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Subject: {ASSM} A Bit Of Consolation (MF cheat)
Date: Thu, 17 Feb 2000 01:10:05 -0500
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A Bit Of Consolation (MF cheat)
by DrSpin
February 2000
* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to
drspin@newsguy.com
===========================================================
Standard Disclaimer:
I write and you read, if you care to. That's all there is
to it. If any reader is offended, and I would be surprised
to hear it, he/she should not have been here in the first
place and only has himself/herself to blame. If this story
is relocated, please leave my name intact as the author and
please include my email address.
===========================================================
I was home on my own and happy to be there after the dramas
of the last few days. I'd spent the morning pottering about
and now, after a cool shower and the first of a few cold
beers, I was settling down to watch the big football game
on television. I cursed the doorbell, prepared to send the
interloper away with alacrity. But I could hardly do that.
Melanie. Of all people. She looked terrible.
"Melanie," I said, trying to keep the surprise out of my
voice. "Are you okay?" She looked at me steadily. Tears
welled in her eyes and started rolling down her cheeks. No,
obviously not. Like you do when you're a man when women
start to cry, I opened my arms and she scuttled in against
my chest, sobbing quietly. Sighing inwardly, I put away the
resentment at missing a good football game. She was my
son's girlfriend. Was. They broke up three days ago. He was
going to Italy to continue his studies. She was staying
home. Their four-year relationship was over. He was looking
forward to an exciting life and career. She was alone and
devastated.
"What am I going to do?" she asked pitifully in a moist
sniffling murmur. My shirt was already patched wet with her
tears.
"You'd better come inside," I said, prising her gently away
and taking her hand.
Andy and his mother were 200 miles away sorting out the
details of his trip. He was leaving in a couple of days and
wouldn't be back. It looked like they'd dumped me with a
nursemaid job. Melanie sat on the couch, knees together and
head bowed. She sniffed and then coughed tragically,
straight blonde-brown hair falling forward over her face.
The teary hangdog look didn't suit her. She was the girl-
next-door type, freshly pretty enough in that clear-eyed
clean-lined healthy-lifestyle naturally-19-year-old sort of
way without being anything like beautiful. If I had to pick
one word to describe her, I couldn't do any better than
'neat'. She looked as though she would attend church
religiously every Sunday morning and, by God, that was
perfectly true. She did.
She lifted her head. "I came here today to collect
something personal," she said. "Andy left it for me in his
room. Do you mind if I get it?"
I shook my head. Why should I mind? She stood up, took a
deep breath and left the room. Soon she was back, carrying
a manila folder. "Sorry for crying all over you," she said.
She was nervous, obviously trying hard.
"No problem," I said, trying hard myself to be gracious.
And at that moment the folder slipped in her hand and the
contents slid out and fell to the floor. We both bent
hastily to retrieve the scattered items. They were colour
photographs. The one I held showed Melanie standing wholly
and brazenly naked in a sunny outdoor setting. We were
kneeling together on the floor, side by side. She saw that
I saw, and I was too surprised and thus too late to pretend
I didn't.
"Well, that's torn it," she said, mildly in the
circumstances. Then: "Does it shock you?"
I continued to look at the photograph. "Not really," I said
carefully. "I guess I knew you had that sort of
relationship."
I held the photograph of Melanie naked in my hand and she
knelt beside me, looking at it. "My breasts are too small,"
she said in matter of fact fashion. She didn't seem to be
looking for a counter compliment. She pointed with her
finger and touched the picture. "See? Out of proportion
with my hips."
I handed her the photograph. She took it and slid it into
the folder and scooped up the scattered others. "Sorry
about that," she said. Like she'd spilled a glass of water.
She stood up and I did too. At close range, my eyes dropped
involuntarily to her breasts contained in a close-fitting
pink woolly sweater-thing. She watched me intently. "Too
small," she repeated. "Unfortunately."
I stepped back three paces and sat on the couch for all
sorts of reasons. I shrugged vaguely. "Well," I said in a
drawn-out manner. Nothing further. I couldn't think what to
say.
"Andy thought so," she said. She was wearing faded blue
jeans and she looked leggy and tall. She had a neat and
crisp triangle of light brown pubic hair and a flat smooth
tummy. Not that I could see it, but I knew it from the
photograph. Andy was right. She was not chesty, but she had
dramatic stand-out nipples like .45 calibre bullets. I'd
never seen such prominent nipples. They were nearly
dangerous weapons.
"He was always going on about my lack of definition, as he
called it," she said. And then she started to cry again.
Jesus. I stood automatically and she came into the circle
of my arms again. She put her head on my shoulder and I
could feel her breasts, small though she said they were,
pressing points into my chest. Maybe not the breasts.
Maybe it was those freaky steel-capped nipples. I kept my
hips turned away from her, necessarily, and it was making
me stand awkwardly. I patted her gently on the back, right
on her bra strap and the lumpy back clasp. Messages ran
rapidly to my brain and I was trying hard not to hear them.
Do nothing, I kept telling myself. Say nothing. Do nothing.
Just look and act sympathetic until she goes home.
But she was burrowing into me, nuzzling her head against my
neck. Her hair was tickling my ear. "You're so nice," she
murmured. "You've always been nice to me." Well, perhaps.
Like, nice dog, nice cat, nice pussy. Nice pussy indeed.
The explicit photograph was still on display inside my
head. Hot damn. I screwed my hips aside even further
to avoid frontal contact.
I found that instead of patting her sympathetically on the
back I was stroking her in long sweeps, my thumb hooking
repeatedly on the bulky bra catch. So I stopped doing that
right away. She drew back her head and looked up into my
eyes. Not far up, because she was a tallish girl. She had a
quizzical look in her eyes and I could read it with ease.
She liked to be held, especially today, and she was feeling
warm and comforted and, just now, without warning, an
impulse had got loose in her bloodstream which was
something to do with comfort and something else to do with
being held in close by a man stroking her back and
something else again. She tilted her face and put up her
lips to be kissed.
I shouldn't have. Clinically, I should not have. But as you
all know only too well, it's not that easy to be clinical
in such situations. I couldn't not kiss her. She was too
much right there in my face. The only way not to kiss her
would have been to stop supporting her body, drop her on
the floor, run out the back door of the house, climb on
the roof and wait there till dark. So I kissed her. Or
maybe I kissed her back. Whatever. In any case the deed was
performed. I know how to do it very well. I'm a mature guy
who's had lots of practice. I kissed her and it lingered,
twining and wrapping and pressing. In the process full
frontal body contact came about between both parties and
she could not have been in any doubt about my level of
interest in her proximity. Again she drew back slightly and
looked into my eyes. A tiny smile twitched on her mouth and
a clutch of emotions showed in her eyes. I saw the ripple
of a thrill there, a trace of forbidden encounter, a hint
of fear, a smoky wisp of lust, a slow surge of pleasure
and, unless I was mistaken, a hard steel-grey glint of
triumph and a flickering spark of revenge. She was liking
it and she moved in to kiss again.
"Mr Gibson," she said huskily after a couple more minutes
of close encounter. "You should have given your son advice
on kissing. You're much better."
I winced. I tried to wriggle away but now she had her arms
locked behind the small of my back. "Look, Melanie," I
started. But she darted her mouth at me and we were kissing
again. Now she was skidding her abdomen aggressively across
the trapped but painfully-hard penis which was
contradicting my concern about the proprieties of the
situation. I was deep in trouble.
She was making little noises in her throat and her hand
snaked down and traced between thumb and forefinger the
length and breadth of my erection. She withdrew her face
from mine. "I think there's something else you have over
your son," she whispered.
"Melanie," I said, still trying. "You teach in Sunday
school."
"I believe in God Almighty," she replied, "but I stopped
being a virgin over four years ago."
God be praised, we fucked three times that day. She stayed
the night and it kept happening at regular intervals. She
stayed the next day and it happened less but it happened
better. And the next night too, which took us into Monday
morning. I cooked breakfast for her before she left.
"This should go into an instruction manual for girls who
have their hearts broken," she said, chomping
enthusiastically through toast with her strong white teeth.
"The remedy is simple: Go fuck the boyfriend's father."
"Sounds a bit simplistic," I said. "And maybe just a bit
too cold-blooded."
"But it works," she said smugly. "I feel lots better."
Something struck me suddenly. "Hey," I said. "When did you
decide you were going to sleep with me?"
"The night before I came over," she said.
"You scheming little fiend! That business with the crying.
And with the photographs. It was all a set-up."
"The crying was real."
"What about the photographs?"
"I staged that," she said, pleased with herself. "You think
I'd have left them here with good old careless Andy? I had
them stuck under my jumper."
"Melanie, you deliberately seduced me."
"So? Any regrets?"
"Well, I guess not. Not now anyway. Too late for that. But
why? Why me? I'm old enough to be..."
"My father," she finished for me. "True. But I've always
had a bit of a soft spot for you. It was a good way of
finishing off good old Andy and it got me over the blues
good and proper. Don't worry. It's a one-off episode and I
won't cause trouble. It's time for me to move on anyway."
"I've been used," I said.
"Only women get used," she said succinctly. "Men just
perform on cue."
Brutal truth. When she returned that night, I told Helen of
Melanie's tearful visit. "Poor girl," she said
sympathetically.
"Oh, she's much better now," I said. "I fixed her up. She
just needed a bit of consolation."
ENDS
* The author welcomes (and gets blood transfusions from)
comments and opinions from readers and is invariably
motivated to respond. Write to drspin@newsguy.com
--
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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