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Message-ID: <45315asstr$1068725403@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: anon584c@nyx.net (Uther Pendragon)
Reply-To: anon584c@nyx.net
Subject: {ASSM} rp "Foretaste 1" {Uther} (MF wl) [1/4]
Date: Thu, 13 Nov 2003 07:10:03 -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 & 2001, 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. 


                            #  # #  #

                            Foretaste
                         Uther Pendragon
                        anon584c@nyx.net

Part 1:

"Love you!" I called as I came through the door one Wednesday 
evening.  My wife, Jeanette, came in from the kitchen.  She had 
something in her hand as she hugged me.  The welcome-home kiss 
was wet and warm, even though I couldn't really feel her shape 
through my rain coat. 

Jeanette handed me the letter from my dissertation adviser  as 
soon as I'd shed that coat and my sports jacket.  "You could  
have opened it," I told her. 

She shook her head 'no.'  Her aversion to opening other  people's 
mail stems from an incident several years before our  marriage.  
She was perfectly willing to read over my shoulder,  though. 

Prof. Macleod wrote that the last draft of my dissertation  was 
"not only acceptable, but exceptional."  This, of course, he  
followed with a page and a half of objections to words and  
formatting. 

"Your work is done, at least," she said. 

"It's all your work, anyway," I said.  "I'm just along for  the 
ride." 

That was an exaggeration: I'm not ashamed of the background  and 
interpretation which I put into my dissertation.  But  Jeanette 
had contributed much more than her skill as a typist. 

I have long been fascinated by the diplomatic square dance  that 
took place between the time of the Drei Kaiser Bund and  1914.  
That Germany would end up opposed to France might seem  fated.  
But the opposition of England to Russia and of Turkey to  
Austria, let alone Bulgaria, was as self-evident, beforehand; and  
these didn't occur.  Almost everybody danced with almost  
everybody else.  I had been in the process of choosing a 
dissertation subject, torn between two aspects of this dance when 
France released a trove of foreign-office documents covering the 
period of the Fashoda incident.  (The French are not precipitous 
in declassifying documents.) 

Alone, I couldn't have done anything with the trove.  I  passed 
the French test for the doctorate, but that doesn't mean  that 
I'm really literate in that language.  And the test doesn't  even 
pretend to measure your ability to speak the language. 

Jeanette, however, had been studying French on her own for 
several years by then.  She and I flew to Paris to pick which 
documents were relevant and to get copies of them.  We stayed in 
*une pension* for the two weeks that our funds permitted.  (The 
air fare was on credit cards, and those were repaid with loans 
from my folks; but it was worth it.) 

She read the typed documents, learned to read the  handwriting, 
and gave me a precis of each document.  I chose  which to copy, 
and we returned with an extraordinary amount of  paper.  Her 
translation of the new information, properly  credited, will 
grace my dissertation.  That credit doesn't begin  to tell, 
however, what it meant to have those summaries when I  was 
hurriedly selecting documents to copy. 

I dropped the letter on an end table.  Then I picked her up  in 
my arms, whirled us around, and gave her a celebratory kiss.   
"We've won," I said.  "I love you, and we've won." 

"I love you, too, Dr. Brennan."  She gave me a nice kiss.   
Actually, when I'm holding her like that, the kisses are her  
decision.  Our lips met, then parted.  Her tongue touched mine.   
I couldn't say how much I loved her; if I'd have given her  
another celebratory spin, she would have leaned back.  I squeezed  
her butt and cooperated in the kiss. 

When she leaned back to look at me, she was grinning.  "We  did 
it," she said.  "You did it." 

"We did it.  Celebration?" 

"Lamb chops!"  She had obviously gambled on the contents  based 
on the return address.  If Macleod had wanted the  entire 
dissertation rewritten, the celebratory dinner would have  gone 
to waste.  (Although, knowing Jeanette, I figure that the  lamb 
chops would have been a consolation, instead.) 

"After dinner?" 

"We'll see."  After all, she isn't only my research  assistant 
and translator.  She works full time as a secretary to  the 
president of a family-owned firm, and she carries much more  than 
half the responsibility for our housework.  She has her own  
agenda. 

"I will never," I said, "ever, be able to tell you how much  I 
love you."   But after her delicious dinner (and after our  
various tasks preparing for the next day) I tried. 

I began with a slow kiss while we were both standing.  I  
explored her lovely mouth with my tongue.  I took off her office  
dress, hung it carefully in the closet, and kissed the skin that  
had been under it.  I proceeded that way until she wore just  
panties. 

Tearing the clothes from her and dropping them on the floor  
might sound more romantic, but that doesn't impress Jeanette.   
Maybe dropping clothes on the floor is too much like my usual  
behavior.  Anyway, when I want to turn Jeanette on, neatness  
counts.  Besides, I had lots of time for once; the alarm wouldn't  
ring for ten hours. 

I eased her down on the bed while I continued the kisses.   Her 
spine tasted of salt, and Jeanette.   Just before I reached  her 
neck, I stopped to ditch my last piece of clothing, my  
undershirt. 

Her thighs, pressed together near her knees, were an inch or  two 
apart where they joined her hips.  I lay down full length  over 
her, holding my weight on knees and elbows.  That placed my  
phallus just in that crack between her thighs.  When I nibbled  
the special spot on her neck, she shivered -- she always does.  I  
could feel the motion of her back against my chest and of her  
legs between mine.  Most especially, those shivers surrounded my  
shaft. 

I rose and pulled the tops of her panties down over her  butt.  
She turned to let me pull them off.  First her hair  appeared, 
then her mound, and then the lips which would part for  me.  The 
aroma struck me and hardened me just as I could see her  fully.  
"Oh love," I said.  I stripped the panties down her legs  without 
any ceremony. 

It had deserved the ceremony I neglected, though, for she  spread 
those legs as soon as they weren't encumbered.  I knelt  between 
them and lay over her for another kiss on the lips.  Then  I 
hurried a line of kisses down to her knee before slowing for the  
upward path.  I kissed the inside of one leg all the way until I  
felt her hair on my cheek.  Then I repeated that path on her  
other leg. 

I gave one kiss to her mound before I parted those lovely  lips.   
The aroma was maddeningly arousing.  When I lapped up a  drop of 
her nectar, more came out.  Finally, although she hadn't  
complained, I reminded myself that this phase was about pleasing  
her. 

"You okay?" I asked.  It would have been one hell of a time  to 
break if she hadn't already inserted her contraceptive, and  
Jeanette was totally reliable about that insertion.  Still, it  
was our joint responsibility.  My asking acknowledged my part of  
the responsibility. 

"Yep." 

Then I licked up a little more juice before tasting the  delicate 
nubbin at the top of that beauty.  She shivered.  I  licked first 
one of her inner lips and then the other. 

I reached under her legs and up over her abdomen to her  breasts.  
My fingers played with her nipples as my lips and  tongue teased 
her vulva.  When her areolae were puffy against my  questing 
fingers and her belly turned hard under my forearms, I  sucked on 
her clit. 

"Oh?" she said.  It wasn't really a question. 

"Ihm hmmm."  It wasn't really an answer.  Since I hadn't  removed 
my mouth from her vulva, she felt that as much as she  heard it.  
I sucked again, even more gently. 

She shuddered three times.  I could feel that her vagina was  
contracting an inch from my chin.  It contracted twice more.   
"Ohhh!" she said, then went limp. 

I immediately abandoned all contact on the erotic zones.  I  
slithered up in the bed until I was beside her where I could give  
her a reassuring hug.  "Lovely girl," I said, "sweet bride,  
wonderful wife, *sexy* woman."  I meant every word to apply right 
then, but it was also a historical list.  The girl I had married 
had been afraid of many things, orgasms among them.  The wife I 
had now enjoyed many things, orgasms among them; but it didn't 
hurt to give her praise and reassurance every time she lost 
control in my arms. 

I must say that I meant all those things I called her.  A  
Jeanette orgasm is a marvelous thing, and I had been right next  
to the epicenter.  I felt a bit proud, too.  *My* touches and 
kisses had brought about that beauty. 

I lay there, and hugged her, and kissed her shoulder in the  
intermission of the words of praise.  When she seemed recovered,  
I kissed all over her face -- avoiding the mouth which was still  
busy breathing.  "I *do* love you," I finished up. 

"Love you too."  She took another breath.  "Kiss!"  Giving  her 
time for one more breath, I kissed her mouth thoroughly,  
invading it with my tongue in the process. 

When she broke that kiss to breathe again, I moved on to her  
breasts.  And, while my lips were busy with her nipples, my  
fingers played with her labia.  Finally, I inserted two of them  
to rub the bump on the top of her tunnel. 

"You!" she said. 

I already had an erection, and that single word tightened it  so 
much that I hurt.  "You okay?" I asked as I climbed between  her 
thighs.  Hardly waiting for her nod, I spread her lips with  my 
fingers and placed Junior at her portal. 

My slow entry there was maddeningly delightful.  I felt her  
tunnel widen around my invading head.  All those nerve endings in  
the sensitive tip felt every micron of ingress.  Then her  
lubricated tunnel smoothly clasped the shaft as it slipped  
inside.  Finally, her most feminine part held all of me in that  
most intimate of hugs. 

With the physical sensations of that tender friction came  the 
messages that she enjoyed my entry almost as much as I did.   As 
I slid into her, she inhaled through her teeth with a barely  
audible hiss.  At the same time, she spread her legs a little bit  
more to welcome me. 

When I had gone as far into her as I could go, when I  
straightened my torso and adjusted my elbows so I could fondle  
her breasts while they still supported my weight, she rolled her  
hips to thrust herself up around me.  It didn't add much more  
physical contact, but it did add her participation.  This was  
something *we* were doing. 

When our bodies were adjusted, when we had savored that  contact 
for a moment, when -- to be honest -- I had kept still  about as 
long as I could bear to, I began to move out of her and  to 
reenter in the rhythm as old as the race.  Here too, she  
participated.  She followed my lead as faithfully as she had  
followed my lead in dances decades before. 

"You!" she said, moments before I exploded.  As I poured  all the 
product of that long erotic night into her, her last  thrust 
upward lifted me above the bed.  Then I felt her tunnel  grasp me 
convulsively again and again. 

"Love you!" I gasped when I finally had breath enough.   Minutes 
later, I was able to move off her and participate in  mopping up 
the mess. 

We moved off it and spooned together in preparation for  sleep.  
Junior, who doesn't know the meaning of the word,  "enough," 
stirred slightly at being pressed against Jeanette's  firm butt. 

"Y'know," I said, "this is really iffy.  But *if* Grand Valley 
keeps me on, and *if* the pay raise for a doctorate is enough, we 
might consider your going back to school full time.   We might 
not have much saved, but we are putting some away each  month.  I 
could teach again this summer, and you could take your  vacation 
as the first bit of school.  It would be tight. We would  have to 
clear it with Mom and Dad, of course, but they've been  hinting.  
And they've been paying only a single tuition this last  couple 
of years." 

Jeanette stiffened.  She lay silent in my arms, but I could  feel 
her stiffness.  Thoughts were running through that head  pressed 
against my chin, maybe she was redoing the budget; maybe  she was 
casting her mind back like I was. 

I had married Jeanette at the end of my sophomore and her  
freshman year.  Economic circumstances had forced us to put her  
education on hold.  While I took two more years of college and  
four years of graduate classwork, Jeanette had been our  
breadwinner.  My folks had picked up tuition, I had worked  
summers, but she had provided everything else.  On top of that,  
she had done more than half of the housework.  My studies, of  
course, had been hard work; but they also had been intellectual  
adventures. 

The only taste of intellectual stimulation that *she* had 
received for six long years was her study of French, and she had 
to conduct this mostly on her own.  I had encouraged this as best 
I could, and so had my family.  My father, in particular, had 
kicked in with an airmail subscription to a different magazine 
every Christmas, and *Le Petit Larousse*, a short-wave radio, and 
similar gifts on her birthdays.  Jeanette's response had been to 
worry that she was being pampered.  Some days I had wanted to 
shake her and say, "Look, can't you see that these people" 
[especially your husband] "are exploiting you?" 

That would have been wrong as well.  We hadn't really been  
exploiting her.  The situation, as she had pointed out herself,  
had called for her sacrifice.  Since I hadn't been able to offer  
relief from that situation, clarifying why she should be  
resentful would hardly have been an act of love. 

Once I got to Grand Valley, she was entitled to one tuition-free 
course a quarter.  An evening course in Jeanette's case, since 
she worked days, and usually the same schedule as the evening 
course I -- being a lowly instructor -- usually taught.  Still, 
the schedule of evening courses wasn't set up with people like 
her in mind.  The advanced French courses were sparse.  When she 
didn't respect the accent of the teacher or both courses offered 
were ones she had already taken, she found  herself taking 
distribution instead of French courses.  This  quarter, she was 
taking sociology. 

Still, maybe it would come to an end next year.  And, while  her 
independent studies wouldn't reduce the amount of classwork  that 
she had to take, it could well get her into more interesting  
classes. 

I couldn't tell what of that Jeanette was considering, but I  
could tell that she was thinking hard.  Then she pushed herself  
out of my arms and onto her back. 

"We don't have to decide tonight," I said.  "Indeed, we can't do 
anything until the Admin asks me back." 

"Bob?" she said.  I waited, but nothing else came out.  This  
didn't sound good. 

"Yes?"  What question did she want to raise that she couldn't 
raise lying in my arms? 

"What about children?" she asked.  I waited.  "We said we  would 
start a family when we could afford to.  I'm getting  awfully 
old.  If I start school in September, I'll be twenty- eight then, 
and thirty before I'll graduate.  I know you want  this...." 

I wanted her to get her degree, but I had thought that she  
wanted it too. 

"Well," I said, "we can't do either one until I have a  future 
here... or a future somewhere.  Why don't you think on it?   Run 
a budget both ways."  Was I trying to delay this discussion?   
Not consciously. 

"I'll do that," she said.  After a bit she turned again and  
pressed back against me.  We drifted off to sleep, and I left the  
question of college for her until we had more concrete data.   
(And until we had more concrete need of a decision.) 

On Friday, I sat down front in the audience to hear my  
department chairman give one of the lectures faculty present to  
majors, grad students, and other faculty.  Dan was talking about  
the humanity of the founding fathers.  He spent a lot of time on  
Franklin's honorary degree. 

"You weren't pleased," he said when I came up after the  lecture. 

"I might have a reference for you.  Anyway, I have to talk  about 
next year."  We set an appointment for a week from that  day, 
since we didn't have a lot of non-class time in common. 

The next night, I called home on weekend rates.  First, I  asked 
Dad: "One of those books which are compiled *Scientific  
American* articles.  These are biographies.  The article was a  
biography of Ben Franklin centering on his work on electricity.   
I need the name of Franklin's book from somewhere in the  
bibliography.  I think the author of the article produced a more  
modern edition." 

While he was searching, Mom talked to me a little and to  
Jeanette a lot.  My parents definitely approve of my choice of  
spouse.  Finally Dad came back on the phone.  He gave me the  
reference. 

"Thanks, Dad.  Would you guys be able to swing another  full-time 
tuition payment?" 

"It's about time that we did something for Jeanette.  As you  
know, your sister has another couple of years to go in med  
school, but there is a lot of equity in the house now.  You can't  
use us as an excuse." 

Actually, I wanted to use their willingness in the opposite  way.  
"Well, I'm counting several chickens before they're  hatched.  
We'll let you know." 

Sunday evening, having done all my history prep, I  alphabetized 
vocabulary cards in prep for teaching French.   Jeanette thinks 
I've overdone this joke, but -- considering how  much better her 
French is than mine -- it is funny how often I  test hers. 

She memorizes ten words both French-to-English and English- to-
French 'every day' most of the time.  When the words aren't  from 
the books and magazines she read or from the programs she  
listened to on Radio France Internationale, they used to come  
from a French-English pocket dictionary we bought (used)  
specifically because it was so small.  Even so, it took her  
forever to get through that. 

When she has learned the word, the card comes to me.  I put  the 
cards in English alphabetical order, as I was doing that  
evening.  Then, somewhat later, I test her knowledge English-to- 
French.  I actually give her three tests.  The first is maybe  
fifteen cards which she has filled out in the last quarter.   The  
few she gets wrong go back in her to-learn pack for the next  
time.  The many she gets right, I store to go into one of her  
boxes of known words. 

I test her on those, as well.  We are now on the words  beginning 
with "R," but I really doubt we'd ever get through  them if I 
added the new cards to the stack in the boxes.   Even  though I 
try to go through 25 words every day, there are still  thousands 
of cards left in the boxes ahead of me. 

Last is the English-to-French section of the pocket  dictionary.  
I question her on that until she has enough new  words to learn. 

"Hoarse." I said finally. 

"Cheval.  Le cheval." 

I laughed and spelled the English word. 

"I haven't the faintest." 

"Enroue'," I said.  "Ee, en, ar, oh, you, ee-acute."   I  made no 
attempt to give the French pronunciation for letters.   "Have 
enough words to learn for next week?" 

"More than enough," she said.  "Though it seems to take  forever 
for your system to admit that I have memorized the word  at all.  
It's mid-May, and how many March words did you drill me  on this 
evening?" 

"There are a few more than 800 cards in the pack."  (I keep  
track of that.)  If you'd learned 300 in March, you'd have a  
chance of six of those words.  As it is, five is more likely."   
Immediately, I regretted saying that.  I couldn't have sustained  
her level of effort for half as long as she has. 

"Well, I skip far fewer days memorizing than you do drilling  
me."  Which is certainly true, or I would drill her on ten words  
when I do, rather than fifteen. 

"Now, dear," I said, "I'm always willing to drill you.  It's  
only *vocabulary* drill I'm lax on." 

"He says!" 

"Come here," I said, "and I'll show you."  But she skipped  away 
to the bathroom instead.  Later, however, she waited in bed  for 
me. 

"Ihm hmm," I said when I noticed her nakedness.  I kissed  her, 
licking her lips before seeking her tongue.  I caressed the  
length of her body, from her breasts to her thighs.  Every inch  
was responsive.  Her hand toyed with my nipples as mine had toyed  
with hers.  "I love you,"  I said as I climbed over her near leg. 

Kneeling between her calves, I kissed her firm, upthrust  
breasts.  Then I scattered kisses over her lovely, tight,  
abdomen.  "You okay?" I asked.  I crawled upward and stopped with  
Junior just outside her entrance.  We shared a lovely kiss with  
tongue playing with tongue. 

She broke the kiss.  "What if I wasn't, Bob?" she asked.   "What 
if I were lying here fertile waiting for you to plant your  seed 
in me." 

Somewhere in my head, I screamed 'No!'  Junior, however,  jumped 
at the suggestion.  She felt him; when we're like that,  she 
could hardly miss.  She grinned at me. 

"One vote for," she said.  "Oh, come on inside.  I wouldn't  do 
that to you."  I slid into the warm smoothness.  She wrapped  her 
legs around mine.  Like this, I find her forehead easier to  kiss 
than her lips. 

But she'd brought up fertility. 

I loved the spread of her legs which clasped me in this  
position, but there was no denying that the spread was really  
intended to let a baby out rather than to welcome a husband in. 

I loved that taut belly that I could feel below mine, the  sexy 
belly I'd kissed moments before.  She put effort into  keeping 
that tautness while working as a secretary.  Would she  recover 
it after pregnancy?  Many women didn't. 

I shifted so that my hands could cup her firm breasts while  my 
elbows still sustained most of my weight.  She enjoyed my  hands 
on them, but I enjoyed her breasts more.  The smooth warmth  that 
I stroked, her firm conical shape thrusting the nipples into  my 
palms, this had been the ultimate that I could touch of  Jeanette 
for more than a year.  It still was a wonderfully sexy  
experience.  What would filling them for a future child who  
would drain them do to that firmness? 

And the smooth tightness I drove through.  Her tunnel was an  
exquisite clasp around me.  It had been a tighter clasp the first  
few times, almost painful; but it had stretched to accommodate 
me.   It would even stretch to accommodate a child.  What of the  
tightness then, what of the elasticity which clasped me so  
warmly. 

Even so, the idea of her fertility was sexy.  The idea of  her 
last openness to me, the openness of her womb to my seed,  
undeniably excited me.  I should have been thinking of Jeanette  
at this time, making sure that I brought her along with me.   
Instead I was picturing her a tiny bit more naked, her uterus  
without it's bit of latex. 

That idea combined with all the sensations I had been  enjoying.  
Suddenly, my orgasm was moments away and inescapable.   "Oh 
love," I warned her, "I can't...." 

"Yes," she said.  She tightened around me and clasped my  butt 
with both hands.  All I could do was move my hands to her  
shoulders.  Then I was driving into her and shooting my essence  
into her. 

"You all right?" I asked some time later, maybe a minute,  maybe 
a year. 

"Could you move?"  I managed to move off her and on to my  side.  
A couple of minutes later, I managed to extract the  blankets and 
top sheet from beneath me. 

Finally covered, she nestled against me.  She took my right  arm, 
which is the only part she can hug in the spoon position, and  
placed it against her breasts.  She had both hands on it. 

"You really all right?" she hadn't answered that question. 

"Oh yes!"  she said.  "And I know what turned you on that  time." 

Well, she could turn me on any time.  She'd told me that she  
enjoyed my orgasms, sometimes to the point of not wanting one of  
her own.  Why not?  I certainly enjoyed hers, if not quite to  
that point.  Still, I know my wife after all these years, and the  
ease with which she sank into sleep signaled a quite recently  
satisfied Jeanette. 

If I didn't follow her into sleep, it wasn't that my body was 
unsatisfied.  My mind was churning inside a totally sated body.  
Was I pursuing the education option because I loved her mind?  Or 
was I avoiding the child option because I loved her body? 

I really did love her mind; I wanted it to experience a  college 
education the way that the best of the majors in my  courses did.  
I wanted her to wrestle with whatever questions the  students of 
French literature struggled with in their classes. 

On the other hand, I did love her tight body.  I had never  
denied that, even to her; and holding it like I was then would  
mark one hell of a time to start.  I cupped the neat, firm,  
breast -- avoiding the nipple which would disturb her sleep --  
and committed the worries to my subconscious, and -- of course --  
to the Lord. 


Continued in Part 2.
Foretaste 
Uther Pendragon 
anon584c@nyx.net
1997/05/08 
1997/10/21 
2000/04/07
2001/11/25
2002/10/21
2003/11/13


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 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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