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Message-ID: <42260asstr$1052082605@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: "H. Jekyll" <h_jekyll2000@yahoo.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} "Mysteries" (no story codes)
Date: Sun,  4 May 2003 17:10:05 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

"Mysteries"

by H. Jekyll

* * * * *

No story codes. This story contains some fairly explicit sex, 
both heterosexual and lesbian.

It previously appeared at "Ruthie's Club" 
(http://www.ruthiesclub.com/),which I recommend to readers, 
edited by Ruthie. An illustrated and formatted version can be 
found there.

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 
absolutely 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 (http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/h_jekyll/), and at 
"Ruthie's Club"

* * * * *

 "Why do I love you, Jen, and why do you love me? Why do I desire 
you?"

"Don't be so obsessive, Phil. Just be happy we *do* love and 
desire each other, okay?"

He was afraid to talk too much like a professor around her, but 
he wanted to talk about it because he was afraid love and desire 
could evaporate. Everything between them rested on a mystery. He 
wondered about all of it, why he was attracted to the curve of 
her breast, or why the turn of her belly down to her pubis 
excited him. Passion is a mystery. Desire is. Everything is. He'd 
read up on it, of course, because that was what he did. "The 
heart and the mind...what an enigma." Charlie Chaplin had said 
that, but others said similar things. He was afraid to let 
Jennifer's love be a mystery.

He told friends he feared desire and love just happened. That's 
what he said when he and Jennifer were going through their bad 
time. He knew you didn't choose your desires. For his part, he 
loved Jennifer but he wanted many women. Desire chose this one, 
or that one. Could Jen ever want someone else? 

(She was certain of us, then she wasn't, now she is again. I 
don't think I can ever be certain of anything. That's not true. 
I'm certain I need her.)

He didn't tell Jen or anyone else that he fantasized all the 
time, that he had thoughts of what he could do with some woman, 
of how he could arrange it. He had to force the fantasies aside 
so he could work.

There was a girl just today, a student, walking along the 
sidewalk. A summer day, nothing in particular happening, no place 
special, gum wrappers and cigarette butts on the walk of a strip 
mall. She was walking like any other girl, in jeans, with a 
backpack, her hair in a ponytail, and when she passed him he 
could tell she wasn't wearing a bra and her young breasts were 
bobbing in time to her steps. 

(She was just passing by, just a teenage girl, and I wanted her. 
She's all I thought about all afternoon.)

* * * * *

Philip and Jennifer were lying in bed after fucking, snuggled 
loosely together, relaxed with the passion spent, long enough 
afterward that they had put on underwear to keep from seeping 
onto the sheets, and had turned on the TV. The news channel was 
showing interviews with police in Utah, about the abducted girl. 
Jennifer put her head on Philip's shoulder and lay a hand softly 
on his chest.

"It's awful! How could anyone do something like that, Phil?"

He pulled the sheet up over his middle, just in case. He didn't 
want her to see him getting erect at the news, and so soon after 
sex. He couldn't tell her why. He didn't know. That's not exactly 
right. He knew the immediate reason but not where it came from. 
He hoped they found the girl, though she was probably long since 
raped and killed. 

The poor thing. It wasn't her fault. She didn't do anything to 
deserve it. He could hope for her, or at least that they could 
find the body for her family, so they could finally know. But he 
understood the desire that must have drawn the abductor. He 
understood it exactly. 

How delicious it must have been, a sweet innocent young thing, so 
afraid and so obedient. She'd do anything for him. She'd even 
asked permission to get her shoes before he'd led her away. She'd 
surely done everything he wanted. Philip had no doubt that he'd 
made her do everything. He'd bound her and hurt her. Maybe he'd 
bitten her. 

(Damn, it must have been good!)

Philip's prick swelled more, and became completely hard, as he 
thought about it.

"I don't know what would make someone do that, Jen" he told her 
honestly. 

He had tried to explain to her once, about a different case in 
the news, the social science explanations, but she hadn't seemed 
interested. He finally decided that she considered predators to 
be some kind of monster, that they were freaks, insane. He knew 
better, though. 

(Maybe they're freaks and monsters, but if so there are any 
number of us other freaks. We're lying next to our wives, looking 
just like any other guy. And damn it, we're good people! I know I 
am. Are the others any different? I worry about my daughter and 
think about the state of the world. But desire. Yeah. As a lark, 
it made me love sadism. Why that? Why me? I can't ever let Jen 
know.)

* * * * *

Jennifer's favorite film is "Sex, Lies, and Videotape." Philip 
just got the DVD for her and tonight they're watching it in bed. 
It took forever to get little Kirsten to sleep, so long that they 
had thought they wouldn't have time to watch it tonight. While it 
plays Philip examines her face as much as the film. When it's 
over and they're lying there talking, ready to go to sleep, and 
it's not decided if they'll fuck tonight, he asks her about her 
favorite scene from the film.

"I love it where James Spader tells Andie McDowell that men often 
fall in love with the woman they're having sex with, and women 
begin wanting sex with the man they love."

"Does that description fit you?"

"Yes."

"Wait a minute. Wait just a damn minute. You started liking sex 
*after* you fell for me?"

"Yes. Aren't you flattered?"

"Uh-uh! Time out! You had sex long before we met. You mean you 
didn't like it? Or did you love those guys, too?"

This is going a lot further than she had intended. She asks, "Is 
this an inquisition?" and gets out of bed to turn off floor lamp, 
the DVD player, and the TV. His apology follows her as she walks 
down the hall to check on Kirsten.

"No. I'm sorry honey, but I just don't understand. And besides, I 
fell for you before I ever got you into the sack." He half shouts 
the last part out into the hall.

There's no answer for a minute, then there are footsteps and 
Jennifer comes back into the room.

"Don't be so romantic. You got me into the sack almost right 
away." She gets back in the bed and hits her pillows to fluff 
them.

"And you didn't enjoy it? That's not my memory." He begins to 
wonder if she had faked it, and if that was true what else is 
true?

"I enjoyed it just fine, but it wasn't the same, darling. It 
was... oh... I liked it like I like... I don't know. Like I like 
going to the carnival or having a fine meal. It was nice but I 
didn't miss it when I didn't have it. I didn't think about it all 
the time." 

She laughs a quiet little laugh of remembrance. 

"More often I worried about how to get men to *not* push for sex 
without driving them away, or how to deal with being in my 
period. That sort of thing. And you know what? This is the sort 
of thing girls aren't supposed to tell their guys."

It's always dangerous when you start to delve into people's 
desires, into their private places. There are things everyone 
keeps private, and things about themselves they can't explain. 
Philip decides to push the questioning a little.

"But *now* you like sex with me?"

She stares at him for a moment and then rolls her eyes.

"Isn't it obvious? Who's usually the aggressor?"

"And because?"

"Because I fell for you, and you were so sweet and loving to me." 
She sits up and turns toward him, looking down at him with a 
fierce expression. "Listen up, darling. You want to know, so I'll 
tell you because you're mine. It was only after we had been going 
together for a while that I began to think about sex a lot. 
During the day. At work. That was new to me. Thinking of what we 
could do, of what would be hot. So there. Now you know."

"Wow." It's more an exhalation than a comment. He looks into her 
eyes with a thoughtful expression. "I guess I don't know what to 
think. I guess you're still a mystery to me, hon." He rests a 
hand on her thigh.

"Maybe not quite as much as a few minutes ago."

"You didn't ever think about men's bodies? A lot of women act 
like they do. You know. They joke about penises and all."

"Oh God! When I first saw an adult penis close up I thought it 
was grotesque. I didn't really much like how they looked until I 
fell for you and started to like John Henry here." 

She lays her hand ever so lightly over his penis and he gets a 
hard-on. It's almost instantaneous. He lays a hand over hers, 
keeping her hand on his prick.

"So you didn't ever even masturbate?"

"Oh, once in a while. It was nice... but..."

"Okay, okay. I get the picture. So when you first saw the film, 
where the sister tells Andie McDowell that she let the Spader 
character videotape her masturbating, that didn't make you hot?"

"The first time I saw it? No! I thought it was the craziest thing 
I'd ever heard about. Who would do something like that? What I 
loved was the scene at the end, where he comes home and she's 
sitting on the porch and they reach their hands to each other. 
That was so loving! It got to me. If I'd been on a date, the guy 
would have got lucky that night for sure!"

Why does that spark her desire? Aroused by a simple little scene 
of domestic intimacy. How does it work? How does the mystery 
work?

"You said the *first* time you saw it."

"Well... if you have to know... later, after we were together and 
I saw it again, I fantasized that I was the sister and it was 
*you* videotaping *me* masturbating, and... well, kapow!"

They are silent for a minute, just looking at each other. She's 
just barely moving her hand over John Henry. Finally he speaks, 
but his voice is hardly more than a whisper.

"Jesus Jen. Jesus! Jesus, you're fantastic! I have to see you 
masturbate. I really do."

"Oh no honey. I couldn't *really* do that. Not really. You have 
to do it to me yourself."

* * * * *

She didn't tell the whole truth. No one ever can. No one knows 
the whole truth, of course, but there are things she knows that 
she can't tell him. Not even him. Especially not him. She wishes 
she could but she's afraid of what the whole truth would do to 
him, of what it would do to them. She gets by on things that 
aren't actually lies. They're truths that mask a huge truth. 

She helps him pull off her nightgown and tug down her panties and 
lies passively before him so he can masturbate her, leaving one 
hand by her side and one on his leg. He moves his hands all over 
her, massaging her thighs and moving up to her crotch, where he 
moves hands up and down, lightly over her almost silken pubic 
hair, and with more force over and through her labia. Massaging 
her labia, pulling them, stroking them. Slipping his fingers down 
between them to the mouth of her vagina. Pushing two fingers 
inside her, then slipping them out again and up between her 
labia, to the top and down again. 

He knows what he is doing. What she likes. They've done this 
before. He'll take his time. When she's high enough he'll move 
away from her vagina. He'll massage her legs and arms, her face 
and head, her neck. He'll spend time on her feet and on her 
hands. Then he'll massage her breasts gently, gently, caressing 
them and trying to make goose bumps, before he finally returns 
past her belly to her sex. He'll have made her wait long enough.

Jennifer half closes her eyes and sighs for him because Philip 
likes it when she sighs. And she likes it, herself. She loves the 
feel of his large, man's hands playing with her body, and she 
knows this will be extra good. There's only one problem--that she 
can never quite rid herself of the memory of a woman's hands 
playing with her.

* * * * * 

Jennifer has thought about the mystery of desire, too. She 
doesn't often discuss it with Philip but she carries it around 
with her. It kept her from reading a paper at the Modern Language 
Association meetings, a paper about the sources of desire in the 
works of the magical realists. 

 (So ironic. Real human desires trumped those of the characters 
in novels, and I still don't know where they came from.)

What breeds desire?

It's been two years. How often since has she thought of it? Every 
day? Jennifer could tell something was different, almost from 
their greeting, but she had no desire. She was uncomfortable 
because her friend was coming on to her in little ways. Francesca 
was. Her dear friend from grad school, married and divorced, and 
tenured the same year Jennifer was. They'd traveled together 
before. Now they were rooming together at the meetings. The first 
time in a long time.

What breeds desire? Jennifer doesn't know. There hadn't been any, 
not for her, but for Francesca? Why was she acting different? 
What changed?

(Did I give you signals, Franny? I didn't know. I really didn't 
know.)

Francesca wasn't any more subtle about it than men are, sitting 
too close, touching more often than she should, keeping contact a 
second longer than necessary. There were the pointed little sex 
comments and jokes, the half- serious questions about her and 
Philip. 

(I know we always teased and flirted, but it was between 
friends. Not like this. It never meant anything before, did it?)

Jennifer brushed it all off and bantered around it and knew it 
was going to be uncomfortable, and that she might have to 
confront Francesca when they were alone. 

Jennifer doesn't know what breeds desire, but she knows it can 
happen, and not because she's in love with someone first. Back in 
their room, she faced Francesca and started trying to extricate, 
doing it gently, giving Fran outs and excuses and deniability, 
and in mid-sentence Fran touched her breast.

Today it is the movement and the touch that Jen remembers. She 
sees the whole sequence, Francesca's right arm coming from her 
waist, as smooth as can be, palm out and fingers half spread. She 
watches it move straight to her left breast. 

Did she watch it like that at the time or did it catch her by 
surprise? It doesn't matter. She sees it now. Fran caught the 
nipple area in the hollow of her hand and reached her fingers 
around to capture the whole thing, as though kneading it. What 
was there about it? Boys had done that, years before, and she'd 
slapped them. It had been automatic, easy. But now Jennifer 
couldn't move. She never finished her sentence.

She tried to speak and maybe whispered a faint "No." Maybe not. 
Her memory isn't perfect on that. Maybe she said "Please." She 
knows she was hardly breathing, and that her eyes went to the 
hand, then to Francesca's face, then back. 

The world changed. What was it? Today she thinks about it and 
just can't, quite grasp it. Something about the hand being small, 
and a woman's, and being Francesca's. Something she's never been 
able to put a finger on. Before Fran brought her other hand to 
Jennifer's cheek or leaned in to kiss her, desire captured Jen. 

(Franny, how did it happen? Did you put a spell on me? It's all 
fragments of memories today. I don't understand. I'm standing 
stupidly while you unbutton my blouse, and the air conditioning 
is blowing right onto my damp chest and chilling me. You're 
kissing me so deeply. How did it happen? Your tongue, Fran. When 
did I start sucking it? You tasted different. Why did I wrestle 
yours with mine? You strummed my nipples that first time. Why was 
it different? Men had strummed them. I always liked it, but it 
wasn't like this. How did you get my clothes off so quickly? I 
didn't even know you were doing it. I don't think I knew. And 
then you pulled my panties down. My panties pulled down by a 
woman. Something about that. Something I don't understand, any 
more than I understood when you pushed me to the bed and crawled 
between my legs. Your pretty face at my vagina and your little 
mouth going up and down inside me.

(Do you remember I cried after you made me finish? Somehow I 
thought I'd still be myself as long as I didn't come for you, but 
then it was too much. I was too far along and I couldn't help 
myself. It was after I'd recovered. I'd finally stopped breathing 
hard, and I found myself lying in your arms and I didn't 
understand. Wherever you are, Franny, do you remember you kissed 
me and told me it was all right and then I started laughing and 
went back and forth, laughing and crying? Why did I do that? And 
you weren't done. You touched me all over the whole time, and 
made me want you again.

(Oh Francesca, why? And how? It was already different the second 
time because it wasn't a seduction. Do you still think about me? 
Do you remember? You dove straight into me. And me, I worked so 
hard to be brave, so I could put my mouth on your vagina, and 
then it got easy to do it. It got easy awfully fast. I didn't 
know it would be so easy to bring you over, and I almost came 
myself, just from watching your orgasm. 

(No wonder men like to watch us come! 

(Do you remember that my chest hurt after the second time, 
because I'd come so hard? Do you remember that, Franny?) 

Where does Desire come from? Was the serenity afterward part of 
it, lying tangled in Francesca, touching and kissing and knowing 
this was perfect, and that everything would have to work out 
perfectly? They had loved for far longer than she and Philip ever 
did, and they fell asleep with their faces touching and their 
hands on each other. 

(I still remember your perfume.)

But nothing was perfect in the morning, except that she opened 
her eyes before Fran did and knew perfectly well who she was, and 
what she had, and who was waiting for her at home. She shrank 
from Fran and was dressed and half packed before Fran awoke.

"Jen. Jen! What's the matter? Darling, what are you doing?"

"Don't 'darling' me! How could you? Was I out of my mind? Is this 
how you get your kicks? Fucking your friends?"

"No! Jen! Please. Please don't go. Please! I love you!"

Jennifer was out of the room and "I love you" hadn't faded before 
the door slammed. She changed her reservations, checked out, 
never read her paper. She told Philip and her session chair that 
she had become ill, and in a manner of speaking she had.

* * * * *

What causes Desire? Jennifer spent the next several weeks 
perfecting her desire for Philip, finding new things for them to 
do. She tried things she'd never done before, but Philip, caught 
her being weepy, caught her withdrawing, and he developed a 
worried look. He took to bringing her little presents and trying 
to watch her when she didn't know he was looking.

Jennifer couldn't think things through because Francesca didn't 
just quit her. She sent letters and emails to Jennifer's office. 
They always apologized for ruining their friendship, and begged 
Jen for forgiveness. She said she would never do such a thing 
again, if they could only be friends. 

Please give me a second chance to be your friend!

Jennifer never answered any of them. Once Fran called her, and 
when Jennifer heard her voice she snapped into the phone, "don't 
you ever, *ever* call me again," and she hung up. After a bit the 
letters and emails stopped coming.

Philip walked in on Jennifer crying at her desk one evening, but 
she wouldn't tell him why. He said, "Please Jen, you can tell me 
anything. Anything at all. Something's killing you. I'm a big 
boy. I can take it. Even if it's the worst thing, you can tell me 
about it."

She rose from her chair, shrugging his hands off her shoulders, 
and turned toward him.

"Phil, you know I love you."

Oh no. He couldn't wait for the rest, but took her hands before 
she finished.

"Yes, I do. And you know I love you. But Jen, if you have to tell 
me there's another man, then do it now. Don't drag it out. I 
couldn't stand that. Just tell me." He stared down at her 
fearfully.

She hugged him to her and put her face against his chest. She 
cried onto his chest for several minutes before she answered him, 
and the whole time he stroked her back, and kissed her hair, and 
waited for the end of the world. Finally she looked up at him.

"There isn't any other man, sweetheart. There never has been. I 
love you and I'd never, ever hurt you. I'm just going through a 
mixed-up phase. I just need some time. Just be there for me, 
okay?"

So he backed off and she worked through her feelings, and it was 
better. A few months later they decided to make a baby.

* * * * *

When Phil is finished with the massage and returns to Jennifer's 
vagina she begins to gasp. He could masturbate her and watch her 
come from above her, but he decides to give her his mouth, the 
thing she likes best. He slides between her legs and raises her 
hips with his hands, pushing them under her buttocks and lifting 
her to his mouth. He begins sucking on her and moving his mouth 
up and down the full length of her vagina, and she goes crazy. 
She reaches to his head and pulls on his hair so hard it hurts 
him. When she starts to come she is so noisy it seems she might 
wake Kirsten, but he doesn't stop. He keeps mouthing her as long 
as she can stand it, until finally she rolls her sex away from 
his face and gasps:

"No more. Darling. No more. Please. No more."

He enters her while she's still panting, just pushing John Henry 
slowly into her flower, then holding himself in her while he 
kisses her all over her face. When she stops panting they kiss 
mouth-on-mouth and he pulls slowly out of her, then plunges in. 
She's still sensitive, and gasps with the plunge, but she doesn't 
say "no more." He pulls slowly again, and plunges again. Again, 
and he's already almost there, and then he starts fucking her 
quickly and comes while he's kissing her, and for a moment he 
doesn't kiss. He groans through his mouth, his mouth on hers, and 
she sucks in the moan. She holds her breath, keeping his moan 
inside her as long as she can. Her guy's moan. Her own guy, with 
her taste on his mouth for her.

As they cuddle afterwards, he can't run his hands over her 
because she's so sensitive. Everything tickles and makes her 
twitch. They lay their heads on a single pillow and look at each 
other and kiss a little, and joke, and she tells him he's the 
most wonderful lover in the world. 

* * * * *

Philip always takes a long time to fall asleep, and he sleeps 
lightly, so Jennifer waits forever for his breathing to become 
regular and deep, before she rolls herself ever so slowly from 
the bed. It takes some time for their computer to boot up. She 
goes on line and logs onto her private email account, the one she 
keeps under a nym, and she clicks on the "New Letter" button. 
Then she stares at the screen for a long time.

When she begins to compose she types, erases, cuts, pastes, and 
types some more. At one point she erases almost everything, then 
begins over. A letter develops:

---------

Dearest Francesca:

After the night we spent together I was filled with shame and 
fear. I didn't know what to make of it. I was afraid of what 
would happen to my life, and what it would mean for Philip. I 
couldn't talk to you about it. I was afraid to talk to you. I was 
unforgivably cold, and I know I hurt you more than anyone else in 
my life. I'm so sorry, Francesca. I broke your heart. And mine.

---------

Jennifer's eyes fill ever so slowly, and she brushes them dry. 
"Don't be stupid," she says to herself. She types some more and 
her eyes fill and overflow. She stops typing, wipes her face with 
the back of a hand, and breathes through her mouth for a few 
moments, to gain control, but when she goes back to the keyboard 
she starts crying all over again. She doesn't sob. When a wave of 
crying rolls over her she stops typing until it passes. She gets 
tissues. It keeps happening. The first few times she handles it 
the same way, but then she gives up and cries quietly while she 
types, typing, then wiping, then typing some more.

---------

If I could undo how I hurt you I would. You are so dear to me. 
There hasn't been a day in the past two years I haven't thought 
of you, and wondered how you were, and hoped you were happy.

I know you have no reason to accept this apology. My remorse 
can't set everything straight. I owe you so much more than this, 
and if you will give me the chance I will spend a lifetime trying 
to make it up to you.

---------

She has to stop. She almost saves the text as a draft letter, but 
restrains herself. She gives in to the crying, trying to cry 
herself out. "Oh God," she whispers, in a strangled little voice. 
"Oh God, what have I done? What am I doing?" Finally she can type 
some more.

---------

I'm lost, Francesca. I don't know what to do. I don't know what 
to do about anything, about you or about Philip, whom I love, and 
who is good to me. Please help me, Francesca. Please! 

I just don't know. I'm broken inside. What can I do? Tell me 
what I have to do, my dearest friend. My love. I don't deserve 
your help, but I'm begging you. Please.

Your,

Jennifer

---------

Jennifer highlights "My Love" and cuts it. She stares at the 
screen for a moment, then pastes it back in. She addresses the 
email and moves the cursor to the "Send" button. She moves it to 
the "Cancel" button. Back and forth. Back and forth. Finally she 
saves it as a draft. It joins the other six drafts of Francesca 
letters.

She cries some more, then shuts down the machine and returns to 
bed. She creeps under the covers and moves her body up close to 
Philip's, so she can touch him without waking him, until she goes 
to sleep.

End. 



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