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From: carjustice@aol.comspamless (story title in subject or autodelet)
Subject: {ASSM} most of Chapter One, Peter And Paula Married
Date: Sun, 15 Apr 2001 18:10:05 -0400
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Peter And Paula Married
Copyright 2000, 2001 by the author

Chapter One: The Waltz
	"That's it," Paula panted, "there don't stop, yes, baby, YES, oh god, Peter,
there, there it is, I'm CUMMING, darling, I'm cumming." She squealed and
clenched him happily, coaxing him as the ripples washed over her. "That rhythm,
don't stop, there, baby, THERE," and with a whistling heeeee of a sigh, she
kissed his neck.
	Peter gritted his teeth and conscientiously maintained the rhythm. The effort
of concentration made him tense up, and he went limp inside her. He lay tightly
hunched on top of her, his entire body almost cramping with the tension.
	Feeling this, Paula lay back on the pillow and took his cheekbones in her
palms, looking into him with olive-green eyes of loving concern. "Baby, relax,
honey. We did it. YOU did it. I came." She puckered to kiss everything better
and he winced and looked away. "What's the matter, darling?" She cooed in baby
tones. "Talk to Paula." When he winced again, she spoke like an adult and
released his face. "Peter, tell me."
	"It's the same thing," Peter said. He shrugged himself off of her body and lay
on his back, gazing at the ceiling while sucking his upper lip between his
teeth. She got up on one elbow and tenderly traced his breast bone with two
fingertips.
	"But I came," she reassured him with relief and happiness. "We're past it now,
baby. It's all right." Impulsively she hunched into his ribs. "I love you, you
sweet man, do you know that? You're so tense and serious, and I love you. Plus,
I just came, so you can relax, now, you stud you."
	He winced again. "It's just -- yes you came. And yes, it was genuine." He
looked at her, shifted to a more somber note. "And I do love you."
	She smiled lovingly, with warm, supporting eyes smoked over with post-orgasmic
dew, and said, "Then why won't you RELAX?" She scowled at him playfully.
"You're so SERIOUS."
	Now he sucked his lower lip through his teeth, his face pursed as he
considered unspoken implications. "I think that's the problem. I can't really
get into a smooth rhythm."
	He lips formed an approving O as she chuckled, "Ohhhhh, I'd say you had a fine
rhythm, there, Mr. Webber. Just what mamma wanted."
	At last he smiled. "Why thank you, Mrs. Webber." The brief candle dimmed and
faded out. "But -- I dunno. I just felt like... I felt like I was learning to
waltz, and we're going around doing this beautiful dance together, and you're
there all elegant in this crinoline gown, and I look into your eyes and you're
lost in this dream world, totally into the music -- "
	"I was."
	" -- and meanwhile, I'm sitting there going ONE two three, ONE two three."
	"So what are you saying, Mr. Webber? We weren't waltzing?"
	"WE were, but I wasn't. Does that make sense?"
	She flopped onto her back and sighed. "No. It doesn't." She took his hand and
squeezed it as she turned her head to grab his eyes. "I came. With you. My
husband, whom I utterly love and plan to spend the rest of my life with. That
means I now have EVERYTHING, Peter. WE have everything. I'm happy."
	"Well me too," he assured her. "It's just -- "
	She shot to the side and kissed him. "Don't you DARE 'it's just' me right now,
Peter. I came. That's a GOOD thing."
	"Not if it takes three months."
	She leaned further in and put her palm on top of his cheek. "Oh honey." She
blinked, and, though tears weren't close to falling, a light mist further
diffused the smoke behind her eyes. She looked at him with love, and he
blinked, abashed. He gave a shy smile and she said in a voice so tender it
wasn't heard, "I love you." He smiled again, shyly and gratefully, and leaned
in and kissed her. He pulled his head back to gauge the kiss's reception, then
leaned in and did it again, with more fervor.
	She rolled on top of him and kissed his mouth, his chin, and his chest. "And
now," she announced, "it's time for me to return the favor." She kissed her way
down his belly, rimmed his navel, and began to nuzzle his penis about like a
kitten with a ball of yarn. She fretted with mock consternation at its
reticence. It was growing erect, but still floppy. She batted it about with her
face, licked it, nipped it with little puppy bites, took it in her fist, and
squeezed it like a half-filled balloon. She engulfed it down to the knuckle of
her thumb and gave a constant suction to keep the blood trapped in the front
third of it.
	He eventually attained erection, but not stoniness, and when he came, it was
not so much that he shot into her mouth as it was that his penis had sperm in
the tip and simply fell away from it as it plunged into flaccidity, leaving the
sperm hovering in mid air, or rather, mid mouth.
	He looked down at her, marveling yet again at the look of sublime pleasure on
her face as she closed her eyes and swallowed while massaging her own jawbone,
three fingertips pressed together and moving in a circle the radius of her
skin's elasticity, the pinkies split slightly forward. She then dropped her
right hand and curled her left hand around her own throat, middle fingertip and
thumb at the corners of her jaw, and massaged her upper larynx in a similar
circle. She then completed the ritual by putting the heels of her hands
together on her chin and massaging straight back to interlock her fingers at
the nape of her neck, this motion concurrent with dropping her head forward
until her forearms were angled along her temples and her neck gave a small pop,
satisfying to her, but always discomfiting him.
	Done, she lifted her head and looked happily at him, her eyes now bright and
dancing, her smile closed-lipped and satisfied.
	Peter gave a silent, single chuckle, one corner of his mouth lifted in an
admiring smile, and shook his head in quiet disbelief. "My little creamfed
cat," he said.
	She smirked and raised her eyebrows, opening her face like the dormer on an
old wood stove, so the fire and light and warmth came into the room. "Yum," she
said, and, yes, the pointed pink tip of her tongue tugged her upper lip between
her teeth, a flash of a quick little creature before disappearing.
	"And now, Mr. Webber, you are finally going to explain to your adoring wife
why you refuse to loosen up. You try far too hard, and I've had just about all
of it that I can take."
	"Aw, Paula, I don't know. I try, but -- "
	"Far too hard, I said."
	"It's just so hard."
	"Not now it isn't," she giggled, giving it a little flip. "And not when you
came, either. And not when I came, come to think of it. What's up with that?
You don't want me?"
	"Not again, Paula, please?"
	She slid from playful fret to admonition. "Well what's a girl to think? You
say you want me, but penises don't lie."
	"It's that whole waltz image," Peter explained. "I do feel like I'm going one
two three one two three. I'm concentrating so much on keeping the beat that I
forget to keep sending the instructions to my penis to stay erect."
	"Well, can't you issue, like, standing orders?"
	"So to speak," Peter smirked.
	She made a sour face. "Funny. But, can't you?"
	"Not how it works."
	She took his hand. "Well how DOES it work?" She quickly clamped his hand in
both arms and pulled it to her lips, holding it as a combination teddy bear and
bishop's vestments. They both lay and looked at the ceiling rather than each
other, holding hands.
	"Wish I knew. Sometimes when you want it most, it's like it's in Bermuda or
something. And other times, apropos of NOTHING, it's there, raring to go,
raging."
	"I'd like to place an order for one of those please," she said with a friendly
hand squeeze, then held his arm immobile and stroked the back of his hand with
her cheek.
	"Well, that's just it. That's what I'm saying. We're not quite sure what
causes them, erections. Sometimes, the very act of wanting them so much scares
them away."
	"Well, then," Paula said, "what are you afraid of?"
	He was silent. She stopped her cheek stroking; waited. She heard is breathing,
but it was slow. He was controlling the speed, but not the volume. She
deliberately returned his arm between them and deliberately held his hand. Then
she looked at him and he deliberately kept himself in profile, speed
controlled. Her hand tightened.
	Peter sensed her concern for him, her waiting for him. He also sensed her
waiting for an answer. He flattened his lips and said, "Him."
	She flung his hand to the bed between them and retook it fearfully on the
first bounce. "Dammit, Peter."
	"You said you'd tell me. You said if I could ever relax enough for you to -- "
	"I know what I said. Don't remind me what I said." She uncomfortably wriggled
and looked at him again. She kissed his bicep. "Jesus, Peter. Why do you want
to know about him?"
	"Because I have to," Peter said quietly. His jaw jutted forth, but didn't
quiver.
	"Well why do you wanna know about him now?"
	"Because you said you would. When you came."
	"Well can't you let me enjoy it? It took long enough." He swallowed and
blinked, and deliberately kept the profile. Tears brimmed a little more with
her, and the remorse in her voice was genuine as she said, "I'm sorry baby. I'm
-- sorry. That was mean." She reached with slow awkwardness to gather him in,
but he timidly shrugged her away.
	Gently, Peter requested, "Don't baby me, honey. Not now. Okay? You asked what
I'm afraid of, and that's what. Him. Donald Michael Barrone."
	"You make him sound like he's on the ten most wanted list."
	Peter sniffed. "He's on yours. Number one, in fact."
	"There's no REASON for that."
	Peter looked at her. "No reason for what? Him being number one?"
	She flung herself back onto her back and made a brusque gesture with her
hands, palms up, lips clenched and unclenched in one quick slash of mute
frustration. "YOU'RE number one. The ONLY one. I love YOU."
	"Maybe that's the problem," he offered casually. She turned just her head to
look at him. He met her fearful gaze and said with a smile, "Well who can live
up to that kind of PRESSURE like that?"
	She laughed with relief, her olive green eyes shining with the relief and
love. "Well, YOU, for one. You better. I'd hate to think I married someone who
cracked under such a small amount of pressure."
	"For one thing, it's no small amount of pressure. It's a pretty big love."
	"Yes it is, Peter. Boundless. But no pressure."
	"Ohhhh noooo," he concurred sardonically. "Fabulous, wonderful, magnificent
woman, who loves me utterly, no pressure there."
	"Stop," she asked.
	"Fabulous, wonderful GLORIOUS woman -- "
	"STOP," she told him.
	"Well, think about it. You transformed my life."
	"Because I LOVE you," she informed him.
	"Well, but it is pressure."
	"It is? Oh darling. Peter. Baby? Peter, can't you see it doesn't HAVE to be. I
LOVE you. That's what I'm saying. You won. You got me. All of me. The
pressure's off, honey, can't you see?"
	"Logically, yes. Brain, no problem."
	"And heart?"
	"Definitely no problem."
	"And this little guy?" She flipped it casually back and forth.
	"Might be a problem there," he admitted, half playfully.
	"Like what?"
	Peter smirked. "Well, for one thing, calling it a LITTLE guy."
	"Oh would you STOP?" She gave it a little fling away from her, laughing. "It
was more like the old big head, little head thing." She took his hand again,
and huddled around it. This time, it was all teddy bear. "That's the hardest
lesson, you guys never believe us. Big, little, if you love us, we're there.
Zoom city."
	"Eventually," he added softly.
	"Aw, baby," she kissed his hand. "Yes, eventually, when you learn to relax and
trust yourself that I love you and you can do no wrong, really."
	"Is that the lesson he knew? Size doesn't matter? G-spot between the ears, not
between the legs, that lesson?"
	She kissed his hand with a quick deflection. "Persistent beast, aren't you?"
	"Aw, Paula. I just want to know how he branded you so thoroughly, how he got
to you, how he won your love AND your passion, so you don't have to wait three
months for you next orgasm."
	"No fair. I have orgasms all the time," Paula said, but part of her was still
far away, the word "branded" resonating like a deep bell knelling in the gothic
towers of her cathedral mind and memory.
	"Not with me," Peter shrugged.
	She pulled her self in front of his face with his hand. "They are TOO with
you. I'm not kidding Peter. Don't go there, baby."
	"You know what I mean," Peter said honestly, without much bitterness. "I mean,
let's be real. Yes you hold my hand. And yes you call my name. But it's still
the vibrator that gets you there. And it takes longer with me there than when
it's just the vibrator, you admitted."
	"Well it's no fair me admitting that and you using it against me."
	He kissed her hand, softly, tenderly. "I'm not using it against you," he
urged, gently.
	She sucked her upper lip. "I know. It's just, I love you. And we've proven I
can cum with you in me now. So it's all supposed to be okay now."
	Peter smiled. "It is all okay now. Truly. But now I wanna make it better than
okay. I wanna shoot for an okay plus, or a pretty good minus, or, who knows,
maybe even a pretty DARN good."
	"Don't push it, pal," she said, and gratefully kissed him.
	Peter lingered in the kiss, let her kiss herself out. "But I do think, if I
know what he did to you, and how, and with us loving us and all, that we can
get you back to those heelprints on the ceiling-gasms. Because, frankly, I
wanna get a look at those."
	"Hideously unfair. Another thing I shouldn't have admitted to you."
	"But you did. And I want them," he teased.
	"Peter, you were in a chess room when I told you about those. I didn't even
know you were a guy, for god's sake. Massively unfair."
	He kissed her hand again, looking into her eyes. "I do want them, though. You
were pretty well shredded those first few games. And if I'm gonna go to all the
trouble of patching up a woman fresh off the most tumultuous love of her life
and then courting her over the computer from thirteen-hundred miles away, I
wanna know what made him so tumultuous. At least the good parts tumultuous."
	"Yes, we agreed not to recreate the bad parts tumultuous."
	"And since the agreed-upon orgasm with me in you has occurred, and my ego is
officially soothed and your heart is officially healed enough to talk about it
if we can do it objectively, then by our own verbal agreement during said
courtship, it's time to examine what made Donald Michael Barrone's tumultuous
impact on the woman I love."
	"Freaking lawyers," she muttered. "Even things you say just to shut them up
come back to haunt you."
	Peter puffed his chest. "Move to strike, your honor. The witness has already
stipulated the agreement wasn't just to shut me up, but was entered into in
good faith. People's exhibit L."
	"L?" she smiled, shaking her head.
	"For love."
	She grinned, pleased. "Cute. And it's good to see that dashing grin again.
Been awhile."
	"Thank you. I'm pleased at its return myself."
	"It's why I married you, you know. Your dashing grin."
	"And my persistence."
	"And your compassion."
	He kissed her. "And my persistence."
	She kissed him. "I'll give you dashing grin and compassion. The persistence is
a little annoying."
	"And my persistence," he smirked.
	She broke with a laugh. "All right. What are we persisting in?"
	"Is that the lesson he knew? That size doesn't matter?"
	She blinked and her astonished head went back a little. "Jesus, that is
persistent. Impressive. Have you been holding onto that for the past ten
minutes?"
	He held up his hand, the ring finger crossed over the pinkie. "Been holding it
right here." He uncrossed the fingers. "Simple mnemonics. Old debate trick."
	"Is THAT how you do that? And here I was impressed with your brain. Turns out
it's your fingers." He held the hand up and pointedly recrossed the fingers.
"All right, all right," she sighed as she sat up. "Yes. He knew that lesson.
And a bunch of others."
	"Like what?"
	"Okay, I'll answer that, but first tell me. How come you don't cross your
regular fingers when you do that, like everyone else?"
	Peter shrugged. "Probably because everyone else does it. The key to
remembering something is to hook it into a place where you don't normally put
things. So you notice something extremely out of the ordinary and say to
yourself, 'Hey, I remember what I was going to ask.' And NO FAIR distracting me
with your breasts," he added quickly.
	"What? These?" She cupped them, squeezing inward so they jutted forward, and
thumbed the nipples to erection. "They're just breasts."
	"Sure, to YOU. You can have them any time."
	"Well so can you, Mr. Webber." She twisted her entire torso to him, still
jutting them between her hands. She gave a small, pleased grunt-laugh of
contented triumph when his eyes bulged. "Any time."
	He swallowed theatrically. "I can? Any time?"
	"Sure. Any time. The oftener the better, in my book. Might as well use them
before they sag."
	He dove in, nuzzling them and rolling the erect nipples along the jagged edges
of his teeth until she giggled. Then she suddenly seized him hard and pressed a
quaking squeal between her tight lips, releasing into a hiss. She released him
as well and saw his look of concern.
	"Bonus-gasm," she explained, still wrestling her breath.
	He nodded, the corners of his mouth down, the lower lip out. "Impressive. Not
a vibrator in sight."
	"Told you I love you."
	He smiled. "Duly noted. So what other lessons did he know? Teach me the ways
of Barrone, my lovely, that I may service you better and spread bonus-gasms
throughout the land."
	She smirked indulgently. "I did mention the persistence thing was annoying,
right?"
	"Little annoying, you said."
	"Well, careful. It'll graduate to just regular annoying if you don't watch
it."
	"Duly noted. But for now?"
	She patted his hand. "It's still just a little annoying. You sure you wanna do
this, though? I'm pretty sure I'm over him, but it's gonna be a no pain, no
gain kind of trip for you, I'm afraid. He was pretty intense, and we've already
been through the whole thing of I love him but don't want him. You said you're
okay with that."
	"Still am."
	"Because I love you AND want you. Not him. Could never be and I've accepted
that and I'm happy with you, we said that."
	"Yup. Your love is quite a persuasive witness."
	"And you're still okay with that?"
	"With you loving me? Of course."
	She gave a quick fret. "With me loving him. Tumultuous impact still
resonating, all that."
	"So far." He kissed her hand and held it on the bed between them. "Honest,
Paula, I can deal with this. My brain can, at least. And you've already
convinced my heart or I wouldn't have married you. And once we get my brain
okay with this, I'm pretty sure my penis will accept it too."
	"Well good. Because it's too hard to cum when the little brain doesn't go
along with the big brain."
	"Again with the little?"
	She slapped his arm. "Let the record show that we now officially have just
regular annoying persistence."
	"Heyyyyy, I was teasing," Peter said, too playful to be defensive.
	"I know. But I wanted you to know that just regular annoying won't be
tolerated, even if it's just the teasing kind of just regular annoying."
	"Clearly." Peter smiled. "So. What's the biggest lesson Barrone knew?"
	Paula gave this serious thought. Her brow knitted, and she turned to face him,
sitting with an ankle under each knee, her hands in her lap.
	"You know a big one? I don't know if it's the biggest one, but it's pretty
big." She kept looking at her thumbs as she tapped their tips together over her
interlaced fingers.
	"Yes, Paula, tell me."
	She tapped her thumbs a couple of more times, gnawing her lip. "Donald Baronne
knew..." she bit the words back, "that sometimes -- " and here she looked him
directly in the eye, "that sometimes a woman wants to hear, 'Shut up, bitch,
and suck my cock.'" Her lip trembled as she forced herself to keep meeting his
gaze.
	Peter's impassive face met her searching look. He nodded slightly. "I see.
Wants to hear?"
	"Wants to. Sometimes. Has to, others. Would like to, more often than you
think." Her thumbs fascinated her again.
	"Well, honey, I gotta tell you. That's the difference between me and him. I
love you too much to say that."
	She nibbled at the side of her lower lip. "Hmmm. Actually. That is the
difference, I think. He loved me too much NOT to say that to me."
	Peter pulled a big sigh. "Pretty heavy."
	She nodded ruefully at her lap. "Told ya."
	He reached out and held her shoulders til she looked up, then smiled and
hugged her softly to his chest. He felt her tense, tight trembling against him.
He pushed her slightly away to see if she was crying. She was, but it was that
kind of fearful, tearless crying that had perplexed him for a couple of months
until he had learned to give up trying for an explanation of it and simply held
her tight. He kissed her hard and did so now, holding her tight, then tighter,
and she clung to him. He knew not to say a word until she sniffed, and often,
this was the hardest thing for him, just holding her, wordless, until she cried
herself to a sniff.
	When she did sniff, he began cooing, "Heyyyy, heyyy, there's my girl, that's
my baby girl, I'm here, I'm here, I love you and I'm here." And then he upped
the sternness knob a notch. "Hey. Look at me."
	She sniffed again and looked at him. She smiled at the love in his eyes. He
decided to make a stab at it, but he knew it would be a halfhearted stab at it,
so he decided to make it a blatantly halfhearted stab at it to soften his
ineffectuality with humor. "Uhhhhhh, hey, uh, bitch. Uhm, suck my cock."
	She brimmed over with grateful tears and smiled as she hugged him tight again.
	"Uhhhh, yeah, that's right, bitch," he said, deliberately sounding a dumb
monotone, "uhmmm, you heard me. Suck it. You know it." She was still hugging
his chest tight, laughing quietly, silently, really. "Ohhh, that's it, that's
the stuff daddy likes. Suck it good."
	She laughed, slapped his chest, and swabbed the corners of her eyes with the
part of her wrist that met the back knuckle of her thumb.
	"How was that?" he asked, with an infectious smirk. "Good, huh? Eat your heart
out, Donald Barrone."
	She smiled softly and blew him the softest of kisses, her hands on her
kneecaps.
	Peter smiled and, with no bitterness at all, said, "And here's where you say
that's not all he could eat out."
	She gave a small look of betrayed defense. It was small, but not playful.
	Peter said softly, "Sorry."
	"I wouldn't do that to you, baby. I wouldn't say something like that. Ever."
	"I know, baby. I'm sorry."
	She shook it off. "No, it's okay. But it's hard enough telling you this stuff,
you know? Because the last thing I want to do is hurt you with it."
	"I know, baby. Honest. It's okay. I'm sorry. That's how I'm showing you it
doesn't hurt me, really. I'm taking shots at myself with him."
	"But I don't want either one of us taking shots at you with him. Me OR you. I
just want to get through this without you having to take any shots at all. It's
not about taking shots at you, Peter. It's not about that at all. And it never
will be."
	"Well, I know."
	"We've discussed this. He's different than you. Not better. Different."
	"Well, I call heelprints on the ceiling-gasms better, don't you?"
	"We'll get there, baby. Right now I'm just so glad to have someone I can love
without crying because of, ceiling-gasms just don't seem all that big a deal."
	"You just DID cry," he pointed out.
	She snorted. "Oh that doesn't count."
	"It doesn't? It looked pretty countable to me."
	"Shows how much you know. Usual man, doesn't even know what cries count and
what ones don't."
	"Did Donald Barrone know which cries count?" Peter asked, playful superseding
rancor by a ten-to-one ratio.
	Paula went full-tilt with playful. "Ohhhhhh, yes," she assured him with
overplayed somberness, "Donald Michael Barrone knows EVvrything."
	Peter chuckled. "Well he knows how to make heelprints on the ceiling-gasms,
that's for sure."
	"That reminds me. The next time you invite a distraught damsel in distress to
a chess game, could you PLEASE have a more masculine screen name, so she
doesn't go pouring her deep dark ceiling-gasm secrets to you thinking it's just
commiserating girl talk?"
	"Duly noted. In fact, I'm scheduled to meet with a distraught damsel in
distress next week, so I'll be sure to have the word MAN in my screen name, so
there are no doubts."
	She gave her single grunt of pleasure again. "How about PAULA'S Man? That
ought to really remove all doubts."
	"You know," he agreed, "I'd thought about that. Either that or Pussywhipped,
one of the two."
	She kissed him. "Now you're just being crude. Uncalled for, dear."
	He laughed. "Oh, and suck my cock bitch is oh so polite?"
	"In the right circumstances, it's quite proper, yes. More than called for,
even."
	He mimed writing on his palm, muttering distractedly. "Note to self -- suck my
cock bitch can be quite proper, pussywhipped, never proper." He looked up.
"Never proper?"
	"Never proper," she nodded.
	Peter resumed his mimed writing. "Suck my cock bitch good, pussywhipped, bad."
He looked up at her again. "Why is that?"
	"Because no woman wants to think a man's pussywhipped. Sign of weakness. Makes
us look mercenary, and who wants that?"
	"Boy, the things a guy learns."
	"So you gonna say it?"
	"Say what?"
	She huffed theatrically. "Suck my cock bitch."
	"I did say it."
	"You gonna mean it?" she taunted.
	"You've already done it. If I say it now I won't have anything to back it up
with."
	"Work with me here, Peter."
	"Suck my cock, bitch."
	"Again."
	"Uhhh, suck my cock, bitch."
	"MEAN it."
	"Suck my COCK, bitch."
	"Better."
	"I said suck my cock, bitch. Now."
	"No."
	"No???" His astonishment made him chuckle.
	A gleam came into Paula's eye. The last no had been a gleeful chirp pressed
through a puckish smirk. Now she bared her fangs and licked them with wolfish
hunger. Her eyebrows shot up and down and she enunciated deliberately, "Mmmake
me."
	He contemplated this. He slowly pulled the sheet back and stood up on the bed
before her. She gazed up at him with a wanton hunger to be taken. He took a
step back and planted his feet shoulder width apart. He held out his hand
towards her hair, but she was still a foot away. He took himself in his fist
and stroked it, still reaching for her with his left hand.
	Her eyebrows did the quick up and down again, the olive green fires beneath
them stoked to hungry emerald arcs you could weld with. She sucked seductively
at her lower lip and began to inch toward him on her knees. As she came within
the span of her hand, it curled behind her head and pulled her faster, her
anticipatory mouth parting eagerly to accept the swollen knob she was
horizontally plunging towards.
	Unfortunately, her sudden weight sunk the mattress just in front of him and he
clumsily lost his balance and pitched forward and to the side past her, his
surprised groan and her surprised yelp both ending in embarrassed laughter.
They became tangled in each other and the bedclothes, their attempts at
extrication only making it worse.
	Finally, free and exhausted, they lay side by side on the bare mattress,
holding hands and catching their breath.
	"Paula?" he asked, casually.
	"Yes, Peter?"
	"You love me?"
	"Yup."
	"Sure?"
	"Very sure."
	"I'm pretty klutzy, you know."
	"Really? I hadn't noticed." He squeezed her hand so hard she could feel him
smiling.
	They lay there a bit. Smiling. 
	"Paula?"
	"Yes Peter?"
	"Does that count?"
	"As what?"
	"As making you suck my cock. Suck my cock bitch, I mean."
	"Hmmmmmmmmm. You know, Peter, much as I love you, and I do, I'm pretty sure
that doesn't count as making me suck your cock bitch."
	"Oh." Pause. "Paula?"
	A playful sigh. "YES, Peter."
	"Does it count as anything?"
	"Oh sure. Bound to count as something."
	"Like what?"
	"I dunno. It counts as hurting like hell when your knee dug into my thigh when
you fell."
	"It did? I DID?" He whipped over to look at her. An ugly bruise, already brown
against her tan thigh, made him gasp. "Good LORD."
	She looked, clamping the surrounding thigh muscle in her hands. "Wow. No
wonder it hurt like hell."
	"Bayyyybeeee," he said, concerned.
	She shrugged.
	"Does it still hurt?"
	"Not really. If I scream when I try to walk, we'll know."
	"Bayyyybeee."
	"Well it IS funny."
	"You being hurt is never funny. Not to me."
	She gave a quick indulgent peck. "You're sweet. My sweeter Peter pumpkin
eater."
	"My god, it's worse than I thought."
	"Huh?"
	"Apparently, I slammed your thigh so hard that it knocked loose your ability
to keep from making hideous dialogue."
	She hammered the side of her fist into the side of his thigh. He let out a
yelp more surprised than hurt and she said, "My dialogue is not hideous mister.
You remember that."
	He rubbed his thigh. "Wow, duly noted."
	"Hush. It wasn't that hard."
	"We'll probably have matching bruises by tomorrow."
	"You are such a BABY. Like my tiny little birdlike fist could ever match that
kamikaze Knee of Death you got there."
	"Tiny birdlike fist? I'm pretty sure I heard my femur crack."
	"Poor baby."
	"Hush. I'm NOT a baby." He poked his lower lip out.
	"Are too." She stuck her tongue out.
	"Am not."
	"Are TOO." She stuck her tongue out, scrunched up her face and wiggled it at
him. He flung himself on top of her and began pecking kisses at her scrunched
and evasive face, kissing mercilessly until she had to smile and her tongue
withdrew and his kisses became less playful punishments of the persistent bully
and more the ardent ministrations of a tender, hungry, febrile lover.
	As he positioned himself between her parted andAs he positioned himself
between her parted and raised
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