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From: One Gallus <onegallus@yahoo.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Counselor 10, 11, 12
Date: Wed, 25 Oct 2000 09:10:03 -0400
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<1st attachment, "C 10.txt" begin>
{ASSM}
Title: Counselor Part 10 (MF, rom, oral, anal, feet) Author: One Gallus,
<OneGallus@yahoo.com>
Disclaimer Not to be read: by anyone under the age of 18, or if it
violates the standards or laws of your community, or if adult erotica
offends you.
Not to be posted on any other site, or changed, or used in any way
without author's permission.
THE COUNSELOR
Part 10
Wednesday was waste. I prepared all morning for my interviews that
afternoon, going over the summaries, making short notes on what I wanted to
explore for the sessions later. One person showed up, but said he couldn't
stay, and the others didn't even call. Finally at 3:00 o'clock I had KC
call and cancel the rest of the appointments, then told her to go home.
"Clifford, why don't you have dinner with us tomorrow?" she asked.
"No, no, thank you, KC it's nice of you to ask, but I'm going to a good
restaurant tomorrow and celebrate my solitude with a steak, I eat chicken
and turkey most of the time. Besides, I have quite a lot of work to do.
"You back to writing again?" she asked.
"Yep."
"OK Clifford, Happy Thanksgiving!"
"Same to you KC."
I packed up my Rico text and notebook, and left for home.
The house was like the inside of a giant vacuum; it was too clean, too
big. I was hungry. I opened the refrigerator and stood blankly, looking
at the overstuffed box. Nothing appealed to me.
I went into my home office, sat down in the desk chair, spied my guitar
and rolled over to it. I took it out of the case, strummed it, tuned it,
and then sang "Wedding Bells," circa 1950, Hank Williams. It was very
corny, very me (at times), and at this moment, it was very boring.
Then I decided I would rent a movie, I had heard, "This is My Father"
with James Caan was a good film and it had been out for some time. On my
way to the Escort, I felt for my keys and touched a piece of paper. I
pulled it out and looked at it, "Millie Bradley, 531-6734." She lived in
Perrysburg, about ten miles south. I stood and looked at the paper, then
went back into the house. I stared at the phone a long moment. I picked
it up and dialed her number. "Hello," the very proper school teacher's
voice said.
"Hello, Millie, this is Clifford."
"Hi Clifford!" her voice was mid-range and musical, friendly. "Are we
still on for tomorrow?"
"Yep, I have a great restaurant picked out and we can have steaks for
Thanksgiving, if we please, or you can have turkey"
"Clifford, I don't want to spend time with a turkey!" she said, and
laughed. Really, it sounds great, I can't wait. What time?"
"Is one o'clock too early?"
"One o'clock is just right!" she said.
"Millie, am I keeping you from something?
"No, Clifford, why?"
"I.ah.I didn't want to disturb you, or anything."
"No, you're not, what is it?"
"Millie, I'm so lonesome I could cry." I said.
Pause. "I know the feeling," she said.
"I need company, tonight," I said.
Pause: "Clifford, are you a country music fan?" she asked.
Pause: I puzzled over the non sequitur. "I used to be a fan, why?" I
said.
"What you said, `I'm so Lonesome I Could Cry,' it's a country song."
"Why, I guess it is, isn't it?"
"Hank Williams, 1951. Senior, that is," she said. "You know Hank
Williams?"
"Hey, for a Yankee girl, I know him quite well, but I never heard him
till five years after he died. I have all of his songs on CD."
"Well, Millie, I feel like Hank Williams sings. I feel, `too blue to
fly.' Can we get together this evening, watch a video?
"I know what's wrong with you, you've got `The Love Sick Blues.'"
"Not anymore, `I Saw the Light.'"
"Clifford, get the movie, and bring it over. I'd love to see a movie
with you."
I went by Blockbuster and found them getting ready to close at 5:00 PM.
As
I went through the door, the guy said, "Sir we're closing."
"Your sign says `5,' and this is an emergency, I have five minutes left,
and I know what I want!"
At 4:59 I walked out of Blockbuster with "This is My Father" under my
arm.
I went home and brought my map program up on the computer. I typed in
2559 Louisiana Ave. and printed out the map. I laid the movie on top of
my map, and emptied my pockets there. I showered and shaved, and put on
some fresh dark khakis and a dark blue shirt, with four red stripes running
through it vertically. I filled my pockets, picked up the map and movie
and looked in the mirror. I said, "I'm sorry, Millie, this is as good as
it gets."
On my way out, I telephoned Millie again. "I'm leaving Millie, I figure
I'll be there in a halfhour, except, I was going to stop for burgers."
"You like Donato's Veggie and Chicken Pizza?" she asked.
"Sure."
"It'll be here about the time you arrive," she said.
"That's a deal, see you in a few!"
"Bye Clifford."
I parked my car in the lot of Louisiana House Condominiums, located
number 15, and carried my video to the door. I rang the bell, and she was
there, happy, indenting her face sharply with her pretty smile. There was
no roundness to her, she seemed all angles and edges. She was tiny, a
sprite in a girlish sailor's uniform of heavy sail cloth; the square collar
behind her shoulders sported nautical stripes of pink. Her tie, knotted
regimental, was of pink. She wore navy blue loafers I heard Hank on her
stereo.
"Hello Audrey," I said.
"Hello Hank," she laughed. Audrey was Hank Williams' first wife with
whom he had passed many a stormy day.
"Yep, you are a true blue fan, Millie."
"You know, he's the only country singer I every really liked, even
though he does sing through his nose!" she said, and led me to her dining
nook.
"Actually, that's called `nee' and it is considered an art in Ireland.
Unless you have developed the nee you probably won't make the top ten in
Celtic music. My mother sang with nee in her voice."
"You should have been a teacher, Clifford." she said. A large, hot
pizza was steaming in its box and she had me sit down opposite her."
She removed the pizza from its box and placed it between us on its
cardboard platter. Yellow plates were in front of us. Coke cans were
placed by each. The smell was positively delectable. "Use your fingers,
Clifford."
As we ate, Hank was on low volume, singing, "Why Don't You Love Me?" in
the background. "You know, Millie, when I was fourteen years old, and I
heard on the radio that Hank had died, I felt like someone in my family had
passed away."
"You were a fan then?" she asked.
"My whole family was. Actually, I began that year to teach myself
guitar."
"Oh! You play?"
"Just like a fourteen year old!" I said. "Actually, I'm into Celtic
music quite a lot now. But I still love Hank!"
I ate until I was ashamed of myself, but her side of the pizza was
missing only a couple of pieces. My side had one small piece left. I
rubbed my belly, and said, "Ahh, that was great, Millie. I'm embarrassed I
ate so much."
"You're a big man, Clifford, you need your nourishment. How tall are
you anyway?
"I'm six-two, and how tall are you?"
"I'm five-one," she smiled. I wish I were taller.
"Yore jest fahn Ordrey," I drawled, and stood up as she did."
"Wha thahnk ye Hank," she laughed, with a slight curtsy, "See if you can
figure out the VCR, and I will be there in a second." I walked a few steps
to the living room, actually the same room, watching her clean up the
table. I found the remote and put my tape in the VCR slot, fast forwarded
it up to the opening frame of the movie and stopped it. I sat down on the
couch toward the middle, hoping she would feel comfortable enough to sit by
me. A recliner sat off at an angle to the couch, on my right. I sat and
waited.
She came in and sat down in the recliner. All right, I thought, I'm
here to see a movie, make friendly conversation, that's all. I started the
movie.
Caan's character is a history teacher and he knows nothing of his
father, except he wasn't married to his mother, nor was she married until
after she sailed from Ireland to the US in 1939. She would never speak of
his biological father, and he, sensing that the subject was closed, never
asked. When she was stricken with a stroke in her late 70's, paralyzing
her tongue, the teacher realized he could never discover his roots from his
mother, so he determined that he would sail to Ireland, go to his mother's
village, and there discover what he could of the story. The mood of the
film, set in a small, dying village in Ireland, was a series of flash backs
before Word War II, a more charming era for Ireland. It was a time when
nature had not yet been sullied. The people, now old in the year 2000,
were young then; their blood was hot, and their hearts were gentle.
However the traditional Irish-Catholic moral tyranny drove the young couple
to despair; they were headed for trouble, but try as they might, they could
not avoid it.
I became so absorbed in the movie, I forgot about my hostess on the
recliner, and watched the deepening plot of sadness and love unfold. In
one sensitive scene, I felt my throat tighten, and tears trickled down my
cheeks. My breath was catching in my chest, and I wiped my eyes several
times. Suddenly, she was beside me, crowding me from the right side. I
smiled at her; and she smiled back. Her right hand reached across my lap
and took my left one, and pulled it to her lap, where she held it. I
leaned toward her and she placed her head on my shoulder. We watched the
rest of the movie, in that comfortable embrace, wiping tears from our eyes.
When the credits began to roll, we turned to each other. The light was
dim, but I could see her dark eyes shining, looking deeply into mine.
"Millie." I said.
She pulled my left shoulder to her, slid her arm around my neck and
pulled me down to her lips. There was a faint, cinnamon scent about her. I
breathed it in, as she held me there. Her mouth was soft and barely open,
and I opened mine to match hers. Our heads moved slightly counter to each
other, then slowly back, and I felt our lips opening more. Millie moaned
quietly, and my tongue touched her lip tentatively. Her tongue plunged
into mouth, and my arms encircled her little body, a child's body, I
thought. I had never held anyone so small, except in a fatherly way. This
woman was no child, but she was so tiny I felt I might crush her. I
reached back, under her arms, feeling her warm dampness there, and lifted
her easily to my lap. Now she had her left arm over my shoulder and her
right arm around and behind my waist, hugging me hard, kissing me wetly. I
felt myself hardening, readying.
Then she backed away suddenly, releasing her hold on me. I didn't
restrain her, didn't pull her back to me. She sat there, looking at me
seriously for a long moment.
"Clifford, I don't know you, not really. I know there must be something
going on between you and Reilly, I'm not sure what it is. I see your
wedding ring. How could that be right? How could THIS be right? I think
I'm moving too far, too rapidly."
She was still in my lap. Her hands were now resting on me, palms
against my shoulders. The shadows were falling across her face, and I
couldn't see her eyes clearly now.
"Millie, I.I am so.lonely."
"Clifford, I know what that means." A long moment passed. "Just hold me
now, just hold me," and she came back into my arms, her chin over my
shoulder, her tiny body straining up to me. I slid my arm over her legs
and pulled her up to me, turning her body into my chest; and there on her
couch I sat, holding her like she was a little girl, rocking just a bit.
And there we fell asleep.
<1st attachment end>
<2nd attachment, "C 11.txt" begin>
{ASSM}
Title: Counselor Part 11 (MF, rom, oral, anal, feet) Author: One Gallus,
<OneGallus@yahoo.com>
Disclaimer Not to be read: by anyone under the age of 18, or if it
violates the standards or laws of your community, or if adult erotica
offends you.
Not to be posted on any other site, or changed, or used in any way
without author's permission.
THE COUNSELOR
Part 11
At 1:00 AM I woke with a distended bladder. "Please, Millie, tell me
where your bathroom is, quickly."
She giggled and slid off my lap, and pointed down the hallway. I darted
for the room, and hardly got the door closed till I had the anxious organ
in my hand, and instantly it was boiling the water below. When I was a
kid, restless on a trip, my dad would sometimes ask me, "Cliff, do you need
to bleed your lizard?" Well, my lizard was hemorrhaging now. And it took
forever-loudly forever, till finally I was finished, and everything was
back where it belonged. I flushed, and washed, and came out to see her
standing at the end of the hallway.
"Clifford, did you run a bath? I could swear I heard the bath water
running," she giggled. "Yeah, yeah!" I chuckled, shaking my head. "Well,
you sit down, and wait for me. I have bath water to run of my own."
I went back to the living room, and sat down in the recliner. Soon she
was back, her face washed and her hair combed. She had washed away the
makeup and looked a bit older, an honest woman.
She walked over to me, stood in front of the chair, and held out her
hands. I took them in mine, and stood in front of her. Her chin was high,
looking into my eyes, searching them, not speaking for a moment. Then,
"Are you still lonesome, Clifford?"
"No, as a matter of fact, are you?"
"No, I'm not lonesome," she said smiling. "I can't tell you what
tonight has meant to me."
"All right! Suddenly I grabbed her, assumed a dance position and
started singing, bouncing clumsily, but in time to the music, as I sang:
"Come your hair and paint and powder You sing loud, and I'll sing
louder, You act proud, and I'll act prouder, Tonight we're sittin' the
woods on fire!" Ta Ta Tah Ta Tah Ti Ta Tah."
She laughed, her voice like silver bells. "You do mean tomorrow, don't
you, Clifford? We'll set the woods on fire tomorrow!" she laughed.
I stepped back, my arms in a show biz spread, "Sure, unless you want to
get an early start!" I cocked my head.
She came back into my arms and hugged me. "One o'clock will be early
enough, goodnight Clifford."
"Goodnight lady, I enjoy watching movies with you."
"Likewise," she said.
Then, I picked up my movie, and turned to the door.
The Old American Chop and Chicken House did offer Turkey for
Thanksgiving, but like most people there, we avoided it. I ordered the
sixteenounce rib eye and she had the petite filet minion. We sat across
from each other in a straight-backed booth. I had not noticed the seats
being so high, but when the salad came, I felt the softness of her feet on
top of my shoes. "Millie, are you playing footsie with me?" I asked.
"I can't reach the floor," she chuckled. "I needed a boost."
"You know, I could have them bring a high chair for you." I said, not
smiling. I felt a soft kick on my shin and she stuck out her tongue. I
was glad she was feeling comfortable with me. The incident the night
before had some pathological vibrations about it, but I felt that aspect
would pass with the light of a new day. While I welcomed that passing, I
also feared that it might dilute the beginnings of a good relationship.
Evidently there was no such danger.
"You know, Millie, when I was in the eleventh grade, I had a crush on my
government teacher," I said.
"Really? What was his name? Maybe I know him," she said in an
interested tone.
I wrinkled my nose and pushed her foot off mine, as she laughed. "Her
name was Hildegard Green, I said."
"Was she pretty?" she asked, settling her little feet back on mine.
"Well, she was absolutely intoxicating to me, but I never heard any of
the guys raving about her. So, I kept the infatuation to myself. She
really was quite a severe looking woman, very plain, not much makeup. Her
hair was gray at the temples; she wore it in a large rolled curl all around
the sides, obviously a throwback to the 40s. She wore gray or brown suits
all the time and lace up shoes. You know? I worked harder for her than I
did any other teacher. She broke my heart when she gave me a C."
"Why don't you look her up? Go see her. Tell her about it. Give her a
lift!" she said.
"Ahh,she was close to fifty then, she'd probably be ninety-five right
now, if she were alive."
"You might add five years to her life," she said, smiling.
"Did you ever have a high school boy fall for you?" I asked.
"When I was 17, I did," she cracked. "Actually," she said, taking a
bite of her salad, "You'd be surprised."
"Really?"
"Yes!" She chewed for a while and then said,
"Only nowadays, they're not as bashful about letting you know."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, once after the last bell, I was packing my briefcase, and a boy
came up behind me and cupped my breasts."
"You're kidding! What did you do?"
"Probably what Hildegard Green would have done. I took his hand away
and said, `Jerry, why did you do that?"
"And?"
"He shrugged his shoulders, and grinned like a fool. Then I said,
`Jerry, we can handle this one of several ways, we can go report this to
the principal and to your parents, or I can call the police. Or, you and I
and a fellow teacher will meet, and we will relate this incident to him,
and you can write a letter describing what you did, apologizing to me, and
promising you will never do it again. In the letter, you will describe
this arrangement. The fellow teacher and I will countersign the letter.
Then I will take this letter, put it in a sealed envelope, mail it to
myself with its postmark, and put it in my safety deposit box. And if word
of this incident is ever mentioned again, or if you try such a thing again
with me, or anyone else, I will take it to the principal, to the school
board, or whomever, and will tell them the story and let them open the
letter."
"Wow, did it work?"
"Scared the poor kid to death, but it worked. He went out of his way to
avoid me from then on. Came up to me at graduation, and thanked me, poor
kid."
"Poor kid? I'd say he got more than he deserved!" I said.
"No, he didn't. He didn't get very much at all," she said, looking sad.
I looked at her blankly, and then she spread her arms giving me a full
chest view of the small mounds under her blouse, then smiled.
Laughing, I said, "Millie, your breasts are as beautifully petite as the
rest of you."
"Why thank you, Clifford! But how could you possibly know that?" she
said, cocking her head and smiling as they brought our steaks.
There was a pleasant banter all through the meal, and we lingered over
the table a good while, when finally it was time to go.
As we walked to the car I said, "Millie, how would you like to take a
little drive out to the Bettsville Mill?"
"What's that?" she asked.
"It's a cider mill, just south of Fremont-about a fifty mile drive
there."
She checked her watch, "You know, Clifford, it's already 2:30."
"So, what will you do if I take you back home right now?"
She shrugged, and said, "Let's go get some cider!"
It was a bright fall day, and the air was warm. We had shed the light
coats we had brought and felt very comfortable in our long sleeved shirts.
She wore a turtleneck, dark brown, with a muted gold tweed skirt. Her hose
were dark and blended well with her skirt and loafers. Her earrings were
of gold ceramic and she wore a polished stone pendant of the same color on
a heavy chain around her neck. She appeared to me very smartly dressed,
very neat and compact.
As I bent to open the door of the Escort for her, a clove-like fragrance
drifted to me. "Mmmmm, you smell like autumn," I said.
"I will take that as a compliment," she said, and stepped in.
We were finally out of the city and cutting across the nearly flat
terrain southeast of Toledo. "Clifford, I am very curious about
something," she said after a long silence.
"What's that?"
"The poem you wrote, `Pagan Grass.'"
"What about it?" I asked. "It was really a very sexy poem."
"You think so?"
"Clifford, you KNOW so," she said. "I still take out the paper that
Reilly gave us and read it. As a matter of fact, I read it last night?"
"Really?"
"Clifford..." I could tell she was struggling with words, how to put it,
how to say it, "It was like you were right there, watching that girl
dance." I could smell it, you know, feel it.
"I'll take that as a compliment. That's what I wanted to do, make you
feel like you were really there," I said.
"That's true, but that's not what I mean. I mean it felt like YOU were
really there, that YOU had experienced what you described. How did you
arrive at the state of mind to write such a poem?"
Now I was struggling for words. "Millie, I don't know how else to say
it, I am person with very erotic instincts." I paused and sought a way to
go on. "Much of what I write is highly erotic-at least to me, it's erotic.
Does that offend you?"
"Do you mean it's pornographic?" she asked.
"Some people might think of it that way, I personally don't.
Pornographic writing can be very boring, very unrealistic, and once you've
read it, you seldom want to read it again. It reads as if some
fourteen-year-old boy were pumped full of testosterone, and allowed to hump
out his words all over the paper. All he can think to say is how big her
breasts are, how long his penis is, how hard his orgasm was, and how to say
it with as many four letter words as he possibly can. And if he isn't
writing porn, he is speaking in stilted turn-of-the-century sex prose. You
know, `I drew my long sword; I brandished my tool; She admitted me to her
garden of delight; I was brought into her long corridor of ecstasy; She
grasped his marble muscle, etc. etc.' I get sick of seeing such things.
That's what porn is, and that's what bad writing is to me."
"But you don't write porn?" she asked.
"Some people might say I do, but I don't think so." Another long pause
ensued, then I asked her. "Millie, do you like to read about sex?"
"Sometimes." A mile passed.
"Now, I wonder what you mean. Do you mean you like to when you're in
the mood, or that you like to read something sexy because it hooks you?"
"Probably a little of both."
"Well, I gave you my idea of pornography, have you ever read any of it?"
"Yuck yes! I found some under my son's mattress. It was horrible.
Some of it was downright laughable. Some guy wrote that he reached deep
inside of a girl's vagina and massaged her clitoris!" She laughed
derisively.
I said, "Well, aside from faulty anatomy, did he actually use the terms
"vagina" and "clitoris?"
"No," she stammered, "it was-it was `pussy' and `clit' and `cock.' The
words did not roll off her tongue easily. She shifted uneasily, "Is that
what makes it pornography?" she asked.
"Well, I'll have to admit that I sometimes use those terms. But in
pornography, I think the writer believes he can create an erotic scene
simply by saying, "fuck, fuck, fuck." There may be a time and place for
such words, but I use them very sparingly. On the other hand, if I create
a character who would use those terms, what can I do but represent him
truthfully in the story?"
She nodded her head, thoughtfully, but commented nothing. More silent
moments passed. Then she asked, "Clifford, do you remember when Reilly
read the poem in class, and I remarked about it?"
"No I don't Millie, that was only the second class, and I didn't know
anybody then. Why, what did you say?" I asked.
"I said I would love to see the cluster that produced that poem."
"Yes! I remember now, you winked at me!"
She laughed. "Yes I did, and you blushed and looked away!"
"Ah! I do remember the wink!"
"Well?" she asked.
"Well what?"
"I still want to see it. Will you let me see your cluster?" she asked,
her eyes glowing, a slight smile on her lips. She twisted around and
looked into the back seat of the Escort.
I knew what she was looking at. It was my Mead Composition Book, my
writer's notebook from class. Inside were all of my cluster notes and the
individual stories and poems they had produced. "Millie, you are
positively the most curious woman I have ever met! Well, let me see, I
need to think about that; that's a very personal book. Besides, we're
here," and I turned off Orchard Road onto a blacktop road called "Mill Rd."
No, I didn't need to think about it. I didn't want to show her the
cluster. I didn't remember everything in my cluster, but I recalled a
little of it, and it would bring up some things I was not ready to discuss.
As fortune would have it, we turned down Orchard Road, and within a mile,
we were at the cider mill.
Bettsville Cider Mill was located down a black top road, just off
Orchard Road, and as we approached the big barn like structure, the smell
of fresh squeezed apples was in the air. The mill was a large barn
structure, probably a hundred and fifty years old. It was built close to
Starr Creek, part of which had been diverted by a small canal which had
been dug around the side of the barn. Through the stone foundation, an
eight-inch axle protruded. A paddle wheel about twelve feet in diameter
had been attached.. The lower part of the wheel reached down into the
canal where it was impacted by the rapid flow of water and turned and a
steady rate. Part of the foundation, actually a basement, and some earth
had been removed from around the door through which we entered.
Immediately to the left, behind a wall with a large window, we could see
the machinery of the mill, the ancient wooden spindles, and rough iron
gears that turned noisily. By a series of belts, shafts and gears, the
power was transferred over to a large wooden press, which was suspended
above a table. The table was a mirror image of the moving press above, now
descending by the turn of a giant iron screw. On the great table were
arranged a single layer of reddish green apples, which were all at once
crushed by the press. A flood of fresh juice flowed down into troughs
along the perimeter of the table and into a tube that ran into a vat. From
this vat the plastic jugs were filled with the cloudy brown cider. The
jugs were set either in a large refrigerator, or placed directly on the
counter for sale. We stood and watched the process several minutes. On
the counter were also displayed doughnuts, popcorn, cheddar cheese and
homemade breads.
"Millie, do you want chilled or unchilled cider?" I asked.
"Unchilled, I want it straight, with only that press between me and the
apple. Get a jug that's just been filled."
Under the frown of the salesgirl, I reached to the back of the counter
and picked up a gallon of cider. "Pick out something to eat," I said. She
picked up a wedge of cheddar and a loaf of sourdough bread. I grabbed a
bag of popcorn and we each got a paper cup and plate on the way out the
cashier's line.
We walked out of the mill and into the sunshine, walking toward the car.
From there we looked across the blacktop where was a park area. Families
and couples were sitting on the lawn and at picnic tables, enjoying the
fresh squeezings.
"I have a blanket in the car," I said. We crossed the road, blanket
under my arm and a cider jug in my hand; in my other hand I carried my Mead
notebook. Millie was carrying the rest. We went to the far side of the
park area, actually, on the far side of a stone fence, and there we spread
the blanket, in relative privacy. We sat in silence, drinking the tepid
cider, letting the aroma fill our heads. "I love this time of year." I
said.
"Me too," she said. A cloud covered the sun, darkening the area a bit.
She shivered and said, "It's a little chilly without the sun." I opened the
popcorn bag and moved close to her, offering her the bag. She was sitting
with her legs tucked under her, and she tugged at her skirt, "I should have
worn pants." I put my arm around her shoulders, and she leaned into me.
She extracted a several pieces of popcorn and crunched them between her
teeth.
I touched her face and she nuzzled her head against my cheek, then
turned her face up toward me, smiling. I moved toward her mouth, paused
and said, "Millie, you have a popcorn hull stuck between your teeth."
Her tongue came up to slide across her teeth, and I kissed her. Her arm
came around my neck and she held me there for a moment, then backed away a
few inches, and looked into my eyes. "Clifford, I am sitting in a puddle
of cider." Then she kissed me again as my hand moved gently to her tiny
breast.
END OF PART 11
<2nd attachment end>
<3rd attachment, "C 12.txt" begin>
{ASSM}
Title: Counselor Part 12 (MF, rom, oral, anal, feet) Author: One Gallus,
<OneGallus@yahoo.com>
Disclaimer Not to be read: by anyone under the age of 18, or if it
violates the standards or laws of your community, or if adult erotica
offends you.
Not to be posted on any other site, or changed, or used in any way
without author's permission.
THE COUNSELOR
Part 12
She cupped her hand over mine on her breast, and said, "Not very big is
it?"
"Millie, on you it is beautiful. However, I say that as one observing
from the outside."
"I'm sorry Clifford, but we have to talk," she took my hand and pushed
it gently down to her waist.
"You want to know about the poem." I said.
"Yes."
"Could I tell you something else first?" I asked.
"You're not avoiding my question are you?"
Actually, I think I'm answering your question more fully," I said.
She took a deep breath, "OK, tell me."
I took my hands off her body and leaned back on my elbow. "My wife and
I have ceased having sex," I said. "We still love each other, but I have
backed away from her and she has retreated from me sexually. She would
endure it from me, if I wanted that way, but I can't give what she seems to
be indifferent to."
"How long has it been?" she asked.
"Months. Also, there is another thing. I don't know whether you can
identify with me in this, but I took care of my mother in my home two years
before she died. Emily was very hateful and hostile to her. I don't mean
she struck her, never that. She would help me, but even when she helped
me, it was grudgingly and at long distance. What I mean is, she would
prepare meals for me to take to Mom, wash her clothes, clean her room if
Mom wasn't in it, but she would burn with resentment when she did. Millie,
she would actually grit her teeth when she did it. All during that time,
she was sullen and abrupt.
"It wasn't as if she didn't know before. She agreed to the arrangement,
but she said later that she wished she'd never gone along with it. I can
understand that, but the hatred.? I couldn't fathom the bitterness." I
shook my head, still trying to understand. "I tried to talk with her, but
she would shrink away and grow silent, menacingly silent. All of the human
kindness in her seemed to harden and blow away. It was a hurtful and
gloomy time for me. That feeling would come back when I thought about
having sex with her. We really needed to talk it out, see a counselor," I
said.
"But you're a counselor," Millie said.
"That's what she said to me. But it doesn't work that way. I would
lose my objectivity. She can't possibly regard me as a helper, since I'm a
part of the problem. My resentment is a part of the problem."
"But you have a right to be resentful," she said, placing a hand on my
arm. I didn't move.
"Well, that's something that a counselor could help with, helping us to
work out the resentment. She may have resentment toward me also. I can't
tell because she closes up when I try to talk with her. I become angry
too." I said.
"Do you think you'll leave her?" she asked.
"No. I have a family, Millie. I have a daughter and granddaughter who
think I am the king of the United States. I couldn't shake that. No, I am
a married man."
"But, it's like your trapped," she said.
"Do I seem trapped right now?" I said.
"No." She paused as I gave her time to think. "But your freedom is
limited."
"Yes, and to some extent, I limit it voluntarily." I said, and I let her
absorb that for a bit. She looked out into the orchards, concentrating.
"Now, you can look at the notebook," I said, and handed it to her.
"Where's the part about the poem?" she asked.
"Just look at the whole thing," I said. "It might answer a few
questions, it might raise a few questions." I knew I was taking a risk by
allowing this, but I was taking a risk by not allowing it too. It could
end right here. I had not ever intended that anyone should see the book,
but it was time, but the "time and tide of human affairs waits for no man."
Who said that? I couldn't recall, but it was true.
She turned till she found the cluster. This is what she saw, except
there were hand drawn lines connecting the words.
Reilly
Pagan
CELTIC
Sex Bridget
_____________________________________________
Naked Feet
PAGAN Red Belly _____________________________________________
Then below, was the hand written version of "Pagan Grass."
She studied the diagram; finally she asked, "Who's Bridget?"
"She's a pagan Celtic goddess. She goes by many names, but she would
correspond to Aphrodite among the Greeks.
"Venus?"
"Yes, and Diana," I said.
She read the poem over, looked back at the cluster.
"Have you fucked Reilly?" she asked, looking at me sharply.
I was surprised that Millie had used the word. Coming from her it
obviously carried with it a connotation of contempt."Yes."
"And she's dumped you?" she asked.
I didn't know quite how to answer her. "I feel as though she has," I
finally said.
"What's that supposed to mean?" she said, coldly.
"She's with somebody else this weekend. Maybe, she's been with him
since before the weekend. You know she didn't show up for Tuesday class. I
haven't talked with her since last Thursday."
"So it's over?" she asked.
"She won't think so," I said.
"What's that?"
"I think she'll come back, feeling everything's the same."
Millie looked off into the distance, obviously trying to put it all
together.
"And, will everything be the same?"
I thought that over, and said, "You know, she never lied to me. She
told me at the beginning that she saw other men. She never broke a
promise, spoken or unspoken. I knew intellectually what would happen all
along. I was just not prepared for it emotionally."
"Did you fall in love with her?" Millie asked.
"I never thought so," I said truthfully, "I did feel very affectionate,
very fond of her. Is that a kind of love?"
She didn't answer me. "Are you jealous?"
"I've never thought so, but I do feel empty toward her, strange."
"Are you angry at her?"
"No."
"Are you mad at the guy who got to fuck her?" she asked.
It hurt me to hear Millie use the word, because I knew she was using it
as a weapon, a hatchet, cut me. She was succeeding.
"No, I'm not angry at him. I don't have any feelings toward him at all.
If I knew who he was, I wouldn't hold anything against him."
"But you do against her," she charged.
"You'd think so, but I don't. I can't judge her for doing just what she
said she would do. If there is anyone to blame about my feelings, it would
be me."
"Well, how did you feel?" Millie asked, her voice rising a little.
"Again, empty, hurt, forlorn, so lonesome I could cry." I said.
"Don't try to joke your way out of this, Clifford."
"It's no joke.
"That's way you feel." she charged, rather than asked.
"No, that's the way I felt. There's a difference."
"What if she comes home and says, "Clifford, let's have a little fuck
tonight?" Her voice was hard. "Oh God," she sighed, "This is too
complicated. Take me home, Clifford."
The next hour and a half were total silence and total misery. At eight
PM we pulled into Millie's parking lot and she exited the Escort quickly.
I traveled the half-hour home, opened the door to the garage, drove in,
got out of the car, retrieved my notebook, and went into that same empty
house, with the same overstuffed refrigerator. I walked into my workroom,
found my guitar, sat down in my desk chair, and strummed a cord. I
finger-picked "Hewlett" and "George Brabazone," two of Turlough O'Carolan's
harp melodies. I couldn't think of anything else to play, so I started
over again.
I laid the guitar down on the floor, and looked at it. I put my shoe on
its body and gave it a shove. It slid along the carpet across the room and
hit the closet door, making a sound like a grandfather clock that's just
been tipped over.
I reached for my notebook and opened it to a blank page. In the center
I wrote "MILLIE" and radiating from it a cluster of feelings. One at a
time, yet rapidly, they began falling out of my head and onto the paper.
"Lonely, Beauty, Tough, Fragile, Comfort, Companion, Cloves, Tiny, Quick,
Old, Peer, Hummingbird, Color, Clifford." Then, "CLIFFORD: Clumsy, Hurt,
Stupid, Immature, Awkward, Meant-well, Ridiculous." I felt my mind shift
and then I wrote:
I stand, gazing at the bush, Contemplating bumblebees. At once, a
creature is there Hovering before me, Lunging, and darting From bloom to
blossom, Momentarily visible, Wings beating a blur. I am in total
reaction, My hand is a snare Snapping through the air, I seize her. Her
wings are quaking in my clutch. She is terrified-I am frightened, Anxious
that I may harm her, My young heart flutters. Her wings quiver in my palm.
She is so beautiful I want to cry. My hand opens, she flies away. You
know? No one believes me now, That an awkward, round faced boy Could
capture a hummingbird. Today you have come to hover Before my light-filled
eyes. My urge to snatch and seize Is quelled by memory Of something tiny,
long ago, So beautifully hued, A creature, trembling, shuddering, Inside my
big, chunky, boy's hand. I do not want to harm you. I hold out this open
palm to you, Hoping you will linger, Knowing certainly, you will fly.
Clifford Allan
I turned on the computer, and attached the poem to e-mail addressed to:
dreadmil@overshore.com.
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