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Subject: {ASSM} Ninespin (Nine New Stories) ~ by DrSpin
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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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