he said on his way to get one. While he was gone,
I inserted the contraceptive. Once we were both naked, I sat on
Bob's lap while we kissed and petted. After those memories, the
foreplay was redundant. Soon it was sweet torture.
Just when I was deciding to insist, Bob said the most erotic
phrase imaginable, "I, Robert, take thee, Jeanette." But that
time, in that position, I was going to take him. I kissed him
for his thoughtfulness and his love. Mostly, though, I kissed
him from my own desire. While we kissed, I moved over his
erection and took it in my hand.
"I, Jeanette," I corrected him, fitting my actions to my
words, "take thee, Robert." I took all of him while I said it
and ended sitting on his lap.
"Home," he said, and so we were. We weren't really leaving
our home, we were taking it with us. He was in me, where he
belonged; I was in his lap, where I belonged. "One flesh." I
had to kiss my sexy husband again. He pulled me against him so
he was the tiniest bit deeper.
There we merged and mingled, my tongue tasting his, my
nipples aroused by his skin, my center clasping his. The joy of
warm flesh satisfied us briefly while only our tongues moved.
Then Bob moved us. The joy of the kiss remained; his skin
rubbed my nipples as well as pressing them; but the sensations
from below predominated. Bob was moving beneath me as well as
within me. I was on fire, and that fire straightened me, ripping
my mouth from his but pressing my harder against him.
Helpless I writhed in that fire, rubbing my nipples against Bob
until they almost hurt. I reached the point where the promise of
pleasure balanced the threat of loss of control; remembering that
I was safe in Bob's arms, I let go.
I can never really remember the ecstasy of those moments,
although I fully remember that there was ecstasy. The pleasure
of the aftermath fits better in the memory. I was still in Bob's
lap, hugging and being hugged, loving and being loved. Finally,
we cleaned up and called the landlord.
"Well," he said, "there are more scars and dinges." I could
see Bob tense; we needed to get that deposit back, and security
deposits are not intended to cover normal wear and tear. "But,"
the landlord continued, "It's a lot cleaner than when you moved
in." He gave us the check and moved to close the windows. We
took our last bags and left.
Bob drove first. We bade goodbye to haunts, etc. I had
an hour behind the wheel to get back in the habit while I was
still fresh and Bob was awake. Then Bob settled down to driving.
After a short time while we recited our plans for Boston, Bob
turned his attention to the road; and I got out my favorite toy.
Well, it is practical, but it's fun. I was expanding a success
based on two failures.
Bob (and his whole family) had been dismayed that our
marriage meant that I wouldn't be a student too. The
first summer, Bob and I learned only about marriage. Even
leaving sex out of it, which we didn't, that is a huge amount to
learn. When Bob started back to school, I read along with him in
one course. *East Asia, The Modern Transformation* is a classic,
and I got a lot out of it. But Bob wasn't taking a comparable
course the next semester. Finding that the pattern couldn't be
repeated was the first failure.
My supervisor had told me that I could test for the next
opening for data entry technician. That was a raise from file
clerk, in both money and status. My typing hadn't been adequate
at that time, however. So we had purchased a computer program
that taught typing. At first, I had started in the middle. When
that hadn't worked, I had started in the beginning and rushed
through the first lessons. That hadn't worked either, the second
failure. Desperate to justify the program's cost, I had actually
followed the directions, starting at the beginning, and going at
the suggested speed without jumping ahead. That's when I learned
that starting over on something that you almost know can make you
an expert. I had ended up getting the data-entry job. Not too
much later, I was a match for the best tech in the office.
This had been great, but I had needed -- still need -- some
real learning to make me the appropriately educated of
Professor Brennan. Having figured out that my lunch hour was
available learning time, I'd decided to *really* learn my
French text, starting with the vocabulary.
We had purchased a boxed set of French vocabulary cards in a
yard sale and (soon after) a set of blank cards from the
bookstore. By pulling printed cards and writing others, I
managed to memorize nearly the whole vocabulary from my
text by the time I was through the typing course. Going through
the text after that memorization was no great problem.
That was as far as I had planned to go, but there were still
lunch hours, and printed cards which I hadn't studied. Besides,
I had rediscovered what I had learned from the typing program:
Doing the course correctly when you almost know something
*really* teaches you.
This had become my lunchtime game. For a while after
finishing the text book, I actually had spent little time on
French at home; but language study had gradually taken over. I
had gone back and memorized English-to-French; I had gone only
the other direction at first. Bob had found some
collection texts in used-book stores next. Again, I would
memorize the vocabulary in the back of the book first -- adding
to my little cards -- then read the stories.
When fall came, I had started visiting the language lab one
night a week. On Thursdays, Bob and I would each carry two
"lunches" and would eat one for supper. He would go to the
library, I would go to the language lab. They never checked for
student ID. Late in the spring, my former French professor had
caught me. "Considering the number of students who should be
here but aren't," he'd said, "I am really tempted to shut my
eyes. But this facility is for registered students only."
Bob had then written his the whole story. He
finished the letter: "This going back to beginnings could sound
like making no progress. In truth, it means a broadening of the
base. Jeanette now has an impressive vocabulary. What she needs
to emphasize next is pronunciation. There are language courses
on tape which would do that job thoroughly. I think that this is
a educational expense. We decided, on practical grounds,
that Jeanette's education should wait; but that was a compromise
between the ideal of education and economic necessity. I feel
that this little sliver of learning shouldn't wait. What do you
feel?"
Bob's had brought an entire taped course, rated
highest for business people, and a special tape recorder when
they came for his graduation. Now I sat with earphones on my
head and one of the tapes of that course in the recorder on my
lap. I can't read in a moving car, but I can listen.
Bob and I were sailing along in the truck, superficially
together. On a deeper level, Bob's attention was in another
century from the truck, mine was on another continent. On the
deepest level, however, we *were* together. My pleasure had been
provided by my husband's solicitude. I was out of his arms (for
which the other motorists should have given thanks) but still
embraced in his care.
There was one more consequence to that letter. I got three
novels and a French dictionary on my birthday. As soon as I got
from the earth to the moon (I had never known Jules Verne was
such a florid writer), I was planning to start *Nana*. By this
time, when a word was new to me, I automatically wrote it down on
a card. But I had started looking them up in my *Petit Larousse*
before going to the English-French dictionary.
The lesson was mentally exhausting, if enjoyable. When I
finished it, I settled down for a nap. "Je t'aime," I told Bob.
"Je t'adore," he replied.
It was dark when Bob woke me. We stopped for gas and a
bathroom break soon after. I took some baby-wipes with me into
the bathroom and had the equivalent to a sponge bath. We brought
out sandwiches from the styrofoam chest in the back while we were
stopped and ate them as soon as we were away from the gasoline
fumes. I took over the driving so Bob could sleep. "Je
t'adore," I told him as he settled down.
He mulled over that for a moment, Bob fashion. "Je t'aime,"
he responded.
I finished the thermos of coffee we'd brought from home,
as it was. Bob was sleeping like a log. I smiled at our good-
night. His adoration was nice, but I needed his love. Bob,
unlike the stereotypical husband, is willing to express his love.
He didn't know, however, that I needed the expression *right
then*. I was worried about our future in Boston. I'd never seen
the apartment; I'd never even seen the city; I didn't have a job.
For that matter, Washington was the only big city that I had ever
seen; and I'd been escorted through that on a school tour.
I pulled myself out of the brooding after a long while. I
reviewed the French that I had studied earlier. I would have to
go over it again, there is a book along with the tapes; but I had
absorbed enough so that drill wouldn't lead me astray. Then I
stopped working and just appreciated the gift. I had been a
little embarrassed because the course was obviously much more
expensive than Bob's graduation present, a warm sweater for the
chills of Boston. Bob's have treated me like one of
their children since the wedding, but they outdid themselves when
they acted like Bob's graduation was partially my accomplishment.
It isn't. It was Bob's day in simple justice.
Bob would have none of that. He had argued that the French
course was not a gift, but an education expense. "Besides," he
had said, "there are no Bob accomplishments. There are only
Bob&Jeanette accomplishments. One flesh." That was a strange
use of one of his favorite phrases. He usually says it when we
are locked together deep in one of his -- one of our -- safaris
into sensuality.
That led my mind down an pathway. I'd entered into my
marriage determined to satisfy all of Bob's sexual desires. Once
married, I'd been surprised by his sensual blandishments.
I can't say that I hadn't been warned. When we went for
counseling before the wedding, PastorJim had made the point that
no one has really thought out a marriage before entering into
one. Most planning concerns only a few areas. "You've had your
wedding all planned for some time?" he had asked me. I had
agreed. "And," he had asked Bob, "you've had the honeymoon
thought out for as long?"
"We're going hiking on our honeymoon." I had replied,
thinking that I was speaking for both of us. Then I had sat
there trying to hold back my blushes while the two males tried to
hold back their laughter. Well, I had gone hiking on my
honeymoon; and Bob had been beside me every step of the way. Bob
had spent *his* honeymoon in a tent; he's said so since. And I
had been in his arms every night.
And every night, he had been thoughtful. I stole a glance
over at my gentle husband sprawled in the other seat, then I
pulled my eyes back to the road.
Beforehand, I'd formed my image of sex from the descriptions
in books. We, mostly Bob, would do "foreplay" until I was
"ready." Then we would have "intercourse" until Bob (and I, if
things were done right) had a "climax." Then the books, by
changing the subject to the millions of sperm trying to get to
the ovum and the reasons to make sure that you prevent that,
implied that the people involved were done and could go on to the
next task.
Even my wedding night hadn't quite been like that. Bob
kissed and stroked me until I had a climax, a blessedly small
one. Bob had worried about physical pain, and there had been
some, then he had been sorry about that. That concern, that
sorrow, had quieted my worries about the commitment that I had
just made.
Our fourth night had changed my understanding. My pain had
been gone; we were in the tent instead of a hotel room. This
time, Bob had stopped his stroking short of my climax. Then he
had entered me slowly. Absent the pain of the first night, this
had been an indescribably voluptuous sensation. While he had
paused at full penetration, I had luxuriated in holding him in a
way that I never had before. I had just enough time to decide
that I had reached the sensuous limit that explained everyone's
fascination with sex before he had begun moving and had proven me
wrong.
Gradually, he had completely lost control. He had driven
mindlessly within me as I had struggled to meet his motions and
contain his passion. Then he had pressed in to the limit, stiff
and shaking, while I could see his face grimace in the starlight
and could feel his organ pulsing within me. My own physical
sensations probably had been exciting, but all I had really
noticed was that miracle of emotion above and within me. I had
seen the blinding heat of *his* passion, and it had been directed
at me.
After he had wrenched himself from my arms and caught his
breath, he had returned to his kisses and caresses. My worries
about self-control had melted before the exciting sensations and
more exciting memories. After that revelation of his passion,
how could I have denied him mine, scary as that might be?
And it had been damned scary. With another glance toward
the right-hand seat, I switched my memories from two years
before to seven.
Before I'd met Bob, I had established a pattern for myself.
If I didn't care for people and didn't let them see how they
affected me, then they couldn't me except physically. (It's
strange, though, how much I in those years.) Bob had become
my friend, then my boyfriend; but I certainly hadn't intended to
allow him inside the stockade. Bob had done things which
me. Against my will, I had let him see the hurt.
Bob hadn't told me how that showed selfishness on my
part in trying to put my goals before his, as my does. He
hadn't explained that I was misunderstanding the real situation,
as my and often do. He *certainly* hadn't
enjoyed my pain as my Dave does. (Dave is the younger of
my brothers, but is than me.) Bob had been anguished. I
hadn't thought that good enough, I had tried to lock him out of
my life, my caring. I had failed to do so.
The other side of that, though, was that Bob had become my
only pain. I could share almost everything that bothered me, and
he felt it, too. After we had begun hugging in romance, I had
learned that he could hug in reassurance. I had tried out for
the track team depending on his being there to kiss away
the sting of rejection. Instead, he had been there to share the
joy of acceptance and, later, he had been there to watch me run.
If I could share it with Bob, the pleasures of life were worth
the risks of life.
When we had been able to be alone after particularly bad
times, Bob had held me while I shuddered. "Able to talk about
it?" he would ask. I would shake my head. Then, after the
or whatever, I had often been able to tell him.
This had developed slowly, over two years that also included
my completion of puberty. Hugs which had once kept me warm had
gone on to make me hot; kisses had gone from being a celebration
of excitement to a cause of it. Bob had been well ahead of me;
and I, with two brothers, had always known what that
pressure against my stomach had meant.
One spring day, Bob had been able to borrow his father's
car. Considering it too fine a day for petting in the front
seat, we'd spent the time petting in a grove of trees off a
deserted road. His attention to my had turned me on
even more than usual. I had been standing against a tree with
his thigh between mine pressing against my mound. We had been
kissing as deeply as we could and rubbing our bodies together.
Suddenly, the sensations between my legs had gone from a
pleasant, familiar, tingle to a desperate fire. I had panicked
and writhed in attempted escape, but Bob had been only slightly
more yielding than the tree. The fire had cut through me and
shaken me to my core. Then I had nearly collapsed. Bob had
actually picked me up and carried me back towards the car before
I recovered.
I had freaked. Then, even more than now, control had been
important to me. Losing control had frightened me to death. I
hadn't been able to talk to Bob about it, much less anybody else.
Bob had driven me back home, at my request.
I risked another glance. Five and a half years later, Bob
still looked like a kid when asleep; he often acted like a kid
when awake. But at seventeen, he'd shown maturity when it
counted.
What would have resulted from all this if we'd been
together, I don't know; but Bob had left for his first summer as
a road-construction laborer a month later. His absence had
taught me something that his presence had only suggested. I
needed him.
The few days between his return and the beginning of school
were bliss. His had even invited me for dinner one night
ostensibly so that they could see their son. School slowed us
down only slightly. One afternoon, his mouth on my and
his hand on my thighs had overcome all my usual caution. When he
had reached the juncture of my legs, I had spread them instead of
clasping them. The climax had been a wave of pleasure followed
by a wave of panic, but Bob had been there holding me and
crooning. "Lovely Jeanette," he'd said. "Sweet girl. Darling,
beautiful, darling. Precious girl. I love you."
"Bob?" I'd asked.
"I'm right here. You're in my arms. You are safe and
loved." And I was. My panic ebbed. He tried to be comforting,
but there was an underlying smugness; he thought that I had had a
climax. The real, frightening, truth was that the climax had had
*me*. The pleasure had been real, but the fright had been much
greater. Having another person there had compounded the fright,
although having Bob there afterwards had been a comfort. If I
was ever to let control go, instead of having it wrenched from
me, it had to be in Bob's presence. Even so, I later asked him
to draw the line on petting so that he didn't touch me there
again. "For how long?" he'd asked. We'd drawn lines in petting
before.
"Forever, I think."
"Indefinitely," he'd offered and not brought it up that
year.
When Bob had gone off to the university, my -- with
some support from his -- had extracted the promise that each of
us would date others in that separation. In this "cooling off
period," I had dated juniors, nerds, and two who thought
that their romance with each other was secret. Bob had
participated in the dating scene. We had only seen each
other on the few school breaks. Deprived of Bob, I had counted
the months until we would both be on the same campus away from my
mother.
By Bob's spring break, even my had accepted that this
was the future. On that break, Bob had taken almost full control
of his mother's car. We had walked and talked driven and talked
and parked and.... Well, we had talked then too. We had needed
to catch each other up on the time that we had been apart. Our
discussions ran for hours.
That had included a long talk on our past year which
revealed that *his* dates had included full sex. I had been
devastated. I had myself in my room and cried my eyes
out. I had been livid. I had never wanted to see him again.
Realistically, though, there had only been three days to tell him
what a he had been, and avoiding him would have meant wasting
them. Instead, I had told him how he had ruined my life. He'd
responded that he loved me, that we had promised our to
try out other relationships before we made a commitment to each
other, that he had never doubted the permanence of our
relationships, and that I'd never told him that I expected him to
fake those dates. (You can take a date to the without
taking her to bed.)
I had silenced him with a demand that he only listen. For
two days I talked myself hoarse. "And never imagine," I'd ended
one diatribe, "that I'm going to compete with those other girls."
"Too late," he'd finally broken in. "You've already won."
"You know what I mean. My body isn't the price for a date
with you."
"It never was. You haven't even said that you *will* go on
a date with me, much less that you would put out for the
privilege." He had a point, but he hadn't been supposed to be
talking back.
We had parted with nothing resolved. I had entered more
honestly into the school social life, although it had been rather
late for that. I had discovered that I *didn't* like kissing or
petting with other boys, and that the line was much
harder with them.
Bob had signed up for a third summer of road construction.
His brief interim at home had included as much time together as
before, but most of it had been spent in recrimination. He had
said that he had stopped having sex. I'd told him that this
reform was rather late.
"How would you have felt if I had done that?" I had asked.
"Devastated. Betrayed. But *I* was always ready for you.
I would have felt betrayed that you were ready for another when
you weren't ready for me."
So he had gone for the summer, still with nothing resolved.
We had started writing again, Bob's letters to me going via his
mother. Bob's letters had been simply abject in the beginning.
While the later ones all included an apology, he made an effort
to include the jokes and insights that had entertained me before.
I had gradually realized that I had been even more afraid of
losing Bob to someone else than I had been angry about the
betrayal.
At the end of the summer, he had begged for my pardon
literally on his knees. Unable to resist that, and remembering
the times that he had been there when I had needed him, I had
forgiven him.
Soon we had been on the same campus together. Bob
introduced me to the campus social scene, but we would also meet
between classes or for lunch. We'd studied together at the
library until he confessed that he wasn't learning anything. It
had been fine for me, Bob's presence is the most reassuring
environment for anything. We had talked, and talked, and talked.
We had reestablished all the physical intimacy denied us over the
previous fifteen months. In nooks, he had groped me; his
roommate had been willing to guarantee library absences to give
us privacy.
Bob had held his breath when he confessed that he really
wanted to change his future plans from lawyer to historian. In
the truck, I stole another glance at my love. He has huge blind
spots and hadn't been able to see that his unhappiness would have
made me unhappy.
Ironically, this had been the first period in my life since
meeting him -- since long before meeting him, had I known it --
that I *hadn't* needed Bob. I had one tiny bedroom in a "suite,"
but that room had a lock. My silent insistence on my privacy had
been freely accepted by my suitemates. (They had met, and been
mightily impressed by, Bob the first week. Dating a sophomore, I
had come across as the one who knew what life was about.)
Mother had been many miles away; classes, my only campus
pressure, had never been able to compete with her. In this heady
freedom. I had been able to enjoy Bob's presence without using it
as a talisman. There had been no need for: "I can take this, Bob
will hug me tomorrow."
We had jointly explored the emptier parts of the University
while Bob explored my parts. I asked him to honor the
limits. "Until marriage?" he had asked dubiously. At that
time, this had still meant two and a half more years.
(That September, we had decided that we would get
when he graduated. On the bus taking us both home for
Thanksgiving, we had decided that the end of his junior -- and my
sophomore -- year made more sense. At Christmas, we had
announced the engagement for the coming June to both families.)
We'd agreed about nothing on the question of limits except
to talk later. "I'll trade you," had been Bob's final offer.
"We stop where we are. No sex before marriage. You keep your
panties on. But if sex waits for marriage, then marriage is
about sex. There are no inhibitions after we have tied the knot.
You think about that one." And I had.
I'd had to deal with myself honestly. My passion, not
Bob's, was what had frightened me, but my passion had also
attracted me, especially at the lower intensities. The
possibility of those moments had become almost as enticing as
alarming. And the more distant the future, the more enticing and
the less threatening it had appeared. I had already become
nearly as reluctant to say "never" about those climaxes as I was
to say "now" or "soon." I had been (I am still) unable to
imagine trusting anyone but Bob around when I lost control; so
saying "not Bob" was saying "never."
Then there was marriage. I'd always meant to marry Bob
someday. Even at my angriest, I'd never quite told myself that I
wouldn't marry him. Bob had been wrong, marriage isn't about
sex; it is about trust, and forever, and sharing everything. But
sharing everything obviously included sharing this thing which
was of paramount importance to Bob. And if I said never to this,
Bob's "forever" would include a "never"; he hadn't said that he
wouldn't make that sacrifice, but he hadn't said that he would.
And, finally, my reluctance wasn't about sex; it was about trust.
There were other considerations. Bob had given me comfort
when there was no other comfort; I would give him whatever he
wanted. He had gone back to his harem with staples in their
bellies, but I couldn't expect him to be satisfied with those
magazines forever. I had wanted a future with Bob; it could only
be secure if his lust reinforced, rather than eroding, his love.
I'd been greedy for all of Bob. Wanting a monopoly, I had
decided to satisfy all his wants. Then and there I had
determined to satisfy all of my husband's sexual desires. I had
agreed that "Marriage is about sex."
And there I was again, with the same thought after how many
miles? I hoped that I was driving straight while I was thinking
in a circle. That determination had not reckoned, of course,
on the extent of Bob's sexual desires. I darted another glance
at my sleeping man. All these memories were increasing *my*
sexual desires. And that was the other half of it.
Everybody had become concerned about the inessentials when
we announced our engagement. My and I had gone through
serious negotiations about how many of my dreams would be allowed
in the wedding designed according to her dreams, but that had
been totally predictable. The response of Bob's had come
as a surprise; they had kept expecting me to be fazed by Bob's
decision to take seven or eight more years to become a history
instructor, rather than five more years to become a lawyer.
They, and Bob, had been quite upset that my education would be
delayed or ended. (Although we *never* had spoken the word
"ended" aloud.) We had gone for marital counseling with the
pastor of a church near campus. (He hadn't us, although
that threat had been useful against my mother.) PastorJim had
raised all sorts of questions regarding the future, some of them
involving sex. Bob had once suggested that I avoid the pain of
defloration by stretching myself first.
Nobody seemed to worry whether Jeanette could bear losing
self control.
On our honeymoon, I'd learned to bear it and then to enjoy
it. I looked over at my sleeping lover. I had gone beyond that,
although not on the honeymoon. With these thoughts, however,
driving was becoming a chore and sitting on the hard seat a pain.
We had broken the back of the trip, and it was time for some
rest.
- = -
Part 2
I stopped for gas, and made preparations in the ladies' room
while Bob slept in the truck. I took the next exit and the next
quiet road after that. I drove up to a gate into a field.
One trip out of the truck spread out our sleeping bag on a
decently soft spot beside the road. The next trip dragged Bob
out of the truck and led him toward the sleeping bag. I carried
my bag of toiletries in my other hand.
Bob stripped at my direction and got into the bag at the
fold side. I got in after him and did most of my stripping
inside the bag. Bob was back asleep by the time I snuggled
against him, but I needed to get warm anyway. Bob's left hand
cupped my breast, a sign that he was at least one quarter awake.
I kept my hand out in the night air, considerably cooler than
what we had left, until the rest of our bodies were nice and
toasty in the sleeping bag. Bob's semi-erection was pressing
between my thighs, but that meant nothing about Bob's depth of
sleep; Junior never sleeps. I rolled forward so I could bring my
cool hand between us to the intersection of his thighs. I held
his scrotum while my hand warmed. "Damn," said Bob. "what is
that about?"
"It's about not having a job, and a big cold city where we
know nobody." And it was about his having slept with other women
before me.
"Where are we anyway?"
"New York State."
"I don't think I'm ready to drive yet." We were, after all,
in a sleeping bag; and the teases *me* about waking up
slowly. By this time, however, his hand was playing with my
stiff nipple. I eased over on my back. His tongue replaced his
hand at my while the hand caressed lower.
That had been another way that the books had misled me. My
husband is a bit of a klutz. (Our dishes are close enough to
unbreakable that they have a replacement guarantee; we've used
it.) The books had suggested that arousing the was a matter
of the husband's manual skill. That hadn't given me any warning
of the sweet agony that Bob had been able to evoke with his hands
and tongue.
Had evoked, was evoking. I writhed as his fingers played
with my labia before parting them. He stopped suckling to speak.
"God, you feel ready. Oh darling, say that you are."
"Yes, my love," I understated, "totally ready."
"Are you okay?"
"Yes." I'd inserted the diaphragm in the ladies' room.
"You planned everything didn't you?" he teased. But that
wasn't his only teasing. He alternated licks and sucks on my
other while his finger stroked the liquid that had pleased
him so much up my cleft to just under my clitoris. I rolled my
hips at the top of his next stroke to bring about that contact.
I moaned when he touched me there.
I pulled at his shoulder until he moved above me and between
my legs. He spread my labia with his fingers and placed himself
at the entrance. Even then, his teasing wasn't over, he rubbed
up and down my folds three times before returning to the entrance
and sliding gently inside me. I was filled.
I had wanted to just hold him there and everywhere for a
while. Emotionally, I needed the comfort of a long hug. My
body, however, had developed its own needs. My hips were rolling
of their own volition, moving Bob in and out. "Oh my love," he
said while matching his strokes to my rhythm. He kissed my hair
above the temple. I hugged him to me, pulling his chest to rub
harder against my breasts. I pressed my mouth into his shoulder
in a kiss that was almost a bite. My body was already stiffening
beyond my control.
A shadow of my fear returned, sparked by recent dwelling
on those memories. "Hold me," I sobbed.
Bob tightened his grip on my shoulders. "I am," he said.
"I will. Always." He licked my ear and I went over. While I
convulsed, Bob pressed deep into me and on top of me; he pulled
at my shoulders and pressed his face into my hair. "Oh my love,"
he whispered an inch from my ear. "Oh darling. Oh Jeanette.
Love you. Love you dearly." I believed him. All that
frightening tension and emotion sweeping through me was converted
into love for him and acceptance of his love for me.
When the tension swept on, the love remained. "Stay here,"
I asked when I could speak.
"I'll try."
He was on his elbows, so far away that his chest barely
touched my nipples; but I needed that room to catch my breath.
When I did, I demanded: "Tell me that everything will be all
right. And kiss me."
He bent for the kiss first, and I stretched to meet his
mouth. Then he said, "Everything will be fine. You'll find a
job. If you don't, my won't let us starve. Compared to
last time, you have two years of work experience. Boston isn't
like a town despite the schools there. It's an
industrial and finance base with many business jobs. You can
type, and spell, and file for that matter. Your reason for
leaving your last job is impeccable, and you have a letter from
them."
I pulled him into a tighter hug as he went on.
"Massachusetts has a fine average life expectancy, so the winters
can't be lethal. People do talk to their neighbors, not
comprehensibly, but they talk. Your will be a thousand
miles away. I'll be there for you, and you'll be there for me.
That's the most important thing." He was right about that, and I
extended my hug to my thighs in agreement. Then I hugged him
with his very favorite muscle. He gasped. "I can't stay still
if you do that," he said.
"Then move," I said and squeezed again. Again he moved
above me and in me. Again I felt him everywhere. I stretched to
lick his ear and then passed my hands down his sweat-smoothed
back to his flexing hips. These I held as they stroked his
hardness in and out of my sensitive center. I shifted to take
him fractionally deeper and licked at the throat moving above my
face. The last vestiges of my discursive historian disappeared,
leaving someone direct, feral, and very male.
When he swelled within me, I deliberately tensed around him
and pulled his hips forward. That pull was lost in his own force
which drove him onto me and into me just before he spurted.
"Jeh -- nette! Jeh -- nette!" he said, one syllable per spurt.
I had expected this to be his time as the earlier one had been
mine, but the feeling of his seed striking deep within me pulled
me after him. Held in his love, hearing my name, I surrendered
to the passion.
When I returned to earth, it was quite literal earth. My
thoughtful spouse had returned before me. "Love, should I turn
now?" he asked. I loosened my arms, and he rolled off me. He
immediately pulled me so that my head was on his shoulder before
drifting off to sleep.
"Mine," I told some nameless rivals. "You had him first,
but he's mine now." I grabbed a couple of his ribs before sleep
took me.
It's fair to say that I seldom wake up well before my third
cup of coffee, but I have awakened much more cheerfully than I
did that morning with the sun shining right into my eyes. I
turned over and saw that we were not alone. "Moo," she said; I
was hoping it was a she. My sun-dazzled eyes weren't seeing too
well. By screwing up my eyes, I could see that there was a fence
between us; I no longer cared about gender issues. "Mooo," she
said.
"It isn't polite to stare," I replied. "Besides, you
couldn't get to this grass anyway."
"But she could get to the milking barn," a voice said behind
me, "if you folks would move that truck."
I didn't quite scream, but I burrowed much deeper in the
sleeping bag.
"Sorry," said Bob. "It'll take a minute to get the keys."
I took the hint and dug around the edge of the sleeping bag for
my jeans. The voice was less frightening on reflection. It
sounded like a younger than the voice change. I handed the
keys to Bob. "You alone?" Bob asked. The voice said that it
was. Bob got out of the sleeping bag with his pants and
underpants in his hand. He donned these and put on his shoes and
socks. "Name's Bob Brennan," he offered. "We didn't mean to
hold you up."
"Name's Caroline," came the reply. "I never thought that it
was deliberate."
I was a lot less careful about keeping covered after that.
I was ready to join Bob in the truck by the time Caroline led the
herd across the road. We headed west, partly because of the
herd, partly to avoid the sun. We got to a wider road a few
minutes later, and a gas station soon after that. We each took a
few minutes getting cleaned up. The gas station did a lot of
service for two gallons in sales, but the was cheerful in
giving us directions. "Nice people," said Bob. I curled up in
the seat and went back to sleep.
We were rolling down a main highway when I awoke. "Coffee
in the thermos," said Bob. "I love you" are the words for going
out the door, returning, or going to sleep. My husband knows
that the words for waking up are "Here is your coffee." This was
weak, but the caffeine was detectable. I was really awake by the
time the thermos was empty. I got out my tape recorder and
prepared to review the lesson from the day before, not feeling up
to anything new. I had one question before that, though.
"Tell me," I began, "in your preparation to study law, did
you ever find out ... ?"
"Find out what?" Bob sounded suspicious. I can't imagine
why.
"The penalty for flashing a minor female in New York?" I
immediately put the earphones in my ears and turned on the tape.
That wasn't what I really wanted to review, though. As soon as
the time for a retort was past, I turned off the tape recorder
and let my thoughts run.
Upon resurfacing from our honeymoon, real life had presented
us with several conflicts that needed resolution. In the
previous five years, Bob and I had spent countless hours dealing
with each other; each of us had spent a significant fraction of
our times apart thinking of the other. We had, aside from the
abortive attempt to study in the library, never been together
while needing to concentrate on something else. We had needed
time to learn how to live with each other and still get our work
done.
It is one thing to have Bob be an attentive lover walking
beside you all day and then holding you in his arms talking for
an hour before petting you into a passion leading to intercourse.
It is quite another to have him be a vegetable planted in a book
for an entire evening until he brings an erection into bed when
you are almost asleep.
Even in the summer, even with no money, there had been
things to do and places to go around the town and the University.
With my internal qualms about marriage allayed, I had been eager
to flaunt my husband. Bob, on the other hand, had expressed a
disinclination to "share me with others." The compromises that
we reached on that had foundered on Bob's expectations that a
late evening out would cut sleep time rather than sex time. We
compromised again.
Conflicts hadn't been our only experiences, or even our main
ones. I stole a glance at Bob. Making your coffee every morning
can cover a multitude of sins.
Actually, I'd been happy about all three aspects of the
situation, as far as they can be distinguished; being married,
being with Bob, and being to Bob had each been a
pleasure.
Between wearing a wedding band and having a full-time job, I
had become accepted as an adult, and had enjoyed that acceptance.
I had begun running a household, and while I had needed Bob's
assent on important matters, much of the daily authority had been
mine. (The charm of making out menu plans and shopping lists had
passed quickly, but I could still *remember* it.) Bob had been
attending PastorJim's church regularly. I had started
accompanying him much less regularly. Those of us under fifty in
the church, few enough in the summer, had tended to divide into
married and single. Bob and I had been accepted without question
into the group and had socialized with them.
Bob goes away as completely when he opens a book as when he
walks out the door. Once I had accepted that fact, Bob -- when
actually present -- had turned out to be as entertaining as ever;
and his enthusiasm for the latest idea or fact to come to his
attention had remained as contagious. He had kept up his
outrageous compliments. Having been called "Pudge" by people who
"didn't really mean it", I can accept being called "the most
beauteous woman in North America" by someone who -- even if will
not admit this -- clearly doesn't mean it. It sort of balances
the scales. If he had been reassuring and comforting less often
than in our premarital days, my need, rather than his
willingness, had diminished.
If "the honeymoon was over," we had never expected
otherwise. Many particular bumps on the marital road had come as
surprises, but we had expected to have some. I, at least, had
expected more. Happy surprises, if fewer, had been totally
unexpected; each of us, for example, had come into the marriage
expecting to do the laundry. Then there was the result of
our switch in birth control.
I had become something of a connoisseur of Bob's climaxes on
our honeymoon, his tension, the increasing force and urgency of
his thrusts, his grimace at the moment of crisis, his boyish
smile and blissful collapse immediately afterwards. When we had
switched from condoms to a diaphragm, I had discovered an
entirely new aspect. Suddenly, I had been able to feel the
actual ejaculation, the pivot of all that excitement. The
sensation of his seed being driven into me had transcended the
erotic.
My experience of sexuality had changed from the steady
upward progress of one careful seduction after another on my
honeymoon to something of a plateau with ups and downs. Far from
being a disappointment, this had seemed quite a high plateau.
The ups and downs had created a situation in which I had to
decide whether my desire for that degree of sexuality was greater
than my remaining fear of it; it was. What I had resisted was
Bob's occasional attempt to bring the *Kama Sutra* into our
bedroom.
Being to Bob, aside from living with him or just
being married, had exhibited it's own advantages. There had been
Bob's family. The Brennans stand by their own, and I have always
been sure that they consider me one of their own. Bob's mother,
Katherine, had already become the woman that I most respected.
We are both "Mrs. Brennan"; and, silly as it sounds, that had
helped my self confidence.
Anne, PastorJim's wife, had participated in our counseling.
Somehow, she had taken a great liking to the two of us; her favor
had given us cachet in our narrow circle, especially that summer
when she had been so conspicuously pregnant. She'd once asked an
instructor who complained about not having the money to replace
his car, "Why don't you tell the Brennans about your money
problems?" presenting us, not as ciphers due to our low income,
but as notables due to our coping with low income. We had been
making progress coping with our conflicts, as well; if we hadn't
made that public, it had become a source of pride for the two of
us.
Going into our marriage, I had wanted structure for our
family. Feeling my way, I had made a series of suggestions to
Bob. He had interspersed an occasional "of course" with his
usual "Let's try it." Some of it worked, some of it felt clumsy;
Bob had never criticized an experiment. When a particularly
artificial attempt at scheduling significant conversations fell
flat, I'd berated myself for the silly idea. "Nonsense," said
Bob. "You suggested an experiment. We tried it and learned that
we don't want to do that. A successful experiment is one you
learn from. Besides you aren't allowed to talk like that about
the woman I love."
One Friday, towards the end of the summer, Bob had asked for
a meeting after supper. He had started with a list of
several of my ideas which had been abandoned. "We said we would
try these," he had said. "I move that we tried them and decided
against." That had been clearly so. The next list was of things
that I had thought settled. "We said we would try these," he had
said. "I move that we adopt them until we both agree to change
them." That had made perfect sense to me. "Third," Bob had gone
on, "are you content with my saying all the graces?" I had been
unused to having grace at meals; but it is structure, Brennan
structure at that, and clearly important to Bob. I had nodded.
"Fourth and last," Bob had continued, "I would like to
introduce a new structure. You and I obviously disagree about
sexual experimentation. We need some compromise. I move that we
limit experimentation to one night a week, Friday would be
appropriate for many reasons. So that Friday evenings will be
scheduled for sex games beginning a week from today." This is
archetypical Bob. He could have suggested it and answered my
protests with a list of all my experiments that he had tried.
Instead, he had dealt with all my ideas in an objective fashion
and then sprung his. He let me see for myself that I wanted all
sorts of things for us, and had received his support. His two
areas of concern had been prayer and sex.
My sense of jealousy supported my sense of fairness on this
one. I had once sworn to myself to make sure that Bob didn't
have any libido left to direct at another woman. I'd already
found that draining Bob's libido was incompatible with his
functioning in the outer world, but I could see a danger in his
wandering around with special desires he would never satisfy at
home.
With all these reasons against me, I hadn't considered
saying a flat "no"; but I had made an effort to moderate Bob's
plan. I had suggested cutting out the Fridays during my periods,
and allotting half the remainder to *my* experiments. Bob had
accepted both revisions.
Bob's "games" had come as something of a surprise. Besides
the experiments with new positions, they had included a higher
form of seduction. With me reasonably happy about my sexuality,
he had sought to evoke my sensuality. Candlelight and kisses had
marked these games. I, who had quailed at the possibility of one
climax a few months before, was led to two, and sometimes three,
in a single hour.
Or, maybe, in a period of two or three hours. Bob had been
perfectly serious about scheduling "Friday evenings." One part,
maybe the center, of his sensuality is that it is a long
excursion taking much more time than the direct route. We often
had started soon after dinner, and no alarm clock had threatened
to turn a late night into a short one. Bob had heartily enjoyed
the slow build-ups, but I think that he had planned them for me.
An hour of being kissed everywhere else, had overcome much of my
aversion to the idea of a kiss on my genitals. (The first minute
of that kiss had eradicated all the remaining aversion.)
I (and probably Bob) had regarded my Fridays as merely a
cutback in the schedule. My first game had been labeled
"Missionary." Bob's only resistance had been one comment,
"You're cutting off your nose to spite your face, you know." I'd
really made my point, and that was important. Just because I've
forgotten the point in the intervening years doesn't mean that I
hadn't needed to make it back then.
My second game had been labeled "Honeymoon." I'd brought
the kitchen timer with me. "For the next hour," I decreed, "we
will only talk." We had talked; mostly Bob had talked about the
biography he was reading. The hour afterwards we had kissed and
hugged and *talked*. We had petted and talked until nearly our
normal bedtime. The sex after that had been totally vanilla, but
totally different from "Missionary."
"Sweet darling!" Bob had said when he finally had reached my
moisture and felt its extent. I'd lain there and let his fingers
work their magic until I feared my release would be all alone. I
had tugged at his shoulder then.
"Beloved," he had asked while climbing between my legs, "do
you want me as much as I want you?"
I'd nodded. "Lonely," I'd said. He'd replaced his fingers
with Junior, smoothing my juices over both of us until I thought
that I would explode. "Now," I'd said.
"Now," he'd agreed, and stopped at the entrance. After
shifting his weight, he'd entered slowly and smoothly. I'd been
stretched and rubbed and filled. I'd felt his smoothness and
thickness and firmness and heat. My body had tensed under his
before he'd quite finished. "Oh love," he'd said, "I can't
describe how wonderful you feel when you surround me." I'd felt
a preliminary tremor, and he must have felt it too. He'd gasped
and started his motions. These had quickly carried me over and
I'd gone soaring away without ever leaving the sound of his voice
or the sensations of his strokes within me.
"Sweet, sweet, girl," he'd said. "Oh wonderful darling.
Gorgeous ... Oh!" Then, after a pause. "God! God! God! God!
God!" I had returned enough to feel his ejaculations after each
of those oaths. He'd collapsed then, but it was a long time
before his weight had felt too heavy.
"Can you move?" I'd asked.
"Barely," he'd said; but he had. "You misheard. I promised
that I'd never lie *to* you." The giggles had taken me.
After the messes were mopped up and the candle was out, we'd
cuddled into sleep. "Poor dear," he'd murmured. "Have I been
ignoring you?" Not quite, but I've enjoyed the talks we've had
in bed since.
My games had become a time of letting him know what I would
prefer, then what I would like to see sometimes, then which of
his experiments I had accepted. We had invented "rain checks"
first to allow us to go out on Friday nights, then to free me
from the mechanical burden of the calendar. In theory, I had a
number of times saved up; I could call upon those when I wanted
to specify our activity. In fact, we soon lost track of that
number; my husband welcomed any statement that I wanted something
specific in the sex department. His one rule was that any wish
of mine for extra gentleness and cuddling wasn't a game. He was
perfectly willing to ease in bed whatever bumps had been handed
me in life. It just couldn't be deducted from the by-then-
forgotten number; he said that he is duty-bound to cherish me in
every way. As for me, wed to a who always sought my sensual
enjoyment, I preferred to let him call most of the shots while I
lay there and enjoyed his program.
One exception had been oral sex. Since my first surprise at
the glorious pleasure that Bob could give me with his mouth, I
had been ambivalent about whether I had wanted to reciprocate.
Aside from whatever pleasure I might give Bob, there had been the
possibility of my own. Bob's face looks so cute just before he
climaxes that I'd really wanted a way to see that without my own
condition interfering. On the other hand, the idea had seemed
doubly dirty, unhygienic as well as obscene. Bob was ambivalent,
himself. He had enjoyed it with another woman, but had been
adamant that I never do it to "serve" him. My curiosity had
tipped the scales.
Well, the taste is not something I would seek out. On the
other hand, *all* of Bob looks cute as every muscle tenses, and
his eyes screw up (if you'll pardon the expression), and his
mouth grimaces, and his arms press down on the bed, and he starts
panting. Then he lifts his hips up, and Junior swells and tenses
just a bit more. I control all that and can look him over as he
teeters on the edge. Then he convulses and bobs his hips while
Junior jerks and spatters in my mouth. He usually says things
then, affirmative if not particularly coherent. A minute later,
he regresses to a baby; all that strength and tension disappears.
And he is so sweet to me afterwards.
Let's just say that both of us had resolved our
ambivalences.
Bob's classes had started soon after the games had, and the
games hadn't dominated our sex life, let alone our life. Many
nights in the two years after the games began, we had come home
from a meeting or party together six or seven hours before the
alarm clocks would ring. Many more nights, we had gone our
separate ways from dinner (or breakfast) until we met in bed.
Those nights, we had enacted the scenario of the sex manuals:
a little desultory conversation in the dark to dissolve the armor
that the day requires, a few kisses, Bob's hand stroking Jeanette
into "readiness," Jeanette's hand checking or even inducing Bob's
"readiness," a slow, then fast, pistoning to a sort of
climax -- mutual more often than not. Sometimes, and who can
blame us, we skipped most of that and fell asleep before the
conversation was done.
But even those times were infused by the love, and -- yes --
the lust, carried into our marriage from the best times; and the
best times depended on what we had learned from the games. We
had celebrated Bob's acceptance into the grad school he'd
preferred by his carrying me around the apartment, transfixed,
before placing me on the bed for a quieter celebration; we
couldn't have done that the first time we tried to make love
standing up. The time in the chair bidding goodbye to the
apartment had been sweet love partially because we knew the
results of motion in that situation.
They hadn't all worked, except by Bob's criterion of
teaching us something. I hadn't seen the point of sixty-nine and
still don't. Bob hadn't been particularly eager to repeat it
either. We'd tried "doggie style" with my kneeling on the
mattress and him standing or kneeling behind me two times each.
"Nice names don't help?" Bob had asked after the fourth try.
"I don't think that is the real problem," I'd replied. "Is
this *really* important to you?"
"Not that important," he had said. "How about lying down?"
"The spoon? Different category. Besides that one is
important to you."
"I still remember the time in the forest."
"So do I," I had said, neatly avoiding the point that it his
favorite memory of the honeymoon but not in my top ten. Well, I
like almost every memory of the honeymoon. "Anyway, that is not
experimental, much less rejected."
"I love you," he'd said. And I love him, not least because
he could respond that way to a "yes" while not commenting on the
"no"s. "How about both of us standing?" We'd done that only
once. I had bent over the dresser, and he'd come into me from
behind.
"Hmmm?" I couldn't remember any distaste about that.
"Let's keep that experimental." And so we had.
Months later, he'd tried a variation of that experiment.
We'd kissed standing until I was light-headed, then he'd
undressed me ceremoniously, kissing every place as it had been
bared. When my labia had turned dewey and my knees had turned
weak from his ministrations, I'd started towards the bed.
Instead, he'd turned me towards the dresser. Catching his
intent, I'd bent over with my elbows resting on the dresser and
my hands pressed against the wall. He'd spread his legs wide
behind me. While kissing my neck and shoulders, he'd rubbed
Junior up and down my cleft and had positioned him at my entry.
Then he'd held a in each hand while penetrating me slowly.
Eager for him, I'd dropped my belly and thrust back against him,
closing my legs as I did so. He had needed to grab the edge of
the dresser to steady himself. With his other hand playing with
the front junction of my labia, he'd only had that arm available
to pull me against him.
I'd been moving more than he had when I felt my body stiffen
as it neared its climax. I'd shifted my left hand to balance the
whole force of his thrusts, while I'd spread my legs slightly. I
had reached between my legs to hold his scrotum. It had
tightened away from my fingers. I had felt him pulse inside me
for just a second before my own climax rolled over me and
swept me away.
His arms had been on the dresser beside me, and his lips had
been between my shoulder blades when I had next noticed things.
He'd been trying to kiss me but his having to breathe interfered
with suction. Despite the tickling, it had all felt like love.
He'd finally managed a deep breath and babbled "I love you,
Iloveyou, Iloveyou, Ilove," until his breath had failed again.
"Love *you*," I had managed. Junior had long been outside
and the mess all on the floor before we had been able to sort
ourselves out. In bed afterwards, we had cuddled and consulted.
"Any time you want," I had said, "so long as the room is warm."
(Bob is half polar bear.) He'd hugged me and I'd hugged his arm
back.
I looked over at him in the truck seat beside me. He
glanced at me a minute later. "Don't do that!" he said.
"Do what?"
"Don't look at me like that when I'm driving," he said. "I
almost crashed the car.... Look, I'm sorry. Let me find a
parking space, and you can look at me that way as long as you
want."
"We have to get to Boston."
"We're in Boston. Look at the traffic. Anyway, feeling
that you love me is more important than getting to the apartment
house before the custodian goes home for the day."
"You won't say that," I pointed out, "if we have to sleep in
the truck tonight. Especially as that means we sleep apart.
Your putting on a show for your friend, Caroline, was bad enough.
Putting on a show for all of Boston is not on the agenda."
"Well, for thirty seconds I thought you loved me."
"I do love you," I admitted. "It's called the Stockholm
syndrome. You take me away from all that I've known. I have
only you left. Of course, I have to cling to you."
"That's why we have to find a parking space. So you can
cling to me.... Forget it. I see the turn off." He turned into
a street that was narrower and even less straight than the last.
"Anyway," I said, "no clinging until you apologize."
"For what?" he asked.
"You suggested last night that I had instigated an act of
intercourse."
"Hadn't you?" he insinuated.
"Indeed not," I explained. "As a proper lady, I never
instigate such base activities. Being married, I must indulge my
husband's nature; and when I dutifully accept that sad
necessity, I must take precautions so that his blind lust does
not lead to unintended consequences." I had mentally rehearsed
that wording, and I was proud of it.
"It wasn't blind lust at all," he retorted. "It was just
awfully dark in that field. *You* should have remembered the
flashlight." At that point, he spotted the apartment house and
started to ease the truck into a spot almost big enough. I
readied myself for the first trip, including slipping one item
from my personal bag into my pocket.
We locked the truck and found the custodian. He gave Bob
the keys and permission to park the truck at the back door. We
climbed the stairs for my first look at the place. As Bob turned
the key in the door, I reached into my pocket. "Remember what I
told you in the truck about my being a proper lady?" I asked. He
nodded. "Well then you'll understand that this is a mere
precaution against your nature." I showed him the wrapped
Trojan.
"Darling girl," he said. He grabbed me, rather than the
packet, and carried me into our second home.
"Put me down," I said, "or you'll be too tired to carry the
books up here." He did and we looked around. Nothing is as
empty as an unfurnished apartment. All that greeted our eyes
were cracked walls, and dust bunnies. There was a kitchen and a
bathroom (precisely the same size) on our left, and uncovered
windows in front of us and to our right. A quick check revealed
that all the windows were overlooked by apartments across street
and alley.
Maybe they were empty, maybe they couldn't see in, maybe
they wouldn't notice. "Darling. It's all right," Bob said,
knowing that I was totally unable to take those risks. It wasn't
all right.
And then it was. I led him into the dark kitchen, where
nobody could possibly see us, and started unbuttoning his shirt.
Naked, we kissed. I leaned back against the refrigerator while
he petted me until I felt like I would explode. I handed him the
condom and pushed him back. By the time he was properly
sheathed, I was bending over the range.
His entry was incredibly slow, and loving, and tender. His
strokes were slow until I dropped and arched my torso to take
absolutely all of him. Then he gripped my hipbones tight and
sped up. "Hello house," I said while I still could.
The End
VOORTREKKERS
Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
1997/03/23
1997/10/19
2000/04/24
2001/11/15
This is one of a series of about the Brennans.
The next in the series is:
formid.txt "Formidable"
The first in the series is:
forever.txt "Forever"
The directory to the entire series is:
brennan.txt
For another about another couple facing another sort of
change in their lives, see:
swim.txt "Little Swimmers"
The directory to all my can be found at:
index.txt