Message-ID: <25394asstr$964095003@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
X-Original-Path: not-for-mail
From: Azil <azil@my-deja.com>
X-Original-Message-ID: <8l5vni$tb0$1@nnrp1.deja.com>
X-Article-Creation-Date: Thu Jul 20 04:38:11 2000 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} My Reward, Ch52 (MC,MF)
Date: Thu, 20 Jul 2000 08:10:03 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d
X-Archived-At: <URL:http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/Year2000/25394>
X-Moderator-Contact: ASSTR ASSM moderation <story-ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Story-Submission: <ckought69@hotmail.com>
X-Moderator-ID: gill-bates, IceAltar

My Reward
By Azil
Copyright 1998-2000

Disclaimers:

This is a work of fiction. No character is meant to resemble any
specific person, living or dead.

Sexual actions of various types will be depicted in this story. This
does not mean that the author approves of these actions, has ever
performed any of them, or would perform them if given the opportunity.
(Nor does it mean that he doesn't, hasn't, and/or wouldn't).

This is inappropriate reading material for minors. In many jurisdictions
it may be illegal for minors to read it, or for adults to make it
available for minors to read. The author urges you not to disobey these
laws. Even if it isn't illegal where you are, keep it away from kids
anyway.

The full text of My Reward is available at www.storiesonline.net


CHAPTER 52: CHRIS TELLS HER STORY

Chris nodded agreement that it was time to go.  As she did, I took a
long look at her (probably for the first time in a while - the nature of
our relationship being what it was).

Symbolic perhaps of our growing distance, Chris and I hadn't arrived in
his-and-her costumes. While I had dressed as a baseball player, Chris
had found a short, fringed, clingy, bright red dress in a thrift shop,
added a headband and fake-pearl rope necklace, and come as a 1920s
flapper. She looked damned good - I think I've mentioned that Chris is
an attractive woman.

As we crossed the street, we talked little. We seldom talked much any
more, and when we did it was generally about the kids, finances, or the
house. We never revealed anything meaningful about ourselves - it would
just lead to another fight.

Why it happened this particular night I can't explain.

Maybe I was just horny; but as you've probably noticed after the
preceding fifty-one chapters, I had spent a good deal of the preceding
year and a half, since my gaining of Reward, in a state of advanced
horniness. And besides, as you've probably also already noticed by now,
I had a multitude of ways of dealing with such a condition - I could
visit the Mallory Empire and fuck one of my several wives or dozens of
concubines and slaves; I could cross the city to my other home where my
other wife lives, together with my other other wife, her daughter; or I
could morph into Tom O'Malley and have sex with my pretty girlfriend,
Ashley; or I could do any of a thousand other things.

Maybe it was just that slinky, sexy dress, and the fact that I still
loved Chris.

I had made a vow that I'd never do anything to mess with Chris - one of
the few vows I had kept. But finally, this night, I broke it - soft of.
The "sort of" is because I did something I'd considered before, but
rejected as being out-of-bounds; tonight I ruled it acceptable - I
created a clone of Chris.

When we got home and Chris had said "good night" and walked away from me
down the hall, I stopped time.

And at that moment, Chris, in her early twenties as when I first met
her, walked back into the family room. The year was 1925, my jersey,
instead of the tight cotton/poly of the D'backs, was the baggy wool
pinstripe of the Babe's Yankees.

The room was furnished in a mix of leftover Edwardian and severely
modern art deco. The big picture window opening on to a balcony framed
the New York skyline (minus of course the Empire State Building, which
hadn't been built yet).

"Nice place," she commented, looking around. "I didn't know you
ballplayers made that kind of dough."

"I do okay," I replied, opening the chromium and ebony liquor cabinet,
revealing rows of glistening bottles. "What'll you have?"

"Boy, you must have a great supplier!" she exclaimed. "I haven't seen
that much hooch in some of the speaks."

"My guy's the best," I said smugly. "And I just got a delivery today.
What'll you have?" I repeated. "It's all real - comes in from the
Bahamas."

She settled on scotch and water, and we settled on the comfortable,
vastly overstuffed couch. As she sipped, she moved near me. We'd already
been drinking at Texas Guinan's for most of the evening and we were both
pleasantly buzzed. "Good stuff," she remarked. "Home-made booze is
strictly a mug's game."

We sipped in silence for a moment longer, as she looked around again.
"Quite the little love nest - I'll bet you've had a lot of girls here."

"I've told you, you're the only gal for me, Chris," I answered, wanting
to mean it.

"Sweet talk," she laughed, but it looked like she wanted to believe it
too. "Ballplayers have girl in every town probably." But still she
leaned closer.

"New York's the only town that matters," I answered. Putting an arm
around her and kissing her, lightly at first, then harder, I pushed her
slowly into the ultrasoft back of the couch.

She resisted slightly, but I judged that it was just for show. After
first returning my kiss, she wriggled free, sitting up and saying, "I
didn't know you were such a sheik." But she was smiling.

Again I took her in my arms, running a hand up her thigh as I kissed her
neck and up to her ear, "You're trapped and helpless in my tent. It is
useless to resist me," I whispered, adopting an accent that was probably
more eastern European than Arab.

She giggled and relaxed and I knew I had her. "Oh, Tom, you always make
me laugh." I pushed her back against the cushions again, saying, "I'm
going to make you do a lot of things."

This time as she fell back her lips, her arms, and then her whole body
opened and yielded to me. As we kissed, her hand slipped around my neck
and then rested on the back of my head, gently pulling me forward,
deeper into her mouth. My hand, meanwhile, was on her leg, and gradually
slipped under her short skirt and upward, past her garters, and on to
the soft, sensitive flesh of her inner thigh.

As she felt my hand nearing the juncture of her legs, Chris pulled away
from our kiss, breathed softly and deeply, and rested her head against
my shoulder. After only a moment's delay, her legs spread apart, and she
lay back against the cushion, her eyes closing in expectation.

My hand touched the silk of her drawers. I could go under the open leg,
but chose instead to rub my finger into her pussy through the exquisite
feel of silk. She apparently appreciated the decision, as indicated by
the soft intake of breath as my finger touched the wet silk and pressed
it gently into her.

"Oh, that feels so good," she whispered softly, kissing my ear, and
opening her legs wider. I ran my finger up and down her slit a few times
as we kissed. Then, to her annoyance, I withdrew my hand. She looked at
me reproachfully. "Why are you stopping?"

I smiled as I sat up. "Because you have too much clothes on." In fact
she was a very pretty sight, with her legs wide apart and her fringed
dress up almost to her hips. "And because that's such a pretty dress,
and in about a minute I'd have to rip it off you."

She smiled and said with a giggle, "I dare you." But when I reached for
the neck she grabbed my hand. "Okay," she laughed.

She stood in front of me. "I feel like one of those burlesque girls,"
she said, as she took the shoulder straps and let the dress fall to her
hips, then wiggled out. Beneath, she wore a short cotton chemise and her
silk short-leg drawers. She started to remove the chemise, but then
thought better of it, saying instead, "Your turn."

Why I was wearing a baseball uniform in the scenario that had developed
was unexplainable, but luckily no explanation was needed. I simply was.
And, a moment later, I wasn't. The baggy wool knickers were on the
floor, as was the wool jersey with "Yankees" across the chest. I sat on
the couch, my cock at attention, smiling. "Your turn," I replied.

Her eyes glued to my cock, Chris paused, uncertainly. I stood. "Need
some help?" I asked softly, pulling the shoulder straps of her chemise
down her arms and sliding the garment caressingly down to her waist as
she nodded shyly. Her breasts were as I remembered them, two grapefruit
sized orbs with tiny pink aureoles, and small (but very erect) nipples.

She smiled up at me, seeking my approval, and got it in the form of a
soft kiss, as my hands took the breasts and massaged them both. She
returned the kiss, pushing her tongue forward between my lips and
pushing her breasts forward into my hands, seeming to encourage me to
massage less and squeeze more.

Whether that was the message or not, I don't know, but it's what I did
and she responded by taking my cock softly, tentatively, into her hands
and stroking it lightly.

We remained in that embrace for a long time, my hands eventually
travelling slowly down her back to the waist of her drawers, and then
sliding under to cup the bare, firm flesh of her ass. Then that garment,
too, joined the others on the floor and we stood nude together, locked
as tightly and motionlessly as if we were one.

When at last the kiss ended, Chris wordlessly stepped backward to the
couch, taking my hand to bring me down on her as she lay back and opened
her legs.

I paused for only a moment to kiss each of the little nipples, and then
her lips. I know it's classic insensitive male behavior to cut short the
foreplay and get right to the main event, but I was as aroused as I've
been in a long time. And, to be honest, Chris seemed to have much the
same idea in mind. As I kissed her, she shifted her hips to reposition
her pussy and tried to pull me into her.

Along the same lines as lengthy foreplay, good sex is very often
presented as being determined by time. If that is the measure, then this
was not good sex - but you could have fooled us.

After a couple of false starts, Chris reached impatiently between her
legs and guided my cock into her tight little hole. Once there, I pushed
forward slowly, but her hips drove back at me and urged more speed on
me.

Our lips still locked, I pulled my hips back and pushed harder into her,
and she responded. She broke our kiss off and pulled my head down onto
her shoulder, gripping it tight and grunting in frustration and
exertion.

Chris's legs now wrapped around mine, then worked their way up until her
heels dug into my ass. As her hips pushed upward her heels pushed down
on me, as though she were spurring on a horse to go faster, faster,
faster.

I responded, driving my cock savagely into her. We spoke not at all, our
only sounds being grunts and moans and panting as we slammed at each
other with every fiber of our existence.

When it seemed we could do no more, it ended. Chris grunted one more
time, just harder and louder than before, as her body stiffened. Her
pussy gripped my cock hard, and I shot a long stream of semen into her,
then another. My elbows gave way and I fell heavily on her, then she
also relaxed with a long, shuddering sigh, and we both lay silent,
locked together in love and lust.

The sex was great, but . . . .  In a sense, the problem was exactly that
"the sex was great". It was better sex than Chris and I had ever had,
precisely because it wasn't really Chris. It was her body (or an exact
duplicate), but not her mind, her personality, her soul. I kissed the
almost-Chris affectionately, then made her disappear.

It wouldn't work. I could put another mind into Chris's body, or I could
put Chris's mind into another body (but then all I'd have is an anti-sex
Barbie). I could, I suppose, just take the anti-sex part of her
personality out of Chris - but again that wouldn't be Chris.

I went to bed still frustrated, and awoke determined to try another tack
to resolve the problem.

As soon as the breakfast dishes were in the dishwasher, and the kids had
scattered to their activities, I suggested to Chris that we adjourn to
the family room, where we could discuss our plans for remodeling the
main bathroom. There, when she was settled comfortably, I hypnotized
her.

If you're into hypnotism stories, you'll have to go elsewhere, I'm
afraid. They always have long scenes that describe the patient/victim's
"induction". Since I don't know anything about hypnotism, in this case
the "induction" consisted of saying "you're hypnotized" and she was
hypnotized. (No need to actually say it, of course, but I felt I needed
to do something).

Having eliminated the induction, I'll also pretty much cut to the chase
in terms of the results. I was looking for the root cause, if there was
one, of Chris's distaste for sex, and pursued it by asking her a lot of
open-ended questions that she had to answer totally honestly. I was
tempted to ask her how she felt about me, but I decided that I didn't
want to know - at least for now. I did learn that she had very
ambivalent feelings about men in general (and I presumed I was
included), and that piece of knowledge helped me to start closing in.

Like many women, I suppose, Chris also had some ambivalent feelings
about her father. She had had a strong attraction toward him in
adolescence and a certain amount of guilt and disgust at herself later
for feeling the attraction. There was a little girl's hero-worship and
an adult's understanding of his human frailties. (Chris's father, who
had passed away several years previous, was in my recollection a good
man - a small-town businessman, a member of the town council, and very
nice when one could get past his veneer of frosty rectitude).

Interesting, but not unusual. And it didn't seem a cause for Chris's
problems. I had gone through numerous false starts and explored a lot of
blind alleys, but I finally found what looked like the answer when
something that Chris said about her father pointed me in the right
direction.

Although Chris said she was attracted toward her father and thought once
or twice that he might have felt the same, nonetheless she was glad they
had done nothing about it. I was feeling so guilty at that comment,
thinking of my own liaisons with our daughter, that I very nearly missed
her next words: "I wish my mother had left me alone, too."

What?

A follow-up question or two brought out the story. It seems that when
Chris was about fourteen or so, Alma, her mother, called her aside for
the obligatory mother-daughter consultation. This particular one was
held late one evening, in Chris's bedroom, when the rest of the family
was asleep. It started out in the normal fashion, with talk about "new
feelings" and "the way your body is changing" and such, but progressed
rapidly into a monologue on the evils of men, their disgusting, hairy
bodies, the way they use and discard women, the pain of childbirth, and
numerous related topics.

The lecture was accompanied by Alma pulling Chris's pajama bottoms off
and pointing out various anatomical features, as Chris sat, legs open,
reddening with embarrassment.

Eventually, a few pragmatic notes were introduced. Those "new feelings"
required some form of satisfaction, the mother acknowledged, and men
were necessary as a means of procreation and support (this was the early
sixties, remember). "It would be better for women if we could stay away
from sex completely, but a woman has to have a husband," she said, "and
he'll demand sex. So it's best to do what you have to do to satisfy him,
but otherwise if you feel the need, just do this for yourself."

And with that, Chris's mother pulled her daughter's virgin pussy lips
open and began rubbing the clitoris, opening a whole new world to the
girl. Even as she sat on the couch decades later, Chris's face became
flushed as she recalled the feelings awakened that night when her
mother's fingers slowly coaxed the small clitoris from its nest. When,
some minutes later, the young girl had her first orgasm, her mother
kissed her on the forehead, turned off the light, and left the room.

Chris said she suspected that her mother, while painting masturbation as
something to be done merely as a necessity, enjoyed doing it to her as
much as Chris enjoyed having it done. At least that would be the
explanation for why she came back to her daughter's room almost every
night for weeks to repeat the lesson, eventually adding cunnilingus to
the course.

The visits continued, in fact, until Chris's father, wondering perhaps
about these late-night mother-daughter sessions, walked in on the middle
of one. I envisioned the scene: pubescent Chris in bed with her legs
spread wide, her mother positioned between them, frantically frigging
her, the door opening, and her stern father standing there.

He said nothing, Chris told me. Just stood there a few seconds, then
walked away. Her mother left the room a few seconds later, and nothing
was ever said about it.

The nightly sessions with her mother had of course inflamed something
that was due to awaken anyway, and I learned now that Chris's
adolescence was, as an apparent result, one of extreme sexual activity.

For a while after her mother's visits ceased, Chris took her lessons to
heart and satisfied herself with her fingers. When the fingers fell
short she tried, as have generations of other young women, various other
long thin objects. Dildos and vibrators not being available in her small
town, at least not to young teens, she had to make do mostly with fruit
and hairbrush handles.

Soon, as you might guess, she decided that, whatever her mother said,
boys were preferable to hairbrushes, and she proceeded to fuck just
about her entire high school.

You might also guess the result of that - she was an outcast, the
small-town slut; boys would fuck her one night and refuse to talk to her
at school the next day, then pick her up after school to fuck her again.
Predictably, by the end of high school she had come to the conclusion
that her mother was right - men were rats. Except her father, who
continued to be supportive even after, she believed, word of her
activities had reached his ears.

It was in this frame of mind that she left her small town in Missouri
for college in Arizona, as far as she could get from her reputation. She
stayed on in Phoenix afterward and there met that young rising star of
the ad world, Tom Mallory.

Apparently, from a little she said that I didn't ask her to elaborate
on, she liked/loved Tom Mallory and decided, again heeding her mother's
advice, to give him just enough sex to hook him. It worked.

At that point, I unhypnotized her, made a few perfunctory remarks about
the bathroom-remodeling project, and then we both wandered our separate
ways.

All that day I struggled with what I had learned. I couldn't think of a
solution, so eventually I fell back on the conventional one. I've always
viewed psychiatry with a fair amount of skepticism - it appears to me to
be an art masquerading as a science. It is also clearly a profession
populated by a large number of quacks and frauds. Nonetheless, lacking a
better solution, I again hypnotized Chris that night and planted in her
a determination to seek to resolve her feelings about sex, her mother,
her father, men in general, and yes, me in particular, by visiting a
shrink.

I mentioned my skepticism, so you'll understand when I say that I
expected no quick results - if indeed there were results at all. I
resolved to say and do nothing until Chris broached the subject - which
was to be a while.

In the meantime, things went on much the same for me. This is probably a
good point, in fact, for me to give you an update on things that were
occurring on several fronts - some of which I'll elaborate on in the
next few chapters.

Nothing really had changed in the Mallory Empire - I guess because it
was a world I had created out of nothing and therefore no outside forces
could cause any disruption. It was, in fact, getting a bit dull, perhaps
for the same reason. About all that was happening there was that I had
accumulated a few more wives and slaves, and a lot more children (all of
them girls). The Empire had become, at this point, a place I went for
relaxation. Which is, I guess, the right use for a tropical paradise
full of women whose only thought is to bring me pleasure.

My alter ego, Tom O'Malley, continued to have a fun and loving
relationship with his high school sweetheart, Ashley. Other than an
occasional spat, inevitable in such relationships, they were as happy as
young lovers can be - which is very happy indeed. Sarah's blackmail
behind them, about the only question they faced was how soon after her
graduation they'd get married - Tom suggesting that a year or two of
college was a good idea, Ashley leaning more toward stopping by the JP's
office on the way home from the graduation ceremony.

My other family across town was also healthy and happy. Cassie, my
fourteen-year-old stepdaughter/wife, was now almost four months pregnant
and had developed a delightful little belly that I loved to caress and
fondle as we lay in bed after making love. For that matter I enjoyed
caressing and fondling it before making love. Sharon, her mother, had
taken to plural marriage like the lifelong semi-Mormon she was and
delighted in joining Cassie and I in bed (and was also, as I've
mentioned previously, a terrific fuck on her own). The only issue in
this household was Cassie's eleven-year-old sister, Elizabeth. Sharon
wanted me to marry her, too, while I thought we should wait a couple
more years.

Thomas, my son, was now in eighth grade and, this being fall, totally
wrapped up in soccer, in which he continued to improve (with only
minimal help from Reward). Ever since he had knocked Cassie up in the
summer, I had kept him away from girls, and things seemed to be quiet on
that front.

My daughter Sarah continued to be my biggest headache. I had put her
under tight controls that kept her from causing any more trouble for
Ashley or pulling other tricks like blackmail, but her character hadn't
changed in any way. I didn't want to continue to control her, but I also
didn't know how to handle her otherwise. Anyway, I'll get back to Sarah
shortly.

Work was going well. The agency was making more money than anybody had
ever dreamed possible for a Phoenix agency.

The employee parking lot was beginning to look like a
Lexus-Mercedes-Infiniti showroom, with a healthy sprinkling of just
about every type of SUV. And of course, the New Business Development
team (Wendy, Valerie Lee, and I), the source of all this wealth,
continued to have our fun meetings.

It was out of this group that the next major development in Life with
Reward took place.

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations.         |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+