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From: anon584c@nyx.net (Uther Pendragon)
Subject: {ASSM} Foretaste
Date: Mon, 21 Oct 2002 18:10:02 -0400
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From: Uther Pendragon <anon584c@nyx.net>
Subject: rp Foretaste {Pendragon} (MF rom wl) 
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IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18, or otherwise forbidden by law to 
read electronically transmitted erotic material, please go do 
something else.

    This material is Copyright, 1997, Uther Pendragon.  All 
rights reserved.  I specifically grant the right for all 
reproduction necessary for normal Usenet propagation.  I 
specifically grant the right of downloading and keeping ONE 
electronic copy for your personal reading so long as this notice 
is included.  Reposting requires previous permission.

    All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as 
public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination 
and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly 
coincidental.

                       #     #     #     #

                            FORETASTE 
                       by  Uther Pendragon
                        anon584c@nyx.net

Part 1:


By not stopping off in the library for any research, I got 
home well before Jeanette.  Dinner that night was ramen over 
rice, and I could cook ramen.  The rice was leftover.  

We had first adopted ramen as a meal when we were broke 
newlywed students.  (Now there is a redundancy.)  Three packages 
of ramen cost less than a dollar and could feed us in a pinch.  
Two packages with vegetables or scallion tops in it could make a 
dinner with toasted-cheese or peanut-butter sandwiches.  It 
made, as tonight, a great topping for rice.  After a while, we 
acquired a taste for it.

Our expenditures had seemed to increase faster than our 
income the first year in Michigan.  Our lifestyle hadn't felt 
extravagant, but our bank balance looked like we'd been 
extravagant.  Jeanette had needed a car to get to work. We had a 
dining room in the new apartment, and needed a table and chairs 
to use it.  The sofa bed, despite some great times, had started 
being a little hard on our backs.  We'd kept it as a sofa, but 
bought a real double bed.  With the time that each of us was 
putting in on the dissertation, a second computer had made sense.  
The rocking chair wasn't strictly necessary, but had been worth 
every penny.

We had seen the food budget as one place to practice 
moderation, aside from having learned to enjoy the cheap food.  
We have never gone back to the tightness of the early days, 
however.  My meatloaf recipe is no longer a birthday treat; I put 
a generous helping of frozen mixed vegetables in the soup water 
before the ramen.

Anyway, our next two years at Grand Valley had shown better 
economic results than the first.  The furniture was paid off, the 
car nearly so.  We were current on my student loan, had paid my 
folks back for the airfare, and had money in savings.  We were, 
after all, deciding between two different expenses which we had 
delayed until now.

I crushed the packages of ramen, "dujours" in our parlance.  
When the water came to a second boil around the vegetables, I 
dropped the noodles in, tore the packages of seasoning, emptied 
them, turned the soup off, and covered it.  

When Jeanette came through the door a few minutes later, I 
had the table set and the meal one minute from serving.  "Love 
you," I said.  We had a kiss and a hug around her coat.  

"Mmm, love you," she said and unbuttoned her coat.  When I 
slipped my hands inside, she relaxed against me in a long hug.  
"Do I smell soup?"

"Uh huh.  The stove's off, no hurry."  I cuddled her against 
my chest, my hands innocently on her back.

"I really am a mess, just as I said."  

I kissed her forehead.  "Can't I hug my wife without my 
motives being suspect?"  After all, I had fixed dinner partly 
because she had complained Thursday morning that her period would 
be starting.  I knew that my access would be cut off.

She rubbed against the slight firmness in my groin.  "Like 
that?" she asked.  "Bob I never suspect your motives."

"Never?"

"Never *suspect*."

"My wife doesn't understand me."

"Your wife understands you perfectly."  She rolled against 
my middle again.  Junior, totally in response, firmed more.  
"It's just that your wife isn't going to do anything about it 
tonight.  Wait a few days.  Want me to finish setting up?"

She did, putting the rice and the soup in separate 
serving dishes.  With trivets, we could have had the soup pot on 
the table.  The rice was already cold.  But I will admit that the 
table looked better her way.  We could have been in a restaurant.

After dinner, she gave me another kiss.  "Thanks for 
cooking," she said.  Then she had her own tasks while I washed 
the dishes and outlined my lectures for the next week's history 
of Western civ. class.

When I came to bed, she was wearing a flannel nightie and, 
my hand discovered during our kiss, panties as well.  Still, she 
cuddled into the spoon position as soon as I lay down.  After 
smoothing down her hair -- I love it but not for breathing -- I 
rested my right hand on her belly between the navel and the 
sensitive parts.  That was two layers of cloth, probably more, 
above her skin.

"I talked with Dan today," I said.

"What did he say?"

"Reappointments are really the responsibility of the 
administration."

"This is news?" she asked.

"Not really.  I just wanted to convey that the degree was on 
track.  Besides, there are the problems of timing."

"And?"  She rested her hand above mine, which I took as a 
sign of approval.  She took no notice of Junior, who was -- by 
then -- pressing her nightie between her thighs.

"He made helpful noises," I told her.

"Urk, urk, urk.  Urrrk?"

"A little more helpful than that.  He'll probably recommend 
reappointment, though he didn't say so.  There is no reason to 
believe that he'd take it to the mattresses if his recommendation 
isn't approved."

"Why wouldn't they approve it?"  She rolled away from me.

"Any number of reasons, nothing that I can control.  The 
legislature may appropriate less money for universities this 
year, or give a lesser share to Grand Valley.  They may have a 
project for the money they get.  Still, we get lots of students; 
and they all take history courses, if mostly surveys."

She pulled up her nightie until the side was at her waist.  
She took my hand in hers and guided it back to a similar spot, 
but under the nightie.  When she snuggled back against me, Junior 
was now pressed into her buttock.  Really, he was pressed against 
the wrinkles of her nightie.

"It is the other side of the academic life," I continued.  
"There is only so much you can do.  Remember when Peter got sick?  
I covered some of his classes."

"Yes.  Was that so hard?"

"Oh no!  Though it did take some time I planned to put into 
the dissertation."  I still have to learn the subject every time I 
teach something new.  Peter who had taught that course the three 
previous years, probably was more on top of the course than I 
ever would be -- from much less prep time.  "But Peter is one of 
the ones with grad students.  A couple of dissertations came to 
screeching halts right then.  I did what I could; there aren't 
all that many of us in European history.  Still...."  Still, as 
she knew, a man who hadn't finished his own dissertation had no 
business advising on another's.

"Do you think they'll turn you down 'cause your wife's so 
ignorant?"

"First of all, you aren't.  And you shouldn't take the word, 
'administration,' so seriously.  Somewhere in the admin, there's 
a folder which has your transcripts in it."  Else she wouldn't 
have been able to take those night courses.  "Somewhere in the 
admin, there's a folder which says that I'm married to Jeanette 
Brennan.  Nobody has both folders."

"Well, the folder with my transcript says that I'm married 
to you.  That's how I get tuition."

"Look, those guys are hardly judging me.  If Dan recommends 
me, that helps.  And he sure had better.  The problem is that Dan 
probably recommends too many retentions, he is a nice guy.  If 
the doctorate comes through in time, and I don't see how it could 
miss, that helps."  

I slipped my little finger under the elastic waist of her 
panties, meanwhile raising my eyebrow in question towards her.  The 
eyebrow was a total waste; she had her back to me.  After a 
minute, I eased my hand further into her panties.  She dug her 
butt against my lap.

"But mostly, they aren't looking at me at all.  They are 
deciding how many history instructors to reappoint.  When they 
look at the list, they'll count that number down and draw a line.  
I just hope that 'Brennan' is above that line.  If they are 
barely looking at me, they aren't looking at you at all.

"Really," I continued, "it's a shame they aren't.  You're 
charming.  You're intelligent.  You're friendly.  You're just the 
sort of person that they *should* want in the university 
community.  It's just that I doubt if that's one of the things 
they consider.  The department, now; the department knows you and 
likes you."

"You're projecting," she said.  Clearly she meant it 
psychologically.  

"Really, I'm not.  They all like you.  Maybe the men have 
more reasons than the women, but have any of the wives actively 
made you feel unwelcome?"

"You're not?"  She giggled and rolled her butt down and then 
up.  When she finished, Junior was trapped between her buttocks.

"I'm not attributing my feelings to others just because I 
feel that way."  Sliding my hand slightly lower, I could get the 
middle finger on one of her lips below the parting and my ring 
finger on the other one.  (Does the right hand have a ring 
finger?)  By pressing with one and then with the other, I could 
move her parts against each other.  Tonight, she wouldn't have 
enough moisture to touch her clitoris directly.  "Anyway," I said 
as If I hadn't paused, "have the women been unwelcoming?"

"Well, they're polite.  But I feel such a dunce, especially 
around the women faculty."  Two of them are still working on 
their dissertations, as I was.  The others all have doctorates.

"You're too smart to compete on their specialties.  As for 
current events," I said, "you had a plan to deal with that problem 
years ago.  We tried the plan, and it was a tremendous success."  
This was an oversimplification.  Jeanette had proposed that our 
evening meals feature conversations on current events, with the 
content provided by *Newsweek*.  For the first years, I had 
been ahead of her.  I had been paying more attention before her 
proposal, and -- after all -- the study of history provides a 
context for many news stories.

After Dad started giving her subscriptions to French 
magazines, the lead passed to Jeanette.  She read about events 
that didn't make it into American consciousness, events before 
the American press realized their importance, and perspectives 
that didn't reach these shores.  

Dad gave her a two-speed tape recorder at the same time as the 
short-wave radio.  After that she really took off.  She would 
tape news programs in French and play them at half speed while 
she rode back and forth on the MBTA.  At first, she played them 
again and again at half speed and then at full speed.  She almost 
ignored content, concentrating on simply being able to understand 
the announcer.  Now, however, the two-speed tape player only 
comes into use when she is listening to period drama.  She now 
listens to news programs in French every day.  She is abreast of 
the politics of France, naturally, but also of the rest of Europe 
and many parts of the third world that Europeans notice and 
Americans don't.  

These days, I discuss current events at dinner less frequently 
than I learn about them, via *Radio France Internationale* 
and my wife.  And, meanwhile, the magazines keep coming.  Dad 
switches them each year, which gives Jeanette exposure to a broad 
perspective on contemporary French society as well as the quite 
variegated vocabulary which was the intent.

Working at the office, interpreting and editing for her 
husband, working hard at the current events, taking courses at 
night and studying for them, Jeanette has had less time than she 
would like for reading French literary classics.  What she has 
read, however, far exceeds the requirements for "liberally 
educated English speaker."

All the time I had been thinking this, my fingers had been 
going back and forth on Jeanette's lower lips.  Perforce, my palm 
was pressed against her fleece-covered mound.  Junior, who was 
caught against her buttocks had reacted to all this sensual input 
as well.

"Bob," she said suddenly, "you're not going to sleep.  Why don't 
you go take a shower?"

Now, I'd had a shower that morning.  Still....  I took a 
shower.  I was even hopeful enough to take extra care cleaning my 
groin.  When I returned to the bedroom wearing a towel tucked 
around my midsection, she had the lamp on her side of the bed 
lit.

Jeanette moved over to my side of the bed.  "Here," she 
said, patting a pillow on her side.  That whole side was without 
the top sheet and blankets.  When I lay down on my back, the 
light from the lamp shown on my left side.  "Put your hands 
behind your head," she said.  She unwrapped the towel so I was 
lying on it.

Junior was already moderately firm, but not yet stiff enough 
to choose his own direction.  She moved him to lie against my 
belly.  Then she kissed the base where the scrotal sack emerged.  
Junior twitched; I might have twitched all over.  She adjusted 
the lamp-shade so that my groin was in the center of the patch of 
greatest illumination.  She knelt between my legs and trailed 
kisses from Junior's base to just short of his head.  She looked 
me in the eye.

"You enjoy this, don't you?"  she asked.

"Very much!"

"Good!  Keep your hands behind your head."  She raised my 
left knee and kissed that thigh.  Then she repeated with the 
right.  I now had my feet planted on the bed and my knees bent.  
Her forehead brushed against Junior as she kissed into the fold 
of my groin.  She fluttered her eyelashes against him.  Then she 
kissed around the hairline down there.

I tried to steer her head so her mouth made more direct 
contact.  "Put your hands back behind your head," she said.  I 
did.  "You like this don't you?"

"Desperately."  It's not as if denying it would have 
convinced her.  "You are wonderful."

By this time, Junior was fully stiff and hovering above my 
pelvis.  With one hand, she pulled him downward until he was 
almost vertical.  This caused a mild pain, but the clasp of her 
hand on the lower shaft was delightful.  She watched me as I 
watched her lick her lips.

She opened her mouth as wide as possible, surrounded the 
head, then closed her lips until I could feel their moisture on 
the top of my shaft.  She licked the head.  Keeping her eyes on 
my face the whole time, she sucked mildly and then raised her 
head so that her wet lips touched every bit of me until they 
passed the tip.

She blew gently across the now-wet head.  I was close, so 
close.

"Pass me the Kleenex, would you?" she said.  I released my 
hand to get the Kleenex box from my nightstand.  She took two 
tissues while I held the box.  While I replaced the box on my 
nightstand, she folded them in quarters, using my belly as a 
table.  She released Junior to hold those two squares of Kleenex 
in her left hand.  "Clasp your hands again."  I interleaved my 
fingers, almost the same way I do for prayer.  Then I put them 
back of my head (and on top of the pillow).

She slipped her hand under my scrotum.  "Are there lots and 
lots of little Bobs in these?" she asked.  "You know, your head 
-- the big one -- is the only part of you that objects to having 
kids.  All the rest of you wants as many as possible."  She 
kissed up my shaft.  "Let Junior think of my being fertile."

Well, Junior was quivering in desire by then.  *I* think 
it was the ministrations of her lips.  She removed her hand from 
my scrotum to wrap it around my shaft.  Again, she watched my 
face as her mouth enclosed me.  She licked the head and then 
bobbed up and down around me.  She renewed the suction as I 
started to push myself upward and into her.

"Jeanette," I said.  I was much too far gone to stop.  
Gallons and gallons poured through my phallus as she continued 
sucking.

When she spat it out, however, it didn't overflow the two 
pieces of Kleenex.  She threw them away before getting out of bed 
and walking over to her nightstand.  There, she opened a can of 
soda and poured it into a glass.  She stood drinking for a minute 
before topping off the glass.  

"Scoot over," she said.  

I scooted.  "You are wonderful."  She is.  She's lovely and 
desirable and sexy.  She's also so persnickety that she has to 
have a glass for her soda.

"Want to kill the Coke?"

I took the can.  *I* don't need a glass.  It wasn't 
particularly cold -- she must have got it out of the refrigerator 
while I was taking my shower -- but it was wet.  It was diet 
Coke, so drinking it after brushing shouldn't rot our teeth.  The 
caffeine so late at night was something else.  But I only got a 
quarter of a can, and Jeanette is immune.

She finished after I did.  She hung my towel over the closet 
knob.  She turned off the lamp and got into bed.  She took my 
hand in hers after she snuggled against me.  "Cold!"

"What did you expect?"

She held it for a couple of minutes before putting it back 
over her belly.  

"You are a wonderful girl,"  I said.  "A wonderful woman."

"And you have a warm hand."

I moved my warm hand under her nightie.  A few minutes 
later, I cupped her mound.  Again, my fingers went back and 
forth.  This time I was rubbing her outer labia through her 
panties.  

"It's not being opposed to having children," I told her.  
"It has nothing to do with thinking you're undereducated.  It has 
to do with wanting you to have the experience you missed."

"But, Bob, it's the experience you chose.  I wanted us to be 
a family."

"We aren't?"

"We are," she admitted.  "More, maybe, than most couples.   
We do talk, just like your family."  Jeanette's first real 
experience of my family had been a series of family meetings.  In 
those, even my bratty kid sister tries to stay on-topic.  Anyway, 
the conversations that Jeanette and I have at the dinner table 
had been her idea.

"Your idea," I reminded her.

"But real families cross several generations.  Your family 
keeps traditions, Brennan traditions, Grant traditions."

And that we do.  "Jacobs traditions?"

"There might be some good ones.  I'd have to check with 
grandparents and cousins."  If her opinion of my parents is 
exageratedly good, her opinion of her parents is unrelievedly 
bad.  What I've learned at first hand confirms the direction of 
her belief, if not the intensity.

She rolled away from me to reach her nightstand.  Before I 
could feel rejected, she handed me the tube of KY.  I squeezed a 
significant blob on my right middle finger.

"Lift your panties, will you?" I asked her.  She pulled them 
higher and tighter around her.  That hadn't been what I meant.  
When you are lying in bed, two significantly different directions 
are 'up.'

"Give me space," I said.  

Turning on her back, she cleared away bedclothes and nightie 
as well as lifting the elastic of her panties.  I was able to get 
my hand in there without spreading the jelly all over her pubic 
hair.  She had to replace the cap on the tube before putting it 
back on her nightstand.  Then she covered us back up.

"Brrr," she said when I finally reached her labia with the 
lubrication.  Well, it was cold for that sensitive spot.  I don't 
know what choice I'd had, though.  She'd been the one who chose 
to leave the tube on her nightstand rather than on the heating 
vent.

I let that hand rest for a while.    "You know," I said, 
"this business of being a family is all your accomplishment.  
I've brought some customs from my family, like family 
meetings.  But the structure is something you've done.  Or am I 
ignoring things I've imposed?"  

"'Imposed' might be the wrong word, Bob.  Some things were 
unconscious on your part.  An anthropologist would say that all 
sorts of things were unconscious on both our parts.  But I had a 
choice about anything strange to me.  I can remember your asking 
if I were comfortable with your saying all the graces; it was 
funny."

"I was perfectly serious.  My father either says them or 
passes them around -- asks someone else to say grace on a special 
day.  I don't know whether Mom ever got asked, but *you* 
did.  I'm not into playing the paterfamilias.  I have a partner."  
Which might have been a little hard on Dad.  He listens to Mom; 
she can bring him up short, although she almost never does, when 
he won't listen to anything else. 

"You offered me the option of saying the prayers, Bob.  What 
you didn't see was the option of starting meals without prayer."  
Would you start a meal without saying thanks for it?  That is 
important to me.  "But that wasn't imposition.  I considered it, 
and wanted to continue the Brennan tradition that way.  I just 
thought it was cute that you hadn't considered it."  I think of 
Jeanette in many ways, but most often as sexy; she thinks of me 
in many ways -- some of them complimentary -- but most often as 
silly.  "Besides, so many of your special prayers mention me."  

"Well, yes."  I started spreading the lubricant.  "God may 
be the ultimate cause, but the cook is the proximate cause.  
Besides, I am grateful for you.  I just need to remember it 
more often.  And I'll admit that regular grace is often 
perfunctory.  It's like saying 'I love you,' as I walk out the 
door."

"I'm glad about that too.  And I didn't start that."

"Not the same thing if you had.  Anyway, I *do* love you.  
Sometimes in the morning, we both need reminding of that."  By 
this time, my finger had run into the little string.  I carefully 
tucked it as far back as possible to keep it out of the way.  
Jeanette giggled.  As I said, mostly she thinks of me as silly.

"Well, I love you too.  If that love is faint in the 
mornings, so am I."

"Anyway,"  I cut out a few parentheses, "If you want to say 
the grace, you only have to warn me before I start.  Do you 
really have problems with sitting while I say it?  And we do have 
the structure of a family; and it's your accomplishment; and, if 
I've imposed something, you can tell me that.  We can change."  I 
finally reached the center of all her feeling.  This was where the 
lubricant was most important, and I had enough of it left.

"Or we can keep it," she said.  "Grace structures the meals, 
and it's a Brennan structure.  It's just that some of the things 
we've done are important for you."

"I've never said it wasn't.  For that matter, I really 
apprciate the things you've done to structure us.  Even when I 
wouldn't have bothered, even when I would never have done it, I 
can see the difference between living in a home and living in a 
dorm room."

"You can Bob?"  She spread her legs to give me better 
access.

"I certainly can.  Maybe I'm more grateful for other 
things."  I leaned over to kiss her.  Meanwhile my finger kept 
moving.  "But I'm grateful for that, too."

"I'm glad.  Beforehand, you seemed to want to marry me as 
much as I wanted to marry you.  Afterwards...."

"I found out that being married to you was even better than 
I had expected.  But I wanted to spend time with you; I wanted to 
sleep beside you every night...."

"You wanted to have sex with me," she said.

"Well, I would have called it 'making love' with you."

"You would have called it by words I won't use."  And she 
wouldn't use them.  She was raising her mound now, to give me 
better access to her clit.  But, as far as she was concerned, my 
hand was 'down there.'  

"Anyway, I wanted marriage.  You wanted marriage.  Maybe we 
didn't want the same aspects of marriage."

"Maybe."

"But admit that you've enjoyed my aspects."  She might be 
pushing her mound up into my hand, but she wasn't going to make 
any such admission.  "I've certainly enjoyed yours."

"Comforting hugs?"

"Well, hugs," I said.  "And I enjoy that you want me to 
comfort you.

"Anyway," I brought us back on topic.  "Your putting me 
through college was part of being married.  Consider that putting 
you through is part of being married too."

"And having children?  Is that part of being married?"

"Certainly it is.  You have to ask yourself what would be 
best for you to do first."  A woman with a BA can bear a child; 
can a woman with a baby attend college full-time? 

"We have to decide as a family.  I'm not going to force a 
baby on you if you don't want one."  This was important to her.  
She stopped moving against my hand to say it.

"A little Jeanette?  I'd love one.  The thing is, I want the 
college more, but I want it for *you*.  I can't say that 
this is what we'll do because it would be best for Jeanette; not 
if you *really* want the other.  You're a person."

"I'll weigh it up.  You're right, it is still a little 
iffy."  It was a lot iffy.  On the other hand, maybe the first 
hand, I was certain that I could rub slowly all over her 
sensitive vulva.  By now I could concentrate on her clit.

"You're the person I love." I said.  Something was wrong 
with the way I'd said it before.  "Especially, I can't run you."

"Love you," she said.  She was silent, if moving 
appreciatively, for a few more minutes.  "Love this."

That was the last thing either of us said about my 
carresses.  Shortly afterwards, she tensed.  I kissed her while I 
stroked her clitoris directly and continuously.  When she gasped 
into my mouth, I let go and snuggled against her.

She left for the bathroom soon after, though.  I took the 
opportunity to wipe off my fingers.  They felt like KY, not like 
her.  When she got back, she snuggled against me it the usual 
spoon.  

"Love you," I said sleepily.

She pushed back against me.  "Love you," she responded.


Continued in Part
Foretaste 
Uther Pendragon 
anon584c@nyx.net
1997/05/08 
1997/10/21 
2000/04/07
2001/11/25
2002/10/21
                              - = - 

This story carries the codes: (MF rom wl) 
The code, "

For other codes, and how they can help you find the stories you 
want, see:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/code/scfr.htm
The Story-Code FAQ for readers.



This is one of a series of stories about the Brennans.

The first story in the series is:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/brennan/forever.htm
"Forever" 

The next story in the series is:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/brennan/effort.htm
"For Effort" 


For a quite different, and quite short, story:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/story/show.htm
"Show and Tell" 

The directory to the entire series is:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/brennan.htm
Brennan Stories Directory 

The directory to all my stories can be found at:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/index.html

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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