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The Ninespin Collection
(Nine New Short Stories by DrSpin)
July 2000

===========================================================
(1) Reflections on the Spirit (F/MMM, cheat)
(2) Bedside Manners (FM, Okay cheat)
(3) Email Mixup (MF, oral)
(4) Melissa's Dilemma (MF, bond) 
(5) Gwen Punishes Herself (MF)
(6) For Once in Her Life (F/MMM, cheat, wife, watch)
(7) Creaking Gate (MF)
(8) Shut Up, Uncle (FM, voy, exhib)
(9) Six Tits (MF)
===========================================================
Standard Disclaimer: I write and you read, if you care to. 
That's all there is to it. If any reader is offended, 
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.
===========================================================
* Ruthie edited expertly and made this collection happen.

* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers 
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to: 
drspin@newsguy.com
===========================================================

(1) Reflections on the Spirit (F/MMM, cheat)

Her youngest granddaughter sat on the veranda in the cool 
of the evening, slumped in her chair, her feet resting high 
on a stool. Miranda had been rambling about disappointing 
relationships. She was twenty and experiencing measures of 
life's disillusions.

"Granny, it must have been much simpler when you were 
growing up," she sighed. "I mean, moral codes were so 
strict. Everybody just got married and stayed married. It 
was the answer to everything."

Iris Whiteside smiled indulgently, realising the 
patronising content was not intentional. "It wasn't that 
simple at all," she replied mildly.

CIRCA 1939: Age 20:

Iris rode the horse quietly along the trail through the 
woods, allowing it to pick its own careful way. She had 
hours and hours to spare with a blanket, a book, and a 
picnic basket. Kenneth had been away at Officer Training 
Camp for more than a week and would not get leave for 
another fortnight, and the few days she was spending at 
Aunt Sarah's house were blissfully peaceful. She'd been 
married less than six months and life was still hectic. And 
the war was coming. Who knew when such peaceful sunny days 
might come again?

The horse walked into a clearing where three men sat on a 
tree trunk drinking tea from a thermos flask. The tree had 
been freshly felled. The men wore trousers, heavy boots, 
and singlets. Shirts hung loosely from the branches of 
shrubs. "Hello," said one of them loudly and cheerfully. 
"What have we here? Bless me, I think it's Lady Godiva."

She'd dressed for her own company and her hair hung long 
over her shoulder and down her back. She was wearing a 
straw hat, jodhpurs, riding boots, and a man's white shirt 
far too large. She sat high in the saddle and eyed the men 
warily. Two were young, around her age, and the other 
somewhat older, perhaps in his mid-thirties. All were tall 
and strong, their demeanour open and friendly.

"A cup of hot strong tea, miss? There's plenty to spare." A 
polite refusal took shape in her mouth. These men did not 
appear harmful but they were strangers nonetheless. She 
would ride on to her quiet rendezvous with herself.

But no, she wouldn't. "That sounds nice," she said, and 
climbed down from the horse.

One of the men emptied his cup into a bush and wiped it 
clean with his shirt. He filled it with steaming brown tea 
and handed it to her, indicating she should take a seat on 
the fallen trunk. She sipped at the cup and wondered why 
she had not ridden by.

"You're not from around here," said the older man.

"Visiting relatives at Temple Station," she said, looking 
up at him standing tall in front of her.

He nodded. "Going on a picnic?"

She smiled. "Well, a nice place to rest and read."

He gestured broadly with his hand. "This is a nice place."

She squinted up at the sky. "Too shady. I was hoping for 
more sun."

"We can fix that," said the tallest of the three of them. 
"See that tree? The one that's casting all the shade? It's 
coming down because we want the timber. Ever seen a big 
tree come down?"

She shook her head, holding the cup in both hands.

"Would you like to?"

She found she did. She wanted to see these three big men 
fell the big tree.

"Right," said the older man, looking pleased. "Let's go to 
it, lads."

They picked up long axes with big heads and sharp twin 
blades. Two of them swung and chipped at the trunk 
rhythmically. It was a team effort and she watched keenly 
as their muscles rippled across their shoulders. One man 
dropped out and the resting man took his place. Wedges of 
timber flew and a great bite appeared quickly in the stout 
trunk as the three men attacked it in perfect harmony. They 
stopped briefly, wiping their brows and grinning at her, 
and set upon the trunk from the opposite side. She finished 
the tea and watched, enthralled, as they swung and sunk 
their axes deep into the timber, the sound of it as  
measured and steady as a beat of music.

"She's ready to go," shouted the older man. "Watch it now, 
miss." The three of them pushed and strained against the 
trunk with their arms and shoulders, and it creaked and 
groaned, toppling slowly and then with a great swishing 
rush as it crashed thunderously into the undergrowth. 
They turned as one and looked at her expectantly.

She clapped her hands, thrilled with it. "Gosh," she said. 
"That really was exciting."

Sunlight flooded through the yawning gap of the canopy 
above. "There's your sunny bright clearing," one of them 
said. Indeed it was, but she looked at him doubtfully. 
"Don't worry, it's all yours," he said. "We're moving on 
and we'll swing by here tomorrow with the lorry and saw 
this fellow up for hauling."

"There's just the matter of payment," said the older man. 
She looked at him, puzzled. "For this beautiful clearing 
and our honest hard work, I think one small kiss each from 
a pretty young lady would be just about perfect." All three 
of them laughed heartily.

She could decline. Without awkwardness. Their manner 
suggested they would accept it without grudge. She knew she 
should decline. On her own, way out here, three strangers. 
No matter how pleasant they were, it was acutely dangerous. 
Of course she had to decline.

But no, she wouldn't. "That sounds fair," she said, and 
removed her hat as she stood up to be kissed.

The older man held out his arms and she moved within them, 
face uptilted. The skin of her belly fluttered. She was, 
she realised, excited to the point of eagerness. She had, 
she realised, been excited at a level of agitation for some 
time. His mouth came down on hers and he held her tightly 
in arms that radiated heat and strength. Her senses were 
assaulted. The taste of tobacco, the smell of sweat, the 
firmness of a broad and hairy chest. She blinked in the 
sunlight when he withdrew his mouth and let her go, losing 
her bearings.

She was enclosed by the next man, the youngest one. She 
could tell by the stiff moustache that bristled under her 
nose as their mouths met. His thighs pressed into her and 
she pressed back with her abdomen, involuntarily. Out and 
away, head spinning, and into the arms of the tall one. He 
put his hand around her waist and lifted her into the air 
mid-kiss.

She stood back from them, breathing deeply. The air had 
gone still and the light from the sun had yellowed. Her 
skin prickled. More. It wasn't enough. Do it again. She 
stood still, waiting, arms limp at her sides, her eyes 
flicking uncertainly from face to face.

Suddenly the tall one stepped forward and took her arm. 
"Just one more for the road," he said softly, and she bent 
her head up to him. He kissed her and she kissed him back 
eagerly. His big hand pressed her left breast gently and 
she thrust against it, aching for a closer touch.

Another man replaced him, the older one. She heard herself 
making small noises in her throat. His fingers were working 
at the buttons of her shirt and she could feel the hard 
bulge of his erection against her stomach. The third man, 
moustache brushing her face, stepped in, slid his hands 
into her shirt, and cupped her breast in the silvery 
brassiere. Her whole body was like slowly flowing molten 
lava.

Once more she stood alone. She looked down herself and 
found she was swaying slightly. The shirt gaped open, 
unbuttoned to the waist and her breasts pointed in the 
shape of the stitched bra cups. She looked up at the faces 
of the three men.

"Missy, take it off," one of them said, almost whispering.

Oh God. It had come to this. She was going to have sex. No 
doubt. It was going to happen. She was shocked, appalled, 
terrified, and thrilled in equal fragments. She was 
certainly going to advance beyond the three different men 
she had known in her life. By how many, she was not at 
all sure. Her hands shook as she tugged the shirt free and 
eased it off.

"Take it all off," one of them said.

She nodded, because she knew she would do it anyway, now or 
very soon. She looked down at the ground because she was 
too terrified to look at their faces. She stripped all the 
way to naked and, because her knees were weak, sat down on 
the tree trunk behind her. She propped herself on her arms 
and stretched out her legs. Her vagina was exposed. It 
throbbed expectantly, waiting for and wanting the intrusion 
that was coming.

"I want to see you too," she said huskily. And she did. 
Could hardly wait for it.

They undressed hastily, shedding clothes and throwing them 
away. She looked at three erect penises, one of them longer 
than the other two. She pointed at it and he came to her 
and helped her up from the trunk. It was the tall young one 
and his penis folded up against her, long and hot, as he 
kissed her once more. Holding her in his arms, he guided 
her to a blanket now spread on the ground. Her blanket. 
Somebody had shaken it out and placed it ready.

On her back, she watched as he positioned himself between 
her legs. She had never before wanted sex so badly and she 
reached down to guide him into her. He went in so easily 
and smoothly she was amazed. The man was big and she took 
his length comfortably, enclosing and enveloping. It was so 
simple. She snaked her legs around his waist, crossed them 
at the ankles, and marvelled at her licentiousness. She was 
relaxed, almost luxurious. She cradled the man's head in 
her neck. She didn't even know his name. Two other men were 
watching. This was Adultery with a big capital letter. It 
was dangerous and delicious. His body was lean and strong. 
She loved the hardness of his back and shoulders. He was 
moving into and out of her slowly, stroking with his full 
length, and she knew a powerful orgasm was building and 
soon it would overwhelm her.

The passage of events was just too intense and it could not 
be withstood. Quickly it curled and crashed and she cried 
out in the surge of it. The man was thrusting more urgently 
and he grunted as he exploded inside her. She stroked his 
shoulders as he relaxed, keeping his full weight off her. 
She lowered her legs and he withdrew slowly. She looked up 
at the two men watching, their penises eager and stretching 
out. Yes, of course she could.

Iris beckoned and the one with the moustache stumbled 
forward. He slipped into her easily and started thrusting 
vigorously immediately. Again, surprising herself, she 
started to build towards a climax but he was too quickly 
through his efforts, hunching and grinding as he fired his 
seed. More. She wanted more. She merely looked at the third 
man, and he came to her.

He stood above her for a moment, then reached down and took 
hold of her upper arm and lifted her effortlessly to her 
feet. In a haze, she looked at his strong brown forearm, 
corded with muscle and sinew, and his big and coarse long-
fingered hand. Semen slid down her inner thigh. God, what 
was she doing? Why did she want this so much? She shivered 
with doubt and desire.

"Miss," the older man said politely, though when she looked 
up at him his eyes were hard and stony. "I'm having you 
like this." And he pushed on her shoulder, pressing her 
down to the blanket. She collapsed in a huddle, and he 
lifted her easily by the hips and turned her over so that 
she was on her knees. Oh God, she thought, as he positioned 
himself on his knees behind her. She'd never done it this 
way.

She feared he would take her anally, and though she didn't 
want it she knew she'd allow it, and she lowered her head 
and raised her haunch, presenting and offering. But he slid 
directly into her vagina and she moaned aloud with an 
ecstasy she did not know was within her capacity.

He was not urgent and frenetic like the younger men. He 
took her with long, steady strokes, gripping her with 
strong hands around her thighs. A sudden image flashed into 
her mind, a scene from high above, of a man taking her from 
behind while she arched and pushed back at him, of two more 
men standing and watching. It was lewd and shocking. She  
was a good girl, educated, brought up to be a lady. A young 
wife not long married. She was not this. It was not  
possible.

She was lost in lust, filled to overflowing with the raw 
emotional power of it. The man behind her knew what he was 
doing. She didn't know it could be like this. It was 
magnificent. She shook with an orgasm so strong it made her 
giddy. Her mouth was open and dry. He didn't stop, and on 
he went, pushing into her with his long and steady strokes. 
Back at Temple Station, Aunt Sarah would be supervising the 
preparation of lunch. Here in the clearing, Iris soared 
into another dizzy orgasm.

The man's hands tightened painfully on the soft flesh of 
her thighs, and he grunted like an animal as he pressed 
himself into her, expending. He withdrew slowly and she 
rolled on her side and curled up, mentally and physically 
exhausted.

"Miss." She snapped open her eyes. Perhaps she dozed for a 
moment or two. The three men were dressed, standing over 
her. She curled her body into a ball and protected herself 
with her arms, suddenly ashamed of her nakedness.

"We'll be going now," said the man with the moustache. "Are 
you okay?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Just to be sure, miss," said the older man. "You're okay 
with this?"

"Yes."

"Sure?"

Iris smiled up at them. "Quite all right."

They left her field of vision. She heard them pick up their 
tools and she heard them go. She dozed a little more, 
huddled on the blanket. After a while she sat up,  
stretched, and began to find her clothes and get dressed.

PRESENT DAY: Age 81:

Miranda was shaking her gently on the shoulder. "Granny, 
are you okay?"

Iris thought she must have dozed off for a minute. "Yes," 
she whispered.

"Sure?"

She smiled at her granddaughter. Miranda looked so much 
like her all those many years ago, when everybody got 
married and stayed married, and when that was the answer to 
everything. Everything, that is, except for the wild spirit 
within her, within Miranda, within everybody. 

"Quite all right," Iris said.

ENDS

===========================================================

(2) Bedside Manners (FM, Okay cheat)

"I want you to sleep with my husband," she said. You could 
have floored me with a feather. Kath had said she wanted to 
ask me a big favour. Now she had. What do you say to one of 
your oldest friends when she's in a hospital bed with a 
possibly terminal illness? You can't spit in her face. You 
can't hoot and jeer. You can't even get up and leave the 
room.

"I'm married," I said automatically, instinctively. She 
wanted what? Me? Sleep with Wally? What the hell was this?

Kath waved her hand feebly. She was very sick and very 
tired. Of course she was. She had a brain tumour. "Don't be 
silly," she said dismissively. "You can do it and get away 
with it easily. John wouldn't have a clue."

Well, okay. My husband John didn't usually have too many 
clues, that was true. Hang on. Let's get back to the main 
event. "You want me to sleep with Wally."

"Sure," she said, as though she'd asked me to pick up a 
loaf of bread at the supermarket. "He's going to sleep with 
somebody, for sure, and I'd feel better if it were you."

"Why does he have to sleep with anybody? What's so special 
about Wally?"

"He's not so special but at least he's mine." Kath had a 
sad smile on her lips. "Meg, I know what he's like. Without 
a regular sleeping partner -- and I mean regular, you know? 
-- he'll go looking or at least make himself available and 
some scheming opportunistic bitch will gobble him up. I  
know he's not special but he's not exactly unattractive, 
either. Wally will stray into trouble without me. It's a 
living certainty."

Wally. Bit of a dill, really. Much like John. But nice 
enough in a smiling, pleasant, husky handsome way. Kath was 
right. Left to his own devices, he'd get eaten alive. But 
why pick on me?

"Why pick on me?" I asked plaintively.

"Because you're not in the least interested in him," she 
said. "And you're my oldest friend and I trust you."

"You didn't trust me with Mike Thompson," I reminded her 
sharply. "And rightly so."

"That was 15 years ago. Besides, you fancied him like mad 
and you don't fancy Wally at all. He's not your type."

"Kath, I haven't slept with anybody but John for years. I'm 
out of practice."

"Rubbish. What did you do with Graham Roberts? Poetry 
readings?"

"How did you know about that? God, who else knows? Anyway 
it was years ago."

"Two years, as I recall."

"That's still years." But she'd scored the point. Sick as 
she was, she was still a sharp woman. How did she find out 
about that? Damn.

"Look, it won't hurt you," Kath said. She had a glint of 
cunning in her eyes. "I know it's a lot to ask but Wally is 
quite competent, you know. I've trained him pretty well. I 
think you might be surprised."

"How am I supposed to accomplish this? It's just not that 
simple, Kath. What makes you think he'll want me?"

She waved her hand weakly again. "Oh pooh," she said. "He's 
always going on about your tits. And it is simple. Just 
seduce him, that's all. You can do it standing on your 
head. I know you, my friend." She smiled maliciously. 
"He'll be guilty as all hell. It means he'll be as sweet as 
chocolate to me."

"You're not just sick," I said to her. "You're a sick 
bitch."

"I told you," she said defensively. "If Wally is going to 
get into trouble, I want it to be on my terms. You can give 
me daily reports. I'll know what's happening. I'll have 
some degree of control."

She was something else. Half dead and still awesome. My 
oldest pal. Right there and then I knew she was going to 
beat this thing and get better. My spirits lifted. But I 
was still left with the Wally problem. Dear God. It looked 
as if I had no choice but to take the job.

"You'll never be able to pay me back for this," I said 
grimly. "You'll be in my debt forever."

She grinned at me. Her teeth were dull and yellowish, her 
hair lank and without lustre. She had dark circles under 
her eyes and worrying spots on her skin. She looked 
terrible but now I knew better. She wasn't really going to 
die.

Things fell into place. John had to go away for three days, 
so I rang Wally and told him I was coming around to cook 
him one of my famous dinners while he was visiting Kath in 
the hospital. It would be ready for him when he got home. 
Wally, who ate as heartily as anybody I ever knew, thought 
this was a fine idea. He came home, attacked the dinner 
with gusto, and was pleased to hear my optimistic views 
about his wife. It was a hot night and we looked at the 
pile of washing up unenthusiastically.

"Leave it," Wally said. "I'll do it tomorrow."

"It is hot," I agreed. "What I'd really like to do now is 
jump in your pool. But I didn't bring a costume."

"Maybe you could find something of Kath's," he suggested.

"Wouldn't fit," I said.

"No," he agreed, grinning at me. "Not even close."

I looked at him speculatively. "It is hot, though. I could, 
I suppose, go in my underwear. It's respectable enough. As 
long as it wouldn't offend you."

"Of course not." He couldn't disguise his enthusiasm. "I'll 
just get changed and join you."

I waited till he joined me poolside to slip out of my 
summer dress. I'd told no lies. My white bra and pants were 
relatively respectable, covering more flesh than any two-
piece bathing suit I'd ever owned. Wally tried hard and 
failed to stop looking at my chest. We swam and splashed 
around the pool until I suggested he get us a drink. I 
climbed the ladder out of the pool and waited for the 
effect.

His hair was plastered forward and water dripped from his 
nose. His mouth hung open in a perfect cliche as he stared 
at me. I pretended to take notice. "Goodness," I said with 
as much surprise as I could muster. "I didn't know I would 
have this effect." I was lying through my teeth. I had even 
rehearsed it in the shower and knew exactly what would 
happen. My underwear had become totally transparent.  
Totally. Top and bottom.

I won't fill in the rest of the farce. It was dead easy. I 
spent the night with Wally in bed right on schedule. He had 
a short penis but it was quite fat, and I don't mind 
admitting I'm partial to a thick dick. He lacked subtlety 
but made up for it with enthusiasm. All in all, not bad. 
Not bad at all.

I got up and out of the place before he'd properly woken 
up. Wally was going to be feeling guilty and, because of my 
special arrangement with Kath, I didn't need to be dealing 
with it. I went to see her that afternoon.

"I see you got him," she said as soon as I entered the 
room. "He was here this morning and it was written all over 
his face."

"Mission accomplished," I said.

"Not too easily, I hope."

"It was pretty easy," I said apologetically. "Mind you, he 
didn't stand a chance. I put on a good show."

"Tell me. Leave nothing out."

I ran through events for her. "It's not fair," she said 
when I'd finished. "It's all so easy for you bitches with 
big tits. All you do is unleash them and you've got guys 
with their tongues hanging out."

"Hey, no insults please. Remember, you asked me to do 
this."

"I know, I know. I just wish he'd put up more of a fight."

"You want me to stop?"

"No. Better you than somebody else. Did he do okay?"

"Perfectly adequately."

She seemed pleased. "Now the deal is two or three times a 
week, remember? Otherwise it could go to waste."

"Kath, when did I ever let you down?"

In fact I went back to Wally that same night. John was 
still away and why not? He was as guilty as a thief caught 
red-handed, but I talked him around soon enough. Look, I 
said, almost telling him the truth, Kath asked me to make 
sure you're looked after and that's what I'm doing. It's 
only an affair of convenience, not an affair. No harm done 
all round.

Wally improved on the second bite. He was quite a goer when 
he got started and we fitted surprisingly well. The moving 
parts seemed to move well together. In fact I had a bigger 
and better climax than I'd had for many moons. I was 
warming to good old Wally. He was all right. So I went back 
again the next night.

Kath is no fool. "What's going on?" she asked warily.

"Plenty," I replied. "Just like you wanted."

"You're keeping him busy?"

"You bet."

"Too busy?"

"Kath, you're very hard to please. You asked me to do this 
and now that I have you're acting like a jealous wife."

"Well, I am a jealous wife. You're supposed to be a 
surrogate for me, not a damned succubus. You're supposed to 
keeping him content, not drained dry. Poor old Wally can't 
walk straight."

I gave it a rest for the next few nights. Besides, John was 
back. This was obviously the right thing to do, because 
Kath was considerably more cheerful next time I visited.

"So how is Wally?" she asked conversationally. "I mean, is 
he to your satisfaction?"

"He's pretty good," I admitted. "I was surprised how good."

"I told you I trained him."

"You did okay. He's better than John."

"Oh yes," said Kath. "He's certainly better than John." I 
could see she wanted to stretch out and snatch back the 
words before they reached me. Too late.

"Shit," she said with feeling. She peered at me anxiously 
from her propped-up pillow. "You're not allowed to hit me. 
I'm sick."

"You deserve to be, you sneaky bitch. I can't trust you, 
can I? I have never been able to trust you. Anything I have 
you need to have as well."

"It was just the once," she said apologetically. "Sort of 
an accident. Three years ago. Nearly four."

"Kath, you know what I'm going to do right now?"

"I don't want to guess."

"I'm going over to your place to fuck Wally."

"He'll be at work."

"Not after I ring him on my mobile."

"Bitch."

"Bitch yourself."

Suddenly she smiled at me. "Like old times," she observed. 
"Just wait till I get better."

I smiled back. "I might have to kill you first."

ENDS

===========================================================

(3) Email Mixup (MF, oral)

The speaker clanged in its irritating metallic-sounding way 
as a message arrived for me on the internal mail system. 
Happy to break away from a tedious document, I switched to 
the mail reader. The message was from a Virginia Portland:

"Keith, you bastard, you could have rung me. I wasn't 
expecting flowers or anything but a simple acknowledgement 
might have been nice. -- V."

I looked at the screen, puzzled. Meant nothing to me. 
Didn't know her. I work in a huge government department 
complex and my office is on the 17th floor. Thousands work 
in the same building. I collected a jpeg of a single rose 
and wrote back:

"Do I know you, Virginia? But here's a flower anyway. -- 
K."

Clang went the speaker again, so fast I didn't even have 
time to get back to my Word document:

"Is this the brush-off already, Keith? After one night? 
They told me you were a bastard. I should have listened. -- 
V."

I picked up my hard copy of the internal phone directory. 
Yep, there she was. Virginia Portland, Legal Section, 7th 
floor. Didn't know her. Never heard of her.

Wait. Three weeks ago. That little mousy brunette I picked 
up at a singles bar and took home for the night. But she 
said her name was Cathy and she worked as a ticket clerk at 
a bus interchange. Possible, I suppose, that she fudged her 
name. People do that sort of thing in singles bars. 
Fishing, I wrote:

"What do you know about bus tickets, Virginia? -- K."

Clang.

"Are you telling me to take a hike and get out of town? I'm 
in tears here, you bastard. -- V."

Shit. Things were getting out of hand. Time to clear the 
table:

"Virginia, my name is Keith Douglas. Are you sure you have 
the right guy? - K."

Clang.

"You think I don't know the name of a guy WHEN I SUCK HIS 
COCK? -- V."

Cathy didn't do that. She didn't do much at all except lie 
there. I scratched my head. Somebody from the past? I 
wrote:

"Excuse my sloppy memory and remind me when you did that. - 
- K."

Clang.

"LAST NIGHT! You bastard! -- V."

Mystery partly solved:

"Not THIS Keith Douglas, Virginia. -- K."

Clang.

"You are on Floor 9, right? Marketing and Promotion. -- V."

I looked in the directory. Mystery totally solved:

"Sorry, Floor 17. Executive Services. You want Keith 
Douglass (with a double 's'). -- K."

Silence. I waited five minutes and went back to my Word 
document. The phone rang. "There's a Miss Portland from 
Legal Section here to see you," said the guy at the 
security desk.

It was not possible to look more anxious than she did. 
Tidily packaged, mid-twenties, blonde hair pinned at the 
back of the neck, grey sensible skirt, white blouse showing 
elements of a white bra beneath it. She stood in front of 
my desk and twisted and kneaded her hands nervously. "I 
thought I ought to clear this mess up as quickly as 
possible," she said.

"No need," I said. "I understand well enough. It was an 
easy mistake to make. No offence taken."

Apprehension continued to cloud her face. She had 
attractive pale blue eyes. She looked at me gravely and I 
could see her struggling with a decision. Abruptly she 
turned away and looked out the window.

"Nice view from up here," she said. "I don't have a view."

I waited patiently for her to explain why she had come to 
see me. There had to be a significant reason.

"I'm getting married on Saturday," she said, almost 
reflectively, still looking out the window.

"I see," I said. "And not to Mr. Double-S Douglass, I 
gather."

"No. He's a naval officer. My husband-to-be, that is." She 
turned around to face me, and the hands were twisting 
again. "I had a few drinks with people in the office last 
night. Things got out of hand. You know how it is?" She 
looked at me hopefully.

"Sure," I said. "Last chance to be a rebel, thumb your nose 
at the system, be a bad girl just this once. That sort of 
thing, you mean?"

"That sort of thing," she agreed, smiling, with a touch of 
a blush on her cheeks. "Can I be assured of your absolute 
discretion?"

"Absolutely, Virginia."

"You know, you're so much nicer than the other Keith."

"And I have a better view," I added.

"He doesn't have a view at all." She giggled for a second 
before snuffing it out. "It did in fact happen in his 
office last night."

"You should see the view when the city lights come on," I 
said. "Fantastic. Especially when I turn off the lights in 
here. You ought to come up and see it some time. Maybe. If 
you get the urge to be a bad girl again."

"I have to work late tonight," she said.

"So do I," I said.

Again she was struggling with a decision. I held out my 
pass card to her. "See you here at eight?"

Her eyes flicked from me to the card for a few long 
seconds. Then she took it.

Clang.

It was 8:45am.

"Keith, thanks for the flowers. -- V."

I wrote back:

"My pleasure, Virginia. -- K."

ENDS

===========================================================

(4) Melissa's Dilemma (MF, bond)

I was watering the azaleas in the garden when I became 
aware of distant shouting. I looked around but couldn't see 
anything or anybody. What the hell? I walked in the general 
direction of the irregular but insistent voice. I looked 
over the fence and saw the curtain flutter on the window of 
the neighbouring house. Yep, that's where it was coming 
from.

I checked my watch. I had exactly 16 minutes to spare, and 
I moved up to the fence, because it sounded like a cry for 
help. Then I heard the voice.

"Hoy," it shouted. "Can you hear me?"

I climbed over the fence, went to the window, and rapped on 
it tentatively.

"Hello?" I called.

"Mr. Jantzen, thank God," said the voice, sounding a little 
hoarse. "It's me, Melissa. I need your help urgently."

"Right," I said. "What do I do?"

"The back door is unlocked. Come in and find me. I'll call 
out the way. I'm trapped, I can't move, and I'm in agony."

Right. Melissa. Seemed like a nice girl. Barely any trouble 
for a young neighbour. Only occasionally did the music get 
a bit loud, and she was always gracious about turning it 
down when asked. Had the small house on her own but always 
had lots of visitors. I bustled around to the back door and 
inside the house. I heard her calling and I found the door 
of the room she was in. I opened it, automatically switched 
on the light in the gloom, and nearly had an instant heart 
attack.

Melissa was tied to all four posts of the bed. Totally 
naked. Totally restrained. Totally exposed. I looked up the 
length of her body on the bed. Her legs were wide apart and 
I looked straight into her open and hairy box.

She shimmied her heels impatiently, and the curtain jammed 
behind the head of the bed moved ever so slightly. "Yes, 
yes, I know," she shouted at me. "For pity's sake, Mr. 
Jantzen, untie me. If you don't do it in ten seconds I'll 
pee all over the bed."

Right. I snapped into action, untying the rope knots at 
ankles and wrists on one side of the bed, then I leaned 
across her and untied the others. She bounced off the bed 
so fast she collided with me, and soft breasts squashed 
into my shoulder as she pushed me aside. She snatched up a 
dressing gown from a chair and dashed out of the room, 
calling out to me: "Stay here. I'll explain in a minute."

It took her longer than one minute. I heard the toilet 
flush but it was at least five minutes before she returned. 
She'd seen to her face, and her long brown hair was tied 
back. She was dressed in the robe, tied at the waist.

"What can I say?" she asked, downcast and not really 
asking. "You've always been such a nice neighbour. I'm 
really sorry to have brought you into this, but I had no 
choice." She took hold of a bedpost ruefully. "It's sort of 
complicated. I have these two boyfriends. Tom, I think 
you've met him, is nice. Alex, and you would not have met 
him, is not so nice."

She sighed deeply. "Alex tied me up and left me there, 
laughing all the way out the door. I was like that for over 
nine hours. Then I heard you whistling next door and I just 
had to get you to help." She looked up me. "Forgive?"

"Right," I said. "Look, Melissa, what you do is no concern 
of mine, as long as you're not too loud when you do it."

Suddenly she burst out laughing. "Oh dear," she said, 
wiping her eyes. "I was very loud when I was doing it, I 
remember that clearly." She looked at me steadily, calm 
again. "You see, I like being tied up, Mr. Jantzen. Tom 
won't do it, but Alex, well, Alex is Alex."

Right. She liked being tied up. Some people did that.

"You're shocked," she said. "Oh dear, I've shocked my 
neighbour."

I nodded slowly. "It certainly was a big surprise," I said. 
"But we'll say no more about it, Melissa. I'll pretend it 
didn't happen, okay?"

"What about Mrs. Jantzen? You won't tell her?"

"Heavens, no."

She smiled slyly. "Never tied her up, then? Maybe she'd 
like it."

I laughed. "Melissa, I'm 43 and Jill is 44. I think we know 
each other pretty well by now."

She shrugged. "You're a nice man, Mr. Jantzen. Sorry to 
embarrass you."

I looked at my watch. I was now definitely late, and I 
headed for the door in a hurry. "I'll get over it, Melissa. 
Make sure you do too."

I climbed back over the fence and went in my own back door. 
In the kitchen, Jill was tightly bound and trussed, naked, 
hanging suspended from an exposed beam.

I took the gag from her mouth. "You bastard," she hissed at 
me. "Where have you been all this time? I'm in agony here."

I smiled at her pleasantly. "Just helping out a neighbour," 
I said. "But I'm as horny as a buffalo in rutting season, 
and you're in big, big trouble."

ENDS

===========================================================

(5) Gwen Punishes Herself (MF)

He was stacking the last of the dishes when Anthea tugged 
at his shirtsleeve. "Come and look at this," she said, 
conspiracy loaded in her voice.

"Look at what?"

Her smile promised mischief. She pulled him gently but 
insistently by the sleeve, quietly intent. She stopped at 
the door of the living room and pointed to Gwen. "Look," 
she whispered. "Isn't that worth looking at?"

His daughter's friend had fallen asleep on the sofa. Her 
head lolled back and her mouth was open slightly. An open 
magazine lay upside down and across her chest, still held 
by one hand. One leg was stretched out straight, the other 
bent, and the hem of her thin cotton dress was sitting high 
on her thighs. The bottom button had popped open and she 
was exposed in a manner unladylike. The light from the 
standard lamp cast no sympathetic shadow. It only 
highlighted the display.

Tom saw clearly her clean white pants, which looked very 
clean and very white almost to the point of silver, 
contrasting sharply with the smooth warm-coloured flesh of 
her thighs. He saw the pressing curve of her pubic mound 
and the suggestion of a crease. His senses were suddenly 
heightened and he realised he had been holding his breath. 
He could even see the minute rise and fall of the magazine 
on her chest as she slumbered evenly and peacefully.

Anthea whispered close to his right ear. "Well? What do you 
think of that?"

He let out his breath carefully and spoke unguardedly. 
"Delicious," he said.

"Right," she said. "Delicious. That's it."

They stood watching the sleeping Gwen. The skin of her legs 
glowed in the light of the lamp, one hand dangled off her 
thigh, her lips were parted and she was glorious in her 
sprawling abandon, all the more so because it was 
unintentional. He thought he had never seen a sexier sight 
in his life.

"You could have her, you know," whispered Anthea.

Her words shocked him like a jag of static electricity. He 
looked sharply at her. "What?"

"Shush," she said. She pointed at Gwen. "I'm telling you. 
You could have her. Tonight, if you like. Probably. No, I'm 
certain of it. You could definitely have her."

"Anthea, that's ridiculous. You must be tipsy."

She smiled tightly at him, her eyes glinting in the light. 
Then she tugged again at his sleeve, drawing him back into 
the kitchen. She confronted him. "You don't want her?"

He gestured vaguely. "Anthea, this is not ...." He left 
off, uncertain about the correct response from a father to 
a daughter at such a moment.

She reached out and brushed the front of his trousers 
lightly with the back of her hand. Her smile tightened 
triumphantly. "I knew you did," she said. "The way she 
looks anybody would."

"Anthea," he said, with as much dignity, warning, and 
forbidding he could muster.

"Oh Dad," she said. "Stop being stuffy. I saw her like that 
and it just came to me in a flash. You're in need and she's 
available. I could fix it up, no problem."

"Why do you want to humiliate me?"

"I don't. I'm trying to help you with your problem."

"I don't have a problem."

"You carry placards that say you do. You're lonely and 
depressed, and a good healthy dose of sex would do wonders 
for you. You haven't had it in four years, since mother 
died."

"Gwen and me? Absurd. She's gorgeous and I'm old."

"She's had a thing about you for years and years."

"She told you that?"

"She doesn't have to. You've been part of her fantasies 
since she was old enough to have them."

"Rubbish. Anyway, those juvenile things go away. Now she's 
a woman, and married too, by God."

She pursed her mouth and shook her head at him. "Not a 
clue," she said. "You don't have a clue. I tell you, and 
believe me I know, she's a cast iron certainty."

"Anyway," he said resolutely, "I won't do it."

"Don't tell me you don't want her. She's ready, willing and 
available."

"I won't ... I don't know ... I won't make a play for her. 
I couldn't. I wouldn't. I just couldn't do something like 
that. It's absurd."

"Oh, I'll do that part. You don't have to worry about 
that."

"Anthea, stop this."

She narrowed her eyes and considered. She craned up and 
kissed him on the cheek. "Dad, you go on up to bed now."

"Anthea, I forbid you."

"It's okay, Dad. Relax. I wouldn't do anything to hurt 
you."

"You've had too much to drink."

"Probably."

"I'll go up now."

"Right."

"See you in the morning."

"Right."

"You'll look after Gwen."

"Leave it to me."

He took a shower. He always did when he'd been drinking red 
wine. It helped prevent next day hangovers, he thought.

He'd been reading for more than half an hour and was close 
to turning out the light and going to sleep when the door 
opened without notice and Gwen walked in.

"No," he said, as she was shutting the door behind her.

She moved to the bed and sat on the end, looking at him 
with an odd range of expressions on her face.

He slapped the book shut, placed it heavily on the bedside 
table, and took off his reading glasses. "I'm serious," he 
said firmly. "I won't be part of any silly game cooked up 
by Anthea, and I'm surprised you have allowed yourself to 
be talked into it. For God's sake, girl, go away and we'll 
say no more about it. I'm angry with Anthea and I don't 
want to be angry with you too."

"Perfect," she said quietly, sitting on the edge of the bed 
looking at her hands folded in her lap. She looked up at 
him. "Mr. Bannerman, nothing need happen here if you don't 
want it to happen. But I'd like to talk for a little while, 
if you would allow me. I respect your opinion and there's 
something I should tell you about."

He was deeply suspicious. "What's that?"

She rose, walked around to the other side of the bed and 
sat again, but facing away from him. "I can't look at you 
while I tell you this," she said with a hint of dread.

"Gwen, what are you talking about?"

"A long time ago I stole money from you," she said. "You 
left your wallet on the table and everybody was out of the 
room and I took some money."

"What?" Then he laughed. "Gwen, what does it matter now?" 
He laughed again, and kept laughing until he coughed and 
stopped. "Oh dear," he said. "Excuse me for laughing, but 
that's so juvenile and silly."

She continued to face away from him. "There's a lot more," 
she said.

"Gwen, it doesn't matter. How old were you? Do you 
remember?"

"Absolutely. I was fourteen."

"Well, there you go. All part of growing up."

"There's a lot more, Mr. Bannerman."

"Go on then. Get it off your chest."

"Later that night, at home, I was deeply ashamed of 
myself," she said, "and very guilty for stealing money from 
my best friend's father. I didn't even need it. I remember 
it all clearly, as if it were yesterday. I couldn't go to 
sleep for worrying about it, and I decided I was going to 
see you and confess and give it back."

"That would have been commendable," he said. "But I don't 
recall it happening."

"It didn't and now I'm going to tell you why." She 
hesitated for a moment and he waited for her, because he 
was beginning to be fascinated by her naive story and her 
strange manner. "Mr. Bannerman, you won't really remember 
me when I was fourteen but I tell you I was pretty damned 
cute. I had as neat a figure as any girl my age and better 
than most. Plenty of boys were doing their best to get 
their hands on me but I resisted fairly successfully, even 
though some of my friends actually went all the way. I was 
getting close, though, and I thought about it a lot. An 
awful lot, as I recall."

"Sounds normal enough," he said, because she stopped 
talking.

"Wait and listen. That night, I'm talking about the night 
of the day I stole your money, I couldn't sleep and I 
tossed around and rehearsed in my mind what I was going to 
say to you when I gave it back. I thought I was wide awake 
but I was probably half asleep. As the rehearsal took shape 
in my mind, you became very stern with me. You told me 
confession wasn't good enough and I had to be taught a 
lesson I wouldn't forget. You said you couldn't ground me 
or stop my allowance because you weren't my father and you 
couldn't punish me physically - you know, spank me or 
something - because you wouldn't do that without his  
permission and you wouldn't ask his permission because you 
knew I wouldn't want you to tell him what I'd done. Are you 
following me?"

"Go on," he said. "I'm curious about what I decided to do."

"You asked me whether I agreed I needed to be punished and 
I agreed I did. You asked me what sort of punishment was 
fair and I said I didn't know. You asked me what was the 
worst thing that had happened to me that month and I said 
it was when Anthea pushed me out of the gym locker room 
into the school corridor when I was only wearing my  
underwear and two boys saw me and laughed at me. That part 
was true, by the way."

"Go on," he said.

"You asked me whether being seen in my underwear was an 
embarrassing experience and I said it was. You asked me 
whether I thought that might be a suitable punishment for 
me and I begged you not to make me do it. You said it 
looked like we had found a solution and you asked me to 
strip to my underwear. I said I couldn't and you asked me 
whether I was sorry for stealing your money and I said I 
was. You asked me whether I wanted you to tell my father 
and I said I didn't. You asked me again whether I needed to 
be punished and I said I did. Then you asked me again to 
strip."

She sat silently, sitting on the bed facing away from him. 
"And did you?" he prompted.

"How could I not? I took off my shoes and my dress and 
stood in front of you in my bra and panties. You said you'd 
seen me wearing less in my bikini and you asked me whether 
I thought the punishment was adequate. I said it probably 
was not as severe as it should be and without your asking, 
I took off my bra and pants and stood naked in front of 
you."

"I see," he said, because he didn't know what else to say. 
"Well, that was an interesting story."

"It's not finished. It got a little fuzzy after that  
because of my very limited experience at the time. The 
first part, the interrogation and the stripping, was very 
detailed. I can still remember every word and every 
gesture. The second part was more dreamlike."

"What happened in the second part?"

"You told me how beautiful I was. You held me and caressed 
me. Then you fucked me."

"I did, eh? Not very responsible of me."

"But it was fantastic. That night I brought myself off to 
one of the truly great orgasms of my life. If I stood up 
now I'd buckle at the knees thinking about it. That 
rehearsal turned into a fantasy I replayed hundreds of 
times. It was my favourite and my most powerful. It was as 
much a part of growing up as school and holidays."

"Gwen," he said gently. "I'm no expert but I think these 
things are not uncommon in adolescence. We grow out of 
them."

"Over the years," she said, "as more things happened to me, 
the second part changed to suit the occasion. In my dreams, 
you were the first to do things to me that hadn't been 
done. Do you know when I last brought myself off to that 
fantasy? Last night. Here in this house."

She stood. "I've finished the story," she said. She came 
around the foot of the bed and sat where she had before, 
facing him. Her face was set straight, almost without 
expression. "Tonight Anthea told me how you looked at me 
while I was asleep. She said you needed a woman. I want 
to tell you I'm your woman."

"Anthea is unforgivable," he said. "I won't be manipulated 
and humiliated in this fashion."

She moved to him, placed her hands gently on either side of 
his face and looked into his eyes from close range. "Fuck 
Anthea," she said, and meant it. "This is what I want and 
it's what I've wanted for as long as I can remember. Give 
me my biggest fantasy, Mr. Bannerman. Make it come true."

He felt her breath on his face. She was gorgeous.

"Gwen," he said sternly, looking directly into her eyes. "I 
can smell on your breath that you've been drinking and your 
behaviour tonight has been shameful, unladylike, and highly 
improper. What sort of punishment do you think is fair in 
these unfortunate and regrettable circumstances? Or would 
you prefer me to simply tell your husband?"

She shut her eyes and dropped her head. After a moment, she 
rose from the bed and stood beside it, hands at her side 
and contrite. "Oh no," she said to him. "Please, Mr. 
Bannerman, don't tell my husband. Please punish me as you 
see fit."

How could he not?

ENDS

===========================================================

(6) For Once in Her Life (F/MMM, cheat, wife, watch)

The bonus with driving at whim on a long holiday around 
this big wide country is the great people you meet along 
the way. Larry, Barry, and Garry were three easy-going 
friendly guys on their way to the far north to take up jobs 
on a remote oil rig. We'd run across them camping at this 
out-of-the-way roadside spot, shared a drink and a bite to 
eat, and found them good company.

Lizzie was terrific with most people. She charmed them with 
her open and easy style. Even dressed down for the open 
road, she was all class. We were getting ready to head out 
back to the highway when I discovered I'd left my only 
viable credit card back at the bank in the last town 
we passed. It was only 40 miles or so away and I could be 
there and back by nightfall, especially if I unhitched the 
van. I explained my problem and asked the guys whether 
they'd mind hanging about with Lizzie and the van until I 
returned. The beers were on me. They were nice guys. They 
didn't mind at all.

I'd gone only six or seven miles when I realised I'd left 
my wallet and identification in the van. Cursing, I swung 
around and headed back. As I drove into the clearing I saw 
the guys standing closely around Lizzie. Just for a second 
I thought one of them had his hands on her breasts. I 
looked again. No, I must have imagined it.

I got out of the car and they looked across at me and waved 
casually. "Left my wallet behind," I explained. Then, as I 
approached, I looked intently at Lizzie and saw something 
was wrong. She appeared startled, confused, as if she 
somehow didn't know who or where she was. I stopped. "Hey," 
I said, a question in my voice. "Lizzie, is anything  
wrong?"

She looked at me blankly. I might have been a complete 
stranger. "Nothing's wrong, Steve," said Larry, easily and 
comfortably. "We were just trying to persuade your wife to 
let us fuck her."

"Bastards," I roared, advancing furiously. "I trusted you 
and you were going to rape her. I'll kill you."

Larry put up his hand in a stop gesture and smiled at me 
disarmingly. "You won't," he said. "There's only one of 
you. Besides, we were never going to hurt or force her. 
Lizzie's a real nice woman and we like her. She's also 
hotter than hell and she turns us on pretty fierce and we 
want to fuck her real bad. But we wouldn't fuck her without 
her agreeing to it."

I calmed down just a fraction. "Well, that's not going to 
happen," I said, making urgent plans in my head about 
hitching up the van and getting out of the place fast.

"Not so sure about that," said Larry mildly. "We were a big 
chance until you came back. You see, Steve, I'm good at 
this sort of thing with women." He looked around at his 
friends. "Isn't that right?"

"You bet," said Garry, nodding to me. "He's terrific. Can't 
remember when he was ever wrong."

"Yeah," Larry agreed. "And I don't reckon I'm wrong here. 
Yet."

"You're crazy," I snapped at him. "We're getting out of 
here."

"Hey," he said, his hands spread in a placating gesture. 
"We were just going to ask her again."

"Over my dead body."

"No need for that. But I guess we'll have to restrain you 
so you can't interfere in her decision." All three of them 
stepped towards me and I put up my hands in a fighting 
stance.

"Don't be a mug," said Barry. "Any one of us is stronger 
than you. We don't want to hurt you."

One of them, Garry, came up quickly behind and pinned my 
arms in a bear hug. I struggled but couldn't break the 
hold. They had me trussed in a couple of minutes and on the 
ground, hands tied behind my back and feet tied at the 
ankles. "I'll crucify you bastards," I yelled at them. 
"I'll follow you to the end of the earth."

Threats were not working. Barry came back with a piece of 
black tape and stuck it across my mouth. I saw Lizzie 
looking down at me. Her lips were parted. She stood stock 
still, jerking her head away only when they approached her.

"Now," said Larry to her. "Where were we?" He smiled at 
her. "Don't worry about Steve. He won't be harmed." He 
reached up and took away the ribbon holding up her hair. It 
tumbled down across her shoulders. "You are a real nice 
looking woman," he said. She stood facing him, less than an 
arm's length away, arms by her sides. She didn't say a 
word. It came to me that she hadn't said a word since I 
returned.

A nice looking woman? Well, yes, I suppose she was. Funny 
thing about Lizzie was that I never seemed to think about 
her like that. She was so friendly and open-faced and 
cheerful and such a nice through-and-through person that 
all that side of her overwhelmed you. Clinically, she had a 
nice face and a clean-lined athletic body that she kept in 
good shape. Nice looking woman didn't sound right. But when 
you thought about it you couldn't say it was wrong.

"As I was saying," Larry said to her, "you can stop this 
anytime you want. Just say no. We'll stop and go away." He 
reached out again and cupped her right breast under her 
light cotton dress. He smoothed his hand over the shape of 
it and she stood facing him, quietly, hands at her sides. 
"You have a nice body," he said. His hand moved up and 
opened the top button of her dress. He dropped to the 
second button and paused, looking into her face. She looked 
straight ahead, said nothing, did nothing, showed nothing. 
Immobile.

One of the other guys, Barry I think it was, stepped around 
behind her, and circled his arms around her, cupping both 
breasts with his hands. Garry sank to his knees and his 
hands were working smoothly on her legs. She looked briefly 
at the hands on her breasts and then back at me. Larry 
stepped forward and, astonishingly, licked the side of her 
face with one long lap of his tongue. She looked at him and 
then at me. She appeared in shock.

"Stop," she said suddenly. She took a step back from them, 
brushing hands away in the process. Then another step back, 
and another. She stood facing them, hands at her sides. She 
glanced over at me for a moment again and then back to the 
three men ranged in front of her. They didn't attempt to 
follow her.

"Let's give the lady a little time," said Larry to Barry 
and Garry. "She's never done anything like this before."

"I think she wants to," said Garry.

"Right," said Barry. "But we don't want to rush her."

"Right," said Larry. "She's got a lot to think about. Like, 
there's old Steve over there. Nice fella. Good hubby, most 
likely. Then there's us over here. Three decent, upright, 
good-looking guys, even if I do say so myself. And she's 
thinking, if only good old Steve hadn't come back when he 
did, she might have done this thing. Just for the hell of 
it. For once in her life."

"Right," said Barry. "One time only. Three good-looking 
guys."

"Who would treat her very good," said Garry.

"Right," said Larry. "Because we've done it before and we 
know what we're doing. And we've even done it before with 
good old hubby watching."

"Right," said Garry. "That was special."

"Sure was," Barry agreed. "Real special."

Lizzie stood with two buttons of her dress undone,  
watching, listening, eyes switching with the dialogue, over 
to me, back to them, over to me again.

"How long do we wait?" Garry asked.

"Not long," said Larry. "She's making up her mind. If it's 
no, she'll say so. If it's yes, she probably won't say 
anything."

The three of them stood around loosely and calmly, watching 
her and waiting. She turned to look at me for a long 
moment. I struggled vainly against the ropes trying my 
hands and ankles. Then she moved away, deliberately turning 
her back on me. She took a hesitant step towards Larry and 
stood there, waiting.

He smiled at her, moved forward, and started unbuttoning 
her dress. He peeled it from her shoulders and dropped it 
to the ground, and she did nothing. Barry moved behind her 
and unfastened her bra, and she hunched her shoulders and 
held out her arms so he could slide it free. Larry dropped 
to his haunches and slowly dragged her pants down her legs, 
and she lifted one foot after the other so he could take 
them away from her.

She was an unclothed woman standing in front of three men 
she'd not met before this day. The woman was Lizzie. She 
was my wife -- average-sized breasts topped with dark brown 
nipples; that slight outward swell to her stomach; the 
triangle of her pubic hair; neat and crisply black; the way 
her hips went wide and the space showed between her thighs. 
I couldn't see that because she had her back to me, but I 
knew her well.

"Show us, sweetheart," one of the men said, gently urging. 
She lifted her arms and pushed her hair to the top of her 
head. She held the position, elbows wide. She was putting 
herself on display.

Lizzie? This was Lizzie? My wife, my life companion, and my 
best friend? I knew all there was to know about Lizzie. 
Until today.

"Oh honey," said Larry admiringly. "We are gonna fuck you 
real good."

One of the men took her hand while another produced a 
blanket and spread it on the grass. She allowed herself to 
be pressed down and the three men moved as a team. One 
kissed her mouth, the next her breasts, and the third was 
between her legs, moving his mouth along her thighs. They 
were working her, three mouths at once, and her feet were 
moving, threading and turning. The man closest to me now 
had his head at her crotch and I could see his tongue 
working. In no time at all I saw her feet stretch and point 
and I knew, because I knew her well, she had orgasmed. She 
must have been very excited.

The guy kissing her mouth drew back and stood up. He 
whisked off his clothes and his cock stood out from his 
body. He circled around and the guy with his mouth at her 
crotch stood up and made way. He too took off his clothes 
as the man with the stiff dick moved in. Now the breast 
worker stood up and undressed and the first guy was 
penetrating her, his cock smoothly and slowly disappearing.

Lizzie lay spread out, eyes closed. The guy fucking her was 
moving steadily, sawing in and out. She lifted her legs and 
clasped them around his waist and now I could plainly see 
his glistening penis moving into and out of her, in and 
out, in, out. One of the other guys got down on his knees 
and pushed his cock into the side of her face. She turned 
her head, opened her lips, and took him in. He leaned over 
her, arching over her head. She grasped the base of his 
dick and half of it was in her mouth. The guy fucking her 
increased his speed and he clenched and tensed, shooting 
inside her. He withdrew after a moment's rest and another 
guy positioned himself and pushed into her. Meanwhile she 
continued to suck on the cock in her mouth. I saw her hips 
buck and spasm as she orgasmed again.

The second guy finished pretty quickly and then the guy 
with the cock in her face was grimacing as he shot his load 
into her mouth. Slowly they got to their feet, and the   
three of them stood around the blanket, cocks limp, looking 
down at her.

"Hate to love you and leave you, sweetheart," said Larry, 
"but it's time to be on our way." They picked up their 
discarded clothes and dressed. Lizzie, on her back, watched 
them. I saw her eyes blinking.

"It's been a good day," Larry said. "I think we need a 
memento." He opened the door of their car and brought out a 
camera. One of the other guys reached down, took Lizzie's 
hand and helped her to her feet.

"Wait," said Barry, the big guy. He searched the car and 
returned holding a black marker pen triumphantly. Lizzie 
stood placidly while he drew with it on her naked body. I 
saw her bend her head to look at what he had done. I saw 
her shoulders shake. She giggled.

Her back to me, she stood between two guys and had her 
photo taken. They swapped positions until all three had 
used the camera. In great spirits they climbed into the car 
and started to drive away. One of them waved at her through 
the rear window.

Lizzie stood stock still until long after their car had 
disappeared. Then she turned and looked at me. I could see 
the words scrawled diagonally across her breasts and 
stomach: "Fucked by Larry, Barry, and Garry."

She dressed slowly and only then came across to me. She 
bent down and looked earnestly at my face. "I had to do 
it," she said. "You know that, don't you? I had to do it, 
otherwise they would have hurt you."

Did I know that? I knew lots of things. But she was Lizzie, 
my wife, my friend. Whatever had happened, that couldn't 
change.

I nodded. Sure. I knew that. She had to do it.

ENDS

===========================================================

(7) Creaking Gate (MF)

Would he come? Midnight passed and outside the night was as 
still as an oil painting. No breeze to stir the feathered 
leaves of the eucalyptus tree outside the window. No sound. 
Then a night bird, away somewhere, calling for  
companionship, calling for liaison under the third-quarter 
moon.

Would he come? Ruth shifted under the sheets and rolled the 
width of the bed, agitated with her agitation. He did not 
say he would. He did not say anything. Bastard. She did not 
need this adolescent anxiety. Not her. Not now.

She turned her head to the digital clock. 00:30. Bastard. 
He wasn't coming. Naked under the sheets, she felt the 
first flush of foolishness. She knew it would turn to anger 
and that would cost her sleeptime. In the morning, tired 
and unloved, she would hate him so much there might be no 
going back on it.

Ruth did not know how hard she was listening until she 
heard the puff of a breeze that rustled the leaves of the 
tree outside. It built to a rush and the smell of distant 
rain came through the open window.

The gate creaked and the pulse in her neck jumped. Oh God, 
she thought. I don't need this.

He was in the house. She knew it without listening. He was 
beside the bed but she lay still, eyes closed but 
fluttering behind the lids.

"Are you awake?" he asked softly in his deep voice.

She made a pretence of surprise. She rolled on her back and 
looked up at him. "You woke me," she lied.

She felt as light as a feather. Goosebumps sprouted on her 
upper arms and a blush grew on her chest.

He had come. She hated that she was so blissfully happy.

ENDS

===========================================================

(8) Shut Up, Uncle (FM, voy, exhib)

She'd more or less come around to it in just nine days, 
which surprised her because she thought she'd be the one 
with the lesser tolerance. Uncle Stanley wasn't her crazy 
relative, for God's sake. She'd married into this absurd 
arrangement involving Phil's father's younger brother. Most 
of the pressure had landed on her, but she was finding she 
was able to get on with things -- if not normally, then at 
least passably.

Here she was, sitting at the kitchen table folding clean 
laundry while across sat Uncle Stanley, babbling at her 
incessantly, shouting frequently and in a stream of words 
not sequentially or consequently linked. Uncle Stanley 
could and did say all sorts of things, but none of it 
together made any sense. That was what you had to learn 
quickly -- not to listen to what he was saying. He 
sprinkled his rantings with extraordinarily complex and 
uncommon words and an occasional blunt and colourful 
obscenity, unfortunately always shouted very loudly indeed.

Poor Phil wasn't coping, which was a big problem. Phil's 
career was taking off excitingly after a long struggle for 
acceptance. In the past year his scripts were in high 
demand, and he'd signed an excellent contract to write the 
stage play of a best-selling novel. The pressure was on and 
Phil was working day and night in the study they'd just 
finished remodelling with the money flowing in from his 
script work. They should have thought more about 
soundproofing. Uncle Stanley's invective, in his loudest 
and most indecent moments, intruded often on the fragile 
threads of Phil's creative brilliance and, as is the case 
with brilliantly creative people, he didn't take it kindly.

"Ginny," he'd said to her meaningfully, after he'd calmed 
down from a scarlet-faced outburst that had outperformed 
Uncle Stanley. "Ginny," he'd said, as if the matter was 
entirely in her hands. "You have got to do something about 
this."

His words had contained much implication. He was under 
pressure and she wasn't. He was working and she'd given up 
her job in their more comfortable circumstances to look 
after things. He was a genius and she wasn't. He'd already 
tried to give Uncle Stanley back to the family but had been 
rebuffed. It was, he was saying, up to her to give him the 
time and space he required.

"Asshole," shouted Uncle Stanley across the table. Well, 
not really. Poor Phil was slipping behind schedule, and his 
agitation was understandable.

Uncle Stanley, it was said, had been brilliant himself. 
He'd been a dedicated research chemist doing important 
things for humanity. One day something broke inside his 
head and he started raving and shouting. The family took on 
the responsibility and it was decided he would live with 
and be cared for by the various family households for four-
monthly periods in turn. There'd been six such households 
sharing the task for years. Now that Phil had been married 
for three years and settled into his career, it was decided 
collectively and unanimously, there were seven.

It was an imposition, certainly, but it wasn't a nightmare. 
Apart from the sound and the presence of him, Uncle Stanley 
was not hard to handle. He ate anything and everything 
neatly and carefully, thankfully not talking between 
mouthfuls. He slept ten hours a night almost precisely and 
bathed himself every morning after waking. He dressed  
himself adequately and kept himself clean. The big problem 
was the talking and the way he attached himself to whoever 
was close at hand. If you passed him he followed you until 
he couldn't. If you went into the bathroom and shut the 
door on him, he'd wait and babble until you opened it. 
Unless somebody else came by, in which case he'd follow.

In nine days she'd more or less come around to it. Uncle 
Stanley would follow her around the house. She could do 
most things she'd always done and she had her necessary 
moments of privacy when she shut the door. She could not 
watch television or listen to the radio when Uncle 
Stanley was awake. Nobody could, except Phil in his study, 
and that was work. But she could do housework. She could 
cook, she could read, she could even walk in the garden and 
think about life and times. Uncle Stanley was always there, 
but she found she could do it.

But after ten days Phil was coming apart. "Ginny," he said 
to her with an edge of ragged desperation. "Ginny," he  
said, looking into her eyes imploringly. "You've got to do 
something."

Well, sure. But what? She took him out into the garden but 
Phil rattled the window of his study. She took him into the 
kitchen but Phil opened his door and shouted at her. She 
took him upstairs but Phil banged on the ceiling with 
something. So she broke the family rule and took him 
shopping. Bad move. His language caused a stir in the 
supermarket and she had to chase after him to stop him 
following people out the store.

She took him home and, thinking deeply about what she could 
do, walked up the stairs to her room to change her clothes. 
She shut the door on Uncle Stanley. "Cunt," he shouted 
through the timber frame. But he wasn't being personal.

She took off her dress and was rummaging for a shirt when 
some change in the environment made her look up 
questioningly. She saw Uncle Stanley framed in the doorway, 
watching her. 

His mouth was shut and he was silent. The door had not 
latched and it had swayed partly open under the pressure of 
a breeze. She straightened, not particularly disturbed 
because she was wearing a respectable bra and pants, and 
walked to the door and closed it.

Immediately he started ranting again. She stood at the 
closed door, listening to him run up and down the roller-
coaster of his amazing vocabulary. She put out her hand and 
opened the door. He stopped mid-word and stood silently, 
watching her. She closed the door and he started talking. 
She opened the door and he stopped.

She left the door open and walked back into the room. He 
stayed outside, silent, watching. She sat on the bed and 
pulled on her jeans. She stood up and pulled the cotton 
shirt over her head. Uncle Stanley started babbling again.

She looked at him, considering. She took off the shirt and 
he stopped. They stood looking, each preoccupied. His head 
was hunched forward and he was watching her intently. His 
lips started to move, working silently. Then the words 
started, low and slow, emerging hesitantly but 
gradually picking up pace, volume and continuity. She 
sighed deeply, realising how much she'd treasured the 
silence while it had lasted.

But it was not as it was. There was something about him and 
the way he was looking at her, in fact the way he was 
talking at her. The words made no sense but she was sure 
that, for the first time, they were being directed.

Instinctively she knew what had to be done and, reaching 
behind, she acted before logic and reason intervened. She 
unclipped the bra, drew it off and threw it to the bed.

Eyes wider, Uncle Stanley shut down the noise instantly.

That was it. She knew she had the answer. She could tell by 
his expression. He was hooked and he couldn't utter a word 
to save himself. Peace was bliss and the price was cheap.

She stood and thought about it while Uncle Stanley stared 
at her breasts. She couldn't just walk around topless. Phil 
might appreciate the silence but he would surely not  
approve. She searched through the wardrobe and pulled out a 
light cotton housecoat she had barely worn. She took off 
all her clothes while Uncle Stanley watched, silent and 
goggle-eyed, and put on the housecoat. She left it open and 
untied, walked past Uncle Stanley and down to the kitchen 
to get on with the things that had to be done. He followed 
silently.

When Phil came out for coffee she tied the housecoat. Uncle 
Stanley, watching and waiting, didn't say a word. 

Two weeks later Mavis dropped by. Ginny tied her housecoat 
before answering the door.

"You know I'm due to have Uncle Stanley next," Mavis said, 
over coffee. "Phil says you're a marvel with him. What's 
your secret?"

"Come and see me when you get desperate," Ginny said.

ENDS

===========================================================

(9) Six Tits (MF)

It was holiday season and the resort strip was crowded. 
Every place was crowded with summertime people doing 
summertime things. What women did in these places at these 
times was wear very little, like they had some sort of 
licence to do so in a place they were only visiting. Many 
of the women were young. The rule of thumb, as far as I 
could see, was that the younger they were the less they 
wore. And for a man as single and as unencumbered and as 
preoccupied as I had been over the past couple of years and 
more, it was sensory overload. A simple walk down the 
length of a shopping mall was a knee-weakening experience, 
leaving me dazed and bewildered.

I'd taken the holiday because I needed to rest and 
recuperate in an atmosphere that excluded work and worry. 
After four days of it, I could judge the wisdom of this 
decision because I was resting and not worrying about work. 
But there was this other type of stress -- an increasing 
anxiety that I was surrounded by an array of female flesh 
wherever I went, and I was completely out of touch with it. 
I had been so introspective for so long I had quite simply 
forgotten about it. I had developed, I realised, the social 
skills of a hermit.

I was ambling without purpose and when she stopped in front 
of me, blocking my way, I started to step aside. Another of 
the many hundreds of young things wearing not much. "Wait," 
she said, putting out a hand to stop me. "Mr. Denison. It's 
me. Amy. From over the road."

I stopped and blinked and she came into focus. I pushed the 
fuzziness from my head and concentrated. "Hello," I said 
automatically. "How are you?"

She saw how vague I was. "It's me," she said. "Amy. I live 
in your street."

Well, yes. So she did. It was the young woman from the 
house one over from directly across. I knew her although I 
would not have remembered her name. I'd met the whole 
family. What was their surname?

"Amy," I said. "Yes, of course. My goodness, how 
unexpected. We're both 1700 miles from home." I knew this.

She smiled happily. "We're here for three more days. When 
are you going home?"

"Not for another, let me see, eight days."

"This is a lucky break," she said. "I've left my purse 
behind and I'd really like a cold drink. Will you buy me 
one?"

"Yes, of course." I looked around. "Over there?"

She nodded and took me by the elbow, steering me like an 
invalid. I ordered what she was having and we sat down at a 
table. I studied her while she drank thirstily. Amy. Yes, 
she was a schoolgirl. But here she was in a pair of ripped 
denim shorts and little pieces of cloth that covered only 
parts of her breasts. She met my eyes and giggled. "I guess 
you're not used to seeing me like this," she said. "But we 
are on holidays and this is the beach."

"I'm sorry," I said immediately, because I'd lost my social 
skills and had forgotten how to dissemble. "Was I staring?"

"You were a bit."

"Sorry. I've been a bit distracted and I'm surprised to be 
talking to somebody who knows me. You must think me a bit 
strange."

She smiled widely at me. I knew what this meant. She did 
indeed think me a bit strange, and probably her family 
thought so too, and you couldn't blame them. No doubt I 
appeared strange.

"Are you here on your own?" she asked.

"Alone? Yes. Of course. I'm always on my own." How old was 
she anyway? She was a little kid in school uniform. She'd 
grown up without me noticing.

She continued to smile at me. "You're staring again," she 
said.

"Am I? I was just wondering how old you were."

"Fourteen."

I raised my eyebrows. "Is that so. Well, that explains it 
then."

"Explains what?"

"Er," I said, because I wasn't sure myself. I shrugged my 
shoulders.

"You didn't recognise me because of what I'm wearing," she 
said. "Or rather, what I'm not wearing."

I was finding it hard to stay in touch. If I couldn't be 
clever I ought to be honest. "You're probably right," I 
agreed.

"You didn't know I had grown up a bit."

"I guess not."

"And grown out a bit."

"No, I guess not."

"Now you do."

"I guess so."

"You know, we watch you and we wonder about you. We've all 
tried to be friends with you but you seem to be very vague 
with us. Do we annoy you? Me and my family, I mean."

"No." I was surprised. "Good heavens. Of course not." I 
shrugged again. "I went through some hard times and it has 
taken me a while to get on my feet."

She nodded. "We know the story."

Again I was surprised. "Do you?"

"Everybody knows it. You're the neighborhood mystery man."

I didn't understand why anybody should take any interest in 
me. "Really? There's no mystery, I'm afraid."

"But there is. You're still a young man, nice looking, well 
off, obviously smart. My mother says you've just taken a 
holiday from life for a while."

"It's been no holiday. This is the first holiday for a long 
time. I guess your mother is more or less right. Where is 
your mother? Is she here?"

"Dad stayed home to work. It's me and mother and my sister. 
They're back at The Excelsior. Where are you staying?"

"The big place with the bright blue front. I keep 
forgetting the name but I know where it is."

"It's called The Esplanade," she said helpfully. "We go 
down to the beach in front of The Excelsior every morning 
at about ten. But we walk along a bit to the right until we 
get to our favourite spot near the rocks. Why don't you 
come down and see us tomorrow? We're always right at the 
top of the beach among the dunes." Suddenly she laughed and 
put her hands on her breasts.

"Sorry. Was I staring again?"

"I just remembered. We take off our tops. That's why we go 
to that spot. Now I've asked you to join us." She laughed 
again. "This is great. Hey listen, I won't tell mother or 
Sophie I've seen you today, and tomorrow at 10.30 you can 
wander along and I'll see you and call out and bring you 
over. We'll all be topless. Sophie will freak. Hey, let's 
do it. What do you say?"

"Amy, look..."

"Well, I'll be topless, for sure," she interrupted. "I'm 
unbelievably curious as to how mother and Sophie will 
react. I mean, they don't give a fig about being seen on 
the beach and there's a lot of topless bathing here. But 
you're somebody from home. It will be great fun."

"I don't play games any more," I said.

"Then you should. Do it just for me. At least you'll get a 
chance to look properly at what you've been staring at."

"I wouldn't do that."

"Of course you would. All men do. I don't mind. And anyway, 
mother would like to see you, I'm sure." She laughed again. 
"After she puts her top on, perhaps. It'll be great."

"I don't think so."

She stood up. "I have to go, so I'll leave it up to you. Be 
there at 10.30 and I'll look after the rest." She waved her 
hand at me. "Bye."

I watched her walk away. What a succulent little thing she 
was. I'd thought she was a schoolgirl. Hang on, she really 
was a schoolgirl. But here at the beach she seemed to be 
different.

I wasn't going to meet Amy on the beach. I didn't think 
about it. I put it right out of my head. But at 10.30, 
without planning for it, I was trudging along the sand 
wearing a bathing costume, an open shirt, and a towel slung 
over my shoulder. I walked south towards the rocks, feeling 
the sand between my toes and picking a path to avoid knots 
of beachgoers. Many were topless females but I didn't look 
beyond a cursory glance. I heard Amy call my name and I 
looked up to see her running at me. Her breasts, though 
they were meaningful, barely bounced. She had broad pink 
nipples. She skidded to a stop in front of me and I dragged 
my eyes up from her chest.

"Great," she said breathlessly, her eyes shining. "You 
came. I thought you wouldn't." She grabbed my arm and 
pulled me up the beach. We reached the low dunes but I saw 
nobody. She turned and winked conspiratorially, dragging me 
along until I saw, between two dunes, two women lying on 
large beach towels. A radio was playing music.

"Mother," shouted Amy. "Look who I found. It's Mr. Denison 
from over the road."

Both sat up quickly, shading their eyes. Then they  
scrambled. The older woman rolled aside and snatched up the 
towel as she rose to her feet, winding it around her upper 
body and the younger flipped over to her stomach and 
scrabbled to pull the towel around her chest. Too late, too 
late. Good chest development obviously flowed through the 
female line. The mother was low-slung and yielding to 
gravity, heavyish and pointed. The elder daughter was full 
and broad, carried high and plenty of it. And beside me the 
younger daughter was already hitting medium and growing 
fast. I saw it all, noted it, and filed it.

The mother, flustered but recovering, held out her hand 
politely. "Mr. Denison," she said, with the professional 
smile of an airline stewardess. "How unexpected." She had 
tucked the towel around her top. Her breasts were crowded, 
causing a big folded crease between them, and she tugged at 
the towel awkwardly. The daughter on the sand, Sophie, 
scowled up at me, squinting in the sunlight and looking 
over her shoulder. Amy leapt across the sand to stand 
beside her mother, her breasts jiggling from side to side.

I took the woman's hand and pressed it. "An unlikely 
meeting this far from home," I said. "Mrs. Shaw-Smith, 
isn't it?" I remembered it suddenly.

She was distracted. "Margaret," she said automatically. 
Then: "Amy, put your top on."

Amy looked at her in wide-eyed disbelief. "You're kidding. 
We've been here a week and I haven't worn my top yet. Now 
I've got to put it on for Mr. Denison? Mother, three 
hundred men have seen my breasts this week. Why is he any 
different?" She waved a hand around her. "There are bare 
tits all over the beach."

"Amy." Her mother's voice was sharp and high. "Do as I 
say."

Mother and daughter looked at each other, eyes locked. 
Sophie rose from the sand. "Amy's right," she said. "We're 
here, not back there." She whipped the towel from her body, 
looked at me for a second, then straightened it and laid it 
down on the beach. She was flawlessly tanned, her breasts 
near perfect. She sat down on the towel, hands supporting 
behind her.

Margaret Shaw-Smith looked at one daughter, then the other. 
She looked back at me. "I guess they have a point," she 
said. "I'm sorry, Mr. Denison. I guess we should be as we 
were when you came along and stop treating you differently 
than anybody else while we're on holiday." She pulled the 
towel away, her breasts falling free and swaying weightily, 
nipples big and dark. She took me by the arm. "Won't you 
join us?"

I sat in the midst of six tits, all of them worth looking 
at, and tried not to. We chatted politely, catching up with 
what Amy had already told me. "Amy and I have made some 
friends," Sophie said. "But mother has been having a quiet 
time. We've been urging her to go out at night."

"I'm perfectly happy having a break and a rest, thank you," 
Margaret said to her daughters.

Amy winked at me. "Some days," she said to me, "we go a 
ways down the beach and sunbake totally nude. An all-over 
tan, you see."

Her mother punched her sharply on the arm. "Amy," she said. 
"Must you continue to embarrass us?"

"It's okay," Amy said, ignoring her. "Heaps of people do 
it. I've seen more penises this week than I thought I'd see 
for a good few years yet."

Sophie burst out laughing. "Amy, you are such a ratbag," 
she said. Then Margaret was smiling and I was too and then 
we were all laughing.

"Well," I said, standing up. "I won't be joining you in 
that, if you don't mind. I should be going. It was 
delightful finding you here and I hope you continue to have 
a happy holiday."

The three of them stood. Again I was surrounded by very 
fine breasts. I shook their hands and again Amy winked at 
me. We parted company and I did not look back, tempting 
though it was.

As the sun was setting I rang Margaret Shaw-Smith at her 
hotel. "Just a passing thought," I said to her. "How would 
you like to escape your delightful daughters and have 
dinner with me this evening?"

A pause. Then: "Yes, I would be happy to."

We were comfortable company, we discovered. I found her 
easy to talk to and three hours passed seamlessly. It was 
an up-market restaurant and she was wearing a low-cut black 
dress held from her shoulders by thin straps and I looked 
often at the tanned slopes of her breasts and the deep 
valley between them. 

"You know," I said conversationally, "you're probably aware 
because women usually are that I've been sneaking peeks 
down your dress."

She lifted her head suddenly and sat back. She looked at me 
warily.

"I only mention it," I said, "because earlier today I had 
the accidental opportunity to look at all of your breasts 
and I barely did so. Isn't that strange, don't you think? 
Why should that be so?"

She smiled, back at ease. "Conditioning, I suppose."

I shrugged. "Perhaps. But still, here I am, guilty as 
charged taking peeks at mere suggestions of what I've 
already seen completely."

"Peeking is gentlemanly if done with discretion," she said. 
"Ogling is not."

"Oh, I haven't ogled. Not even on the beach did I ogle."

She giggled. "We three females came to the conclusion you 
were highly embarrassed."

"Not really. But it is an effort to remain polite in such 
circumstances. I mean, all three of you are extremely 
attractive and certainly worth ogling."

"Those two are stunners," she agreed.

"And so are you, Margaret. I know I said I barely looked, 
but what I did see I could describe in great detail to fill 
a page at least."

Again there was the wary look in her eyes. She had tiny 
crow's feet in the corners, sure sign of the advance of 
time. "If you don't mind me asking, " I asked, "how old are 
you?"

"I don't mind at all. I turned thirty-eight last month. How 
old are you?"

"Thirty-three. But I feel older."

"Pardon me, but you look older."

"You look younger."

"Thanks."

"I was sincere."

"I know. Sincerely, thanks. These things can get to be 
important." She smiled almost shyly at me. She seemed at 
ease once more.

"Especially when you have two teenage daughters," I 
prompted.

"I'm not that silly. I can't compete and I don't try to."

"Oh, you do pretty well, from my observations. It's all on 
the page. Legs, bum, waist and bust. You do very well."

She looked at me frankly and openly, having crossed some 
boundary or other. "Chris," she said directly, "are you 
propositioning me? I'm out of practice and it's hard to 
tell."

I shrugged. "Only in an easy, comfortable, unprepared and 
preliminary way. I'm out of practice myself. Besides, it 
all depends, doesn't it?"

"On what?"

"On how you feel about being on holiday. I think that if I 
lived anywhere else but over the road, my prospects might 
be at least encouraging."

Her eyes roved my face. "I'm thinking about it," she said 
quietly. "Which surprises me, because it's not the sort of 
thing I do."

"Not ever? In your married life, I mean."

"Once," she said. "A few years ago, and I won't be 
discussing it further."

"And your marriage itself?"

That wary look again. "There's no simple answer to that. 
I've been married nearly eighteen years and that makes 
things complex."

"There's no simple answer to anything. I haven't slept with 
a woman for three years. Since she died. You know?"

She nodded. "So what? I haven't slept with a man for over 
four months and I share a bed with one. Sometimes, anyway."

Things were racing along. Tension and temperature were both 
rising. "So," I said. "Can you stay out all night?"

"I ought not. The girls might suspect but at least they 
shouldn't know."

"I'll pay up and we'll leave straight away."

"All right."

In my hotel room I asked her to disrobe for me. I wanted 
the description to go over the page, I said. I don't have a 
condom, I said. She said that was all right, she had it 
taken care of. I'm bound to be quick first up, I said. So 
might I, she said. And she was. Faster than me, as it 
turned out. Lust kicked in early for her. She wasn't noisy 
but you could see it in her eyes. We did the deed three 
times, improving incrementally, and I took her home just 
before three a.m. She was happy, almost deliriously so.

"I'm glad I was indiscreet," she said softly to me outside 
the foyer of her hotel. "That was lovely."

"No guilt?"

"None."

"The girls?"

"I'll tell them nothing."

"They'll suspect."

"Let them. They won't be difficult about it."

"They understand you?"

"They understand more than you know."

I wondered about that. Hmm. That little minx, Amy. Did she 
set it up? The answer, I discovered over time, was yes, 
more or less. The daughters indeed understood more than I 
knew. I saw them on the beach later that same day.

"Have a good time?" asked Amy, distinctly provocative in 
tone.

I ignored the question. "Where's your mother?"

"Sleeping in," said Sophie, breasts rolling as she turned 
over to face me. She was smiling, friendly, the frost gone. 
"Have a good time?"

"Yes, actually."

"Good." She rolled back over on her stomach.

It's funny how things can turn out. I have this big under-
utilised swimming pool at my house and they come over the 
road frequently in hot weather to use it. All three of 
them. Bare-breasted usually, even in the presence of the 
stream of boyfriends attracted and discarded by Sophie and 
Amy over the past three years. Margaret says the young 
company keeps her thinking young. We've enjoyed an 
enduring, relaxed, and friendly relationship, Margaret and 
I. In the best of worlds, lovers are best friends.

We're made for each other, Margaret and I. Funny how Amy 
picked it.

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

28 larger DrSpin stories are freely available at his 
website at: http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/

===========================================================

http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www/

-- 
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