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Message-ID: <36895asstr$1024639803@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "H. Jekyll" <h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} [rom fest] "End Game" (MF, rom, cheat, oral, mast)
Date: Fri, 21 Jun 2002 02:10:03 -0400
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"End Game"

H. Jekyll

(MF, rom, cheat, oral, mast)

*  *  *  *  *

This story was written as a contribution for the 2002
ASSM Summer Solstice Romance Festival.

This is my favorite story. The latest story usually is
my favorite, but his is different. It's a sad, tragic
little tale, populated with people I care for, who
hurt and, in one case, die. This isn't giving away
anything. You'll read it in the first line. It
explores self, and need, and selflessness. It made me
sad to write it.

Copyright 2002 by H. Jekyll. Permission is freely
granted to post on any site that does not charge for
entrance, as long as full attribution is given to the
author. The story should not be read by anyone under
the legal age to read sexually explicit stories, or by
anyone in a location where it is illegal to read such
stories. 

I appreciate comments and inquiries, even criticisms,
and I promise to respond to them. Please send them to:
h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com

The H. Jekyll stories are archived in the Alt Sex
Stories Text Repository, at:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/h_jekyll/

*  *  *  *  *

Miriam is dead. She's dead. Nothing else is important.

You don't die that soon, not after your first surgery,
do you? If I'd known I'd have gone to her, I don't
care who would find out. I'd have to. But then, no, I
wouldn't. You know that. I couldn't let her husband
know, her kids know, and leave her dying in bed and
needing them while they worked through knowing that
she was a whore and had betrayed them.

She wasn't a whore. I'm only saying that because it's
what they'd have thought. She was just a sweet woman
dying. Through most of her life she hadn't even been
particularly sexual, though I hardly believed it when
she told me. She said some things just seemed
different to her with the clock winding down.

So I didn't get to see her again, not really, or say
good-bye. I didn't get to touch her or kiss her or do
any of the things I wanted to do. That I still want to
do. I did sneak into the hospital after they cut on
her, after visitors' hours so no one would know, but
it didn't work out because she sent me away. She said
she didn't want me to see her like that. I thought,
maybe later, but she spiraled down. Hospice was
called. 

I can't grieve around anyone I know. Her husband
could, though. He couldn't stop crying at the
visitation. He tried to be brave, but he couldn't do
it. I've never seen anyone so stricken. He shook my
hand and mumbled "hello" while his daughter held his
other hand and their minister kept butting in to tell
him how all things work together for good to them that
love God. I think he remembered me from when our kids
took strings together, but who knows? What I remember
was feeling his big hand in mine and seeing his eyes
all wet and his face red and wanting to smack that
fat, red face. 

She wanted you, you stupid son of a bitch. She wanted
you, not me. I was just a substitute. It was always
you, but you wouldn't give her what she needed and now
it's too late.

It was crowded in the funeral home. Everyone was there
because everybody knew Miriam and everyone liked her,
so it took forever to reach the front of the line.
They all knew her, but not like I did.

Her body didn't look right. I've never seen one that
did, though people have told me of lovely dead aunts
or grandfathers, but it didn't matter. I was only
depressed by the shell-like aspect for a minute, not
more than that, with that awful wig and terrible
make-up, looking not asleep but as though she'd never
been real, and then I saw her as she'd looked in bed
with me, so thin and waiflike, so beautifully pale and
smooth, hairless, her breasts distinct balls because
she'd lost so much weight. They'd put a falsie on the
corpse to make it look realistic and the fake breast
made me think of the tiny lump she'd hated me to
touch.

I guess I stared at her for a minute, certainly not
long enough to make people wonder what was going on
with me, then I went out somewhere, looking for
something that doesn't exist.

*  *  *  *  *

God I loved her. I had to be careful how I told her,
though, because she wanted the fantasy that it was
only sex that joined us. When I told her I loved her
she insisted I really loved my wife and she loved Al.
I had to say I had enough love for more than one woman
and that she knew what I meant. I know she really did
love her husband, and I know the sex really did draw
us together.

She loved everything about the sex. She liked my
penis. Yes, I know. Lots of women like penises, and
some don't, but this was different. She liked mine
during sex but also afterwards, when it had shriveled
and shrunk to almost nothing. She thought it was cute.

"Cute? What the hell is 'cute,' Miriam? This thing
just fucked you, lady!"

"I know, silly, but when it gets so small after sex
it's just, well, it's cute. And don't use that word!"
She made a little pout. "Al's is always about the same
length. It just gets rounder and harder and sticks out
when, well, you know."

Oh yes, I knew. She went on,

"But yours. It gets so teensy-weensy when you're done.
It's just precious!"

I didn't answer her for a moment. It wasn't what she
said. She had that Carolina accent that always makes
people sound simpler and more innocent than they
really are, so it would have been hard not to laugh at
the way she said "precious." I was just surprised,
because it was the first time she had spoken her
husband's name in bed. That was bad luck for her. It
brought the guilt on. 

Other places she'd talk about him and her kids all the
time, walking that path through the hill behind her
subdivision, through the trees. There was a little
creek with mossy rocks and dragonflies during the hot
months and all those things that seem magical though
they can't keep you from dying, and there we could
walk holding hands, and she'd go on and on about her
family. We could kiss. I could feel her up. Once I
moved my hand down, all the way down inside her
panties, and massaged her while I was kissing her, and
I got her so high she almost came right there, her
breath on my face accompanied by little whimpering
sounds and her eyes completely closed, but when we
broke away to walk some more she told me how she was
arranging things to ease the transition as much as
possible for Al and the kids, when she passed on. It
was only in bed that she couldn't mention him. Until
we got to penile comparisons, it seems.

"You know," I told her, "it would be just as easy to
talk about how *big* and *hard* it gets when you make
me all bothered. A little pixie dust from you and it
can fly."

"Oh you men! You really do have the frailest egos."
She had been tickling my ear, but now she moved down
to my groin and used her mouth to boost my ego.

*  *  *  *  *

We wouldn't ever have sexed if she hadn't gotten
cancer. We didn't know each other all that well, and
when she came over to me at a celebration for a
professor who had died I didn't recognize her at
first, because she'd lost so much weight and was
wearing a straight, blond wig. Her eyes were a little
bit bloodshot and her eyelids were inflamed. 

"It's just from the chemotherapy. It was really bad,
but I'm feeling so much better now. I'm going in for a
second round that will be shorter, so they can get the
tumor shrunk before the surgery."

We got together because I didn't react very well to
finding out about her breast. It wasn't terrible, just
enough to eat at me, so I sent her an email
volunteering to be her sounding board when she needed
to talk to someone besides her usual family and
friends. A week later the need was upon her.

*  *  *  *  *  *

In my mind I can see the transformation happen. I see
it from all angles, the two of us on the hiking path
in Town Park, passing through that wooded patch where
no one can see us. It's warm and sunny, awfully warm
for October, so that the red dogwood leaves seem out
of place. We're holding hands. It's innocent. I took
her hand because she was a little down and I thought
it would help, and neither of us feels disposed to let
go. What were we talking about a second ago? I don't
remember that. How did we come around to it? I don't
know. It isn't out of the blue, though. Something
leads to something else. It isn't out of the blue when
she stops walking and jerks her hand from mine. She
turns half away from me and says,

"They're going to cut my breast off and I'm going to
die and my husband won't even make love to me!"

She is looking slightly downward and I don't for all
the world know what to say. No one ever prepares you
for that, do they? She isn't crying but it's terrible.
Because I never know what to say, I've learned not to
be stupid and to say nothing. I don't grunt "you're
not gonna die," because she'd think it was dumb and it
was only part of her point. The one thing I can think
to do is step to her and put a hand on her shoulder.
Then, because she doesn't respond, I lean forward and
kiss her on top of her head. The wig isn't like hair.
I can't smell or feel her through it.

She leans her forehead against my chest just for a
second. When she lifts off she has this tight little
smile.

"It's not his fault. Really. I didn't mean it that
way. I'm just a mess right now. My hair is all tufts
and scraggles because of the chemo. It's like I have
mange or something."

"Oh." What should I say next? "I thought all of a
person's hair fell out from the chemo."

"Maybe it will eventually, but not yet. It's pretty
ugly."
.
 From somewhere I get the most brilliant advice in my
life. 

"Why don't you shave it smooth?"

"What?"

"Shave it smooth. Um, isn't it the patchiness that's
the problem? Shave it off and make yourself
beautiful."

She smiles at me.

"You think a bald head would be beautiful?"

"Ah, sure. Yeah. Your legs are bald and they're
beautiful, aren't they?"

"That's not the same. Who'd want to go to bed with a
bald woman?"

"For starters? Me. Not that I'm coming on or
anything." 

I don't think I am. Probably I'm not. But I'm starting
to feel flirty.

"Bald?"

"Bald. No wig. Lovely smooth skin to caress. Like
caressing your legs. Did the chemo affect your body
hair too?"

"Yes. Not on everyone, but it did on me." 

She's looking at me with a different expression.
There's something subtly hungry about it.

"Well then take the time you're saving shaving your
legs and us it on your noggin."

Now she does smile and seems about ready to laugh. 

"It isn't that simple, you goof! My body hair is
patchy too."

"Oh. Uh, *all* your body hair?" 

I string out the "all". I decide I *am* starting to
come on to her.

"You mean ...?" and she gives a quick nod in the
general direction of her crotch.

"Uh-huh."

She blushes. Oh jeez does she blush. I haven't seen
anything like that in years. She doesn't look away
though. She looks me straight on, red-faced and all.

"Well, yes. It's patchy too."

"Then shave it."

"Shave it?"

"Shave it. Make yourself smooth and beautiful."

"And then I suppose you'd want to go to bed with me?"

"Oh that! Shoot, I already want to do *that*. This
would just make me want to worship you!"

"You goof!" 

She laughs;  I laugh. We're enjoying the silly moment.
I say "Come here" and pull her in and we hug. That's
the instant of the transformation. It's quick, a
blink. We're hugging and laughing and we look each
other in the face and I kiss her.

We're not laughing. We're not saying anything. Her
eyes grow wide, then she leans into me and we're both
kissing, mouth over mouth, lips touching and brushing,
sucking, breathing each other's air, our bodies
touching all the way down. I can feel my penis start
to grow between our bellies and I know she can too.

Then we're not kissing anymore. She's stepped away and
looks frightened.

"I'm sorry. I have to go. I really do. I really
appreciate your talking with me. But...you know."

Oh God, what have I done? 

"Look, I'm sorry about that kiss. I didn't mean
anything. It just happened."

"Oh I know. It's just that I really have to go. You
know. I'll call you later, okay?"

"Sure. I really am sorry."

"No. Don't worry. It's okay."

So we're both fumbling around with words, trying to
make everything normal between us while we walk to our
cars, she afraid that she's shamed herself and afraid
of the complications, me afraid I've fumbled the role
of confidant and driven her away, and that's how
things stand when she starts her car and leaves. It's
a terrible memory but at least she's alive in it.

*  *  *  *  *  *

It happened that I was looking for a copy of some book
and when I turned back Miriam was in my office
doorway. Like a spirit. When Ebenezer Scrooge first
saw Jacob Marley's ghost, it was as a transformation
in his door-knocker. She was a transformation in the
space of my doorway, suddenly there, out of nothing,
and I got a chill up my back.

"Hi," I said, finally. "I was a little worried about
you."

I had decided that she wasn't going to see me again,
or return emails, or anything. I had given up when she
came by.

"Can I come in?" 

Her voice was little, and quiet, and she sounded
somehow obsequious.

"Sure." 

I rose but didn't walk toward her. What to do?

"Do you have a little time?" 

Of course I did. 

"Can I shut the door?" 

Then, with the door closed, "I have something I want
to show you. Is it okay?"

"Of course. That's what friends are for."

She looked around the office. It was far too quiet.

She said, "You have to be honest with me, Jake. I
couldn't stand it if you weren't honest, even if I
don't like the truth."

"I will. Whatever you ask, I'll tell the truth." 

I didn't know if I would or not.

She fumbled with her wig and then she was holding it
down by her hip and her head was smooth and bald.

"Is this ... horrible? You have to be honest!" 

I thought she might bolt.

Then I did walk up to her, slowly, to keep from
spooking her. I thought she was like a young colt, in
everything but appearance. She was odd looking without
hair, but I never thought her ugly, just unusual. Just
needing getting used to. What was she like? Like the
women in "Alien Nation," who were seductively
beautiful once you'd seen them enough. 

I went up to her and she didn't move, and after a
minute I put both my hands on her scalp. Just my
finger tips at first, then my palms, and I moved my
hands all over her head. She was silky under my hands.
She didn't bolt. She didn't move at all, just looked
up at me from under her eyelids. After a moment I
pulled her head down a fraction and kissed the top of
her head. It was enormously better than kissing the
wig. I ran my lips over her, then pulled back and
raised her face by putting the backs of my right hand
fingers to her cheek. She still hadn't made a sound or
a move. With her face up we looked in each other's
eyes and I knew I could kiss her again, and I did.

It was just like in the park, except that she didn't
stop things. She began panting almost immediately. I
think she'd been holding her breath. I used my right
hand to pull her to me and kept caressing her scalp
with my left, and my mind was seventeen steps ahead
because she'd trusted me with all this and I knew what
else she'd trust me with. 

"You look just fine. Wonderful. Don't ever worry again
about how you look with a smooth head. Never again." 

We kissed again. Both of us heard someone walking down
the hall outside the door, and we clung quietly to
each other. When the steps were past we began kissing
again. As a child I had caressed my pillow case with
my lips. A wonderful thing for a child. Now I did that
to her skin, a wonderful thing for an adult, but in a
minute she put both hands up to my chest and softly
pushed me back a step.

"There's something else I have to show you."

She undid her belt and began unbuttoning the coat, and
I knew before she finished one button that she wasn't
wearing anything under it. With that I knew everything
else that was important. She had thought about me
every day since the kiss and had finally shaved her
body for me. She must have thought about it a long
time. Maybe there were false starts and vows to stop
being stupid, and worries about the sinfulness of it.
Shaving off her pubic hair would have been the
kinkiest thing she'd ever done. Did it make her hot to
do it? She'd wanted to prepare her body for me, and
now she was going to offer herself to me. 

"Does it look weird?" 

She let her coat slip down her arms to the floor so
that it formed a pile against her ankles, and she kept
her arms straight down by her sides, as though
fighting a desire to cover up. Her legs were close
together. Her head was bowed a little. She wasn't
looking directly at me. I think she couldn't. Again, I
knew what she was thinking. What if I rejected the
offer? Could I accept it?

She must have stood something like that in front of
her mirror, looking at her body, certain she'd never
actually be able to show herself to me, or even to Al.
Her desperation must have been terrible. Nothing in
her life had prepared her for such a step, but her
need would have kept the thought there, the idea of
being transported by sex. Did she lie in bed at night
thinking about it, thinking she couldn't die without
experiencing it? She must have hated how she looked. 

The hate was misplaced. She was thin and marvelously
pale. Were both from the chemo? I could see her ribs
and the bones of her chest, and faint bluish veins in
her breasts that radiated from nipples that were dark
and womanly against that white skin. I couldn't see a
lump. Though she held her legs together I could see
her labia, slightly darker than the rest of her, and
the little, reddish slit of her vagina where it
disappeared between her thighs. It was as shy as the
rest of her.

I stepped back up to her and spoke as quietly as I
could, "Don't move," and I began touching and
caressing her everywhere.

*  *  *  *  *  *

It was far easier to find times and places to fuck
than I had ever imagined. We did it two or three times
a week, in my office or at her house or mine. It
wasn't enough. For me it wasn't, and she said it
wasn't for her, and I believed her because she called
and sent emails to try to set up trysts we couldn't
work out. We were almost caught only once, and it was
so silly that it seemed afterward to be almost
something from the Three Stooges. We laughed about it
hysterically when we got together that very night.

I wish we could have done it every day. She'd missed
out on so much, and we just couldn't cover everything.
Me, I'm not young but everything of mine worked for
her and I'd have taught her everything I could.
Miriam, sister of Moses,  found water on the desert.
Miriam found water in me. I'd get hard at night,
trying to fall sleep, after we'd fucked that day.

We were so conspiratorial, plotting to do this and
that. She wanted to try almost everything she'd never
done, and she'd done very little. A good, Southern
Baptist girl in a Southern Baptist marriage. Almost
everything was sinful. She'd had no ass-play ever.
Nothing oral beyond a little kissing and licking as
foreplay. She was afraid to suggest things at first.
Was she afraid to compound her sin, or was she just
shy at the thought she would disgust me? That first
day, I pushed her down onto the couch and knelt
between her legs to eat her. I'd never done that with
a woman who shaved.

"Don't," she said when I started.

"What?"

"You don't have to do that."

"I'm not going to pass up the chance at a naked cunt."

"No, that's not what I mean. And don't use that
...oh!"

She kept saying things, though they became less words
and more grunts and gasps with time. Later she told me
it was the first time ever for her, and the experience
was overwhelming. By the time she told me that, she
wanted my mouth almost every time we were together.
This first time she didn't know how to act, or what to
expect, and she kept jerking and twisting, and
whimpering "what are you doing," and "oh God," and
"please, please." When she began building toward
orgasm she grew ever louder. I had to stop for a
minute and wait for her to come down a little, until
she was gasping but not crying out.

"I love doing this, but you're going to get us caught.
Try holding both hands over your mouth."

So she muffled herself and I licked and sucked and she
came. She yelled into her hands, silencing herself
pretty well, though anyone walking past the door would
have known exactly what was happening. 

After she finished she lay on my couch and cried. She
was inconsolable. I had to hold her for the longest
time, and kiss her and murmur how everything was going
to be fine, before she finally quieted. She never told
me why she cried. I only have guesses.

*  *  *  *  *  *

She was awfully thin. I could feel her spine and all
her ribs through her clothes. She was a bird, a
sparrow, hollow and empty. I thought I could lift her
with one arm. We were walking in Kilkelley Garden and
no one else was around because it was so out of
season. My left arm was around her waist and I just
lifted her up and swung her around to face me.

She gave a little shriek.

"Jake, no, don't!" She tried laughing, an embarrassed
little laugh. Then, "Jake, I can't breathe." She
brought both her arms to my neck and I held her up
with both my arms around her waist. She was flying,
her legs in the air, and it was so good to kiss my
little bird, sparrow-like in everything except her
breasts, which were round and hard against me. She
tried to push against me and whispered "Please, Jake,
I can't...can't breathe." There was almost no air
behind her words.

So I put her down and loosened my hold, and she leaned
against me, breathing ragged gasps, my weak little
sparrow. I loved her more then than before, and I
hated myself. It was the first time I felt she might
actually die - the first time it seemed real to me.

*  *  *  *  *  *

It was always a different place. She couldn't go
anywhere without running into someone from her church,
so our rule was to never be seen in the same place
twice. She'd be working at this or that charity
effort, and it was always hard for her to get away on
any kind of a schedule. It was harder to talk
face-to-face than to fornicate. 

One memory. She's in the new place, standing, waiting
for me. It's the best place, closest by, the
landscaped courtyard nestled between two wings of Old
Main building, screened from the curious by a raised,
enclosed walkway and a hedge of arbor vitae and some
massive azaleas, a place no one ever goes. It's so
protected the ferns haven't yet died. She's standing
there while I duck in, under the walkway. For me she's
just stopped crying.

"I showed Al my body last night." 

She smiles fiercely, forcing an ironic grin, then
drops the other shoe.

"He wasn't interested."

"What do you mean? You mean the dope was shocked
because you're shaved?"

"No. No. It wasn't like that at all. He was surprised,
but I told him I shaved because of the hair problem.
You know. So he accepted it."

"And?"

"And, well, it's been so long since we've made love. I
said 'would you like to try it out?'  I thought maybe
he'd think it was sexy, but he just looked away from
me and mumbled something about how he had some things
he had to do."

Oh Jesus. The bastard. 

 "So he *was* shocked."

"No. You don't understand. It was more like he was
afraid. Like he's afraid of my body or something." 

A tear or two get loose. She can't stop them all. So I
get to hold her again. It almost doesn't matter that
she's miserable, because I can hold her and give her
comfort. I'll get her naked body too, tomorrow or the
next day, and she'll forget all about Al for a little
while. 

"Jake, you wouldn't do that to your wife, would you?
You love her. You wouldn't deny her, would you?"

Oh no. Not that. That's not your place, darling.
You're out of line. I want to shake her. You're the
other woman, the one who causes the breach, or steps
into it. You can't be her protector. What can I say?
Shut the fuck up, my dearest? Butt out, my one, true
love? Should I tell the truth? Finally I look her full
in the face and say it as honestly as I can make it
sound.

"Of course I wouldn't."

The only 'of course' is that life serves up cheap
irony and my wife wants sex tonight. How seldom does
that  happen? How much water under that bridge?
Sometimes we grow so guilty we aren't doing it that we
do it. I don't want to do it tonight. I really don't.
But Miriam says I have to love you.

So I take a Viagra and futz in the bathroom forever,
until I can feel it start to work. In the end it isn't
so bad. It never is, really, once we get started. With
candles I can imagine she's the smooth skinned girl I
once adored. I can imagine she's Miriam. I can
fantasize anything. My wife massages me with baby
powder and plays with my penis, which gets nice and
hard. She's a little surprised at first but then gets
cocky at her power. It's Miriam sucking on my balls.
It's Miriam licking the head of my cock while I
masturbate her. We lie down to spoon, me coming in
from behind, and use her vibrator. Fantasizing Miriam,
I come easily and don't have to fake it.

Afterwards we touch each other affectionately,
tickling and kissing, and we say we still have it
after all these years.

*  *  *  *  *  *

Miriam's second round of chemotherapy was hard on her.
I couldn't see her while she was getting it, and it
laid her low. She couldn't eat. Everything came right
back up. She was weak, and when she'd sit up or -
especially - try to walk, the world would spin and
she'd be sick again.

I knew this because she'd call me at my office, from
her bed, and talk to me in her weakened little voice
about it all and about nothing. I felt like a teenager
who hated having to hang up to get my work done. In
the middle of a one conversation she suddenly broke a
sentence with "oh wait," and there was silence, and a
distant retching sound. Then she came back on, and her
voice was more breathless than before.

"I'm sorry, sweetie pie. My tummy caught me a little
by surprise."

The next morning she called again.

"Jake," she said, "I'm so horny for you. Can you come
over?"

"Are you feeling better?"

"No, but I'm going out of my mind being sexy. I can't
move without getting dizzy, but I keep thinking of you
and touching myself. Please, can you come over?"

"Are you alone?"

"Yes, silly. I told Mee-Maw that I was feeling a lot
better, and that I needed some time alone. I acted
undizzy, but oh it was hard! I'm just finally getting
the rockiness back under control."

She was telling the truth. She lay flat on her bed,
arms and legs half spread, and even my moving on the
bed made the world swirl and float for her. I
undressed her carefully and slowly, unbuttoning her
teddy and peeling it back but not removing it, then
pulling off her panties. They were loose and came down
easily.

She looked completely washed out. There were dark bags
all around her eyes, but the rest of her was all
pallor. She'd grown still thinner, and her skin hadn't
shrunk as much as the rest of her, so it was loose
over her breasts. Her naked vagina, though, was pink,
and I could see she'd been touching herself. She'd
been doing more than that, she was so wet.

I had to be gentle at this.

"Okay, Miriam, nice and easy does it. You just lie
here and let me play with you."

She tried to stay completely still. I reached between
her legs and, yes, she was as slippery as she could
be. There was almost no resistance when I stroked her,
moving my fingers up almost from her anus, through her
vulva all the way up over her little stub of a
clitoris, to the top of her crease. Then down all the
way. I was just softly strumming her. A truly wet
woman is absolutely slick, and no one who has had the
opportunity to touch her then will ever forget the
sensation. I played with her vagina like this for
several minutes, until her eyes would close during the
stroke and half open afterwards. She wanted to control
her breathing for fear she might get sick again, but
she still made a little gasp of inhalation at every
second or third stroke. I spread her fluid over her
labia with my strokes, then began pulling on the labia
themselves, letting the slippery things pass through
my fingers. 

Then I noticed her breast.

There were a few drops of an almost clear fluid coming
from her nipple. I leaned closer and it was then I saw
the lump for the first time. Wasn't it supposed to be
getting smaller? Maybe it showed up better because
she'd lost so much weight? My hand moved up from her
vagina without any thought from me, and I found myself
caressing the breast as softly as possible. The lump
was obvious to my fingers.

"Don't, Jake," she whispered.

"Shh, love."

"That's what's going to make them cut it off."

"It's not off yet, darling. It's still there for me to
love on."

I bent my head to it and tasted the fluid. It was
almost nothing, maybe the slightest bit sweet. I took
her nipple between my lips and sucked, and a little
fluid came out.

"Don't, Jake."

"Does it hurt?"

"No. But it's poison. The cancer makes it do that."

"I'll suck it all out."

"No, Jake." But I began to suck her harder and a
little more fluid might have come out, and at the same
time I began masturbating her again, faster, up and
down through her vulva, two fingers up and down while
I sucked. She crooked her arm up to hold my head to
her breast and she began breathing harder. Her chest
rose and fell now, and her gasps became moans and then
words. One word. My name. She was moaning "Jake ...
Jake ... oh, Jake" while I sucked on her diseased
breast and masturbated her, and then she began to move
rhythmically to the hand, the muscles of her abdomen
and her arms and legs pulling together, and the moans
grew louder and more ragged, and then she came.

And then she threw up.

In mid-orgasm she twisted toward the side of the bed
and made an urping sound into a little plastic bowl,
then lay there, on her side, panting. Of course I
stopped masturbating her. I lay my hand on her hip,
felt her, caressed her. Her skin was clammy and I
became terrified of what was happening to her. Don't
shake. Be a comfort. Finally, slowly, her panting
subsided, and I could tell she was crying. It was time
to be strong for her, to pretend everything was fine.

"There, there, darling." I moved up to kiss her cheek,
but she put a hand back against my face.

"I'm so disgusting! How can you stand me?"

For a minute I stroked her shoulder through the silk
of the teddy, feeling her tremble with the crying, and
tried to control my breathing. Finally I thought I
could say it.

"You're the best thing that's ever happened to me,
Miriam. You're the easiest person to stand I've ever
known." 

It was obvious from my voice. She turned her head
around to look at me and saw that I was crying too,
and she seemed astounded. 

I wiped my eyes and crept off the bed and took the
plastic bowl into the bathroom. There was a tiny
amount of green liquid in it, that I washed away. I
got her a glass of water so she could rinse her mouth
out. When I came back I brought a fresh towel and
dried away the clamminess.

"Jake, will you get me some crushed ice? I need ice
chips. I can hold them down." So I got crushed ice
from the kitchen, and Miriam took a few chips and let
them melt in her mouth, and I massaged her arms and
her legs, each leg and then each arm. By and by she
became settled and managed a smile.

"You didn't get to come, Jake."

"I don't need to."

"But you're still a little hard. I want you to have
the sweetness too."

"Well, anything we'd do would make you sick, love.
Next week, when you're feeling better, we can do
things to our heart's content."

"No, Jake. That would make me feel worse. Look, I
know. You masturbated me. Now do yourself, and when
you're almost there I'll take you in my mouth."

"No. I don't think so."

"Do it, sweetheart. Please. Do it for me."

I'd never masturbated in front of anyone else in my
life, and I've never done it since, but Miriam made it
a test of my love and that was that. She knew I loved
her. So I stood beside her and grabbed my erection
just behind my head and began. My foreskin moves back
and forth over the head when I jerk myself off. Miriam
watched it closely, like she was fascinated. I think
she'd never seen anyone else masturbate. Anyway, it
was difficult with her right there, so I began slowly.
After a minute she reached out a hand to touch the
base of my penis, where it emerges from my balls, and
she kept her hand there the whole time. It helped. I
sped up. It was so good, with her touching me, and I
began to get breathless like I do when I'm getting
close. It was almost time. Almost time. It was time,
and I gasped it out to her,

"Okay. Okay. I'm almost there. I'm going to come."

She opened her mouth and leaned the tiniest bit
forward and pulled my penis into her mouth. She sucked
on it and pulled it about twice and my orgasm rushed
from my balls all up through my body and I came into
her, feeling myself pump again and again. I half fell
onto the bed and had to brace myself on my arms to
keep from crushing her.

Afterwards she smiled at me while I lay still beside
her, recovering. She took some ice chips and said,

"See, Jake? It didn't make me sick at all. You're my
meal for today. You'll make me stronger. Maybe you can
feed me every day."

But I didn't get to feed her ever again.

*  *  *  *  *

That night I had a dream. Miriam and I were fucking,
and then suddenly her breast wasn't there, only a
bloody gash, and it was shooting poison milk
everywhere. I awoke terrified about what this might
mean. I lay awake for hours, even after the fear had
passed. I thought of what she would look like
mutilated. Would the scar affect me? Would I be able
to get hard for her? I was afraid I'd be like Al.

The next morning she called. They were taking her in.
The cancer wasn't responding like it should, and they
had to decide what to do right away. I think she was
calling to say good-bye, because before she hung up
she said, "Jake, you know I love you."

After she crashed there was a special prayer service
at her church, but I couldn't make myself go to it.
Instead, I went to Town Park by myself.

God, please don't let her die. Don't let her die.
Please, God, please. I'll do anything. Let me die.
I'll stay away from her. I'll join the church and be a
good Christian. I know I haven't been a believer, but
I'll change. I promise. Just don't let her die.
Please! I'm begging you.

I would have kept my promise. 

*  *  *  *  *

I think it helped Miriam to be a believer. I hope she
prayed for forgiveness and got the peace that passeth
all understanding, but I'm not sure she would pray for
herself. I'm sure she prayed for me, and told God I'm
a good person, and to please let the Holy Spirit work
in me. That prayer is destined to go unanswered.
Still, I'm trying to be a better person, for her,
though she'll never know it. 

I know I'm not the only one, that many people are
grief-stricken, and people recover, and with time the
sun shines for them again. Maybe some day. Now I just
don't know what to do. I've visited all the places we
went together, but though people have told me they
suddenly see their beloved everywhere they go, I don't
see Miriam anywhere. I visited her grave and tried to
talk to her, but it wasn't any good. She isn't there,
either.  

My wife has noticed I've been down a lot lately and I
told her part of the truth, that it's because Miriam,
whose daughter took strings with Patty, died. My wife
is touched that I'm so affected by the death of
someone we didn't know well. I've taken to snuggling
her in bed before we fall asleep. I want solitude, but
I need to touch someone too. 

Other than that, I take long walks through the parks
and in open fields, getting away from everyone I know,
whenever I can. The days are longer now, and warmer,
and the breeze pushes through the unmowed spring
grass, as though it's writing cryptic messages on the
earth. Sometimes I try to read things into them, but
when the breeze moves on, the messages disappear.

End.




=====
H. Jekyll's stories are archived at:  http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/h_jekyll/

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