Holiday
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, 2003, 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.

Holiday
by Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net

George Powell loved his daughter, Shannon, truly he did. He enjoyed her chatter at dinner, and -- after he'd shut himself away at his computer to type up the sermon for Sunday -- was very glad to take a break from his struggle in finding something new to say about "Who do you say that I am?" to help put her to bed.

Shannon was all sweet smelling from her bath and brushing her teeth. She gave him an enthusiastic hug and kiss. He read her one book. Then Barb and he heard her prayers and kissed her good night. All of this was a pleasant break from work.

Still, he breathed a sigh of relief when Barb and he were safely distant from her room. Shannon was a delight, but she was a responsibility as well. When she was around and awake, you had to pay attention to Shannon. Barbara, now, paying attention to Barbara was a delight -- especially when he kissed her and held her against him as he did now. But he could leave her to her own tasks when he had to get back to struggle with what Paul told the Galatians about law and faith.

When he'd got it down, he put it away. As always, he wouldd run through it for Barb. That would be tomorrow night, Saturday being a holiday. Tonight, they looked in on their daughter and blew kisses from the doorway towards her sleeping form. They made their separate preparations for bed; the parsonage, which had four bedrooms, had only one bathroom. In bed, though, they came together.

He kissed Barb closed-mouth before kissing all over her face. When his tongue invaded her mouth, hers welcomed it, then dueled with it. Always on call for mothering, she wore a warm flannel nightie. But it was a large one, with plenty of space for his hands. Later, when he'd pushed it up around her armpits, he had free access to kiss and lick her breasts. And, still later, when he kissed lower on her body, she could pull it down a little way so that the wet nipples were covered against the chill of the air conditioning.

Kissing there, he could appreciate her odor and her sweet taste. And she appreciated his kisses, too. "Oh," she said, "oh, George. Oh, darling. Oh, George!" She reached down to draw him upward and in.

At that point, they heard the toilet flush in the bathroom next door. They froze. Had Shannon heard them? They listened to her stomp down the hall to her room. Whoever invented the phrase, 'the patter of little feet,' must have been deaf. When Shannon's bed creaked, he went back to licking Barb's sweetness.

But Barb shook her head. She tugged on his arms, pulling him up her body. She reached down to put him in, her hand warm and soft on his erection. But what he touched next was warmer, and softer, and delightfully liquid. After he drove in, he paused for an instant to appreciate that glorious feeling along his whole length.

But Barb ran her hands down his back and tugged at his seat. He started moving in her, both of them keeping the absolute silence of concerned parents.

The feel of her nipples brushing against his chest, the feel of her hands resting on his seat, these intensified his passion. But the feel of his stiffness sliding within her smoothness was the dominant sensation. She felt so wonderful he wished he could tell her so. But, with the walls so thin and Shannon down the hall, of course he couldn't.

He kissed her instead, the next time he was fully inside. Her tongue met his, and her arms and legs hugged him briefly. Then he had to move, had to move faster and faster. The first time the springs squeaked, though, he slowed down a bit.

Then he pressed into her as hard as he could and throbbed. And gushed. And, then, collapsed.

He moved off her after a second. He lay next to her and was careful to cover her with the sheet. She was so darling, so delightful. She didn't really need the sheet, though. She wasn't filmed with perspiration as she sometimes was. He had come, come gloriously, come explosively if silently.

She hadn't. He moved his hand to her crotch; maybe she needed a little more attention just then. She pushed his hand away and lowered the nightie to cover herself. She didn't want any attention just then. He couldn't ask why. Probably Barb wouldn't tell him even if Shannon weren't around; but Shannon was, and you couldn't discuss sex where your eight-year-old might overhear.

Friday, the occurrences of the night nagged at him. So did the sermon, though not so much. Saturday was the Fourth. On the fifth of July, after the holiday, attendance would be sparse, and attention would be absent. Still, he knew that the Epistle and the Gospel related, and he knew that he hadn't expressed the relationship.

He printed out the sermon he had while Shannon was taking her bath. After kissing her good night, reading her a story, and hearing her prayers, he and Barbara retired to the dining room. He gave Barb the sermon. "Very good, dear," she said afterwards. Which meant that it wasn't. Barb's responses were an accurate prediction of how the sermon would go over with the congregation, but not if you listened to the words.

Still, there was no sense fretting over it. They watched the news together and went to bed. Their good night kiss was friendly. He could tell she loved him, could also tell she didn't desire him. Oh well, Monday night was coming. There was no sense fretting over that, either. 'God grant me the patience to bear what I can't change, the strength to change what I can change, and ...' sometime some samples of the latter in things which really mattered.

Saturday, they and the whole town went to the lake. There was a picnic all day and fireworks in the evening. Many of his parishioners could remember when politicians came out to address them; the real oldtimers could remember when people gave attention to those speeches. The lake fed into Lake Michigan, not Lake Superior; it was the fourth of July, the height of summer. Still, the water was a little chilly to tempt George.

Barb went in, though. She wore a one-piece suit, appropriate for a pastor's wife. Appropriate, she thought for the mother of an eight-year-old. Really, she had a great figure. If she was carrying more than she had before Shannon, the gain was as much in the breasts as in the waist. Over the suit she wore what was essentially a muu muu.

"Look at Crystal Cameron," he said when they'd got to the lake and Shannon had scampered off to find her friends. "You could dress more revealingly. If Ryan lets his daughter wear that, he can't object to your wearing something more form-fitting." Crystal was currently in jeans, top, and sandals. The jeans were tight enough, though, for anybody to see that her bathing suit was a bikini. You could see the outline of the minimal bottoms quite clearly.

"And who says that he lets her?" Barb retorted. "She's eighteen, George. When I was eighteen, my dad didn't approve of how I dressed. Anyway, Ryan isn't the problem." And Ryan wasn't the problem.

"Can't see why. When you were eighteen..., well, nineteen, I thought how you dressed was delightful." He hadn't known her at eighteen.

"And what changed when I was twenty?" She was close to laughing.

"Nothing. Well, you bought new clothes, but your style was still delightful."

"Didn't seem to me that you thought so then."

"Didn't I say I liked them?" Damn! had he been too sparse with his compliments even back then?

"You wanted to take them off at every opportunity."

He laughed. He loved her in this mood. She was a good mother and the sort of wife who supported her-husband-the-pastor, and he loved his wife and loved Shannon's mom. He just wanted his raunchy girlfriend back sometimes.

"Monday," he said. Monday was his day off, and Monday night after Shannon was safely asleep, was their special night.

"It's a date," she said.

And then the Denver family invited them over "to nibble."

And, one worry removed, he certainly wasn't going to fret over the other. They socialized a bit, and he lay on a blanket with his mind totally blank while Barb and Shannon (Shannon had inherited her mother's polar-bear genes) went swimming.

And, into that blankness, that welcome blankness, popped an idea. If the Gospel and Epistle had a dialogue together -- and he was convinced that they did, the Lectionary committee may well have been convinced they did, too; after all, they'd put them on the same Sunday -- then that dialogue didn't have to be expressed as one thing followed by another thing. The logical progression was: "Who do people say that I am?" What did Paul say Christ was? "Who do you say that I am?"

It would make a great sermon. He would remember it in three years; he might even put it in a file on his computer to bring up in three years. But this was Saturday, he wouldn't get back until after the fireworks. There wasn't time to change the sermon he'd preach tomorrow.

His women came back for lunch. Barb donned her muu muu again; it stuck to her still-wet suit. Shannon wrapped herself in a towel they'd brought. After lunch, the family scattered to visit other families in their spots. He returned to their spot minutes before Shannon. "Is it all right to go in again?" she asked.

It had been more than an hour, but.... "Wait here. Mommy won't be long." And, indeed, Barbara came back minutes later.

"Let's go swimming again," Shannon greeted her.

"No thanks. You can go in by yourself, just stick close to people." Not that Shannon was in any danger. The girl could swim like a fish. "And come back here when you come out."

After they'd watched Shannon run towards the lake, Barb turned to him. "George, what's wrong?" Why they bothered talking to each other, he couldn't tell. After more than a decade of marriage, they could read each others' minds. Instead of preaching his sermon to Barb, he should just walk in front of her with it in his hands. She'd look a his face; he'd look at hers; he would know how the sermon would go over with the congregation.

"Nothing's very wrong. It's just that I put the sermon together in the wrong order. And I figured that out when it's too late to change it. And, while that's happened to me before, usually I'm putting on my robe when the light breaks -- teaching the adult class, at worst. Now I've got plenty of time to brood over it. I just don't have any time to change it. I'm tempted to think it out now and wing it tomorrow, but you know what's happened before when I wing it." The congregation might not notice what the sermon was about, tomorrow. They would sure-as- hell notice if it took forty minutes.

"And why can't we go back?"

"You can't be serious. The fireworks. You know what Shannon would say if she missed the fireworks? It's not that far. Maybe I could walk it and leave the two of you here."

"You're going to drive back. I'm going with you. We'll leave Shannon here. The church is full of people who think they have parental rights to Shannon, telling her how to behave. Let one of them take the parental duties, for once."

"You could stay here. See the fireworks. Hitch a ride."

"You need an audience."

"Well, I'm not sure I'd trust the people who take most of the parental authority with respect to Shannon. How about the Camerons, Ryan and Laura?" And Ryan, as chair of staff-parish, was the first man he should go to for help.

"Sounds good to me. They ought to be good substitute parents. After all, Crystal hasn't dropped out, gotten pregnant, or been arrested for drug use."

When Shannon got back from swimming, they ran it by her. "Dad and I have to go back to the house," Barbara said. "Do you want to go back with us, or stay to see the fireworks?"

"Do I have to go?"

"Not if Mr. Cameron will watch you. Will you be good and do what he says?"

"Oh yes. Please, please."

"Let's ask him." And they did. Ryan and Laura looked happy. They were good people, and -- after all -- Shannon was a good kid and extremely popular. They kissed her goodbye and drove back to the parsonage.

"Thanks," he said when they were home. He kissed her. Surprisingly, she responded to the kiss by thrusting her tongue into his mouth. His hands roved all over the outside of the muu muu, feeling nothing but the casing of the swimsuit underneath it.

She was laughing when she pushed his hands away, but push them away she did. "You have a sermon to rewrite," she said. "I'll set the table for our supper." He went upstairs to the bedroom he used for an office. Things went swimmingly. He had most of the right ideas already; he just had them in the wrong order. He saved what he already had as P05c98.old, and moved blocks around for the new sermon. "How is it coming?" she asked from the doorway a little later.

"Okay," he said. "I've about got it arranged. But I'll need to run all the way through it to smooth out the transitions."

"Good," she said. She came over behind him, and he leaned back for an upside-down kiss. "I'll take a shower. This suit dried on me."

He heard the shower begin, and then he returned his attention to the screen in front of him. He'd got through it all, and was staring at the screen when he heard the shower stop. He printed the new one out, and saved it. He was outside the bathroom door when she came out in the muu muu, but carrying the bathing suit. She cooperated in the kiss, accepting his tongue, relaxing against him. He could feel her soft breasts press against his chest, her buttock flexing under his right hand. The print-out in his left interfered with his hug.

She pushed herself away, though. "Got the sermon finished?" she asked.

"Ready to go. Dinner first?"

"Sermon first. It's early for dinner time. We can eat after, whatever. And I can be an audience again if you want to rewrite it."

"Good enough. Let me wash up." And, after using the toilet, he did. Down in the dining room, the table was a massive fixture of the parsonage, much larger than they would ever get for themselves. It nearly filled the large room. She'd set one end for the two of them. She was sitting back from one side of the other end, the congregation in miniature. He stood on the other side of that end, put the sermon down in front of him, and began.

"'Who do people say that I am,' Jesus asked two thousand years ago. And, back then people said he was...." He recited the list from Luke, went on to the many things people today say Jesus had been and is. Then he elaborated on Paul's saying that Jesus was the object of a faith that transcended the law. He ended with the question, "and who do you say Jesus is?"

"Much better, dear," Barb said. "And a just under eighteen minutes, too. Is there anything you want to add?"

"No. Let church get out two minutes early. It's a holiday weekend; they'll be glad to go." Neither of them mentioned that Barbara had said the previous version was very good. This time, she meant it. The kiss was sweet, sweeter for the job being done. Her breasts were still soft against his chest; her seat was firm under his hands; her belly was warm against his erection.

Finally, she stepped back. "Dinner time. Mind if I stay dressed like this?"

Mind? He loved it. "Might as well; you don't want to spill anything on your breasts."

"You! You know what I mean."

He knew she had meant further dressing, not further undressing. He just wanted the other option in her mind. "Monday."

"It's a date." And she sounded enthusiastic.

Holding hands for the grace was something they'd instituted to include Shannon. Tonight, on their holiday from parenting, it felt romantic.

The food, intended for a picnic, looked a little odd on the massive, formal, table, although there were scars from many, many, families on the oak. When he'd mentioned his worries about what a first-grader might do to such a formal piece of furniture, Ryan Cameron had responded, "Don't let her scratch her initials in the wood. That or the date would be the only clues that the damage wasn't here when you came."

"Good food," he told Barbara when they were finished. They pushed their chairs back. She came around the table for his kiss. His tongue invaded her mouth while his hands caressed her body. She broke the kiss, "Shannon," she said.

"Is two miles away, with the Camerons."

Her response was to return to his arms. He tongue entered her mouth once more; his hands squeezed her seat. When he withdrew a little do reach her breasts, the nipples pressed through the cloth to meet his hands.

After a bit of that delight, she sagged against him. He could feel all her warmth and softness against his full length. He bent down and hugged her tight to him with one hand on each buttock. When he straightened, he lifted her off the floor.

"George!" she said, but she wrapped arms and legs around him. He carried her a few steps down the table and set her on a clear space. Now he could resume the kiss and have both hands free. He stroked her breasts and then her thighs through the cloth.

When he found this an impediment, he pushed her skirt up. She held on to his shoulders while she lifted one buttock and then the other. He pushed her skirt up until Barb was sitting on just the bottom hem. He stroked her thighs, then reached under the dress to hold her breasts. Soon, touching wasn't enough.

He started to pull the dress higher. "Monday," she said.

"Monday is far away, and so is Shannon."

Perhaps persuaded by that comment, she shifted her weight from side to side again while he pushed the dress from under her seat. She took it off, dropping it on the far end of the table. His tongue tasted hers again, then he trailed kisses down her bared torso towards those lovely breasts. When he sucked one nipple into his mouth, she leaned back on her arms. She wasn't trying to escape; she was giving him access, free access.

While he licked and sucked her nipple, he stroked the insides of her thighs. Soon, his fingers were playing with her inner lips. He stroked the fluid upwards towards her button. As he did so, there was more and more fluid to distribute. He shifted to her other breast and pushed a finger into her and drew it out.

"The table!" she said. There was enough fluid that it might be dripping down onto the table. She probably felt it dripping down.

"Don't scratch your initials in it," he said. Then he returned to her breast. She laughed, then she gasped. He sucked at her nipple again, stroking her button as he did. She gasped again.

Barb reached for the front of his trousers. He moved back to evade her. "Want you," she said.

"And I want you. Maybe too much." He didn't want to come in her hand.

"Bedroom is awfully far." Too far for him, too.

"Can you stand?"

"Try," she said. He stepped back and reached out his hand. She pulled herself up by it and dropped gingerly to the floor. Tentatively, she dropped his hand. He bent over to kiss one breast again. When she reached for his waist this time, she dealt with the belt.

Then he turned her around by the shoulders. "George," she said. But she bent forward over the table. She stood with her feet nearly a yard apart. He pushed his shorts down and shuffled forward with trousers and shorts around his ankles. They hadn't done this in years, and he'd been barefoot at the time. His shoes changed their relative height. He found his erection coming into her too high. "Move your feet together," he whispered.

She did, and he was against that marvelous warmth. "Barb," he whispered as he felt her liquid clasp around the head. He pressed forward; she pushed back. "Barbara," he said quite loudly as his entire shaft sank into her liquid warmth.

No one else could hear. To remind them of that, there came the muffled sounds of the fireworks beginning in the distance. "George," she said, clearly if not so loud. He reached around her to cup her dangling breasts and feel their prominent nipples press into his palms.

She bent forward, hammocking her back between her rigid arms and her legs. That not only pressed the breasts into his hands, it drove him another bit into her. He stood like that as long as he could, playing with her nipples with his fingers. Then needing more motion, he withdrew nearly all the way.

As he moved inward again, he pulled his right arm back against her thigh. He drew her against him while his hand sought her center. He stayed fully inside while his fingers explored her mound. Then he pressed one finger against each outer lip while he resumed stroking in and out. The most sensitive point at the bottom of his penis ran repeatedly over the most sensitive point in her vagina. He could still heft her breast with his left hand. "Barb," he said. "Darling Barbara. Oh, I love you."

"Yes," she said, "Oh, yes, George." She was using her hands on the table to push back when he pressed forward, to draw herself forward when he pulled out. Then her motions stopped as she clutched around his penis.

He pulled his hands back to her hipbones. He pulled her back as he drove inward one more time. Then he was gushing into her vaginal clutchings.

She fell forward, face on her hands. He dropped his hands to the table on each side of her and leaned on them. They both were breathing hard. When he started to slip out, she grabbed the muu muu. She held it between her legs as she straightened. He reached for a paper napkin and wrapped it around his penis. "Whew," he said. He wasn't as young as he'd been the last time they'd made standing love.

"Whew, yourself. Dibs on the bathroom."

"Go ahead. I can still hear the fireworks."

She did, and came down dressed in jeans and blouse. After his own shower, he put on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt. They cleaned up the table, and cuddled in front of the TV. They were watching coverage of fireworks displays from around the country when the doorbell rang. Ryan Cameron carried Shannon in and handed her to George. "We don't know how to thank you," Barb said.

"The pleasure was mine," Ryan said. You could tell from his tone of voice that he was sincere. Now, Shannon had gotten as dirty as a grade school kid could on a picnic. She had a little less jelly and mustard on her face now; George could tell by looking at where she'd left it on Ryan's shirt. Still, the man had enjoyed caring for her.

"Good people, the Camerons," he said after Barb had closed the door.

"Good people. The kitchen, I think." In the kitchen, she hauled a chair over close to the back door. As he held Shannon and moved her around to make it easier, Barb stripped her and draped the clothes on the back of the chair. "I need to shake them out before they go in the washer," she said.

"Bath tomorrow morning?" he asked. Shannon was still only partly awake, and the part that was awake was beginning to fuss.

"Soap tomorrow." Barb answered. "Give me two minutes and then bring her upstairs."

When he did, Barb greeted him at the bathroom door as naked as Shannon. She took Shannon from him and stepped under the already-running shower. He guessed the next step and draped a towel across his front. She handed Shannon to him and turned off the shower. Out of the shower, she patted Shannon dry. Then the two of them put her to bed. No book tonight, no prayers, no nightgown, either.

They stood together watching their daughter drop back to sleep. Barb was still bare, dripping from her third shower that evening. But the breasts and buttocks which had so attracted him earlier didn't suggest sex right then. It was still the Fourth, but their holiday was over. They were parents again.

The end.  
Holiday
Uther Pendragon  
anon584c@nyx.net 
2003/07/04
This story parallels one told from the point 
of view of Ryan Cameron.  That is to be found 
at:
 "Perchance to Dream"  
A different story involving a different 
couple involved in a different stage of 
parenting is:
 "Forays"  
This story is coded (MF wl).
The code, wl, means: Sex within the marital relationship.
For more on the story codes and how to use them to find the 
sorts of stories to interest you:
 
This story is indexed in the subdirectory: 
 Wedded Lust  
The directory to all my stories can be found at:
 Index to Uther Pendragon's Website