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Message-ID: <45384asstr$1069067402@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: anon584c@nyx.net (Uther Pendragon)
Reply-To: anon584c@nyx.net
Subject: {ASSM} rp "Foretaste 3" {Uther} (MF wl) [3/4]
Date: Mon, 17 Nov 2003 06:10:02 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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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 3:
Continued from Part 2


I had made the appointment to see the chairman of the  history 
department to discuss my reappointment, but other matters  came 
up first.  Dan was understandably more concerned with my  
reaction to his talk. 

"You seemed unhappy with my report on 'Doctor' Franklin," he  
said.  I could hear the quotation marks around "Doctor."  For  
that matter, his lecture had been brutal about Ben Franklin's  
reputation as a scientist.  I was glad he'd brought it up. 

"Well," I said, "it's not my century.  Not my continent for  that 
matter, but...." 

"But?  But he was one of your boyhood heroes?" 

"It's not that.  Hari Seldon brought me into history, and  he's 
fictional.  It's just that when you American-history people  tell 
us that Franklin didn't do anything for the progress of our  
knowledge of electricity, you cite previous American historians  
who said that earlier." 

"And that isn't good enough?"   

"When the historians of science say that he did make  
discoveries, they list the discoveries and cite a book he wrote.   
Professor Macleod taught me that 'Primary sources are trumps.'  I  
just wish you'd read the book Franklin wrote.  There is a modern  
edition."  I slipped a card over to him; it said:  "Benjamin 
Franklin's Experiments,  a new edition of Franklin's Experiments 
and Observations on Electricity edited by I. Bernard Cohen 
Harvard University Press, 1941" 

"Okay.  I'll try for interlibrary loan.  Speaking of Prof.  
Macleod, and he isn't the only man who thinks that primary  
sources are trumps, how's your dissertation coming along?" 

I put out a hand and twisted it.  "Comme ci, commme ca.  The  
writing is coming along; the schedule raises some problems." 

"Your continued teaching has always been contingent on your  
receiving your degree.  We normally grant one extension of a  
year, but that is our limit; and I can't guarantee that." 

"My understanding is that my deadline is this coming  September," 
I said.  "I can meet that.  To do so, however, I  need to go back 
to Boston for the defense.  They can't get a  committee together 
before our summer session begins." 

"You're that close?" 

"Nitpicking issues of format.  I have it on a word processor, 
but Macleod wants to see one more draft, and there isn't time 
before summer.  I'd like to teach in the summer session."  (And 
they would like to have me teach then.  Tenured faculty wanted 
to go somewhere else, and summer courses tend to be basics for 
people who flunked the first time.)  "But I have to go back for 
the committee, and would like to go back for the ceremony, which 
neatly corresponds to the last day of our exams." 

"Well," he said, "you know that reappointment decisions  aren't 
simply up to me.  But you have a good record as a teacher,  and 
finishing the dissertation on time is less common than not.   If 
the administration decides to reappoint you, I'll find the  
people to cover your classes and proctor the exam.  Didn't you  
help cover when Peter was sick?" 

"Yes." 

"Worry about this quarter.  Let me worry about next." 

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 anyone 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 in the usual  
spoon. 

"Love you," I said sleepily. 

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


Concluded in Part 4.
Foretaste 
Uther Pendragon 
anon584c@nyx.net
1997/05/08 
1997/10/21 
2000/04/07
2001/11/25
2002/10/21
2003/11/15


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


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 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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