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Foretaste
This material is Copyright, 1997, Uther Pendragon. All rights reserved. I specifically grant the right for all reproduction necessary for normal Usenet propagation. 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. |
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Foretaste
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Jeanette handed me the letter from my dissertation adviser as soon as I'd shed that coat and my sports jacket. "You could have opened it," I told her. She shook her head 'no.' Her aversion to opening other people's mail stems from an incident several years before our marriage. She was perfectly willing to read over my shoulder, though. Prof. Macleod wrote that the last draft of my dissertation was "not only acceptable, but exceptional." This, of course, he followed with a page and a half of objections to words and formatting. "Your work is done, at least," she said. "It's all your work, anyway," I said. "I'm just along for the ride." That was an exaggeration: I'm not ashamed of the background and interpretation which I put into my dissertation. But Jeanette had contributed much more than her skill as a typist. I have long been fascinated by the diplomatic square dance that took place between the time of the Drei Kaiser Bund and 1914. That Germany would end up opposed to France might seem fated. But the opposition of England to Russia and of Turkey to Austria, let alone Bulgaria, was as self-evident, beforehand; and these didn't occur. Almost everybody danced with almost everybody else. I had been in the process of choosing a dissertation subject, torn between two aspects of this dance when France released a trove of foreign-office documents covering the period of the Fashoda incident. (The French are not precipitous in declassifying documents.) Alone, I couldn't have done anything with the trove. I passed the French test for the doctorate, but that doesn't mean that I'm really literate in that language. And the test doesn't even pretend to measure your ability to speak the language. Jeanette, however, had been studying French on her own for several years by then. She and I flew to Paris to pick which documents were relevant and to get copies of them. We stayed in une pension for the two weeks that our funds permitted. (The air fare was on credit cards, and those were repaid with loans from my folks; but it was worth it.) She read the typed documents, learned to read the handwriting, and gave me a precis of each document. I chose which to copy, and we returned with an extraordinary amount of paper. Her translation of the new information, properly credited, will grace my dissertation. That credit doesn't begin to tell, however, what it meant to have those summaries when I was hurriedly selecting documents to copy. I dropped the letter on an end table. Then I picked her up in my arms, whirled us around, and gave her a celebratory kiss. "We've won," I said. "I love you, and we've won." "I love you, too, Dr. Brennan." She gave me a nice kiss. Actually, when I'm holding her like that, the kisses are her decision. Our lips met, then parted. Her tongue touched mine. I couldn't say how much I loved her; if I'd have given her another celebratory spin, she would have leaned back. I squeezed her butt and cooperated in the kiss. When she leaned back to look at me, she was grinning. "We did it," she said. "You did it." "We did it. Celebration?" "Lamb chops!" She had obviously gambled on the contents based on the return address. If Macleod had wanted the entire dissertation rewritten, the celebratory dinner would have gone to waste. (Although, knowing Jeanette, I figure that the lamb chops would have been a consolation, instead.) "After dinner?" "We'll see." After all, she isn't only my research assistant and translator. She works full time as a secretary to the president of a family-owned firm, and she carries much more than half the responsibility for our housework. She has her own agenda. "I will never," I said, "ever, be able to tell you how much I love you." But after her delicious dinner (and after our various tasks preparing for the next day) I tried. I began with a slow kiss while we were both standing. I explored her lovely mouth with my tongue. I took off her office dress, hung it carefully in the closet, and kissed the skin that had been under it. I proceeded that way until she wore just panties. Tearing the clothes from her and dropping them on the floor might sound more romantic, but that doesn't impress Jeanette. Maybe dropping clothes on the floor is too much like my usual behavior. Anyway, when I want to turn Jeanette on, neatness counts. Besides, I had lots of time for once; the alarm wouldn't ring for ten hours. I eased her down on the bed while I continued the kisses. Her spine tasted of salt, and Jeanette. Just before I reached her neck, I stopped to ditch my last piece of clothing, my undershirt. Her thighs, pressed together near her knees, were an inch or two apart where they joined her hips. I lay down full length over her, holding my weight on knees and elbows. That placed my phallus just in that crack between her thighs. When I nibbled the special spot on her neck, she shivered -- she always does. I could feel the motion of her back against my chest and of her legs between mine. Most especially, those shivers surrounded my shaft. I rose and pulled the tops of her panties down over her butt. She turned to let me pull them off. First her hair appeared, then her mound, and then the lips which would part for me. The aroma struck me and hardened me just as I could see her fully. "Oh love," I said. I stripped the panties down her legs without any ceremony. It had deserved the ceremony I neglected, though, for she spread those legs as soon as they weren't encumbered. I knelt between them and lay over her for another kiss on the lips. Then I hurried a line of kisses down to her knee before slowing for the upward path. I kissed the inside of one leg all the way until I felt her hair on my cheek. Then I repeated that path on her other leg. I gave one kiss to her mound before I parted those lovely lips. The aroma was maddeningly arousing. When I lapped up a drop of her nectar, more came out. Finally, although she hadn't complained, I reminded myself that this phase was about pleasing her. "You okay?" I asked. It would have been one hell of a time to break if she hadn't already inserted her contraceptive, and Jeanette was totally reliable about that insertion. Still, it was our joint responsibility. My asking acknowledged my part of the responsibility. "Yep." Then I licked up a little more juice before tasting the delicate nubbin at the top of that beauty. She shivered. I licked first one of her inner lips and then the other. I reached under her legs and up over her abdomen to her breasts. My fingers played with her nipples as my lips and tongue teased her vulva. When her areolae were puffy against my questing fingers and her belly turned hard under my forearms, I sucked on her clit. "Oh?" she said. It wasn't really a question. "Ihm hmmm." It wasn't really an answer. Since I hadn't removed my mouth from her vulva, she felt that as much as she heard it. I sucked again, even more gently. She shuddered three times. I could feel that her vagina was contracting an inch from my chin. It contracted twice more. "Ohhh!" she said, then went limp. I immediately abandoned all contact on the erotic zones. I slithered up in the bed until I was beside her where I could give her a reassuring hug. "Lovely girl," I said, "sweet bride, wonderful wife, sexy woman." I meant every word to apply right then, but it was also a historical list. The girl I had married had been afraid of many things, orgasms among them. The wife I had now enjoyed many things, orgasms among them; but it didn't hurt to give her praise and reassurance every time she lost control in my arms. I must say that I meant all those things I called her. A Jeanette orgasm is a marvelous thing, and I had been right next to the epicenter. I felt a bit proud, too. My touches and kisses had brought about that beauty. I lay there, and hugged her, and kissed her shoulder in the intermission of the words of praise. When she seemed recovered, I kissed all over her face -- avoiding the mouth which was still busy breathing. "I do love you," I finished up. "Love you too." She took another breath. "Kiss!" Giving her time for one more breath, I kissed her mouth thoroughly, invading it with my tongue in the process. When she broke that kiss to breathe again, I moved on to her breasts. And, while my lips were busy with her nipples, my fingers played with her labia. Finally, I inserted two of them to rub the bump on the top of her tunnel. "You!" she said. I already had an erection, and that single word tightened it so much that I hurt. "You okay?" I asked as I climbed between her thighs. Hardly waiting for her nod, I spread her lips with my fingers and placed Junior at her portal. My slow entry there was maddeningly delightful. I felt her tunnel widen around my invading head. All those nerve endings in the sensitive tip felt every micron of ingress. Then her lubricated tunnel smoothly clasped the shaft as it slipped inside. Finally, her most feminine part held all of me in that most intimate of hugs. With the physical sensations of that tender friction came the messages that she enjoyed my entry almost as much as I did. As I slid into her, she inhaled through her teeth with a barely audible hiss. At the same time, she spread her legs a little bit more to welcome me. When I had gone as far into her as I could go, when I straightened my torso and adjusted my elbows so I could fondle her breasts while they still supported my weight, she rolled her hips to thrust herself up around me. It didn't add much more physical contact, but it did add her participation. This was something we were doing. When our bodies were adjusted, when we had savored that contact for a moment, when -- to be honest -- I had kept still about as long as I could bear to, I began to move out of her and to reenter in the rhythm as old as the race. Here too, she participated. She followed my lead as faithfully as she had followed my lead in dances decades before. "You!" she said, moments before I exploded. As I poured all the product of that long erotic night into her, her last thrust upward lifted me above the bed. Then I felt her tunnel grasp me convulsively again and again. "Love you!" I gasped when I finally had breath enough. Minutes later, I was able to move off her and participate in mopping up the mess. We moved off it and spooned together in preparation for sleep. Junior, who doesn't know the meaning of the word, "enough," stirred slightly at being pressed against Jeanette's firm butt. "Y'know," I said, "this is really iffy. But if Grand Valley keeps me on, and if the pay raise for a doctorate is enough, we might consider your going back to school full time. We might not have much saved, but we are putting some away each month. I could teach again this summer, and you could take your vacation as the first bit of school. It would be tight. We would have to clear it with Mom and Dad, of course, but they've been hinting. And they've been paying only a single tuition this last couple of years." Jeanette stiffened. She lay silent in my arms, but I could feel her stiffness. Thoughts were running through that head pressed against my chin, maybe she was redoing the budget; maybe she was casting her mind back like I was. I had married Jeanette at the end of my sophomore and her freshman year. Economic circumstances had forced us to put her education on hold. While I took two more years of college and four years of graduate classwork, Jeanette had been our breadwinner. My folks had picked up tuition, I had worked summers, but she had provided everything else. On top of that, she had done more than half of the housework. My studies, of course, had been hard work; but they also had been intellectual adventures. The only taste of intellectual stimulation that she had received for six long years was her study of French, and she had to conduct this mostly on her own. I had encouraged this as best I could, and so had my family. My father, in particular, had kicked in with an airmail subscription to a different magazine every Christmas, and Le Petit Larousse, a short-wave radio, and similar gifts on her birthdays. Jeanette's response had been to worry that she was being pampered. Some days I had wanted to shake her and say, "Look, can't you see that these people" [especially your husband] "are exploiting you?" That would have been wrong as well. We hadn't really been exploiting her. The situation, as she had pointed out herself, had called for her sacrifice. Since I hadn't been able to offer relief from that situation, clarifying why she should be resentful would hardly have been an act of love. Once I got to Grand Valley, she was entitled to one tuition- free course a quarter. An evening course in Jeanette's case, since she worked days, and usually the same schedule as the evening course I -- being a lowly instructor -- usually taught. Still, the schedule of evening courses wasn't set up with people like her in mind. The advanced French courses were sparse. When she didn't respect the accent of the teacher or both courses offered were ones she had already taken, she found herself taking distribution instead of French courses. This quarter, she was taking sociology. Still, maybe it would come to an end next year. And, while her independent studies wouldn't reduce the amount of classwork that she had to take, it could well get her into more interesting classes. I couldn't tell what of that Jeanette was considering, but I could tell that she was thinking hard. Then she pushed herself out of my arms and onto her back. "We don't have to decide tonight," I said. "Indeed, we can't do anything until the Admin asks me back." "Bob?" she said. I waited, but nothing else came out. This didn't sound good. "Yes?" What question did she want to raise that she couldn't raise lying in my arms? "What about children?" she asked. I waited. "We said we would start a family when we could afford to. I'm getting awfully old. If I start school in September, I'll be twenty- eight then, and thirty before I'll graduate. I know you want this...." I wanted her to get her degree, but I had thought that she wanted it too. "Well," I said, "we can't do either one until I have a future here... or a future somewhere. Why don't you think on it? Run a budget both ways." Was I trying to delay this discussion? Not consciously. "I'll do that," she said. After a bit she turned again and pressed back against me. We drifted off to sleep, and I left the question of college for her until we had more concrete data. (And until we had more concrete need of a decision.) On Friday, I sat down front in the audience to hear my department chairman give one of the lectures faculty present to majors, grad students, and other faculty. Dan was talking about the humanity of the founding fathers. He spent a lot of time on Franklin's honorary degree. "You weren't pleased," he said when I came up after the lecture. "I might have a reference for you. Anyway, I have to talk about next year." We set an appointment for a week from that day, since we didn't have a lot of non-class time in common. The next night, I called home on weekend rates. First, I asked Dad: "One of those books which are compiled Scientific American articles. These are biographies. The article was a biography of Ben Franklin centering on his work on electricity. I need the name of Franklin's book from somewhere in the bibliography. I think the author of the article produced a more modern edition." While he was searching, Mom talked to me a little and to Jeanette a lot. My parents definitely approve of my choice of spouse. Finally Dad came back on the phone. He gave me the reference. "Thanks, Dad. Would you guys be able to swing another full- time tuition payment?" "It's about time that we did something for Jeanette. As you know, your sister has another couple of years to go in med school, but there is a lot of equity in the house now. You can't use us as an excuse." Actually, I wanted to use their willingness in the opposite way. "Well, I'm counting several chickens before they're hatched. We'll let you know." Sunday evening, having done all my history prep, I alphabetized vocabulary cards in prep for teaching French. Jeanette thinks I've overdone this joke, but -- considering how much better her French is than mine -- it is funny how often I test hers. She memorizes ten words both French-to-English and English- to-French 'every day' most of the time. When the words aren't from the books and magazines she read or from the programs she listened to on Radio France Internationale, they used to come from a French-English pocket dictionary we bought (used) specifically because it was so small. Even so, it took her forever to get through that. When she has learned the word, the card comes to me. I put the cards in English alphabetical order, as I was doing that evening. Then, somewhat later, I test her knowledge English-to- French. I actually give her three tests. The first is maybe fifteen cards which she has filled out in the last quarter. The few she gets wrong go back in her to-learn pack for the next time. The many she gets right, I store to go into one of her boxes of known words. I test her on those, as well. We are now on the words beginning with "R," but I really doubt we'd ever get through them if I added the new cards to the stack in the boxes. Even though I try to go through 25 words every day, there are still thousands of cards left in the boxes ahead of me. Last is the English-to-French section of the pocket dictionary. I question her on that until she has enough new words to learn. "Hoarse." I said finally. "Cheval. Le cheval." I laughed and spelled the English word. "I haven't the faintest." "Enroue'," I said. "Ee, en, ar, oh, you, ee-acute." I made no attempt to give the French pronunciation for letters. "Have enough words to learn for next week?" "More than enough," she said. "Though it seems to take forever for your system to admit that I have memorized the word at all. It's mid-May, and how many March words did you drill me on this evening?" "There are a few more than 800 cards in the pack." (I keep track of that.) If you'd learned 300 in March, you'd have a chance of six of those words. As it is, five is more likely." Immediately, I regretted saying that. I couldn't have sustained her level of effort for half as long as she has. "Well, I skip far fewer days memorizing than you do drilling me." Which is certainly true, or I would drill her on ten words when I do, rather than fifteen. "Now, dear," I said, "I'm always willing to drill you. It's only vocabulary drill I'm lax on." "He says!" "Come here," I said, "and I'll show you." But she skipped away to the bathroom instead. Later, however, she waited in bed for me. "Ihm hmm," I said when I noticed her nakedness. I kissed her, licking her lips before seeking her tongue. I caressed the length of her body, from her breasts to her thighs. Every inch was responsive. Her hand toyed with my nipples as mine had toyed with hers. "I love you," I said as I climbed over her near leg. Kneeling between her calves, I kissed her firm, upthrust breasts. Then I scattered kisses over her lovely, tight, abdomen. "You okay?" I asked. I crawled upward and stopped with Junior just outside her entrance. We shared a lovely kiss with tongue playing with tongue. She broke the kiss. "What if I wasn't, Bob?" she asked. "What if I were lying here fertile waiting for you to plant your seed in me." Somewhere in my head, I screamed 'No!' Junior, however, jumped at the suggestion. She felt him; when we're like that, she could hardly miss. She grinned at me. "One vote for," she said. "Oh, come on inside. I wouldn't do that to you." I slid into the warm smoothness. She wrapped her legs around mine. Like this, I find her forehead easier to kiss than her lips. But she'd brought up fertility. I loved the spread of her legs which clasped me in this position, but there was no denying that the spread was really intended to let a baby out rather than to welcome a husband in. I loved that taut belly that I could feel below mine, the sexy belly I'd kissed moments before. She put effort into keeping that tautness while working as a secretary. Would she recover it after pregnancy? Many women didn't. I shifted so that my hands could cup her firm breasts while my elbows still sustained most of my weight. She enjoyed my hands on them, but I enjoyed her breasts more. The smooth warmth that I stroked, her firm conical shape thrusting the nipples into my palms, this had been the ultimate that I could touch of Jeanette for more than a year. It still was a wonderfully sexy experience. What would filling them for a future child who would drain them do to that firmness? And the smooth tightness I drove through. Her tunnel was an exquisite clasp around me. It had been a tighter clasp the first few times, almost painful; but it had stretched to accommodate me. It would even stretch to accommodate a child. What of the tightness then, what of the elasticity which clasped me so warmly. Even so, the idea of her fertility was sexy. The idea of her last openness to me, the openness of her womb to my seed, undeniably excited me. I should have been thinking of Jeanette at this time, making sure that I brought her along with me. Instead I was picturing her a tiny bit more naked, her uterus without it's bit of latex. That idea combined with all the sensations I had been enjoying. Suddenly, my orgasm was moments away and inescapable. "Oh love," I warned her, "I can't...." "Yes," she said. She tightened around me and clasped my butt with both hands. All I could do was move my hands to her shoulders. Then I was driving into her and shooting my essence into her. "You all right?" I asked some time later, maybe a minute, maybe a year. "Could you move?" I managed to move off her and on to my side. A couple of minutes later, I managed to extract the blankets and top sheet from beneath me. Finally covered, she nestled against me. She took my right arm, which is the only part she can hug in the spoon position, and placed it against her breasts. She had both hands on it. "You really all right?" she hadn't answered that question. "Oh yes!" she said. "And I know what turned you on that time." Well, she could turn me on any time. She'd told me that she enjoyed my orgasms, sometimes to the point of not wanting one of her own. Why not? I certainly enjoyed hers, if not quite to that point. Still, I know my wife after all these years, and the ease with which she sank into sleep signaled a quite recently satisfied Jeanette. If I didn't follow her into sleep, it wasn't that my body was unsatisfied. My mind was churning inside a totally sated body. Was I pursuing the education option because I loved her mind? Or was I avoiding the child option because I loved her body? I really did love her mind; I wanted it to experience a college education the way that the best of the majors in my courses did. I wanted her to wrestle with whatever questions the students of French literature struggled with in their classes. On the other hand, I did love her tight body. I had never denied that, even to her; and holding it like I was then would mark one hell of a time to start. I cupped the neat, firm, breast -- avoiding the nipple which would disturb her sleep -- and committed the worries to my subconscious, and -- of course -- to the Lord. The next day on my way home from campus, though, I did worry about it. (In a full-length rain coat, I needn't fear thinking about Jeanette's sexiness in public.) Sure, she had priorities which came before me even now. If I tried to hold those firm breasts or those sexy buttocks while she was cooking, she would chase me away. It was sweet agony to watch her dress on holidays for the university which her company didn't take. Sure, a full- time student would behave worse. I remembered writing papers while she fell asleep alone; I knew I would get that back with interest when she was the student. But motherhood, much less pregnancy, was full-time in the way that neither of these was. Lamb chops took a few minutes to grill, even a cake was baked in a few hours. A bun spent nine months in the oven. And it would occupy the parts of her that I loved most. For that matter, Jeanette was already committed to breast-feeding. Since that would give my son the healthiest start in life, I wasn't about to argue. On the other hand, that would give our son priority in what had been my playground for the last decade. On still yet another hand, the wife of a colleague was quite visibly pregnant. I love my wife, don't get me wrong; and I'm certainly not about to break the seventh commandment. But Sarah Thorsen was so sleekly sexy with her swelling belly, that I'd already broken the tenth. Whatever hand I'd gotten to by the time I came in sight of my outer door, all that was irrelevant. The decision was about what was good for Jeanette. That lively mind was entitled to all the pleasures that I had enjoyed first. Would she really prefer the pleasures of parenthood to that? That evening, however, she didn't raise the issue. Neither did she Tuesday or Wednesday. Thursday morning, I was mentally preparing myself for the first class while the two of us were eating breakfast. She isn't a morning person, and our breakfast conversations tend to be short and practical. "I'm going to be a total mess tomorrow night." She said out of the blue. "That's too bad." Jeanette doesn't usually complain about her periods. But if she wanted sympathy, she would get it. "Could I have games tonight?" This surprised me. Once upon a time, I had instituted the idea of 'games' to diversify our sexual encounters. On alternate Friday nights, I would get to pick something adventurous; on the other Fridays, Jeanette would get to pick what she wanted, seldom what I would call 'adventurous.' As we experienced some of that diversity, the category of 'normal' sex grew. Both from that, and from the failure of some of my proposals, the category of 'adventurous' sex shrank. My games became less frequent, hers almost disappeared. Still, unless something else intervened, we went to bed earlier on Friday nights and went to sleep later. But! She could have control any time she asked, and she knew that. And we didn't get adventurous during her period, anyway -- barring her occasional oral ministrations. Besides, Tuesday and Thursday were our nights for evening classes. Anyway, I heeded that warning. I spent my office time making sure that I was ready for the Friday lectures. I came straight home from my evening class, but Jeanette -- who had the car -- beat me home and to the bathroom. I made my preparations in there, including another shave. She was in bed and naked when I got there. I greeted her with a deep kiss. When she broke the kiss, she said, "I thought that this was my game." "Anything you want." "Remember that 'T' thing you liked." I remembered it well. She would lie down on her back; I would lie down on my side across the bed; I would fit into her that way. I also remembered that she hadn't liked it. I could pet her like that, but only our groins touched naturally. She preferred much more body contact. I reached down to caress her groove. "Do you want me like that?" "Please!" I fitted myself to her and pressed inward. She was a little drier than I liked, but she -- as she had asked -- was in charge. She passed me the KY; with that lubrication, I was soon within her. The rest of my groin was pressed into her seat. "You asked for this," I reminded her. It is a better position when I'm doing a lot more petting. "Bob, are you really ashamed of me?" she asked. "Ashamed of you? No! I think that we have better positions, but you put up with my experiments." "Ashamed of my education -- my lack of education. Your friends have doctorates, or almost. Your family...." My sister is in her second year of medical school after taking all the psychology she could as a chem major; my father has an MBA after getting a good bachelor's in economics; my mother took courses after getting an MAT in art history. "Does my family snub you?" I knew the answer to that. "They are all very sweet." To her. My sister has said that she can't understand what Jeanette sees in me, and Dad isn't above asking whether I'm treating her well enough. But they never snub her. "Does the department?" There I'm totally without leverage. Instructors don't get their way on anything. "Not really." Having softened a little, I moved out and in twice. If I had continued much longer, I wouldn't have been able to stop. "Do you want my hands on you?" There is very little else I could do in that position. "I want to have this conversation." As far as I was concerned, we'd had this conversation. But I shut up; it was Jeanette's night. "If you're not ashamed of me, why is it so important to have me back in school?" "Jeanette, think for a moment! When you go back to school, the faculty will snub you. Not exactly snub, but you'll be an undergraduate. Right now, you're the wife of an instructor. You're the equal of other instructors, since their spouses are their equals -- maybe a little junior to assistant professors and such, but so am I. "Anyway, their only way to relate to you will be as an undergraduate. I'm not trying to raise my status by raising yours." "Then why," she asked, "is it important?" "Two reasons.... "You gave up a college education in order to marry me. I want it to be a delay, and not an abandonment. Second, you have the active sort of mind that enjoys engagement with ideas. I don't want to stifle that. That's why it's important, not some fear that people are going to look down on you." "Bob!" I shut up, but she didn't continue for a minute. "Bob, I did give up a college education in order to marry you. We are a family, and I've never regretted it." She squeezed me then, and moved against me and around me. I had to hold back from moving in response. "Well, almost never," she amended. "I didn't give up any engagement with ideas. First of all, I was never one of your sort of students. I didn't stay after class." "You were always bright." Freshmen don't stay after class, as a rule. And she had only been a freshman. We'd cut her education off after that. "I talked about ideas with you. Beginning in high school. I'm a good student who gets good grades. I work hard, worked fairly hard even that year when you were taking me out all the time." She took a deep breath. "I sit down all the time to earn our living. I handled that stinky paper I hated that first year. I clean and cook and pick up after you. I've gotten up at an indecent hour every day for years." "And it's been worth it," she concluded, "to have a family with you. I didn't give up classroom discussions. Married to you, I've had more intellectual discussions than any other time in my life." Now, she wasn't being fair to herself. "The discussions of current events were your idea." "Most of the stories on historical events were my ideas, Bob. But I just push a button, and you roll them out." She pushed my belly button to illustrate. My squirming was turning me on, probably turning her on too. "Why," I asked, "are we in this position?" "Because I can't argue with you when I'm in your arms." Then she remembered that the alternative for a family meeting was sitting down in the living room or at the dining table. "And I think that we should discuss having children in bed." Now, to be terribly technical, we hadn't discussed having children at all. But the connection between our son and our bed was that he would be conceived there. At that idea, I hardened. Jeanette noticed. "Oh, Bob, you think with him so often, why are you two so opposed on this issue?" Now, I don't think with my phallus. I hardly ever think with my phallus. And I wasn't really opposed to having children. But I backed up the conversation a couple of steps. "Or you figure that I can't argue with you when I'm in your vagina." "Bob, you can argue any time," she said. "That's part of what I love about you, don't you see? That's part of all those times when you talk to me." She reached down to tickle between my thighs. Then her hand cuddled my scrotal sack. I lurched within her, almost coming. "Come up here and finish this. We can finish this around the kitchen table another time." "Unless you have decided already." That didn't seem very likely, really. If she was about to start her period, then leaving out the contraceptive would hardly make a baby likely. "I wouldn't do that to you," she said earnestly. "I want us to be a family, and a family decides these things together." So I rolled over, and out of her. On my way 'up here' I kissed her breasts thoroughly, sucking each nipple in turn. Despite that, despite the earlier artificial lubrication, she was less juicy than she usually was when I reached her entrance. I started to back up, but she reached down to pull the base of my phallus inward. She was wet enough for entry, and the excitement from the greater friction started me on my pattern of moving in and out. She pressed up against me on every in-stroke. Her hands moved up my arms and then down my torso to my waist. "I can't," I said, meaning that I couldn't hold back at all. "Bob!" she said as I sped up. The orgasm was boiling upward and out my phallus. As I pressed deeply within her, she rolled her hips to meet me and pulled me in by my butt. I shot into that welcoming heat. "Yes," she said and squeezed my butt. And then "yes," again, to welcome each of two more shots and finally a fourth. Seconds after the last shot, I collapsed on her. She moved her hands up and hugged me. Occasionally, she patted me on my back. When my energy finally came back, she handed me a Kleenex. I cleaned myself off as I came out. Then I rolled over as she cleaned herself and the bed off. I was far enough over in the bed that she missed the wet spot when she cuddled against me. I reached down to her mound. She pulled my hand upwards. "It's still my night," she said. "You didn't." "You did," she replied. "And quite enthusiastically, too. Don't you see that's the same thing." I not only couldn't see, I couldn't guess what it was the same as. But she continued. "Bob, you want me to have whatever you enjoy. Now, I can't complain. That's love." "I do love you." "Oh you do! And that's wonderful. And that's so different from what I was used to. Don't you see? I gave up some things; but I didn't give up what you think, and I didn't give them up so Bob could have something for himself. I gave them up so I could be married to Bob." "You are the sweetest girl." "I'm perfectly serious. I'm Mrs. Robert Brennan. I wanted to be and I am. You hug me, and you talk to me, and you come home every night to me. And I know you always will. You look at those old magazines and those young coeds; but, when you spill out all that lust, it's finally in me. And, as long as you do, I'll always have a place in your life and in your heart." "That's unfair," I said. "I've loved you forever and ever." "Well, you do love me. Nobody else does -- ever did. And, when you want me to have fun in classes like you did, that's your love talking. And I love you for it. And, when you say, 'Oops, Bob had an orgasm; Jeanette didn't,' that's love talking again. Do you want to give me an orgasm so that score will be more even?" Put like that, I didn't. "Are you saying that you don't really enjoy sex?" "Oh no! Once upon a time, maybe. But, even then, I enjoyed your orgasm our first time in a tent. And I enjoyed yours a few minutes ago. But, what you were really asking, of course I enjoy mine. Can't you tell? And that is because of you. Twice! Because you taught me to enjoy them, because you taught me to have them, because I could trust you enough to have one in your arms. I couldn't ever imagine losing control that way, but Bob would hold me and pet me and want me to come. "I enjoy sex the way you do, if not always. But I enjoy sex many more ways than you do. I enjoy seeing your climaxes, they are fun in an entirely different way, and they are profound, too. Do you realize how much you trust me? Do you realize how much this means?" "I love you," I couldn't think of anything else to say. "You do. I don't think you meant love right then, but Bob loves me. You don't know how often I told myself that our first year: Bob loves me, and Bob wants me. "And," she continued another thought, "I enjoy having you hug me and hugging you. I enjoy having you inside me." "I enjoy hugging you, too," I told her. "Who insisted on the skin-to-skin in the first place? If you haven't guessed, I enjoy being inside you, too. We couldn't do it for long face-to-face, but we could lie with me inside you like this all night." She giggled. "It wasn't a guess, Bob." She reached back and fitted Junior into the crease between her buttocks. "Still my game." "I didn't think you liked that T shape." "I don't. I mean, I like having you next to me. "Look," she continued, "how important is this college stuff to you? And is it that, or is it not having a baby?" "Same question back at you. You know, you're awfully eager to have a baby growing in you, taking up space inside. You're awfully eager to have a kid screaming in the next room, taking up your time and attention. He'd have to be your priority, you know. Parents act that way." "Do you really think I'd neglect you?" she asked. "No. I'm really more afraid of you're neglecting you. You do for me, you know. That's what this is about, you neglected your education for me. Now are you going to neglect your education for my son?" "I told you. I didn't neglect my education for you. In the first place, as I said, I wanted to be Mrs. Bob Brennan. I made sacrifices for that, and I would make them again in a minute...." "You would Jeanette? Has it been good?" "I would. There have been one hell of a lot more pleasant surprises than unpleasant. You know, sex was a sacrifice I was prepared to make for you." "I'd have never asked you to give up sex." How could she think I would? "No. I was prepared to give you sex for the hugs I needed." "I'm sorry." I love sex; I won't pretend I don't. But it's not something which should please only one person. "Don't be. I said 'prepared.' That wasn't good enough for you. How much you could make me enjoy sex was one surprise. Anyway, I needed the hugs and I still do, if not so often and not so much. And I enjoy them when I don't really need them. Anyway, I didn't expect to suffer through sex; I'm not a Victorian. I just knew that you needed the sex like I needed the hugs. I sure didn't need the sex back then." "Back then?" I asked. "Yes, you egotist. You have addicted me. I need you now. Are you satisfied?" Well, I felt better. "You didn't seem to need me ten minutes ago." Maybe it was longer. "I needed you. I asked for you. I just didn't need a climax. Really, I enjoyed one; I told you so. I just didn't want a Jeanette climax." Well, I certainly enjoy her orgasms; but I want my own, too. Maybe it is a man/woman thing. Maybe it is just a Bob/Jeanette thing. "I love you," I said. That's one certainty among all the peculiarities. "I know you do," she said. "You want good for me. It's just sometimes you want your good for me." Was that what I had been doing? I held her close and thought about that. The night brought no more revelations, and Jeanette was no more lively than usual at breakfast. I had made the appointment to see the chairman of the history department to discuss my reappointment, but other matters came up first. Dan was understandably more concerned with my reaction to his talk. "You seemed unhappy with my report on 'Doctor' Franklin," he said. I could hear the quotation marks around "Doctor." For that matter, his lecture had been brutal about Ben Franklin's reputation as a scientist. I was glad he'd brought it up. "Well," I said, "it's not my century. Not my continent for that matter, but...." "But? But he was one of your boyhood heroes?" "It's not that. Hari Seldon brought me into history, and he's fictional. It's just that when you American-history people tell us that Franklin didn't do anything for the progress of our knowledge of electricity, you cite previous American historians who said that earlier." "And that isn't good enough?" "When the historians of science say that he did make discoveries, they list the discoveries and cite a book he wrote. Professor Macleod taught me that 'Primary sources are trumps.' I just wish you'd read the book Franklin wrote. There is a modern edition." I slipped a card over to him; it said: "Benjamin Franklin's Experiments, a new edition of Franklin's Experiments and Observations on Electricity edited by I. Bernard Cohen Harvard University Press, 1941" "Okay. I'll try for interlibrary loan. Speaking of Prof. Macleod, and he isn't the only man who thinks that primary sources are trumps, how's your dissertation coming along?" I put out a hand and twisted it. "Comme ci, commme ca. The writing is coming along; the schedule raises some problems." "Your continued teaching has always been contingent on your receiving your degree. We normally grant one extension of a year, but that is our limit; and I can't guarantee that." "My understanding is that my deadline is this coming September," I said. "I can meet that. To do so, however, I need to go back to Boston for the defense. They can't get a committee together before our summer session begins." "You're that close?" "Nitpicking issues of format. I have it on a word processor, but Macleod wants to see one more draft, and there isn't time before summer. I'd like to teach in the summer session." (And they would like to have me teach then. Tenured faculty wanted to go somewhere else, and summer courses tend to be basics for people who flunked the first time.) "But I have to go back for the committee, and would like to go back for the ceremony, which neatly corresponds to the last day of our exams." "Well," he said, "you know that reappointment decisions aren't simply up to me. But you have a good record as a teacher, and finishing the dissertation on time is less common than not. If the administration decides to reappoint you, I'll find the people to cover your classes and proctor the exam. Didn't you help cover when George was sick?" "Yes." "Worry about this quarter. Let me worry about next." By not stopping off in the library for any research, I got home well before Jeanette. Dinner that night was ramen over rice, and I could cook ramen. The rice was leftover. We had first adopted ramen as a meal when we were broke newlywed students. (Now there is a redundancy.) Three packages of ramen cost less than a dollar and could feed us in a pinch. Two packages with vegetables or scallion tops in it could make a dinner with toasted-cheese or peanut-butter sandwiches. It made, as tonight, a great topping for rice. After a while, we acquired a taste for it. Our expenditures had seemed to increase faster than our income the first year in Michigan. Our lifestyle hadn't felt extravagant, but our bank balance looked like we'd been extravagant. Jeanette had needed a car to get to work. We had a dining room in the new apartment, and needed a table and chairs to use it. The sofa bed, despite some great times, had started being a little hard on our backs. We'd kept it as a sofa, but bought a real double bed. With the time that each of us was putting in on the dissertation, a second computer had made sense. The rocking chair wasn't strictly necessary, but had been worth every penny. We had seen the food budget as one place to practice moderation, aside from having learned to enjoy the cheap food. We have never gone back to the tightness of the early days, however. My meatloaf recipe is no longer a birthday treat; I put a generous helping of frozen mixed vegetables in the soup water before the ramen. Anyway, our next two years at Grand Valley had shown better economic results than the first. The furniture was paid off, the car nearly so. We were current on my student loan, had paid my folks back for the airfare, and had money in savings. We were, after all, deciding between two different expenses which we had delayed until now. I crushed the packages of ramen, "dujours" in our parlance. When the water came to a second boil around the vegetables, I dropped the noodles in, tore the packages of seasoning, emptied them, turned the soup off, and covered it. When Jeanette came through the door a few minutes later, I had the table set and the meal one minute from serving. "Love you," I said. We had a kiss and a hug around her coat. "Mmm, love you," she said and unbuttoned her coat. When I slipped my hands inside, she relaxed against me in a long hug. "Do I smell soup?" "Uh huh. The stove's off, no hurry." I cuddled her against my chest, my hands innocently on her back. "I really am a mess, just as I said." I kissed her forehead. "Can't I hug my wife without my motives being suspect?" After all, I had fixed dinner partly because she had complained Thursday morning that her period would be starting. I knew that my access would be cut off. She rubbed against the slight firmness in my groin. "Like that?" she asked. "Bob I never suspect your motives." "Never?" "Never suspect." "My wife doesn't understand me." "Your wife understands you perfectly." She rolled against my middle again. Junior, totally in response, firmed more. "It's just that your wife isn't going to do anything about it tonight. Wait a few days. Want me to finish setting up?" She did, putting the rice and the soup in separate serving dishes. With trivets, we could have had the soup pot on the table. The rice was already cold. But I will admit that the table looked better her way. We could have been in a restaurant. After dinner, she gave me another kiss. "Thanks for cooking," she said. Then she had her own tasks while I washed the dishes and outlined my lectures for the next week's history of Western civ. class. When I came to bed, she was wearing a flannel nightie and, my hand discovered during our kiss, panties as well. Still, she cuddled into the spoon position as soon as I lay down. After smoothing down her hair -- I love it but not for breathing -- I rested my right hand on her belly between the navel and the sensitive parts. That was two layers of cloth, probably more, above her skin. "I talked with Dan today," I said. "What did he say?" "Reappointments are really the responsibility of the administration." "This is news?" she asked. "Not really. I just wanted to convey that the degree was on track. Besides, there are the problems of timing." "And?" She rested her hand above mine, which I took as a sign of approval. She took no notice of Junior, who was -- by then -- pressing her nightie between her thighs. "He made helpful noises," I told her. "Urk, urk, urk. Urrrk?" "A little more helpful than that. He'll probably recommend reappointment, though he didn't say so. There is no reason to believe that he'd take it to the mattresses if his recommendation isn't approved." "Why wouldn't they approve it?" She rolled away from me. "Any number of reasons, nothing that I can control. The legislature may appropriate less money for universities this year, or give a lesser share to Grand Valley. They may have a project for the money they get. Still, we get lots of students; and they all take history courses, if mostly surveys." She pulled up her nightie until the side was at her waist. She took my hand in hers and guided it back to a similar spot, but under the nightie. When she snuggled back against me, Junior was now pressed into her buttock. Really, he was pressed against the wrinkles of her nightie. "It is the other side of the academic life," I continued. "There is only so much you can do. Remember when Peter got sick? I covered some of his classes." "Yes. Was that so hard?" "Oh no! Though it did take some time I planned to put into the dissertation." I still have to learn the subject every time I teach something new. Peter who had taught that course the three previous years, probably was more on top of the course than I ever would be -- from much less prep time. "But Peter is one of the ones with grad students. A couple of dissertations came to screeching halts right then. I did what I could; there aren't all that many of us in European history. Still...." Still, as she knew, a man who hadn't finished his own dissertation had no business advising on another's. "Do you think they'll turn you down 'cause your wife's so ignorant?" "First of all, you aren't. And you shouldn't take the word, 'administration,' so seriously. Somewhere in the admin, there's a folder which has your transcripts in it." Else she wouldn't have been able to take those night courses. "Somewhere in the admin, there's a folder which says that I'm married to Jeanette Brennan. Nobody has both folders." "Well, the folder with my transcript says that I'm married to you. That's how I get tuition." "Look, those guys are hardly judging me. If Dan recommends me, that helps. And he sure had better. The problem is that Dan probably recommends too many retentions, he is a nice guy. If the doctorate comes through in time, and I don't see how it could miss, that helps." I slipped my little finger under the elastic waist of her panties, meanwhile raising my eyebrow in question towards her. The eyebrow was a total waste; she had her back to me. After a minute, I eased my hand further into her panties. She dug her butt against my lap. "But mostly, they aren't looking at me at all. They are deciding how many history instructors to reappoint. When they look at the list, they'll count that number down and draw a line. I just hope that 'Brennan' is above that line. If they are barely looking at me, they aren't looking at you at all. "Really," I continued, "it's a shame they aren't. You're charming. You're intelligent. You're friendly. You're just the sort of person that they should want in the university community. It's just that I doubt if that's one of the things they consider. The department, now; the department knows you and likes you." "You're projecting," she said. Clearly she meant it psychologically. "Really, I'm not. They all like you. Maybe the men have more reasons than the women, but have any of the wives actively made you feel unwelcome?" "You're not?" She giggled and rolled her butt down and then up. When she finished, Junior was trapped between her buttocks. "I'm not attributing my feelings to others just because I feel that way." Sliding my hand slightly lower, I could get the middle finger on one of her lips below the parting and my ring finger on the other one. (Does the right hand have a ring finger?) By pressing with one and then with the other, I could move her parts against each other. Tonight, she wouldn't have enough moisture to touch her clitoris directly. "Anyway," I said as If I hadn't paused, "have the women been unwelcoming?" "Well, they're polite. But I feel such a dunce, especially around the women faculty." Two of them are still working on their dissertations, as I was. The others all have doctorates. "You're too smart to compete on their specialties. As for current events," I said, "you had a plan to deal with that problem years ago. We tried the plan, and it was a tremendous success." This was an oversimplification. Jeanette had proposed that our evening meals feature conversations on current events, with the content provided by Newsweek. For the first years, I had been ahead of her. I had been paying more attention before her proposal, and -- after all -- the study of history provides a context for many news stories. After Dad started giving her subscriptions to French magazines, the lead passed to Jeanette. She read about events that didn't make it into American consciousness, events before the American press realized their importance, and perspectives that didn't reach these shores. Dad gave her a two-speed tape recorder at the same time as the short-wave radio. After that she really took off. She would tape news programs in French and play them at half speed while she rode back and forth on the MBTA. At first, she played them again and again at half speed and then at full speed. She almost ignored content, concentrating on simply being able to understand the announcer. Now, however, the two-speed tape player only comes into use when she is listening to period drama. She now listens to news programs in French every day. She is abreast of the politics of France, naturally, but also of the rest of Europe and many parts of the third world that Europeans notice and Americans don't. These days, I discuss current events at dinner less frequently than I learn about them, via Radio France Internationale and my wife. And, meanwhile, the magazines keep coming. Dad switches them each year, which gives Jeanette exposure to a broad perspective on contemporary French society as well as the quite variegated vocabulary which was the intent. Working at the office, interpreting and editing for her husband, working hard at the current events, taking courses at night and studying for them, Jeanette has had less time than she would like for reading French literary classics. What she has read, however, far exceeds the requirements for "liberally educated English speaker." All the time I had been thinking this, my fingers had been going back and forth on Jeanette's lower lips. Perforce, my palm was pressed against her fleece-covered mound. Junior, who was caught against her buttocks had reacted to all this sensual input as well. "Bob," she said suddenly, "you're not going to sleep. Why don't you go take a shower?" Now, I'd had a shower that morning. Still.... I took a shower. I was even hopeful enough to take extra care cleaning my groin. When I returned to the bedroom wearing a towel tucked around my midsection, she had the lamp on her side of the bed lit. Jeanette moved over to my side of the bed. "Here," she said, patting a pillow on her side. That whole side was without the top sheet and blankets. When I lay down on my back, the light from the lamp shown on my left side. "Put your hands behind your head," she said. She unwrapped the towel so I was lying on it. Junior was already moderately firm, but not yet stiff enough to choose his own direction. She moved him to lie against my belly. Then she kissed the base where the scrotal sack emerged. Junior twitched; I might have twitched all over. She adjusted the lamp-shade so that my groin was in the center of the patch of greatest illumination. She knelt between my legs and trailed kisses from Junior's base to just short of his head. She looked me in the eye. "You enjoy this, don't you?" she asked. "Very much!" "Good! Keep your hands behind your head." She raised my left knee and kissed that thigh. Then she repeated with the right. I now had my feet planted on the bed and my knees bent. Her forehead brushed against Junior as she kissed into the fold of my groin. She fluttered her eyelashes against him. Then she kissed around the hairline down there. I tried to steer her head so her mouth made more direct contact. "Put your hands back behind your head," she said. I did. "You like this don't you?" "Desperately." It's not as if denying it would have convinced her. "You are wonderful." By this time, Junior was fully stiff and hovering above my pelvis. With one hand, she pulled him downward until he was almost vertical. This caused a mild pain, but the clasp of her hand on the lower shaft was delightful. She watched me as I watched her lick her lips. She opened her mouth as wide as possible, surrounded the head, then closed her lips until I could feel their moisture on the top of my shaft. She licked the head. Keeping her eyes on my face the whole time, she sucked mildly and then raised her head so that her wet lips touched every bit of me until they passed the tip. She blew gently across the now-wet head. I was close, so close. "Pass me the Kleenex, would you?" she said. I released my hand to get the Kleenex box from my nightstand. She took two tissues while I held the box. While I replaced the box on my nightstand, she folded them in quarters, using my belly as a table. She released Junior to hold those two squares of Kleenex in her left hand. "Clasp your hands again." I interleaved my fingers, almost the same way I do for prayer. Then I put them back of my head (and on top of the pillow). She slipped her hand under my scrotum. "Are there lots and lots of little Bobs in these?" she asked. "You know, your head -- the big one -- is the only part of you that objects to having kids. All the rest of you wants as many as possible." She kissed up my shaft. "Let Junior think of my being fertile." Well, Junior was quivering in desire by then. I think it was the ministrations of her lips. She removed her hand from my scrotum to wrap it around my shaft. Again, she watched my face as her mouth enclosed me. She licked the head and then bobbed up and down around me. She renewed the suction as I started to push myself upward and into her. "Jeanette," I said. I was much too far gone to stop. Gallons and gallons poured through my phallus as she continued sucking. When she spat it out, however, it didn't overflow the two pieces of Kleenex. She threw them away before getting out of bed and walking over to her nightstand. There, she opened a can of soda and poured it into a glass. She stood drinking for a minute before topping off the glass. "Scoot over," she said. I scooted. "You are wonderful." She is. She's lovely and desirable and sexy. She's also so persnickety that she has to have a glass for her soda. "Want to kill the Coke?" I took the can. I don't need a glass. It wasn't particularly cold -- she must have got it out of the refrigerator while I was taking my shower -- but it was wet. It was diet Coke, so drinking it after brushing shouldn't rot our teeth. The caffeine so late at night was something else. But I only got a quarter of a can, and Jeanette is immune. She finished after I did. She hung my towel over the closet knob. She turned off the lamp and got into bed. She took my hand in hers after she snuggled against me. "Cold!" "What did you expect?" She held it for a couple of minutes before putting it back over her belly. "You are a wonderful girl," I said. "A wonderful woman." "And you have a warm hand." I moved my warm hand under her nightie. A few minutes later, I cupped her mound. Again, my fingers went back and forth. This time I was rubbing her outer labia through her panties. "It's not being opposed to having children," I told her. "It has nothing to do with thinking you're undereducated. It has to do with wanting you to have the experience you missed." "But, Bob, it's the experience you chose. I wanted us to be a family." "We aren't?" "We are," she admitted. "More, maybe, than most couples. We do talk, just like your family." Jeanette's first real experience of my family had been a series of family meetings. In those, even my bratty kid sister tries to stay on-topic. Anyway, the conversations that Jeanette and I have at the dinner table had been her idea. "Your idea," I reminded her. "But real families cross several generations. Your family keeps traditions, Brennan traditions, Grant traditions." And that we do. "Jacobs traditions?" "There might be some good ones. I'd have to check with grandparents and cousins." If her opinion of my parents is exageratedly good, her opinion of her parents is unrelievedly bad. What I've learned at first hand confirms the direction of her belief, if not the intensity. She rolled away from me to reach her nightstand. Before I could feel rejected, she handed me the tube of KY. I squeezed a significant blob on my right middle finger. "Lift your panties, will you?" I asked her. She pulled them higher and tighter around her. That hadn't been what I meant. When you are lying in bed, two significantly different directions are 'up.' "Give me space," I said. Turning on her back, she cleared away bedclothes and nightie as well as lifting the elastic of her panties. I was able to get my hand in there without spreading the jelly all over her pubic hair. She had to replace the cap on the tube before putting it back on her nightstand. Then she covered us back up. "Brrr," she said when I finally reached her labia with the lubrication. Well, it was cold for that sensitive spot. I don't know what choice I'd had, though. She'd been the one who chose to leave the tube on her nightstand rather than on the heating vent. I let that hand rest for a while. "You know," I said, "this business of being a family is all your accomplishment. I've brought some customs from my family, like family meetings. But the structure is something you've done. Or am I ignoring things I've imposed?" "'Imposed' might be the wrong word, Bob. Some things were unconscious on your part. An anthropologist would say that all sorts of things were unconscious on both our parts. But I had a choice about anything strange to me. I can remember your asking if I were comfortable with your saying all the graces; it was funny." "I was perfectly serious. My father either says them or passes them around -- asks someone else to say grace on a special day. I don't know whether Mom ever got asked, but you did. I'm not into playing the paterfamilias. I have a partner." Which might have been a little hard on Dad. He listens to Mom; she can bring him up short, although she almost never does, when he won't listen to anything else. "You offered me the option of saying the prayers, Bob. What you didn't see was the option of starting meals without prayer." Would you start a meal without saying thanks for it? That is important to me. "But that wasn't imposition. I considered it, and wanted to continue the Brennan tradition that way. I just thought it was cute that you hadn't considered it." I think of Jeanette in many ways, but most often as sexy; she thinks of me in many ways -- some of them complimentary -- but most often as silly. "Besides, so many of your special prayers mention me." "Well, yes." I started spreading the lubricant. "God may be the ultimate cause, but the cook is the proximate cause. Besides, I am grateful for you. I just need to remember it more often. And I'll admit that regular grace is often perfunctory. It's like saying 'I love you,' as I walk out the door." "I'm glad about that too. And I didn't start that." "Not the same thing if you had. Anyway, I do love you. Sometimes in the morning, we both need reminding of that." By this time, my finger had run into the little string. I carefully tucked it as far back as possible to keep it out of the way. Jeanette giggled. As I said, mostly she thinks of me as silly. "Well, I love you too. If that love is faint in the mornings, so am I." "Anyway," I cut out a few parentheses, "If you want to say the grace, you only have to warn me before I start. Do you really have problems with sitting while I say it? And we do have the structure of a family; and it's your accomplishment; and, if I've imposed something, you can tell me that. We can change." I finally reached the center of all her feeling. This was where the lubricant was most important, and I had enough of it left. "Or we can keep it," she said. "Grace structures the meals, and it's a Brennan structure. It's just that some of the things we've done are important for you." "I've never said it wasn't. For that matter, I really apprciate the things you've done to structure us. Even when I wouldn't have bothered, even when I would never have done it, I can see the difference between living in a home and living in a dorm room." "You can Bob?" She spread her legs to give me better access. "I certainly can. Maybe I'm more grateful for other things." I leaned over to kiss her. Meanwhile my finger kept moving. "But I'm grateful for that, too." "I'm glad. Beforehand, you seemed to want to marry me as much as I wanted to marry you. Afterwards...." "I found out that being married to you was even better than I had expected. But I wanted to spend time with you; I wanted to sleep beside you every night...." "You wanted to have sex with me," she said. "Well, I would have called it 'making love' with you." "You would have called it by words I won't use." And she wouldn't use them. She was raising her mound now, to give me better access to her clit. But, as far as she was concerned, my hand was 'down there.' "Anyway, I wanted marriage. You wanted marriage. Maybe we didn't want the same aspects of marriage." "Maybe." "But admit that you've enjoyed my aspects." She might be pushing her mound up into my hand, but she wasn't going to make any such admission. "I've certainly enjoyed yours." "Comforting hugs?" "Well, hugs," I said. "And I enjoy that you want me to comfort you. "Anyway," I brought us back on topic. "Your putting me through college was part of being married. Consider that putting you through is part of being married too." "And having children? Is that part of being married?" "Certainly it is. You have to ask yourself what would be best for you to do first." A woman with a BA can bear a child; can a woman with a baby attend college full-time? "We have to decide as a family. I'm not going to force a baby on you if you don't want one." This was important to her. She stopped moving against my hand to say it. "A little Jeanette? I'd love one. The thing is, I want the college more, but I want it for you. I can't say that this is what we'll do because it would be best for Jeanette; not if you really want the other. You're a person." "I'll weigh it up. You're right, it is still a little iffy." It was a lot iffy. On the other hand, maybe the first hand, I was certain that I could rub slowly all over her sensitive vulva. By now I could concentrate on her clit. "You're the person I love." I said. Something was wrong with the way I'd said it before. "Especially, I can't run you." "Love you," she said. She was silent, if moving appreciatively, for a few more minutes. "Love this." That was the last thing either of us said about my carresses. Shortly afterwards, she tensed. I kissed her while I stroked her clitoris directly and continuously. When she gasped into my mouth, I let go and snuggled against her. She left for the bathroom soon after, though. I took the opportunity to wipe off my fingers. They felt like KY, not like her. When she got back, she snuggled against me in the usual spoon. "Love you," I said sleepily. She pushed back against me. "Love you," she responded. Monday, a little more than two weeks later, I found myself in a meeting of one of those committees the administration wants the faculty to hold. People made their points, and when the rest of us weren't totally convinced, repeated those points as if we hadn't heard them. "Thank God," I muttered as the meeting broke up. I was a little louder than I had intended. "You sound," said the man next to me, "like someone who is not utterly convinced that a statement on the purpose of the University will save the world." "Have you read the last statement?" I asked. "No. Is there one?" "I haven't the faintest idea. I wouldn't have noticed if there were." "You have a point. Sam Bronowsky." "Bob Brennan." "Brennan. Heard something good about you. Hmm? No, sorry, It's another Brennan, entirely. And nothing that I heard. A woman in my evening class." "Maybe it is my wife, Jeanette," I said. "Do you teach sociology?" "Yes," he said, "possibly my best student. Writes clear papers. Don't help her with them, do you?" I assured him that any writing help flowed in the opposite direction. I felt proud. If his evening class was anything like mine, "writes clear papers" was a unique achievement. Maybe that pride added a few percent to the feeling as I called out "Love you," immediately after I closed the apartment door. "Love you. Letter on the sofa." It was hard to miss. I glanced at the university envelope, then dropped my coat before I tore it open. Jeanette came in from the kitchen. "Read it first." I did. "Reappointment." That was expected, if reassuring. "Assistant Prof. -- tenure track -- a year from September, if the degree is completed on time." She wrapped her arms and legs around me. Her lips were hard against mine, but her unbound breasts were soft against my chest. Now, Jeanette in an Iranian chadoor would be more arousing than all the coeds in their spray-on jeans; Jeanette without a brassiere, Jeanette against him without a brassiere, would get an erection from a statue. But, as they say, there is more. My wife is a feminist on many things, and can pull me up short when I take her assent for granted. In bed, however, she prefers the responsive to the initiating role. When she dresses without her bra, she is amenable to my advances for immediate sex. Junior, like a little Pavlovian puppy, rose to the signal that he would be fed. "Can dinner wait?" I asked as I started for the bedroom. "I love you dearly." I wanted to get the coming-home "I love you" out of the way before we got any deeper into the serious stuff. The thought was a little silly in context, but we always said it after the first kiss. "And I love you. Dinner will wait." After negotiating the doorway, I set her down and we had another kiss. I'd expected to see the impish smile that she usually wears when she springs one of these delightful ambushes. Instead, her expression was almost the same desperate solemnity that she had worn walking down the aisle towards me. I tried to process this datum, but was too distracted. "You do the shirt," said Jeanette as she dropped and began untying my shoes. I was briefly unhappy about that; my feet had done more sweating than I wanted her to smell. Clearly however, the lady succumbing to my advances had no intention of consulting me on the script. Naked, I removed the blouse and skirt which were her entire costume. She was quite damp, but her nipples were not erect. I took care of that little problem before pushing her toward the bed. "Are you okay?" I asked perfunctorily. With the time she'd spent planning this, she wouldn't have ignored contraception, not Jeanette. Hearing no answer, I looked in her face. She shook her head while biting her lip. "You said that we could," she said. The surprise broke me out of my rut. She dropped onto the bed and sprawled out. "Look at me." I caught her meaning. The breasts which I loved to kiss and suck and hold were really intended to feed a child. The wide hips and separated thighs which had cradled me so often and so delightfully were separated to allow a baby's passage. On the other hand, I loved that body almost as much as the spirit which inhabited it. Did I want those pert breasts distended while Jeanette nursed and droopy ever after? Did I want that svelte waist and smooth skin swollen? Sometimes my modest proportions were too much for her tunnel, and I had to move slowly until she accommodated me. How could it endure being stretched by the head of a baby? On the third hand (or perhaps another organ), I found the situation incredibly erotic. Woman is a mystery, and this particular woman is more mysterious than any other. I had pierced the mystery of her virginity, had seen and touched and tasted the mystery of her vulva, without removing more than the outer veils from the central mystery. Fertility is yet another mystery, and I was beguiled -- if a trifle frightened. "Are you certain?" I asked. "I'm decided," she said. Certainty in our situation would be foolish; and my wife, her choice of mate excepted, is never a fool. She'd made her decision, however, and would live with it. "Oh darling. Oh God, darling," I babbled. I was almost crying. We were not being precipitate; we'd discussed the matter to death. Now, however, we were committed. I knelt beside the bed to kiss her again. Somehow, we had the sort of tremulous, desperate, kiss that we had shared when the kiss was as far as we went. Her temples were wet when I left her mouth. I kissed those tears away. I got totally hung up on her breasts, kissing them all over between sucks on her nipples. I think that I was asserting my claim before some baby displaced me. Finally, I kissed lower. "The pad?" I asked hopefully. This raised her for my mouth. We had oral sex less often than not but used it for our special times. This time was special, but I couldn't argue if she saw it as a time to concentrate on the genital aspects. "Please," she said. She lifted her hips as I slid the pad under her. I knelt between her feet and kissed her thighs. When I reached their juncture, she was spread open to receive my kiss. The most enticing aroma in the world led me to her center. If you had told me the previous week that there could be a more delightful taste than the one that I had then, I would have scoffed. The taste this evening, however, was as heady but slightly sweeter. I blamed my imagination for a moment, thinking that the consciousness that this act could end in a child must be misleading my senses. Then I realized that this was the first time that I had tasted her when she had not inserted her diaphragm and spermicide. Every previous time, there had been the slightest bitterness hidden in the taste. I tore myself away from the feast long enough to say, "You are glorious." Then I returned to teasing my darling. When I felt her tense on the edge of orgasm, I inserted two fingers. I found the spot on the front of her tunnel and stroked that while I sucked the nubbin on top of her valley. My shifting had inevitably cut into her tension, but soon it returned. Then it redoubled. She bucked under my lips before I felt a rhythmic grip on the fingers that I had inserted. My beloved came in a rolling orgasm. Then she fell limp. I covered her perspiring body with the sheet. Lying next to my sweet wife and hugging her, I felt delighted in her recent pleasure, protective of her present defenselessness, reverent toward that mystery of future fertility, and a little proud of my part in the proceedings. "Bob loves Jeanette," I crooned. "Sweet, dearest, darling, you are safe in my arms." "Oh Bob," she said when she'd recovered. That was my cue to kiss her. She hugged me when I did. I was conscious of the soft breasts under me during the kiss. I stroked her side, and my strokes grew more intimate as her nipples hardened. "Love you," I said on the way from her mouth to her breast. Soon she returned to the state of tension. When I started to move down in the bed to get between her legs, she said, "Help me with the pillow." She then tried to get her pillow between her hips and the pad. I braced myself and lifted her legs while she slipped the pillow where she wanted it. I couldn't resist kissing that sweet derriere before lowering it onto the pillow. I hadn't figured out what she was trying to do, but anything which allowed our union was fine with me. The position was too much of a temptation, though. Once between her legs I kissed and licked her center until the scent and taste aroused my phallus to demand participation. Then I slid up her body and kissed her forehead before slipping in. Enclosed in her, I paused to savor the warm welcome and to say, "Love you; love you a lot," before beginning the ancient rhythm. When we were first married, we experimented with most positions. Some we found wanting and discarded, some we found wanton and retained. I had found as the years progressed, however, that fairly subtle variations in position or motion could produce great changes in sensation. At this angle, I could sink more deeply into Jeanette than I ever had before. She, on the other hand, could hardly move her torso. She crossed her legs behind me after a little experimentation and contented herself with putting pressure on my butt with her ankle and heel. I stopped my strokes in favor of a rotary motion of my hips, stirring within her and rubbing my groin against hers. I could tell that she was approaching her orgasm when she groaned something which sounded like "You," and tried to reach between us. "Do you want me to go first?" "Yes," she said clearly. I resumed stroking in and out, setting the rhythm that I knew would take me over. When my phallus swelled in anticipation, she grasped the base with two fingers. "Oh love!" was all that I could say before I came in gouts and grunts. "Stay there," she demanded before she, too, was taken beyond coherence. Her moans were accompanied by clutches at my suddenly-sensitive member and the drumming of her heels on my thighs. I did my best to obey. I stretched above my love on extended arms, letting my bones carry the weight that my muscles were too weak to carry at that moment. I watched my dearest in the twilight. Her torso shivered in time with her inner clutches, and there was a grimace on her face. Then she relaxed and blushed at her earlier insistence. The pink reached her breasts, and her nipples came out again to say hello before they slowly sank away. A final quiver of her tunnel forced my shaft out. She looked disappointed, but clearly that cork could not be put back into that bottle. I moved off her and to her side. "I love you," I said. She was still up on the pillow, but I hugged her across her shoulders with my right arm. "I love you desperately." "It's all right, then?" she asked. "All right? It was tremendous. You are wonderful." "I mean all right about the baby." "Having a baby will be marvelous. Depriving you of an education for years more will be terribly unfair." "Oh Bob, do you think your colleagues will sneer at me?" "For having a baby? Their ZPG commitment goes only so far. Haven't you seen how all the women cluster around Sarah Thorsen, and that kid will be her fourth." "For not having an education. Everybody around you knows so much more than I do." "You've been to faculty parties. When does the conversation leave you behind?" She giggled at that. We are both ignorant of the present TV programs. When we were first married, we had decided that we could afford neither the money nor the time for television. By the time that we could afford the money, Jeanette was deep into her French and didn't want to spend several hours a day being entertained in English. When we were home but not dealing with each other, I read and Jeanette either read or listened to her French radio. "Okay," she said. "It's more often 'West Wing' than plate tectonics." I resisted the opening. I have read Scientific American since my youth (and there are still articles which I can't follow). Jeanette has an unreasonable overestimate of the average difficulty of the magazine. I have gradually tempted her into reading selected articles on history and paleontology. She could have known about plate tectonics if she hadn't been so stubborn. On the other hand, Jeanette is stubborn; and I love her, stubbornness and all. Right then, I maybe loved her more than usual. While I had been thinking that, Jeanette had been thinking her own thoughts. "Do you feel outgunned at departmental parties?" I asked her. "Not really. But you seem to worry about my getting enough education." "I worry about your getting the college education that marriage robbed you of. That doesn't mean that you come off as uneducated in casual conversation. I never worried about that." The truth is more complicated, as truth so often is. I had really worried about depriving her of her education. When she had first brought up the question of her appearing jejune, however, it had seemed plausible. It no longer did. I had married a girl, after all, not yet nineteen and often unsure of herself. This was a woman. She ran an office and a household. She had managed to navigate through the public transportation systems of Paris and Boston. (Boston is harder.) When we had discovered that many of the documents that we wanted were handwritten or partially handwritten, she'd found a library with a handwriting text for eleves from 1911. We still have photocopies of that as well as of the documents. "Well," she finally said, "nobody seems to look down on me." That's an understatement. Jeanette makes conquests wherever she goes, not exclusively male. Which reminded me. "I met your current instructor today. He says you're a great student, and that he really likes your papers." "That's nice," she said, "but the standards for undergraduates might be a little lower than those for faculty wives." "Well a PHT counts." That's 'Putting Hubby Through.' Then I changed the subject. "You look awfully uncomfortable. Let me remove that pillow." "No!" "You going to stay like that until the rabbit dies?" "Ihm hmm. Which reminds me, would you do me a favor?" "For the sexiest woman in the whole world, I'd do anything." "Yeah. But what would you do for me?" she asked. "You are the sexiest woman in the whole wide world," I said. "For you I would wrestle grizzlies, swim the Atlantic, climb the highest mountain, vacuum a carpet, anything." "Would you finish up dinner?" she said. "It's ramen and sandwiches." "Well ... I dunno about that. Do I have to crush the dujours?" "Nope. I already crushed them." I kissed her belly between hair and navel, about where sperm was meeting ovum if her wishes were coming true. "Swim well," I said. She giggled. "And," she said as I carried shorts and trousers out the door, "you'd only vacuum the center of a carpet for me." Washed and partly dressed, I finished fixing the ramen. She had the vegies already in the water and the blocks of noodles broken into small chunks. I started the water boiling before finding ham sandwiches on a plate in the refrigerator. Jeanette had been a real busy girl since she had seen the envelope. Since I crushed the blocks for her as often as not, her crushing them this time was a release of nervous energy while she was waiting for me. Or, maybe, she had anticipated my joke. I dished up the soup, grabbed the sandwiches and squeeze bottles of catsup and mustard, and put everything including napkins and a trivet on a tray. Jeanette had covered herself with a sheet, but she still looked both ridiculous and sexy in that position. I put mustard on her sandwich before handing it to her. "Now," she said, "that is care." "No problem. There are lots of lips to kiss which won't get mustard on them." Jeanette and I love each other dearly, but we aren't particularly compatible. Her liking for mustard is only one example. "I suppose," I added, "that you want me to feed you your soup, as well." "Would you? That would be sweet." "Put my pillow under your head. I won't pour it down your throat. You'd choke." So I put the trivet on the sheet, just south of her breasts, and spoon fed her while I ate a sandwich with my left hand. "The spoon," she said, "would be less likely to spill if you kept your arm away from my breast while it is full." "I'm the one who washes the sheets," I responded. "Anyway, they'll need a washing after this meal." Just to please her, however, I changed the path of the full spoon. "I suppose that you have some complaint about the return path as well." She didn't, but her giggles spilled more of the soup than would ever have dripped off the spoon. As you might guess, this meal took quite a long time. Jeanette finally had to visit the bathroom. We finished in the kitchen after that. "Let's eat out night after tomorrow to celebrate this new contract," I suggested. "Do you want to pick me up after work, or should I come home first?" I would be teaching an evening class the night in between, too rushed for any celebration. "I don't know, Bob. I think we have to tighten the budget again. We still aren't living on your salary, and three of us might have to fairly soon." "Not for the next nine months, certainly." "But still." We had handed in new W4s at the new year. All the deductions were on my check, and hers represented her after- tax earnings. This made it easy to see that, even when the car payments ended, we would be spending more than I brought home. I'd get a little more in the fall, with added seniority and a doctorate; but, as she had said, still.... We don't want to send her back to the office when our son is still in diapers. "Whatever you say," I told her. "You know that I enjoyed tonight's celebration more than any restaurant meal." I started to wash the dishes and she went off to do her own work. We went our own way in the apartment for the next several hours. I graded papers, and she did some cleaning and straightening before retiring with what I thought was _Contes Drolatiques_. Instead, I found her busy with a calculator, pencil, and paper when I got to the bedroom. "What are you doing?" I asked. "Rethinking our budget." "Going to leave me any pocket money?" "One beer a quarter," she said. "As long as you leave in enough for the daily call girl." "Fat chance. You're oversexed, but you're not that oversexed. Besides, you're too tight to pay for what you can get free." Besides, as she didn't mention, my pocket money doesn't cover much more than lunch. "But my wife doesn't understand me," I said. "Bob, no one. In the whole blooming world. Will ever. Understand. You!" "I'll take that as a compliment. Done?" "For tonight," she said, handing me the stuff. I put it on the dresser before turning off the light. She scooted over, and I snuggled next to her. "We really don't have enough in savings," she continued. "Darling," I reminded her, "we got married on the prospect that you would look for work. We moved to Boston on that same fine prospect. We have more in savings than we ever had before. We have a positive savings rate and several assets. We each have medical insurance. I don't like going to my family, but they are there if something goes wrong. "Anyway," I finished, "we are further from the pit than we ever were before. Why are you worrying now?" "I'm worrying because it's not just us anymore. We took those risks for ourselves. It's not fair to bring a tiny baby into a risky situation. Oh, Bob, tell me that it is going to be all right." She turned to face me and pressed herself into my arms. "It will be fine, darling," I said. "Everything will be all right. I'm here for you, and for our child. Don't worry." I hugged her tight and gave her little protective kisses on her forehead. "You rewrite the budget. I'll pack a lunch. We know how to live cheap, you and I. If we don't have your salary, we don't need the car. Did you figure that in?" "You're right. And I didn't" She kissed me full on the mouth. Now, I knew that this hug was for comfort. We had already had glorious sex that evening, I was getting too old for seconds, and we both needed our sleep. I knew all that, but Junior didn't. As Jeanette's tongue sought mine, it started to stiffen. She smiled, which interfered with the kiss. "Somebody's feeling ambitious," she said. "Ignore him." I pulled her back into the kiss, but she pushed her thigh against my erection rather than ignoring it. I never really feel that I've kissed Jeanette enough, but this kiss had clearly served its purpose. When we broke the kiss, she turned and snuggled back against me. Her nipple was surprisingly firm against my palm as I cupped her breast. I didn't laugh aloud, but I think she felt the snort of humor against her neck. She pushed her hips back against Junior in retaliation. "Are you serious?" I asked. "Are you ... ?" I was going to say, "okay," but that was no longer a question. "Want to try?" she responded. I kissed the back of her neck in answer. I played with her nipple rather than simply holding it. When my hand went lower, she reached back to hold me. Only when we were both ready did we move our torsos apart. She fitted me into her and then pushed back against me. There was the slightest instant when I wasn't going in right, but then I slipped into the familiar warmth. "I love you," I managed to say before my attention moved toward our juncture. She rolled so I could slip my left hand under her. Gripping both her hips, I drove within her slippery tunnel. This seemed to last for a voluptuous eternity before I felt my orgasm approach. I reached between her legs again. A few brushes of my finger around the little nubbin were enough to carry Jeanette over, and her internal clutches brought my pulsing release. We lay there in panting lassitude until I passed her a Kleenex. When her back again pressed against my chest, I started singing. "Bob loves Jeanette. Bob loves Jeanette. Bob loves Jeanette. And I love you." As I cupped her breast once more, my thought drifted back to our earlier conversation. We had entered into another relationship. Our child was not yet born, not even a fetus, but -- at most -- a blastula. We, however, had been planning as parents. It was my last thought before I dropped off. |
The end Foretaste Uther Pendragon anon584c@nyx.net 1997/05/08 1997/10/21 2000/04/07 2001/11/25 2002/10/21 2003/11/12 This is one of a series of stories about the Brennans. The first story in the series is: "Forever" The next story in the series is: "For Effort" The directory to the entire series is: Brennan Stories Directory For a quite different, and quite short, story: "Show and Tell" The directory to all my stories can be found at: Index to Uther Pendragon's Website |