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Subject: {ASSM} RP "Assignation" (FM rom)
Date: Sun, 20 Aug 2000 18:10:08 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Assig_Post_8_20_0.txt" begin>
WARNINGS: This story includes explicit descriptions of sexual acts. If
reading this might involve you or another person in an illegal act, or you
are offended by the exploration of adult themes in literature or on the
Internet, do not read further.
Copyright 1998, 2000 by Jane Urquhart. The author is a member of the Net
Authors and Creators Union (NACU), which defends the rights of Internet
authors and creators. NACU intends to bring suit against any person or
corporation infringing copyright.
Specific permission is granted for publication in the news groups
Alt.Sex.Stories and Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated and for archiving by the
Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated archive, Deja.com, and RemarQ.com. All other
rights are reserved. Do not repost or distribute by any other means without
express permission from the author.
ANNIVERSARY EDITION: This story was posted first on August 20, 1998.
NOTE: This is not a "Janey" story.
ASSIGNATION (FM rom)
by Jane Urquhart
She was an exemplary mother and she worked arduously on community
causes. She was always affable, if not particularly gregarious. Her
friends held her in high regard, even though they privately thought that she
spoke as if she were an English teacher and that she was excessively proper.
They would have considered her a bluestocking intellectual had it not been
for her unusual devotion to physical exercise and women's sports. She was,
they unanimously agreed, "as square as they come."
Those friends could never have imagined that she would find herself in
an awkward, possibly dangerous, certainly compromising position.
For they were totally unaware that she led an absorbing secret life.
She spent every moment she could steal from her everyday tasks writing
salacious stories, many of them about a woman who shared her body and, she
supposed, some heretofore hidden part of her personality. These she posted
to an Internet newsgroup dedicated to such works. She also carried on with
her readers and with other writers a flourishing electronic mail
correspondence devoted to gossip, flirtations, discussions of writing and
anything else that struck her fancy.
In her conversations on the Net she merged her true personality with
that of her favorite fictional character and she created a world in which
that personality lived. That world was quite similar to her real
environment--she routinely commented on her (real) children, her domestic
activities, her suburban house and the city in which she worked, and she
used those things in her stories.
She found this secret life intensely agreeable.
Early in the summer of 1998 she mentioned to a male friend with whom
she had carried on a long e-mail flirtation her deep fear that her real
identity would be found out. She was confident that dire consequences would
follow such a discovery. He jokingly replied that, even with his background
in intelligence, it would probably cost him at least $175,000 to break down
her security. That much, he said, was more than he was prepared to spend.
She replied with the following message:
"What? It's not worth $175,000 to find my address, fly
your airplane to Hanscom Field, rent a 1998 Porsche
convertible, drive hellbent down 128 (America's
Technology Highway), turn off at the Great Plain
Avenue exit, zoom wildly through the shaded streets,
park in front of my house, ring my doorbell, then, when
I answer, rip off my clothes with one swipe of your
powerful hand, throw me down on my back on the
front porch, untrammel your mighty eight-inch tool, and
have your way with me while I'm moaning in ecstasy, at
the same time attempting weakly to fend you off?
"Heck."
It was inevitable, given his nature, that he take that message as a
challenge. He would not force her, but he would push her to the edge. She
would honor her words, joke or not. But he would never force her, even if
she believed she was honor bound to let him have what he very dearly wanted.
So, using skills he had acquired while working for various obscure
federal agencies, he set out to obtain the required sum. He knew a French
politician, currently under government investigation, who would be delighted
to see a few embarrassing sums of money disappear from view. He obligingly
siphoned off a million and a half francs from his friend's holdings,
arranging the transfer so that it would be blamed on a computer error at a
small, insolvent Japanese bank. He moved the money to an anonymous account
in Grand Cayman, then began contacting various eminent officials he had
compromised in the past, using them to find the information he wanted. He
specifically asked only for certain details, and told his informants to give
him only the data he asked for. He did not want his illusions spoiled.
Ten days after he had received that provocative reply from his female
challenger he anonymously sent to her a package containing copies of her
driver's license, her certificates of birth, baptism and marriage, the most
recent bill itemizing her purchases from an Internet bookstore, and a
ninth-grade report card showing an "A" in science and a "C" in something
called "Communications Skills." He included a Massachusetts driver's
license carrying a female pseudonym and her picture, and a Visa card that
matched. Looking at this material before he sent it, he concluded, smiling,
that one of the teachers had erred seriously.
Shortly thereafter he sent an e-mail letter to her ordinary, "real
life" Internet server address, not her supposedly anonymous address,
informing her that he would visit her on one of three dates he specified.
She could choose any one of the three. He stated that he would cover all
required expenses, and gave her sundry other instructions.
Having, it seemed to her, no other course open, she chose a
date--Saturday, July 11, the day before her birthday--and booked a
two-bedroom suite in a famous resort hotel located on the southern Maine
coast. She used the credit card he had sent. Then she informed him of her
arrangements.
She had chosen the date for a reason. Having no idea how she would
react to this man she knew only from his letters, she had put a limit on the
duration of their tryst. She had to attend her own birthday party at her
in-laws' cottage in the Maine woods, thirty-five minutes from the hotel, on
the afternoon of Sunday, the twelfth. He would have to accept that. So
would she.
In downtown Boston, at a fashionable boutique, she was able to buy a
very expensive red dress that fit her perfectly. She thought it suitable
for dining at the resort's somewhat pretentious restaurant, and her
persecutor had requested such a dress. At Victoria's Secret in Copley
Place, smiling as she made her choices, she bought new underwear, including
a garter belt, a garment she had never worn before, and at Neiman Marcus she
found a nightgown so sheer that she could easily crumple it into a ball in
the palm of her hand. She also bought a white sun dress, three pairs of
silk stockings and a pair of gold sandals. She saw her gynecologist. She
went to a manicurist, who scolded her for failing to take better care of her
hands. On the day before she was to leave for Maine she visited a
hairdresser she had patronized before, thinking that any radical change in
her normal style might possibly in some way mar the occasion. She also
planned to wear her usual lavender cologne.
For she had decided that even though it appeared that she had no real
choice, actually she could easily abort the whole plan simply by dressing in
the sweatshirt and jeans she commonly wore in her leisure time and being
totally passive. He was, she was convinced, an honorable man, one who would
not take advantage of her helplessness if she made clear her distaste for
him. She preferred not to do that.
In fact, she was filled with delight. She chose to believe that her
very lack of choice released her from any possible twinge of conscience.
Her husband and children would be at the grandparents' cottage, where she
had to be the following day. No one would ever know where she had been that
night; no one would be hurt. Moreover, having corresponded for some time
with her soon-to-be lover, she was confident that he would make her
adventure worth remembering for the rest of her life. Fantasies were all
very well, but reality would be vastly better.
She was standing on the wide veranda of the resort's main building, a
pseudo-colonial monstrosity large enough to hold the entire population of
most colonial villages, when he rolled up the curving drive in a dark blue
Bentley saloon. It seemed to be an old model, similar to one she had seen
in a film on television a long time before. He stepped out of the car,
turning to face the front door of the hotel, then looked straight at her and
smiled. A bellhop dressed in ridiculous colonial livery rushed out to take
his garment bag, and a driver removed the car. He walked up the steps,
seeming to use his silver-chased walking stick only as a prop, not as the
necessity it was. It was four-thirty in the afternoon, and the cool sea
breeze was dying. The sun was still high in the sky, for it was not far
from the longest day of the year, but the shadows so far north were always
long.
"You came," he said.
"Yes," she said. She smiled. "I reserved a table for dinner at seven,
and ordered roast beef for both of us."
He took her hand, lifted it, and gently rubbed his thumb across the
backs of her fingers. He looked up at her.
"I have touched you. At last."
"Yes," she said. "And I have touched you."
"And you wore the white sun dress."
"No," she said, "not 'the' sun dress, 'a' sun dress. The dress you
described wouldn't do at this kind of place."
"I suppose not," he said with a smile. He lifted her hand to his
mouth, kissed it gently, then lowered it, still holding it lightly.
She handed him a key with a heavy wooden fob. "Go up and wash. Dinner
is a long time off. I'll wait here, in that chair, right over there, for
half an hour, then come up. We can have a glass of wine in the room."
"I shan't be long," he said. He let go of her hand and entered the
hotel.
She sat in the chair and waited, looking at a stand of burgeoning
heliotrope plants. Their startling purple flowers were shadowed as the sun
slipped toward the forest not far away. She breathed their perfume as it
drifted across the porch. It was going to be a beautiful evening. She was
relieved as she realized that he was exactly as he had described himself.
Not very tall, but powerfully built, distinguished looking. Hair dark,
greying at the temples. A man at the peak of his powers, in his late
forties, confident, strong in ways other than physical. His limp, slight,
somehow added to the distinction.
He would have given anything to have walked straight and true, no stick
in hand, to be perfect for her. But injuries take their toll. As he
climbed the stairs he fleetingly remembered that night in Istanbul, dragging
himself out of the cul-de-sac in which he had regained consciousness, the
pain searing his brain. Then he shrugged. He had dreamed of this meeting.
She was fifteen years younger than he. What right had he had to invade her
privacy, to turn a joke into a deadly serious venture? But she had come.
And she had worn the sun dress--no, "a" sun dress. He smiled to himself.
That was like her, so precise in the details.
She had described herself once as she stood by the bank of a stream,
her shirt smeared with mud, her face sweaty and dirty, smiling in joy at
some minor triumph, swatting mosquitoes as she waved at the children who had
helped her. He had loved her then, just that way. But the sun dress was a
fantasy, a fantasy he had told her about in an e-mail exchange, a fantasy
come true. Even as he prospered, he had learned to expect nothing from
life, to anticipate that plans would go awry, to accept misfortune as the
norm. Yet she was there, waiting for him in a wooden chair on a rare
gorgeous New England evening. He had given her an ultimatum, and she had
responded by planning their meeting in glorious surroundings, taking control
as if the whole thing were her idea, forcing him to hope for more. He
smiled ruefully at his thoughts as he dried himself after his shower. He
had thought himself a cynic. He was behaving as if he were as much a
romantic as Victor Hugo.
She is not beautiful, he thought. Not in the way people define beauty
now. Her Roman nose might have come from a European painting. It was
molded to be forceful, not "cute;" it would have kept her from being a
model. Her hair, in unruly waves even at its best, would never have sold
shampoo. Her body, its strength and solidity showing in every line, belied
its vulnerability. But she could have been a chatelaine six hundred years
before, a duchess, a queen. A goddess. Her walk was royal. People will
look at her as we enter the dining room, he thought.
He had finished dressing and was opening the wine when she knocked. He
put the bottle on the coffee table and opened the door.
"Come in," he said.
She entered, closed the door, and then leaned back against it, smiling,
with her hands behind her back. "You look wonderful," she said. "I really
didn't know what to expect. I trusted you, of course, but still. . . ."
He would never tell anyone, but he had spent as much time selecting his
wardrobe as she had hers. His white polo shirt had come from the most
exclusive shop in Washington. He was not really wealthy, having during his
days in intelligence been an anomaly--an honest spy. He would tell anyone
who asked that he had been only a "desk jockey," not a field agent, which
would have made his adventure in Istanbul someone's ironic mistake. He had
had to ask a friend at his club for shopping advice and accept considerable
ribaldry when he refused to explain why he was interested. He was glad he
had made the effort.
She went over and sat on the overstuffed leather couch. He poured two
glasses of the vin rouge she had ordered on his instructions, handed one to
her, and sat in an easy chair opposite. He knew that the first move was his
to make, but he was afraid. The KGB might have taken his life; she could
kill a dream.
"Now I want you to tell me how much it really cost. Was your estimate
anywhere close?" She laughed. "After all, who knows? I might have said,
'Publish and be damned!'"
"No," he said. "We talked about trust at some length, don't you
remember? I trusted you to honor your challenge. My total expenditures
came to about a million two hundred thousand francs--that's about $212,000,
allowing for fluctuations in the exchange rate. But I did have to pay for
unusual speed. I thought you were worth the extra."
"Oh, my!" she said. "And how did your piggy bank get filled so full of
foreign money?"
"Well, you see, a French acquaintance of mine had a pile of francs
lying around that he might have had difficulty explaining to certain
authorities. I just helped him out a little."
"Anonymously, of course?"
"Naturally," he answered. "Bragging about one's good works is very bad
form."
She shook her head. "I don't think I'll ask any further about that,"
she said. "To change the subject ostentatiously, are you happy with my
ordering the roast beef? It was that or Maine cooking, and I didn't know
what you might like. I never eat lobster indoors, except when I cook it
myself."
"It's fine," he answered. "I assure you I've eaten far worse food than
anything they'd be likely to serve here."
"Good," she said. "Like my character, I worry a lot."
"But you're not really like your character, are you?" he said. "You're
cool; she's not. You're in command of yourself; she goes with the flow, as
she says so often. I noticed that within a few seconds of seeing you."
"Not really," she said. "How could I be? She talks about the daily
drudgery of life, but she doesn't have to do it. She doesn't have to be
lifeguard for a flock of visiting kids at a dinky little pool when she goes
to her in-laws' cottage in Maine. She doesn't have to worry about the cost
of remodelling her kitchen. She doesn't have to pray that her children
won't do something fatally stupid. She doesn't have to worry about
anything, really.
"Besides, she's not a writer. I am. She's never had to force herself
to ignore bad reviews. She's never wondered for a second how on earth she'd
come up with a story for the next month. She never writes a whole story and
throws it away. But she's real--I want you to know that. She talks to me.
She pouts when I want to make her do something she doesn't want to. 'What
do you think I am, a slut?' she'll say. Then there's no help for it, I have
to think of something else."
"But she let you call her 'desperately unhappy' in June," he said.
"She's not really too bad."
"I was amazed! I suppose she does get worried sometimes, worried
about me." She laughed. "Oh, my, I'd love to be Janey the fuckbunny, with
someone else to do all the work!"
"I envy you," he said. "I actually do write about my life--my stories
really start out as memoirs. You have to make yours up, but you have a lot
more scope."
"I'm not so sure," she said. "I think maybe your character wrote the
private one you sent me. It wasn't your style at all."
"Touche," he said. He smiled. "He does take over sometimes, but I
still think Janey gives you more room to maneuver."
"As long as I don't make her mad!"
Then she stood and offered him her hand.
"You defer to me too much," she said as they walked toward one of the
bedrooms. "I'm not a goddess, even though you've insisted on calling me
one. So in a little while I'll defer to you, but right now I'm going to
lead. You've said several times in your letters that a woman gives you a
gift when she permits you to take her sexually. I want to give you that
gift actively. I don't want to surrender, I want to give myself to you."
He thought about that for a moment. In the past women indeed had
surrendered to him, and he had thought of that surrender as a gift. But
he'd known for some time that this woman was unusual. He had fallen in love
with a character in a story, then a correspondent, and finally he had found
himself dealing with . . . a real person. He had felt deliciously in
control while he searched out her identity, but things had changed
somehow--he felt as though he were navigating with a chart that was just a
little off, a few things out of place. He had felt that way before, of
course; unexpected things happened, and sometimes the consequences of error
might have been very serious indeed. Just as they could be this time.
"Whatever you want," he said. Inside the bedroom, she turned and spoke
to him.
"So far," she said, "only our hands have touched. Now I want you to
kiss me." She waited.
Like her character, she was taller than he was. He forgot that when he
took her in his arms. He forgot how she looked, her name, his own
infirmity. Her lips took him in, and she pressed hard against his body.
Their tongues met. Vertigo overtook him; he felt as though he might fall.
He shook with anticipation. He ran one hand smoothly down her back, feeling
bra strap, hard flesh that carried a soft covering, finally a bikini line.
She felt a rush of desire. At the same time, she was smiling inside.
The fantasy he'd shared in one of his letters specifically called for the
absence of underwear. She hoped he'd find the proceedings satisfactory
enough to make up for what must be a crushing disappointment. Then she
broke the kiss, pulling away.
"Undress me."
That he thought he could manage. He had felt the zipper in the back of
the white sun dress. She turned around to offer it to him. But she was
still so close! Instead of reaching for the zipper, he put both arms around
her, each hand cupping a small breast, soft, soft. Then he felt the nipples
stiffen, and she sighed, throwing her head back, leaning back against him,
putting her hands on his.
"Stop!" she said. "I am fending you off, weakly. Undress me!"
He obeyed. The zipper came down smoothly to a point below her waist.
He slipped the slim shoulder straps of the dress down her arms, then tugged
gently at the skirt until it fell to the floor. She stepped out of it. He
caught his breath as he looked at her smooth back, the lacy underwear, her
long legs. A few widely spaced freckles sprinkled her shoulders. He ran
his hands down her arms; she lay back against him for a moment. Then she
spoke:
"Continue."
He fumbled as he released the hooks on her brassiere, but soon let it
fall to the floor beside them. She took one pace forward, stepped out of
her flat white shoes and turned around, showing just a tiny smile while her
eyes laughed. He was mesmerized by the sight of her breasts. Small, yes,
he thought. Perfect. Pulling himself together, he went down on one knee to
release the hooks on the garter belt, used both hands to bring her stockings
smoothly to her feet. Then he reached up, took the upper edge of the bikini
pants between his thumbs and forefingers and gently pulled them down. He
then raised himself only enough to put his brow to her belly, to feel the
warmth of her skin against his head. She caressed his hair.
"Stand up," she commanded. "My turn."
And she undressed him as carefully as he had her, pulling the shirt
gently over his head, untying his shoes as if he were a child, staring into
his eyes silently as she unbuckled his belt, gently moving his solidly erect
penis out of the way and smiling at him when she pulled down his shorts.
She ignored the white, years-old scars on his bad leg. The silence was
electrifying. Both of them could hear the waves crashing on the shore two
hundred yards away.
"Now lie down," she said, "and I'll join you."
As he moved toward the bed, he said to her, "I love you, you know."
"No," she said, "we don't love each other, not in the storybook sense,
because our loyalties are to other people. But I can love you tonight, and
you can love me, because we are here together, and we feel loving toward one
another. Two writers, living their
fantasies just once!"
"If you were Janey," he said, "you'd be having qualms, and you'd be
making jokes."
"But I'm not," she said. "I'm Janey's creator. She's part of me, but
I'm a great deal stronger than she is in some ways, and weaker in others.
And she doesn't make jokes, you know, she just makes you smile, and
sometimes laugh, by being Janey. She does it to me, too!" Then she herself
smiled a great sunburst of a smile. "You know who I really am, and it's not
Janey!"
He lay on the large bed, wondering what she would do next. Not Janey,
he thought. No one he had ever known. Older than her years, he thought,
but gloriously young.
She placed herself next to him and propped herself on her elbows,
smiling into his face. Then with one finger she traced a line from his neck
to his groin. He shivered. She used a forefinger to scrape lightly at his
nipple. Thrills shot through his body. Then she put her mouth on his
chest, using her tongue to do what her finger had done moments before.
She looked up, smiled, ran a hand through his hair. She moved slightly
and kissed his neck, then his mouth. Her tongue limned his lips, then met
his. Unmoving except for their mouths, they tasted each other. Finally she
broke the kiss and slid down, once again caressing his nipple with her
tongue, then moving further, taking his penis in her hand, bringing her
mouth down so that could use her tongue to stir him to his depths once more.
He put his hand on her head, lightly, feeling the stiffness of her hair,
urging her to take him deeper. But she refused to be hurried.
With her lips closed over the head of his penis, she touched him only
lightly, first on one side, then the other. The tip. She turned her head
slightly, so that she could lick the sensitive spot just under the slit. He
had tried to lie still, but his body revolted. His hips jerked upward
toward her face. She looked at him and smiled.
"Don't be in such a rush," she said solemnly. "I like to take time
over important projects." Her mouth returned to his penis, her tongue to
its task. Then she licked harder, the roughness of her tongue sending
thrills through his body. His hand trembled on her head as he resisted the
urge to shove hard, jam himself into her throat. She was no longer an
untouchable goddess, she was a source of pleasure that almost drove notions
of civilized behavior out of his brain. She took him a tiny bit deeper into
her mouth, moving her tongue around the swelling head, sending more jolts of
pleasure through him, still controlling the depth of penetration with her
hand. And she looked at him, propped on the pillow, her eyes sending a
message of mischief. All the while, she touched him with her tongue,
suddenly withdrawing it, barely touching again, then wrapping him with it,
scraping hard.
He could no longer hold still, but he controlled himself. Small hip
movements betrayed his feelings.
"Oh, God," he said, moaning. "Not long now--you can stop." That
statement had taken more will power than he had had to call upon in several
years.
Her eyes laughed at him as she continued to caress him with her tongue.
Lightly, then harshly. From side to side, and then up and down. As his
hips jerked once more, powerfully, she closed her lips tightly around him.
Then she tasted his juices as they spurted into her mouth. She waited for
the second burst, then swallowed. More came. She swallowed again. Slowly
the torrent ebbed. She held him with her hand as gradually he softened.
She licked him, gently now. He found the sensation nearly unbearable. Then
she let go and slid up until her face could touch his. She kissed him,
lingeringly. He held her to his chest. Then she raised her head, looked at
him and smiled.
"I think you mentioned something about liking that sort of thing," she
said.
Unlike her, he was not yet in a joking mood.
"I can't believe it," he said. "For weeks I went to sleep at night
imagining that."
She lifted herself on her elbows, smiling. "You're not going to sleep
now, are you?"
She was heavy, but he was strong. With a sudden effort he flipped her
off his chest and placed her head flat on the pillow, her body arrayed on
the bed.
"On the contrary," he said. He flung himself over her, landing with an
elbow on each side of her upper arms. Then he kissed her. He ground his
lips against hers, forced her mouth open and pushed his tongue in roughly.
Her arms went around him and she clasped him tightly to her breasts. Then
he broke the kiss, raised himself above her. She looked at him helplessly,
unable to move. Or, she thought, unwilling.
He smiled at her from his new position of superiority. Then, very
deliberately, he placed a palm over a breast. He squeezed gently, then
harder. She closed her eyes.
"Oh, yes," she said quietly. "Oh, yes."
He felt the hard nipple against his hand, pulled himself up on his
knees and took the other breast in hand, kneading lightly, fondling the
nipple between his fingers. Then he leaned down and sucked the nipple,
scraping it with his tongue She shivered. He kissed her belly, then moved
down farther. Her legs opened wide. He used two fingers to find his
destination, then buried his nose in her pubic hair, reaching with his
tongue the opening he had created with his hand. He searched, found her
clitoris, moved his tongue over it, began to suck, to lick. He tasted her;
he explored her secrets. This time her hand was on his head, pushing him,
urging him on. It took only a minute or two. She jerked suddenly, threw
her head back and forth, one side to the other, producing tiny shrill gasps.
He would not stop until she raised herself and pulled him back up to her,
holding him against her, her eyes closed.
"I recall your saying that you didn't find that sort of thing
distasteful," he said, smiling.
"Oh, no!" She opened her eyes and smiled. "Not at all. In fact, de
rigueur. Absolutely necessary. A Good Thing."
He lay himself alongside her, his hand softly stroking her stomach.
She turned her head and smiled lazily. "Got your money's worth yet?"
He appeared to give this some serious thought.
"What I have so far is worth more than the entire French treasury," he
said, "but I'm greedy. I want more."
"Then let's get ready for supper, take a little walk, and have
something to eat. I'm starving." She looked thoughtful. "Later we might
consider working a little more on the accounts." She paused. "I want first
shot at the bathroom."
She rolled over and stood. Stretching, she raised her long arms over
her head, looking down at him, smiling. Looking at her face, her tousled
hair, her small breasts, her long legs, he felt a stirring in his penis.
"You'd better move fast," he said, "or you'll find yourself back in
this bed."
"Hah!" she said, turning. "Just concentrate on food for a little
while." She leaned over, gathered her clothes, and walked through the
connecting door into the other bedroom. She dropped the garments in a chair
and entered the bath. A few minutes later she went to the door of his room,
looked in, and said, "Your turn. Go ahead and have your shower."
She hung the sun dress on a hanger and put it in the closet, bundling
the remainder of her clothes into the laundry hamper. She laid out the red
dress on the bed, then noticed a small package, wrapped in heavy white paper
and tied with a red ribbon, lying on the bedside table.
She pushed the ribbon out of the way--there was no card--unwrapped the
small box and read the legend: Van Cleef & Arpels, 61, La Croisette, 06400
Cannes. She opened the box. On top was a fifty-franc note, and three
one-franc coins lay loose alongside it. On a puffy white silk pillow lay a
three-strand pearl choker, a ruby in the center. Matching pearl earrings
were attached below. There was a note: "That's it--nothing left!" She
smiled. She loosed the choker from the box and put it on. It fit
exactly--she was amazed. She turned to the mirror over the dresser and
gasped. The jewels were stunning. Then she unhooked the earrings from
their backing and put them on. Smiled. Standing there naked, looking at
herself in the mirror wearing probably ten thousand dollars worth of
jewelry. Maybe more. Maybe less. Unbelievable. She gently tapped the box
on the dresser top two or three times, musing, and set it down. Then she
walked to bathroom door and opened it.
She could hear the shower, pounding down inside a glass door.
Somewhere this bizarre Maine hotel had found pre-conservation shower heads.
Through the frosted glass she could see him move. She opened the door.
"Surprise!"
He shook his head to clear his eyes, looked at her and froze. He had
expected her to wear the jewelry with the red dress. Actually, he thought,
I'm still looking forward to the red dress. But meanwhile. . . .
"If you come in," he said, "dinner is sure to be delayed."
"Not bloody likely," she said, stepping into his arms. "Close the
door--we're soaking the place."
He did. When he turned again to look at her, she was holding out a
washcloth.
"Please," she said.
"Whose fantasy is this, anyway? You're supposed to wash me first."
"No lip, please. Wash me."
So he did, though he trembled throughout with extreme pleasure. He
started with her face, scrubbing lightly, and was reminded of the many times
he'd washed his children's faces. He then soaped and cleaned her neck,
carefully lifting the pearls, then her chest, her breasts, lingering over
her nipples as she closed her eyes and moaned gently.
"Keep going," she said. "Think about food."
"Turn around then," he said. She did, and he washed her back, going
down to her legs, her calves, her ankles. She faced him again, and he came
back up her legs, calves first, thighs, the "v" that held her vagina.
"I'm failing to think about food," he said.
She smiled, took the washcloth from him and draped it on his very much
erect penis.
"Make that go away until after supper," she said. "Roast beef. Red,
pink or brown, your choice. Potatoes Anna with cheese and minced onions.
French-cut green beans. Remember?" The water pounded down.
He handed the washcloth back and she vigorously scrubbed him from top
to bottom, caressing his still almost-hard penis lovingly as she completed
her task. Then she turned off the water, opened the door, and stepped out.
Taking a towel from a pile on a stand near the door, she rubbed her hair and
dried herself all over as he stood in the shower and watched. Then she
looked up and smiled.
"Ten minutes?" she asked.
"Make it fifteen," he said. "I need to shave."
"I'll knock," she said, leaving the bath.
While he shaved, he decided once more that women were the real
oppressors, no matter what this woman had told him in the occasional
feminist rant she had aimed in his direction. Food, indeed. I seem to be
hard-wired to be a sexist pig, he thought, smiling ruefully, but so far it
hasn't hurt at all.
She took her time dressing, then found herself laughing about it.
After all, what was there to do? Dry the choker. A little lipstick,
perhaps a touch of blush, a little cologne. Eye shadow, not much. Clothing
herself was not difficult--she simply pulled on her stockings, took the
orange-red dress off its hanger and slipped it on. No underwear this time.
Silk against her skin. Not her choice, of course, but she was humoring him.
The dress, matched perfectly to her complexion by Monsieur James himself,
was by far the most luxurious she had ever had. The gold sandals, with
their flat heels, set off her outfit perfectly. Tart clothes, she thought,
but he'll like them. Men. Expensive tart clothes, she amended, smiling.
When she knocked, he was ready, waiting. He wore a beige linen jacket,
a light blue shirt with barely noticeable stripes, a grey tie with tiny red
polka dots, navy blue tropical trousers. A bespoke shirt, she wondered?
She'd never seen one like it, and it was old, just slightly foreign, she
could tell; something he liked, not something he'd bought especially for
this occasion.
"Shall we dine?" he said. He offered her his arm.
"Indeed," she said. "I've been looking forward to it all afternoon."
"All afternoon?" he inquired.
"Well, it did occasionally slip my mind. But most of the afternoon."
They walked down the stairs arm in arm, then into the dining room.
He gave the major domo his name and they were shown to a table situated
by a window through which they could see the grounds that fell away toward
the sea. A waiter appeared and introduced himself--his name was Rick. Rick
brought the bottle of wine she had ordered as she'd been instructed, stood
stiffly through the tasting ritual and learned their preferences for rare or
medium roast beef. Then they were left alone.
She smiled. "Are you hungry yet?"
"I hate to admit it," he said, "but you've finally persuaded me to
think of food."
As they waited the few minutes it took for their dinner to arrive--an
advantage of
ordering in advance, he noted--she asked about his trip, he spoke of a job
he was working on, and she told him she was writing a new story, this one
about a woman shipwrecked on an island. When they had begun to eat, he
changed the subject.
"This was my idea," he said, "but you seem to have made all the plans.
What do we do after dinner?"
"Didn't you bring a book?" she asked. "Or maybe you'd like to drive
into town for a movie." She smiled demurely.
"I don't think so," he said. "Any other ideas?"
"Well," she said, "perhaps we could go back to the room and you could
fuck me until my ears fly off. Maybe after that we could read our books."
An older woman at the next table dropped her fork, looked dumbly at
them and asked a passing waiter to bring her another.
"Maybe she wants to know what we're reading," she whispered.
"Let's not tell her," he said. "But I do like your idea, at least the
first part."
"You mean go back to room, after the sherbet, of course, where you will
carefully remove my beautiful red dress, only to find that there is nothing
whatever underneath it?"
He looked at her, minutely examining her chest, but was unable to
determine whether she was telling the truth. So he reached past the corner
of the table that separated them and gently ran his hand down her side. He
smiled. The woman at the next table watched, fascinated. He took another
bite of roast beef. Considering her deprecation of New England food, it
really was not bad at all. He was, however, once again having trouble
concentrating on his meal. He ate a bite of the potato dish without having
tasted it.
"The beef comes from Wolf's Neck Farm, just up the coast," she said.
"It's organic. I asked."
"And the woman with no underwear comes from Texas."
"Correct, sir."
"And is it customary there to fuck people until their ears fly off?" he
asked.
"Slight exaggerations are common," she said. "But in this case I
expect you to do your duty."
"I see. What about stealthy approaches in public places?
"You could put your hand on my knee without causing a scandal, I
think."
"No, I'm eating, as ordered," he said. "But tell me, have you ever
been kissed soundly at a table in a pretentious restaurant?"
"Not yet," she answered.
He carefully wiped his mouth with his napkin and laid it on the table.
Then he leaned toward her, put a hand on her neck, pulled her toward him,
and kissed her. Soundly. For at least thirty seconds. Released, she
smiled, and so did he. The woman at the next table gasped audibly and
touched her husband's hand. By the time he looked toward them they were
calmly feeding themselves once more.
Then she looked over at her curious neighbor.
"It's my birthday," she explained. "Tomorrow."
"Oh," said the woman, forcing a tiny smile.
"And he's my lover," she added. "My husband is away on business." She
smiled widely at the woman.
"Oh," said the woman, busying herself with her tableware.
Then the woman turned to her husband and said loudly, "It's her
birthday!"
"Uh," said the husband.
The woman in the red dress laughed out loud.
Calming herself, she said quietly to her companion, the wounded agent,
"And I brought my birthday suit!"
"Indeed," he said. "I'm looking forward to seeing it--again. Or some
more. Or whatever. In fact, if I squint just a little, I think I can see
it through that dress."
"I don't think so," she said, "but it's there."
She lifted a fork full of green beans to her mouth and chewed
thoughtfully. Then she spoke.
"What did you think of my technique?"
He paused, his fork halfway to his mouth.
"Your technique?"
"Yes. Fellatio. I understand there are different ways to perform,"
she said. "It's just like putting the shot or throwing a javelin. It's
useful to know all the tricks. I've never studied it much, you know."
The woman at the next table listened carefully, stiffly holding a glass
of water.
"For an amateur," he said, "I'd say you're world class." Then he
continued to eat. "But you are a bit forceful in insisting that it be done
your way."
"Thank you," she said. "You see, I thought of you as the instrument I
was playing, and, like most amateurs, I was very carefully following the
notes. I really hadn't considered your tendency to move around so much."
The woman at the next table kicked her husband, hard, then jerked her
head at the speaker. She herself frankly turned in her chair and stared.
"And," he said to his companion, "how did I do in the cunnilingus
league?" He was both shaken by her brazen conduct and thoroughly amused at
the interest she was arousing in her fellow diner.
"Oh, very well indeed," she said. "Frankly, by that time I'd have
enjoyed almost anything you did. Actually, I'm not an expert on that,
either, so I couldn't really give you a rating. By the way, you should try
one of the radishes. They're very good. Local produce."
He laughed and put down his fork.
"Is this payback time?" he said. "Are you trying to get me to choke on
a mouthful of roast beef?"
"Oh, no," she said. "I'm just not very good at small talk. I was
trying to keep the conversation going." She smiled. "Does it bother you?"
The woman at the next table pulled back, looking disappointed, and
began to eat again.
"Not at all," he said, laughing. "I was just wondering what you
discussed over your meal the last time you ate at a restaurant."
"Let's see," she said, "I think that was with my friend Beth at the
Trident last week. You know they've stopped serving golden raisins, and
started serving black ones with their omelets? It's a disgrace! Anyhow, we
hadn't seen each other in a month, and we caught up with what's going on at
home. Remodeling and stuff. Of course, the tables are closer together
there." She glanced at their near neighbor. "Sometimes we discuss
politics, but sex is safer. Nobody minds that, but they're terribly touchy
about politics."
"Boston is not what I thought it was," he said.
"Boston is not much of anything," she said. "In Texas I could start a
riot by saying some of the things I think, but in Boston they just turn up
their noses and look disgusted. Wimps."
And they went on to talk of other things until the sherbet, served with
a flourish by Rick, was finished.
"Ready?" she said.
"I've been ready since before we met Rick," he said.
"Oh," she said. "I really liked the potatoes. They did them just
right. Crusty and all. It helps if you concentrate on your food."
"I don't know whether you're simply female," he said, "or whether
you're teasing me, or whether you merely have the best compartmented mind
I've ever seen."
"I'm not teasing," she said seriously. "I do really like to eat.
Also."
"I'm glad you put in the 'also,'" he said. "Personally, when I start
thinking about 'also,' I tend to lose my appetite."
"Let's take a little walk around the grounds," she said, "and then go
really concentrate on 'also.'"
The night was beautiful. It was near eight-thirty, but not fully dark;
the waning moon was low on the horizon. They walked in the garden, the dusk
heavy with the fragrance of roses in one place, heliotrope in another, thyme
in a third. It was cool, but the humidity was high; only a few days had
passed since the rains of June and early July had stopped. Where the paths
crossed, at a large fountain, they stood still. She came into his arms;
they kissed, her tongue forcing itself into his mouth, her nipples standing
as she crushed them against him and felt the nap of his linen jacket through
the silk of her dress. He held her tightly and pushed his pelvis to hers.
"Now?" he said.
"Yes."
They turned and walked quickly back to the veranda, into the lobby, and
up the stairs. He marveled that his leg felt no pain, he hardly needed his
walking stick. He unlocked the door of their suite and stood back for her
to enter.
Inside, she placed her tiny bag on a lamp table and turned to him once
again.
"It never in the world crossed my mind that you would take my dare,"
she said, "but I love you for it."
"Then love me," he said.
"How shall we do this?" she said. "Let me defer to you."
"Into the bedroom, wench!".
She laughed and saluted. "Aye, aye, Sir!" Then she turned and marched
into the bedroom left unused that afternoon. Once they were inside, she
stopped and looked at him.
"This time, I want you to undress yourself," he said. "Now."
She reached up without answer and unhooked the left pearl earring.
Then the right. She laid them on the night table. She started to remove
the choker.
"No," he said, "leave it."
"Your wish," she said. She pulled on the ribbon that served as a belt
until it came loose, and let the ends fall to her sides. She bent at the
waist, reached down and grasped the hem of her skirt, then slowly began to
raise it until the hem was above her knees. She stopped and looked him in
the eyes, smiling. Then she raised it quickly, slipped it over her head and
tossed it on a chair. She stood before him, naked except for the choker,
her stockings and her golden slippers, her arms at her sides, her palms
forward as if in supplication. He stood and stared.
"You are incredibly beautiful," he said.
She started to remove her stockings, but he shook his head. She stood
quietly.
He removed his jacket, his tie, his shirt. He slipped off his black
loafers, reached down and removed his socks, then let his trousers fall to
the floor. He was as naked as she was--even more: he had no choker, no
stockings. He walked behind her, and, as he had that afternoon when she was
still fully clothed, reached under her arms and placed a hand on each
breast. He pressed himself against her. She could feel the heat, the
solidity of his penis, the warmth of his belly, the hardness of his chest as
she leaned back into him, sighing. He held her a moment, then dropped his
arms.
"Lie down," he said. She did. "Now turn over. I want you on your
knees."
She raised herself, knelt, then fell forward on her arms. He climbed
into the bed behind her, then lay himself on her back, holding his weight on
his arms, feeling her skin against his, the muscles of her back strong
against his chest and stomach. His penis was between her legs, up against
her sex. Then he grasped her breasts, his hands kneading, her nipples
straining against his fingers. He pulled her upright, still on her knees.
"Use you hand on yourself," he said. She hesitated, then reached down
with her right hand, placed two fingers inside her vagina and stroked
gently, throwing back her head onto his shoulder.
He moved away and stood beside the bed. "I want to see you do this,"
he said.
She spread her legs farther apart and sat on her heels. Then she
decided to improve the view. She pushed herself to the very edge of the
bed, swung her feet to the rug and spread her legs wide. Then she put her
hand back, her fingers once more inside her vagina. She stroked herself,
her head back, her eyes wide open. With her free hand she lightly stroked
her nipple while staring into his eyes.
Her strokes took on a rhythm and she began to breathe hard. She
increased the pressure and the speed of her movements. Suddenly her eyes
closed, she keened, stopped her stroking, threw both arms back to support
herself and let her head hang. A moment later she sat up straight and
smiled at him, still breathing irregularly, her face flushed.
"A strange gift," she said, "but if it pleased you, I'm glad. Now I
want you to please me. Come into bed."
"Lie on your back," he said. "You once told me your preference. With
you, it's my preference, too."
She lay on the bed, smiling at him, her legs spread. He joined her and
took her in his arms. He kissed her, their tongues dueling as they clutched
each other. Then he raised himself and placed his legs inside hers. She
reached for his penis, found it, and pulled it to her, inside her. Her eyes
were open. She stared into his. He stayed still. She moved her hips
against him, slowly. Then he withdrew, only partway. He eased forward
slowly, and she met his thrust. She grasped him with her silken thighs.
Suddenly she dug her fingernails into his forearm.
"No more torture," she said. "Now. Hard."
In fact, her request was hardly necessary, for he was exercising all
his control to move slowly. In seconds they were thrusting wildly at each
other, roughly clashing. Both were ready; only a few thrusts brought her to
climax once more. This time she moaned, pulled him down to her breast and
held him tightly as she thrashed. Almost immediately he joined her in a
state of ecstasy. Then they lay as they were, his body full on hers, for a
long minute.
He then eased back a few inches as his penis shrank away from her
vagina. He rolled to one side, facing her supine body. He reached up and
caressed her cheek. She turned to him, smiling. He kissed her, warmly,
this time gently, his tongue comforting hers. He kept his hand on her head,
stroking her forehead with his thumb.
"You are even more beautiful," he said.
"Without my ears?" she said.
He traced the line of her ear with his forefinger.
"I've failed," he said, smiling. "They're still there."
"Perhaps that was an exaggeration, after all," she said. "You didn't
fail." She touched his forehead, then pulled him close and kissed him.
"You succeeded beyond my wildest expectations." He smiled.
They lay quietly in each other's arms, feeling the comfort of each
other's bodies. Occasionally he reached out and stroked a patch of smooth
skin--her breasts, her neck, her side, her hip. And she repaid by slowly
moving her hand over the inside of his thigh. He glowed inside, relaxed.
No more a cynic, he thought. A believer in the possibility of ecstasy.
Then, lying there, he found himself thinking of the day to come, when he
must drive the few miles to Biddeford and fly south. She was thinking of
her children, and how she would exclaim over her presents the next day.
They drowsed. Finally, she tapped his chest.
"I'll be back," she said, climbing over him and padding off toward the
bathroom. While she was there she removed the stockings, which were
somewhat the worse for wear. When she came back, he left and returned.
Then they lay close together, hips touching, hands laced together, until
they dropped off to sleep.
An owl hooted in the distance. The roar of the sea, a gentle murmur by
the time it reached their open window, fell on deaf ears. Moonlight crept
across the floor. Once, she suddenly spoke, then she clutched him, but she
never woke. He simply slept, oblivious.
Dawn came. Crows scolded each other, the noise enough to wake the
dead, one would have thought. A bluejay called. An ovenbird began its
daylong session of announcing its presence in a song and hiding from every
eye. They slept.
Then, at seven-thirty, she awoke. She looked at him and smiled. His
mouth was slightly open, and he was still unconscious. Yes, she loved him.
Then, there. She quietly threw her legs to the floor and walked into the
bath. But she had not been quiet enough. His eyes opened; he looked for
her. Then he heard small sounds, water running. He smiled. He loved her,
then, there. Perhaps more. Dreams did come true.
When she returned, she saw that he was awake. She climbed into bed.
"Good morning," she said. "Go back to sleep if you want. We went to
bed early last night, but we had a lot of exercise."
"Not bloody likely," he said, "to quote an anglophile I know." He
slipped out of the bed. "I'll be right back."
She could hear him brushing his teeth. Then he returned to the bed and
looked down at her. She waited placidly, knowing that soon she would be
filled again, trembling once as she looked up at him.
"What now?" she said. "When do you have to leave?"
"I have time," he said, still drinking in her nakedness, glad that the
night had been warm and that she had never had a chance to don the nightgown
she had told him about. For a woman whose chosen garb was a sweatshirt and
jeans, she had displayed considerable pleasure in her exquisite clothes.
For this he would have done more than merely divert some funds--he would
have committed armed robbery. He smiled at her.
"Another try?" he said. "Your ears. . . ."
"Oh, yes," she said, smiling. "I have a surfeit of ears, a plethora.
Do something."
He leaned down and kissed her, softly at first, then hard, his mouth
crushing hers. Her arms went up and he lay down, half on top of her. He
tasted her and marveled. She held him tightly, as if she dreaded his sudden
departure. The kiss went on. He stroked her forehead, then her arm, then
he raised himself and put a hand on her breast. She covered it with hers.
"Yes," she said, breaking the kiss, then bringing her mouth to his once
more.
He removed his hand and sought her vagina. She pressed into it, her mound
against the heel of his hand so hard that it almost hurt her. He entered
with his fingers and gently stroked. She responded by imprisoning his hand
between her thighs, moving her head from side to side, ripping her lips from
his and moaning.
"Yes," she said. "Yes, yes, yes!"
"Would you turn over and rest on your arms and knees again?"
"Yes, yes," she said, turning roughly under his hands. "Please."
He positioned himself behind her. She reached back and guided him into
the channel he sought, feeling his penis press hard on her clitoris. She
backed strongly into his pelvis.
"Move!" she said.
He thrust hard, then pulled back slowly, only to thrust again. She met
him, slamming her heavy buttocks into his pelvis, setting up a rhythm marked
by the clash of their bodies as she sought release, he sought ecstasy. They
were not children--their responses came slowly, the efforts of the night
before having their effect, the climax building inexorably as they moved
against each other. Then she began to tremble. He thrust harder, ever
harder. She pushed back. She suddenly raised her head, issued a guttural
howl, as he felt himself roaring into pleasure he had never experienced
before. He groaned. She felt his fluid pour into her vagina, pushing
herself as hard against him as she could, trying to join their flesh at the
very time separation became inevitable. They collapsed, his penis still
half buried in her vagina, his head on her shoulder, her hands gripping a
pillow. Then, powerful, she turned underneath him, talking him in her arms
and clasping him to her bosom.
"Oh, love!" she said.
He could only fasten his lips on hers, nibbling at her mouth, trying to
make her one with him. They held each other tightly. Her legs grasped him.
They stayed entwined for only a minute--her strength waned. She loosened
her grip and he fell off on his side, his arm draped across her stomach,
hers still under him, crushed by his weight.
They slowly relaxed.
"You'll have to give me back my arm," she said. "It's beginning to
hurt."
So he raised himself, and she pulled back, only to put her hand on his
face, to encourage the kiss he was already aiming at her mouth. Then she
broke the kiss, and he rolled onto his back as she turned her face toward
him.
They stayed together, soaking up each other's warmth.
But then she lifted her head and rested it on her hand.
"I have an idea," she said.
"I hope it doesn't entail your leaving this bed," he answered.
"It does," she said. "I'm going to dress and go downstairs for a
minute, then I'll come back."
"Be sure that you do," he said.
She untangled herself from him, stood and went toward the bath,
carrying her light suitcase.
Looking back at him, she said, "You'll like it." She smiled.
Inside the bathroom she quickly sponged herself, dried, then put on a
pair of slacks and a light sweater, running her fingers through her hair in
a vain attempt to produce order there. Oh, well, she thought, it's no
worse than usual.
She came out, put her finger to her smiling lips and went through the
door, closing it after herself. She hurried down the stairs and hastily
walked past the reception desk to the hotel's small gift shop.
A young girl was just readying the cash register.
"Oh, good," she said to the girl, "you're open. I saw a camera here
yesterday, one of those disposable ones, you know?"
The girl pointed to a placard on a table by the counter. "Like that?"
she asked.
The woman took a camera from the board, reached in the small bag she
carried and proffered her pseudonymous credit card.
"You're lucky," the salesperson said. "They just went on sale today."
She took the woman's card, put it through the machine and waited until the
sales slip was printed. A quick signature.
.
"You need a bag? No? Then thank you."
"Oh, I'm glad you had this," the woman said, smiling. "I really need
it." Then she turned and ran lightly back up the stairs. She opened the
door.
"Look what I've got!" she said. She quickly tore the wrapping from the
camera, aimed at the bed and fired a flash at her companion. "I want
another one," she said. "Smile!"
He pulled the sheet a little higher and dutifully obeyed. Her
enthusiasm infected him--he smiled truly, not just a camera smile, as the
flash went off again.
"I know the one you want," she said. "Give me a minute." She
retreated once more to the bath.
He watched her come out and once more was awed. She stood there, nude
as she had been the night before, wearing a new pair of stockings, her
choker still around her neck, the earrings back in place. She handed him
the camera, then stood facing him,palms out, as she had before, smiling the
smile he had dreamed of, the one that turned out to be not a fantasy but a
gift as great as any he had ever received. The flash popped; she turned a
little, putting an arm up to cover--not quite--her breasts. Another
picture, then another, in different poses as she played with him. Then he
put down the camera, rolled out of the bed, and came to her. She accepted
him into her arms, and they kissed.
They held each other for long minutes, swaying as they pressed kisses
on lips, necks, ears, hair, everywhere. Then they parted and stood looking
at each other.
She broke the silence.
"I think we'll have to change for breakfast," she said, smiling.
"I could have it sent up," he said after a moment.
"Do, please," she said. "I want scrambled eggs and sausage and lots of
tea. I'll hide when the bellhop comes; you can put on your robe and answer
the door."
They ate as they were, he in his robe, she clothed in her stockings,
jewelry, and a short cotton coverup that she left open in front even though
she was seriously worried about spilling hot tea on some sensitive area.
Then they donned swim suits and made their way to the outside pool.
Both had been competitive swimmers in their college days. He still
entered open meets, though he usually lost to younger racers. This time,
however, they swam lazily, and spent most of the morning sitting at the edge
of the pool in the shade of an umbrella. For a while they lay side by side
on beach towels, sweltering as the day grew warmer. Then back into the
water, to splash each other and laugh. They went back to their rooms as the
sun neared its zenith.
They packed their bags and dressed for travel. Then she walked through
into the living room, where he sat staring at a magazine. He rose, took her
in his arms, and kissed her, gently.
"Send me my pictures--you know the address." She paused. "I'm sorry we
have to leave," she said.
"Yes," he answered, "I'm very sorry." He took her hand. "Never
again?"
"Who knows?" she said. "Never is a long time." She could feel tears
sting her eyes, and could see the dampness in his.
"You know what they say in Quebec," she said. "Je me souviens. I
remember. I'll never forget."
"What are you going to do with fifty-three francs?" he asked. He could
no longer bear to be serious.
"I'll spend fifty-two in Paris in September," she said, "probably on
something to eat." She smiled. "I think I'll just keep the remaining one
coin, and whenever I'm looking for change, I'll see it. And I'll be in
Maine, wherever I may really be."
"Goodbye, my darling," he said. Then he dropped her hand and turned to
go into the other room. Someone had to be the first to leave.
-------THE END--------
NOTE: If you want the recipe for Potatoes Anna, I'll be glad to send it you.
Just ask.
Please write to me at janey98@hotmail.com
My stories are on the Web at:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Jane_Urquhart/www
http://annejet.pair.com/story
Copyright 1998, 2000 by Jane Urquhart. The author is a member of the Net
Authors and Creators Union (NACU), which defends the rights of Internet
authors and creators. NACU intends to bring suit against any person or
corporation infringing copyright.
Specific permission is granted for publication in the news groups
Alt.Sex.Stories and Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated and for archiving by the
Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated archive and Deja.com. All other rights are
reserved. Do not repost or distribute by any other means without express
permission from the author.
<1st attachment end>
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