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From: DrSpin <drspin@newsguy.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} The Lacklustre Blonde (MF, cheat) ~ an Iron Writers story
Date: Tue, 29 Aug 2000 08:10:02 -0400
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The Lacklustre Blonde (MF, cheat)
by DrSpin
August 2000
[An Iron Writers story]
See http:// www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Rui_Favorites/www/Iron/
===========================================================
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.
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* The author welcomes comments and opinions from readers
and is invariably motivated to respond. Write to:
drspin@newsguy.com
* Ruthie edits my stories expertly. Nat inspires and does
my web site.
===========================================================
The road is straight on the Nullarbor Plain. There's not a
genuine bend in it for hundreds of kilometres. Blot, blot,
blot. The straight-line paint marks in the centre of road
loom up monotonously in the headlights and flick at your
eyes hypnotically. It was an hour since I'd seen anything
but the road markers. No traffic, either way. No lights of
habitation. Nothing.
In the passenger seat beside me, a woman I scarcely knew
sat silently, wrapped in her own thoughts. She didn't want
to be here, rolling away the kilometres with me. I didn't
want to be here either. Nullarbor means treeless. It's flat
and forever. It gives you nothing.
"Helen?" I asked tentatively, trying to get used to her
name. Mrs. Rasmussen no longer seemed appropriate.
She shifted in her seat, dragged back from wherever she'd
been hiding. "Yes?"
"Did you know they were even having sex?"
She shifted again, discomfort apparent. "No," she said. "I
mean, I didn't ask and I wasn't told. I guess I didn't
think about it."
"You know," I said, "I didn't think about it either, and
that was stupid. It just didn't occur to me. I keep
thinking about her like she's ten years old." I shook my
head slowly, wondering for the 20th time why I'd been such
an idiot.
Helen snorted. "Ten years old? Chris, she's gorgeous."
Yeah. I guess she was. "But she's still only fifteen," I
said.
"Sixteen," she said sharply, like a few months made all
the difference and her apple-cheeked boy was more a victim
than a perpetrator.
Yeah. Sixteen three months ago. I wasn't appearing much of
a father. Couldn't even get my only child's age right.
Helen Rasmussen had three kids. Eric was the middle one,
and they say the middle child is the rebellious one. He'd
been taking my Rachel out for nearly a year, not exactly
with my blessing, but what the hell could you do about it
anyway. I didn't not like Eric. Didn't like him much
either. But his parents were vaguely okay, and I had
tolerated him.
Not any more. Eric was seventeen and, if I had any input,
would not reach eighteen. The cocky prick had done a flit
with my gorgeous daughter, snatching her into the shiny new
car given to him by a soft mother on his 17th birthday,
leaving sunny Perth in a tearing tyre-squealing hurry to
head across the Nullarbor Plain for bleak and windy
Adelaide.
He didn't bother to leave a note. Bless Rachel, she did.
Kids are fools. They think that's all there is to it. Oh
well. She loves Eric and she's off and away with him, and
see you later, folks. There you go. Simple as that. Why on
earth would we worry?
Note in pocket, I marched the three streets to put the
pressure on her best friend, who buckled in a few seconds
and blabbed it all out. The runaways were heading for
Adelaide, where Eric had friends, to start a life together.
Yeah, right. Like fuck they were.
Next stop, Eric's house, and Helen Rasmussen at the door,
open-mouthed and shocked. Eric did what? She had a general
lead on an address of Eric's two friends. I wrote it down
and told her, grimly, I would be leaving for Adelaide
within the hour to fetch Rachel back home.
She insisted on coming. Her husband was a naval officer and
he was away for another two weeks. Phyllis, my wife, was
ill. She was always ill, more or less, but that's another
story. Helen wanted to handle Eric. I think she was afraid
I'd break his pretty face, and she had a point. In the end,
to save time arguing, I agreed. She might be useful at
that.
Five hours later, out on the Nullarbor, she'd said not
much. I looked over at her, a tired blonde, in more than
one sense. Everything about her was lacklustre. Her mouth
was tightset, expressing a few years worth of general
resentment. Middle age can be cruel to blondes.
* * *
"When did you first have sex?" Her question came from the
dimly-lit passenger seat where she huddled herself against
the door.
"What?" I heard her, but my mind was a long way from
dealing with it and I needed a half-second to reorganise.
"Sex. You. Your first time. How old were you?"
I frowned, thinking. "Depends," I said cautiously. "What do
you mean by sex?"
She straightened in her seat. "Fucking," she said
impatiently. "When did you first fuck a girl?"
"Sixteen."
She said nothing but the silence said it all. "So how old
were you?" I asked.
"Fifteen."
We digested these things for a while, and the car rolled on
towards Adelaide.
"I was a bit wild," she said, after a time.
"But, Helen, did you run away from home?"
She laughed. "No way."
"I was a bit wild too," I said. "For a while." I sighed.
"But I have to tell you it's been a long, long time since I
was even in the wild ballpark."
"Hah," she said, and there was bitterness mixed with the
humour. "I haven't even had sex in six months."
"Hah," I said. "At least nine months for me."
Several kilometres of straight road passed under the
wheels. "Would you fuck me?" she asked.
"Hey?" I was genuinely startled. I'd been recalling a 16-
year-old girl with ginger pubic hair.
"You heard," she said. Then, hastily: "No, no. I don't
mean, will you fuck me. I mean, would you. Am I a woman a
man like you would fuck?"
Well, was she? I steeled myself not to look at her. No good
could come of looking at her, up and down, measuring and
calculating. I wasn't that insensitive. "Sure," I said,
breezily. No choice, really. Had to say it or cause a chasm
of offence.
Of course she wasn't going to let it go that easily. "Why?"
Why? Hell, I'd fuck Margaret Thatcher to break the drought,
but that wasn't going to be the appropriate answer. "You're
an attractive woman," I said. "Very fuckable. Never thought
otherwise."
She grunted dubiously and lapsed into silence.
We hadn't come one-third of the distance and Helen
Rasmussen was asking if I'd fuck her. Strange times. Well,
would I? Damn right I would. Hypothetically. If it was
there for the taking. I hadn't formed a real image of her.
Yeah, she was okay. She would have been pretty once. Not a
bad figure. She was certainly all woman. Yep, I would.
Hypothetically.
My cock was unhypothetically hard, and I jiggled around
surreptitiously to find it a more relaxed position in my
pants. I had to make an effort not to bring a comforting
hand down from the steering wheel. I was sure she was
watching me.
She was. "I guess you masturbate a lot," she said, matter
of factly. "It's all right. So do I. What else is there to
do?"
The hell with it. I dropped a hand from the wheel and
adjusted myself more comfortably.
"How old are you, Chris?"
"Just 40."
"Ah well," she said. "There you go. I'm 44, nearly 45."
"Not much difference," I said gallantly.
"Big enough," she said. "I was born in the Fifties and you
in the Sixties."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning I'm too old."
"You're not too old for anything, Helen. Remind me, how
often did you say you masturbated?"
"I didn't say," she said softly. "But put it this way - I'm
a couple of hours overdue."
For some reason this struck me as enormously funny. I was
roaring laughing. Then she was too. After a while I coughed
and stopped. She kept giggling sporadically.
"Well, I needed that," I said, wiping tears from my eyes
and trying hard to concentrate on the road.
"My pleasure," she said.
I laughed again. "If you insist," I said, seeking to extend
the joke. "Go ahead. I won't take my eyes off the road."
"You know," she said, "I think I might."
And, amazingly, she did. Not that I watched, but at the
edge of my vision I saw she had an arm up her dress, and
she rustled.
"Whew," she said, after not much time at all. "Now I feel
better."
"Wow," I commented. "Are you always that fast?"
"No," she said.
"I guess you were primed and ready, then."
"Yes. First time I've had a witness. It added a bit extra."
"Just a little quick one, Helen?"
"Actually," she said, "it was a monster. I internalised."
Internalised? Ah yes. I got it. "Imploded rather than
exploded. You're lucky. I don't have that option."
A prominent roadside sign flashed up and passed behind us.
"Kalgoorlie in ten kilometres," I said. "We'll stop for
fuel, coffee, and a short break."
* * *
Her face was etched with impish humour. I hadn't noticed it
before, but I guess it was only now that I was really
looking. She'd been the Rasmussen woman, mother of
troublesome Eric. Tonight, going on 10:45, she'd become
Helen, compulsive quick-button masturbator.
We sat opposite at a fast-food outlet, refuelling ourselves
with junk and coffee. I'd started this journey thinking she
was tired, uninteresting, and washed-out. I got it wrong.
That happens when you make quick assumptions about people.
"A grown-up woman like you ought to be ashamed of
yourself," I said, mock seriously. "But you're not at all,
are you?"
She had dark-blue eyes, near violet, and the edges crinkled
as she smiled. "Best fun I've had in ages," she confessed.
"It's like fantasy land. Must be the unreal situation."
"This may be a deeply personal question, Helen, but we've
been getting deeply personal anyway. You're obviously a
sexy and attractive woman. How come you're not getting your
quota at home?"
She shrugged. "He's lost interest in me. But he's always
been a bit of a dud in bed. Shocking thing to say about my
husband, I know, but it's the truth. I got tired of taking
the initiative. It gets to be embarrassing after a few
years. What about you? What's your problem?"
I echoed her shrug. "She's been ill for the past two years,
on and off. Sex just seemed to fall off the agenda. I
haven't strayed, although I probably could have. Not sure
why. I just don't seem to want to handle the complexities
of an extra-marital affair."
She nodded sympathetically. "Same here. I'm not looking for
romance."
"Yes," I agreed. "What we both need is occasional
uncomplicated sex."
"That'll do me fine," she said.
"There's a motel around the corner," I said.
She rattled her coffee cup into its saucer. "Let's not
waste time," she said.
* * *
I was a slobbering ape. Woman. Hole. Fill it. Now.
The last vestiges of civilised behaviour stopped me from
ripping her clothes, but everything still came off in a
tearing hurry. She was soft and white. Her legs were open.
I was between them in a flash, questing, pushing,
thrusting, slamming.
The red mist lifted. It was over. I didn't know how long it
had taken. Not long, though. Maybe only a few seconds.
"Oh hell," I muttered guiltily, speaking into her soft
shoulder. "Sorry about that."
"Nothing to worry about," she said, stroking my back. "I
never felt so needed and wanted in my whole life."
I rolled away and rested. Too well. I woke with a start and
she was walking back from the bathroom, showered and damp,
with a towel wrapped around her waist. She smiled to see me
awake and sitting up on the bed, but she appeared nervous.
She was wary about the way I was looking at her. She didn't
need to apologise. She was built solidly the way a lot of
women tend to be when they pack the weight and worry of a
few years on their figures. But she had fine good legs and
plump breasts that had lost only a little to gravity and
advancing age.
No need to be clinical, however. I loved that look of the
wrapped towel and the bare breasts. It was one of life's
sexier sights. My cock picked up its head and started to
climb, reaching out towards her.
She sat down on the bed beside me and took hold of my
erection in her hand. "Good," she said. "This is all I seem
to have in my head tonight. I restrained myself in the
shower, but if you were still asleep I was going to have to
bring myself off again."
She pushed me backwards and I complied, lying flat on the
bed. "I'm used to taking the lead," she said, straddling
me. "Indulge me, Chris. I've come to like doing it like
this."
Curious. I can go forever when the woman is on top, but
when I'm on top I have trouble holding it back. Must be all
to do with basic and primitive thrusting, and the
biological urge to penetrate, plant seed, procreate, and
then push off back to the hunting of woolly mammoths before
the sun goes down and the sabre-toothed tigers come out to
play.
Eyes shut, she appeared to be in her own world, leaning
forward, then back, sliding, writhing. Her lips were moving
as though she was talking to herself silently. I lay back
and watched, pleased to be useful.
Helen squirmed her way to a climax. I think. There was much
grimacing and frowning, tension in the pelvis, and taut
thighs. Not a sound, though.
"You seem orgasmically quiet," I observed when she opened
her eyes.
"You learn that from years of masturbating in bed beside a
sleeping husband," she said.
"No need now for agonised silence," I said.
She wriggled lasciviously. "Make me noisy," she said.
A challenge. I shoved her backwards and she squeaked in
surprise. I sat up and untangled myself, then manhandled
her like a side of beef, flipping her over. I lifted her
hips and she got the message, sliding her knees under her
stomach. She was presenting, offering.
"Not anal," she said hastily, as I gripped her around her
thighs. "I don't like it."
"Not this time," I said, sliding directly into her vagina.
I took her with long, steady strokes while she arched and
pushed back at me. Powerful feelings of lust, abandon, and
glee swept through me. God, it was good. It had been an
awful long time since anything was as good. My mouth was
dry.
"We're animals," she panted.
I kept on pushing into her with long and steady strokes.
"Yes, isn't it great?"
"Fuck, yes," she said. "Jesus, I think I might be going to
make a noise."
I tightened my grip on the soft flesh of her thighs and
pounded into her, picking up the tempo. "Oh my," she
gasped. "Things are happening."
Rumbles, a rising moan like a fast approaching wind, and
then it was on her in a flash. She shook in shock. She
shrieked. Violence threatened. And just as suddenly it was
past and she was still and calm. I grunted and pressed into
her, shooting from my depths into hers.
Done. Spent. Empty. All gone. I withdrew slowly and rolled
away, mentally and physically exhausted.
"Oh fuck," she said softly. "I think I made a lot of
noise. Years of discipline have gone down the drain."
* * *
We were ready for the road again, checked out of the motel,
car fuelled up, ploughing through a substantial breakfast
back at the fast food outlet. I made a call home from a pay
phone without expectation. Answering telephones did not
normally fit into my wife's illness patterns, but duty
nagged at me.
She didn't answer, and I pressed the code to retrieve any
messages on the answering machine. There was one. It was
from Rachel, my errant daughter. I listened, hung up, stood
silently for a moment while several options ran through my
brain, and returned to Helen at the table.
"You wouldn't believe it," I said. "The kids are on their
way back home. They never made it to Adelaide. Rachel said
they realised they were making a big mistake, so they
turned around and headed back." I looked at my watch.
"They'll be in Perth by mid-morning."
Helen looked at me steadily over her coffee cup. "So that's
it," she said. "All over. We're on our way back too."
"Not necessarily," I said.
Her eyes crinkled with amusement. "You want us to run away
together? The kids show good sense and return home, but we
don't? Come on, Chris. That's not real."
"Tempting, though," I said. "I admit it crossed my mind.
No, it's not real. But I have an alternative plan."
"Yes?"
"What if I hadn't made that phone call? We'd have gone on
to Adelaide. Maybe we'd have spent a day or two there."
"I like it," she said.
"But we won't be going to Adelaide," I said.
"No?" She sounded disappointed.
"One motel is like another. Let's just stay here for two
days."
"I like it," she said.
Guess this was going to make delivering stern parental
lectures difficult when I finally made it home.
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
The Stories of DrSpin are at http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/DrSpin/www
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