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Message-ID: <35217asstr$1013476205@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Desdmona22@aol.com
Subject: {ASSM} The Think System by Desdmona (MF, cheat, mast)
Date: Mon, 11 Feb 2002 20:10:05 -0500
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The following story depicts acts of a sexual nature. If you're not supposed 
to be reading it, then don't. 

Thanks to all the lovely people who contributed their thoughts and ideas on 
this story while it was part of the FishTank. I imagine some of you might 
think the re-write is not exactly what you had in mind, but I hope you'll 
still find enjoyment in the reading.

**********************************

The Think System
Copyright February 2002
By Desdmona


"If I told you I was a happily married woman, would you believe me?" I 
watched Bernard's face as the light from the motel sign flickered through a 
crack in the curtain. Flashes of pink neon danced across paisley wallpaper.

He betrayed no emotion. "No. I don't believe I would." 

"Why?"

"Isn't it obvious, my dear?"

If he knew me, he would know how much I dislike being called "dear." 

"So you don't think I love my husband?"

"You may love him, but in a family sort of way--like the way one loves a 
favored pet."

"You barely know me. How can you be sure?"

"I'm fucking you. It's a pretty substantial clue." His thrust added an 
exclamation point that the timbre of his voice lacked. I let out a small 
gasp, surprised by his sudden burst of enthusiasm. It coincided with a spark 
of neon and the creak of an overused mattress.

Not exactly the lyrical sounds of passionate love. But it's what I wanted. Or 
so I had thought an hour ago when I'd agreed to follow him here. It just 
wasn't turning out to be the romantic tryst I'd imagined. 

                                                          * * * * 

We met at the half-price bookstore. I was perusing the romance novels, 
reading the back covers and trying to decide what historical era I would like 
to escape to. Ethan and I had argued. Again. We argued constantly about 
finances. Lately it seemed to be the only conversation we ever had. Our sex 
life had completely fizzled. I tried everything I could think of to get Ethan 
to look at me again with lustful eyes. When I'd found a set of satin sheets 
at a modest price, I'd bought them, thinking that red satin might spice 
things up. 

I spent the entire morning preparing. I dug out the shimmery negligee that 
I'd worn on our wedding night. I turned on light jazz, spritzed the room with 
Ethan's favorite perfume, and anxiously positioned myself in the middle of 
the red satin sheets. 

Ethan came home, ignored my negligee, took one look at the new sheets, and 
flipped. 

"What the hell is this about, Lori?"

"I was hoping you'd find it exciting." 

"I told you we can't afford extras this month." His face reddened, and the 
vein in his forehead bulged. "Damn it, Lori! I wish you would *think*."

I ripped off the negligee, shivering in the coolness of the room, and stood 
nude, totally exposed, waiting and hoping he'd see past the sales slip to the 
possibility of romance. Instead he called me irresponsible and stormed from 
the bedroom. "And sometimes it's hard to see what's right in front of your 
face!" I whispered in the empty room.

I left the house in a huff, set on making Ethan regret being so callous. The 
bookstore was one of my favorite places to go and get lost for a while. I 
could pick out a book, sit in the outside cafe, sip on a strawberry lemonade, 
and lose myself in romance. My intent was to stay away for a time. Let Ethan 
stew. Recover from my hurt. I didn't intend on something as drastic as 
adultery. 

Bernard bumped me on his way to the philosophy section. Just the idea of the 
philosophy section gave him the aura of a professor, or maybe it was his 
neatly trimmed goatee. He smelled faintly of cigar smoke and Old Spice. I 
idealized him immediately. He was the dreamy hero in one of my romance 
novels: a duke with a passion for reading, or a scholar with hidden machismo. 


In our mutual attempt to retrieve my dropped book, our heads collided. He 
offered to buy me a cup of coffee as way of apology. I accepted. 

We sat at one of the small tables outside the bookstore. Bernard ordered an 
espresso. I settled on something topped in whipped cream. 

"I don't usually drink coffee." I spoke hesitantly, as if my words held the 
weight of a courtroom confession. 

He leered at me over his cup with chocolate brown eyes, the same color as his 
coffee. His short, dark hair with touches of gray around his ears added to 
his professor mystique. 

"What do you do for fun, my dear?" He ran his finger along my bottom lip, 
catching some whipped cream I had missed.

Excitement wriggled in my stomach. I tried to think of some deep secret I 
could share with him that would make me appear provocative. Unfortunately, I 
led a disgustingly tame life. "I'm afraid I don't smoke, rarely drink, and 
only say, 'fuck' when I'm actually doing it."

He raised his eyebrows appreciatively when I said the word, 'fuck,' and then 
he grinned. I felt a tiny bit exotic.

We sat in silence, drinking our coffee. Bernard stared unblinkingly at me 
while anticipation dipped its toe in my belly like a child testing the 
temperature of pool water--wanting to dive in, but still a little fearful. I 
would like to be able to say he hypnotized me in those quiet moments--that 
his rich, dark eyes reached into my soul and tugged. Then I could be free 
from guilt. But I wasn't hypnotized, and his eyes were beginning to look 
ordinary.

"How would you like to explore your verbal usage of the word 'fuck'?" He 
asked it casually, as if asking for directions.

I teetered at the edge of refusing. After all, he hadn't dazzled me with 
witty repartee or schmoozed me with florid compliments. But he had shown an 
interest in me. A physical interest. 

I succumbed to the allure of doing something totally out of character. My 
face flushed when I answered, "I think I'd like that."

He took my hand, like a familiar lover and pulled me from my chair. Dry heat 
from holding a hot coffee mug seeped into my fingers like a caffeine 
aphrodisiac. I found it easy to follow him.

"I've never done this sort of thing before," I whispered.

"You can still say no." He squeezed my hand for reassurance. My wedding band 
pinched my finger and I wished I'd taken it off. I glanced at my ring, but 
continued to glide along beside him. Maybe I was a little hypnotized -- not 
by him, but by the thrill of being found attractive by someone.

He led me across the street, past a blinking "Vacancy" sign. When he asked me 
to wait outside, I considered it gallant. 

"No reason for you to suffer embarrassment at the signing in." 

I nodded. 

I considered the possibility that someone might see me but chose to deal with 
it like a three-year-old child--if I didn't see them, they couldn't see me. 
So I kept my eyes locked on the door of the motel.

When Bernard emerged from the tiny office, jangling a room key, lyrics from 
"The Music Man" popped into my head. (There were bells all around, but I 
couldn't hear them ringing.)  I imagined him signing the book "Professor 
Hill" and calling me Madam Librarian. It made me smile.

The room was dank, poorly lighted, and generic: a queen-sized bed, a TV, a 
desk with a phone, and a bedside table with a lamp. In another place, another 
time, with my familiar man, I might have slung open the curtains to allow the 
waning sun to add a little light to the built up gloom. But the ambiance 
seemed fitting. I was, after all, committing adultery. What did I expect, the 
Ritz Carlton? So I stood, waiting to close the door, as Bernard fumbled with 
the lamp. 


                                                              * * * *

And now I was squashed under his soft, pudgy body that his clothes had worked 
wonders to hide. The preliminaries had been little more than "you take your 
clothes off, I'll take my clothes off, and we'll meet on the bed."

Bernard's diligence toward fucking could be compared to a housewife reading 
the Wall Street Journal. He barely broke a sweat, and his shoes and socks 
were still on. It wasn't entirely his fault. I had serious misgivings right 
after I'd closed the door, but some bizarre adherence to high school decorum 
told me I couldn't back out now--I'd be considered a tease. 

I tried to muster some passion, but thanks to a strategically placed ceiling 
mirror, I had a view of Bernard's clenching, naked ass and spindly legs. 
Instead of being arousing, it struck me funny. Apparently, I'd found the one 
man left in the world under the age of sixty who still wore gartered socks. I 
giggled.

"You s-sound am-mused, m-my dear." Bernard's stuttering was rewarding. It 
showed a small crack in the veneer of passivity he was trying to pass off as 
wild abandon.

"Did you know there's a mirror on the ceiling above the bed?" I asked.

"I hadn't noticed." He cocked his head back to look up. "Kind of kinky, isn't 
it?"

It was all Bernard's lounging libido needed. His hips began to 
jackhammer--rapid, short jabs, causing coffee to slosh around in my stomach, 
looking for a way out. I closed my eyes and swallowed hard. I tried to 
remember what I'd found alluring about him. The cigar smell suddenly seemed 
bitter instead of enticing. His brown eyes were more like muddy water than 
rich, deep coffee, and his goatee poked at my neck like a mason chipping away 
at mortar. All the dukes in my historical romances were smooth, robust 
lovers, and the scholars were tender and attentive. Bernard had the sexual 
expertise of a seventeen-year-old virgin. So much for high school decorum. 

He continued to piston on top of me, our skin slapping together like the 
clang of cymbals, only off tempo. I opened my eyes again and watched the 
scene in the mirror. Was that really me? It was my body, no question. I could 
see the three freckles on my right shin. And the smallish hands, 
professionally manicured, also mine, bumping along Bernard's back.

"I'm going to come, dear." His voice was back to that of a professor teaching 
his Philosophy 101 students. If I was waiting for seventy-six trombones to 
lead the big parade, I was out of luck. He could have just as easily been 
lecturing me on formal logic. His body tensed and I felt three quick spasms 
from within his condom-clad penis. He rolled over onto the bed, sprawled 
face-up. I caught his eye in the mirror above and he winked.

"That was lovely, my dear. Thank you."

I suppose if I compared it to being stuck inside a washing machine on heavy 
cycle, then it was indeed lovely.

In what seemed like milliseconds, Bernard was snoring. His mouth was slack 
and his paunchy belly fluttered with each exhalation. The condom crinkled 
like an accordion as his penis shriveled inside it. 

I lay motionless, staring at myself in the mirror. Oh yes, it was me. My hair 
was mussed, but it was still the same mousy blond. My left breast bulged 
above the black lace of my bra where it had jostled out of position. My 
thighs were covered in red blotches from the jackhammering and remained 
slightly apart.

I reached to cover my exposed pubis and felt the cool gel of lubricant from 
Bernard's condom. It was such a contrast with the warm stickiness I was used 
to when I had sex with Ethan. The thought of Ethan stabbed at my gut, and my 
eyes blurred. I blinked a couple of times and managed to focus on the 
reflection in the mirror. Bernard continued to snore in recuperative sleep. 
There had been very little to stir me in the hurried coupling, but as I 
looked, I found something increasingly erotic about the half-naked woman 
staring back at me.

I watched her legs open further and saw glimpses of shiny, pink flesh 
surrounded by light, curly, pubic hair. I watched as mauve-tipped fingers dug 
between puffy labia and separated the lips to expose an engorged bud. I saw 
her hips rotate and rise slightly from the bed as her fingers brushed over 
the clitoris and disappeared deep within.

I shifted my eyes to see her other hand yank at her bra and let her tit pop 
completely free from the black lace. I willed her fingers to pinch the 
hardening nipple, and I watched as they complied. My heart raced when they 
mauled the entire breast, and I thrilled at the sight of welted marks rising 
on flawless skin 

I glanced again at the hand making slow revolutions over her widespread 
pussy. My eyes batted shut, and I was lost in the feelings that watching her 
evoked. She was provocative. She was seductive. And she was me!

The cool lubricant pooled with my own oil as my fingers trailed the path 
between clitoris and cunt. I sucked in air, gasping and climbing toward the 
peak. I forced my eyes open again to watch. Bernard was awake and was staring 
at me. I didn't care. I slid my hand from my breast down over my belly and 
held it above my womb. It became a puissant magnet, pulling the orgasm out of 
me. I saw my mouth form the word as I felt the eruption shatter through me.

"FUUCCKK!"

My legs slammed shut and I held my fingers in place, clenched between the 
folds, absorbing the aftershocks. I thought I might hyperventilate in the 
quiet until Bernard broke it.

"Wow! That was amazing." He sounded incredulous.

I tried to ignore him.

"I've never seen a woman masturbate before."

I wasn't surprised. I looked at Bernard once again in the mirror. His cock 
had extended again but the condom had slipped off. It pouched on his groin 
like a boil. And I had the sudden urge to get out of there. I jumped up from 
the bed and gathered my clothes.

"You're not leaving, my dear?" He whined. 

I nodded.

"But after that little show I need more." Bernard's penis bobbed in 
agreement.

I stood still as realization blossomed in my brain. I hadn't lost my 
sensuality. I was still the same woman I had always been. And I was sexy!

"That's funny," I said with a smile, "I suddenly feel like I don't *need* 
anything else." 

I adjusted my bra, slipped on my jeans, and pulled my shirt over my head. As 
I turned to leave, Bernard sat up on the edge of the bed. The used condom 
fell to the floor lost, like an earthworm after a rain.

"B-But I don't even know your name." As he hesitated, I could see his mind 
scrambling, trying to remember if that were true. I'd told him my name was 
Lori, back at the bookstore. 

"My name? My name is... Marian." And with that I walked out the door. 


The End.
******************************
Many references to the musical, "The Music Man" were used in the writing of 
this story, including the title. If you find yourself at a loss, I suggest 
you rent the movie. It's wholesome good fun!!






                                                                              
                                                                              
                                                                              
                                                                


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