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Message-ID: <39966asstr$1040389803@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: anon584c@nyx.net (Uther Pendragon)
Reply-To: anon584c@nyx.net
Subject: {ASSM} rp "Forget All That 03" {Pendragon} (MF rom wl lac) [3/12]
Date: Fri, 20 Dec 2002 08:10:03 -0500
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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, by Uther Pendragon.  All 
rights reserved.  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.

    If you have any comments or requests, please E-mail them to 
me at anon584c@nyx.net.  

     If you save erotic stories, and you prefer that other 
household members not be exposed to them, I recommend that you 
use a file zipped with the PKZip option -spassword.  (Where the 
password that you choose would, presumably, not be "password.")  
This still leaves the titles of the files and the fact that they 
are encrypted open to anybody.

    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.


                         FORGET ALL THAT
                       by  Uther Pendragon
                        anon584c@nyx.net


Part Three:

Once again, The Kitten had her breakfast before I had mine.  
This time, however, we managed to arrive in the kitchen at the 
relatively respectable hour of nine-thirty.  Bob's father got up 
as we entered the room and reached for The Kitten.  She reached 
out her arms and was transferred.  As soon as he had her, she 
started exploring his pockets, which were filled with stick-pens.  
"Don't worry, dear," Katherine said, "they've all been washed, 
and the caps won't come off."

After breakfast, we actually got The Kitten out of her 
grandfather's arms and onto the quilt.  She promptly rolled off.  
"I think," said Bob's father, "that we'll have a bare tree this 
year."  We filled him in on some of her latest feats.  That led 
to what Bob calls her "fan club," coeds who come to his office 
while she is there and I'm in class.  Which, in turn, led to my 
experience in the class.

"I haven't got the last paper or the final exam back yet, of 
course,"  I said.  "I got 'A's on the mid-term and on the first 
two papers, sort of."

"There was nothing 'sort of' about it," said Bob.  "I saw 
the grades."

"Well the exam was only a number grade.  And there was the 
first paper."

"The exam was a 93," said Bob.  "That's an 'A' in anyone's 
book.  He told you that the first paper was an 'A' as far as the 
course went."  Then he explained to his parents:  "They read the 
books in French, not translations, and discuss them in English in 
class.  Jeanette assumed that the papers were to be written in 
French.  She handed in her first paper in French.  The other 
students wrote in English, as the teacher expected.  He marked 
the paper with a *prominent* A."

He was only telling half of it.  "He also wrote extensive 
criticisms of my French.  It isn't up to academic standards."

"French academic standards," said Bob.

"Well, yes.  He said that almost everything that I wrote was 
acceptable in some kind of French writing, but that I jumped 
between obsolete usage and journalistic vulgarism."

"I ask you," Bob said to his parents.  "Does that sound like 
a reason to reduce the grade of an American?"  They agreed with 
him.

"Anyway," Bob said, "he *gave* it an 'A.'  She did her 
work on time, which many did not.  She was graded on class 
participation, which we don't know.  Every piece of work that she 
got back was graded 'A.'  Anybody can goof on one piece of work, 
and any teacher will cut your grade if you do.  But I'm betting 
on an 'A' for the quarter.  And she won't bet."

"With you?"  I asked.  His parents laughed.  Bob's bets are 
notorious.  "I never said that I wouldn't get an 'A.'  I just 
said that the grades that I had received so far were sort-of 
'A's."

I took a deep breath.  "And I'm not going on with the 
course," I finished.

Bob's parents expressed dismay.  Bob and I had discussed 
this thoroughly, and he agreed with me.  He let me carry the 
ball, however.

"Another thing the professor told me was that I fitted in 
the group rather badly.  My French is the best in the class.  He 
thought that my experience gave me insights that the students 
eight years younger don't have.  They *do* have, however, 
much more grounding in literature study than I have.  I really 
skipped a level.  He suggested that I go back and take some 
courses at that level, and also some English literature courses."

"It seems like such a long time, dear."

"It really isn't a *longer* time," Bob said.  "She needs 
so many hours to graduate, so many hours for a major, some of 
those have to be upper-division.  As long as she has enough 
upper-division courses, taking the lower division courses moves 
her toward a degree just as rapidly.  She didn't convince me, 
however, until she reminded me of how this whole affair started."

"I began to study French," I reminded them, "because I 
wanted to study something, but also because I thought that my 
grounding in French had been weak.  I started as near the 
beginning as I could.  Then you gave me the wonderful course, and 
I started over.  That's one thing that I have over the other 
students, I took the time to get really grounded in the language.  
I wasn't aiming at French literature when I started.  If I want 
to spend a lot of effort and time studying that, then I would be 
foolish to resist getting the firmest grounding possible.

"Besides, any slowing down on reading literature, (and that 
is really what would be easier in these courses, they don't 
expect as much command of the language, so they assign less 
reading).  Any slowing down in the reading would only mean more 
time to work on the translation."  

"Don't you think," Bob's father was speaking to me, but he 
was looking daggers at Bob, "that you've given up enough for his 
career?"

"Not necessarily.  It's his paycheck, but it's my income.  
My prestige, too.  But I'm not giving up anything, this time.  
First, I *want* the grounding in literature.  All I said was 
that there is always as much French to read as I can find time 
for.  Second, it is *our* work.  When those books are 
published, my name will be on them too."  Bob had fought for 
that.  The books are two translations of French government 
documents from a century ago.  Bob is the editor, and is writing 
a commentary putting the documents in historical perspective; I'm 
the translator.  The one on the foreign-office documents is 
nearing completion.  The one on the colonial-office documents has 
a long way to go.  When he got the agreement to put my name on 
the title page, I hadn't cared.  Now I think that I might like to 
translate something else one day, and a byline can't hurt.

"But" said Bob, "is she grateful for all the benefits that 
the collaboration gives her?  No!"  Actually, I am grateful.  Bob 
was just pointing out that the collaboration is critical to his 
career.  I hugged him to demonstrate that I was grateful.  "Not 
good enough," said Bob, "I want a kiss."  So we had a medium-hot 
kiss; his parents were watching, after all.

"As long as you're happy, dear," Katherine said.

"A practical point," Bob said, "is that general courses in 
French literature will probably transfer.  Specialized courses 
might not.  We don't know that I'm staying at Grand Valley 
forever.  Jeanette might want to graduate from another school."

"Not transfer?" asked Bob's father.  He is a widely-read 
man, knowledgeable in several fields beyond management.  It's 
easy to forget that people not immersed in academia don't know 
these rules.

"A college won't give you credit for a course if *they* 
don't teach it.  It doesn't matter how good that course is, how 
well taught, or how advanced.  They wouldn't give her credit for 
a course in Balzac unless they teach a course in Balzac.  Most 
schools try to be reasonable, but....  Didn't you" (speaking to 
his mother) "run into that?"

"Not really.  Education departments teach the courses 
required for a state certificate.  I certainly wasn't interested 
in another BA.  So if I had the course that North Carolina would 
accept for the certificate, I didn't take it again.  Otherwise, I 
took that course."  That led to a long three-way discussion of 
the strengths and (mostly) weaknesses of the teacher-
certification and teacher-education processes.

I mostly stayed out of it and, as it went on, lay down with 
my head in Bob's lap.  I must have dropped off.  Bob shook me.  
"You're going to have a hungry daughter in a second," he said.  I 
sat up and unbuttoned my blouse.  I had to think before I 
remembered which breast was next, I was so logy.  I opened the 
nursing bra as Katherine brought The Kitten over.  Bob looked at 
me for a moment and asked, "Would you rather be in the rocker?"  

"I'll stay down here," I said.  Climbing the stairs with The 
Kitten on my breast seemed beyond me at that moment.

"I'll go into the other room," said Bob's father.  

"Am I disturbing you?" I asked.  "I could go upstairs."  
They had given us such a nice place for baby care, and I had 
ignored it.

"Mom," said Bob, "please sort it out.  I'll get the rocker."

"Russ was offering because he was afraid that he was 
disturbing you, dear," Katherine said.  "Was he?"

"No.  I thought I was disturbing him."  The only person 
whose presence while I was breast-feeding counted as disturbing 
was Bob.  He keeps leering.  I just hoped he wouldn't in front of 
his family.

"Was she, Russ?"

"Not in the least."  At that statement, there came a loud 
slap at the bottom of the stairs.  We all listened for more 
sounds but only heard Bob's heavy tread on the stairs.

"Dear," said Katherine when he appeared carrying the rocking 
chair.

"Well, they call them throw rugs," Bob said.

"Why did you mention the rocker, dear?"

"Because she didn't look comfortable on the sofa.  We have a 
rocker at home, and she prefers that for nursing."  (When I don't 
use the bed, which I do in the middle of the night or when Bob is 
playing his games with me.)

Bob put down the throw rug, softly this time, and put the 
rocking chair on top of it.  The Kitten objected to moving from 
the couch, but she was happy as a lark once we got rocking.  She 
and I began our usual conversation.  The others watched us for a 
minute before Katherine led them into another discussion.

Given the choice between The Kitten's meaningful glances and 
the politics of global warming, I paid the adults no attention at 
all.  They had gone into the kitchen before The Kitten was done.  
"Bob!" I called.  His father appeared with a dishtowel draped 
over his shoulder.

"Did you want burping service?" he asked.  I redid my 
clothes while he politely fastened his attention on The Kitten.  
Perhaps it wasn't politeness; he seldom looks at anything else 
when he has her to hold.

"'The KING of PERu, WHO was EMPeror too ...'" he recited.  
The Kitten seemed quite content.  It must have sounded like Papa 
to her, it certainly did to me.

"You two are so much alike," I said.

"Two?"

"You and Bob."  It made sense.  Bob had been five when Vi 
was born; he hadn't invented how a father deals with his 
daughter, he had learned it.

"That would be a compliment from anyone," he said, "but from 
*you*."  It sounded like his voice was cracking, and his 
eyes looked misty.  I'm not sure that I had meant it as a 
compliment, but it would have been disloyal to say so.

"I think The Kitten believes so, too," I said.  "She is 
certainly comfortable with you."

He tried to keep her on his lap through lunch, with 
predictable results.  He ended up with his plate, glass, and 
silverware a foot back from the end of the table.  The Kitten 
tried for the tablecloth, but her grandmother grabbed the other 
end.  "Aren't you glad we decided to eat in the dining room, 
dear?" she asked.  Katherine has had years of experience in a 
third-grade classroom, and that was after raising Bob.  I have 
yet to see her fazed.

Bob and I went for a walk after lunch (and after he loaded 
the dishwasher).  This one was longer than the day before, and we 
didn't disgrace ourselves by anything worse than holding hands.  
We got back while his father was feeding The Kitten her 
vegetables.  "All we are saying," Bob's father sang, "is give 
peas a chance."  The Kitten was entranced.  Not open-mouthed, but 
entranced.  It's remarkable that a girl who tries to put 
everything else in her mouth can get so resistant to putting a 
spoon in there.

He played with her until she was cranky.  Then she came to 
Maman until she fell asleep.  Dinner was much quieter.  I nursed 
The Kitten first, and she stayed in her car seat and amused 
herself most of the time.  We returned her to the quilt for a 
while.  Then she shared the couch with us, wanting to be handled 
only by maman and papa at that time of night.

"Oooh," she said.

"No, Kitten," Bob said.  "It's not August.  It's December.  
Say day-som-brrrr."

"Oooh."

"No, Kitten.  It's not August.  It's December.  Say 
day-som-brrrr."

By the fifth time, his parents were shaking in laughter.  
"How long does this go on?" Katherine asked me.

"Until she gets tired of it.  She has a toy that squeaks 
when she squeezes it.  She plays with either one for up to twenty 
repetitions, then her attention wanders."  Hearing me, The Kitten 
decided that she needed comforting.  She reached over and I 
hugged her.  "Move over," I told Bob.  He scooted to the end of 
the couch.  He picked up The Kitten for a moment while I arranged 
myself.  Then my head was on his lap and The Kitten was lying on 
my tummy.  She made a half-hearted attempt to reach my breasts 
through my blouse, but she wasn't hungry at all.  Then we quieted 
down.

"Did we bore you with our talk this afternoon?"  Katherine 
asked.

I shook my head.  "Comforted," I said.

"She doesn't want to say much," Bob explained.  "It shakes 
The Kitten."  The elder Brennans were almost convinced by my ten 
years of telling them that I regarded their discussions as 
spectator sports, but they keep worrying that I feel bored or 
afraid to participate.

The talk went on until The Kitten started to root for my 
breasts more seriously.  I went upstairs.

When Bob brought the rug upstairs on his third trip, I was 
lying on my side in the bed nursing.  "They're very nice people," 
I said.

"They are that.  Do you want me to pull off your jeans."

"Please."  He left the panties on (for a wonder) and left 
for his evening time in the bathroom.  He sat in the rocker while 
The Kitten nursed and played.  I murmured to her about the day.  
He roused himself to change her and tuck her in while I had my 
bathroom time.

Neither of us was wide awake.  Something about the season 
and the talk and the comfort had relaxed us to somnolence 
although I, for one, had enjoyed a sinful amount of sleep over 
the last day.  Facing each other, we shared a sleepy kiss that 
seemed to go on forever.  Bob scratched my back.  That felt so 
good that I turned over to give him real access.  

Soon my seat was pressed back into his lap with predictable 
consequences.  "Junior, at least, is awake," I said when I felt 
the warm firmness against my seat.  "The lone one surrounded by 
three sleepyheads."  

"He only wants to be surrounded by one of them," Bob said.  
When I leaned back against him, Bob moved his hand from my back 
to my front.  He kissed my shoulder blade every once in a while.  
He stroked all over my stomach, a habit he developed during my 
pregnancy.  Then he started to play with my pubic hair.  He kept 
his hand warm against my lower stomach while two fingers just 
reached the beginning of my lips down there.  He pressed one into 
one lip, and then released it and pressed the other finger into 
the other lip.  Junior, firm against my hip, seemed disassociated 
from the rest of Bob's gentle, comfortable, laziness.

I raised my right knee, hardly knowing that I was doing it.  
Bob, taking the hint, moved his hand lower.  When he had a finger 
well between my lips I could relax and lower my leg again.  He 
stroked between those lips and kissed my shoulder blade.  Neither 
of us was in any hurry.

And then I was.  I stiffened a little.  "Bob, please," I 
said.

"Like this?"  He meant by his hand alone.  I didn't want 
that this night.

"Like the forest."  He shifted, I shifted.  I used the 
opportunity to grab three tissues from the box by the bed.  I put 
them in my left hand.  This position works best if I lie in a 
fairly bent posture, which deprives my back of all Bob's warmth.  
Junior had wilted a little in the long wait.  I reached between 
my legs to help him in.  I gave him  a few strokes along my 
valley to get him nice and slippery (and fully hard) .  I placed 
him very carefully and pressed back.  Bob moved forward and up in 
the bed.  We were joined.

After a few strokes, Bob stopped to scratch my back again.  
I arched my back in appreciation, which further impaled me.  Bob 
would stroke in and out with exquisite slowness, and then pause, 
and then start up again.  It felt lovely, not particularly 
urgent, but quite voluptuous.  I don't know how long we drifted 
like that, but the time came that Bob didn't pause after a few 
strokes.  

His hand found my mound again.  He did pause while he was 
all the way within.  I pressed back against him and opened my 
legs.  One of his fingers touched my center.  Almost immediately 
I tensed.  He was grunting, I think I was silent.  He stroked 
faster and faster within me all through my climax.  Then I felt 
him pulse and spurt inside me.  I clasped his hand to me, 
everything else being out of reach.  

When I felt him start to slip out, I passed him one of the 
Kleenexes.  We dabbed ourselves off.  I pressed back against his 
chest.  He reached his arm around me and held me between my 
breasts.  I hugged this arm until I fell asleep.

I responded to The Kitten's first soft cry.  Quite awake, I 
nursed her in the rocker instead of the bed, telling her all 
about Christmas.  I must get a book on French Christmas, my 
vocabulary is weak on all sorts of domestic subjects like that.  
When she was finally done, I pushed Bob until he turned over.  I 
hugged him for a long time, neither awake nor quite asleep.


Continued in Part Four.
FORGET ALL THAT
Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
1997/12/24
1999/12/30
2000/09/10
2002/12/20

This is the third segment of the last story (so far) in a 
series of stories about the Brennans.

The next segment is: 
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/brennan/fat_b.htm
Parts 4-6 

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


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.htm

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