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Message-ID: <45395asstr$1069074605@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: anon584c@nyx.net (Uther Pendragon)
Reply-To: anon584c@nyx.net
Subject: {ASSM} rp "Foretaste 4" {Uther} (MF wl) [4/4]
Date: Mon, 17 Nov 2003 08:10:05 -0500
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


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:
Continued from Part 3 and concluded.


Monday, a little more than two weeks later, I found myself in a 
meeting of one of those committees the administration wants the 
faculty to hold.  People made their points, and when the rest of 
us weren't totally convinced, repeated those points as if we  
hadn't heard them. 

"Thank God," I muttered as the meeting broke up.  I was a little 
louder than I had intended. 

"You sound," said the man next to me, "like someone who is not 
utterly convinced that a statement on the purpose of the  
University will save the world." 

"Have you read the last statement?" I asked. 

"No.  Is there one?" 

"I haven't the faintest idea.  I wouldn't have noticed if there 
were." 

"You have a point.  Sam Bronowsky." 

"Bob Brennan." 

"Brennan.  Heard something good about you.  Hmm?  No, sorry,  
It's another Brennan, entirely.  And nothing that I heard.  A  
woman in my evening class." 

"Maybe it is my wife, Jeanette," I said.  "Do you teach  
sociology?" 

"Yes," he said, "possibly my best student.  Writes clear papers.  
Don't help her with them, do you?"  I assured him that any 
writing help flowed in the opposite direction.  I felt proud.  If 
his evening class was anything like mine, "writes clear papers" 
was a unique achievement. 

Maybe that pride added a few percent to the feeling as I called 
out "Love you," immediately after I closed the apartment door. 

"Love you.  Letter on the sofa."  It was hard to miss.  I  
glanced at the university envelope, then dropped my coat before I  
tore it open.  Jeanette came in from the kitchen.  "Read it  
first." 

I did.  "Reappointment."  That was expected, if reassuring.   
"Assistant Prof. -- *tenure track* -- a year from September, if 
the degree is completed on time." 

She wrapped her arms and legs around me.  Her lips were hard  
against mine, but her unbound breasts were soft against my chest.   
Now, Jeanette in an Iranian chadoor would be more arousing than  
all the coeds in their spray-on jeans; Jeanette without a  
brassiere, Jeanette against him without a brassiere, would get an  
erection from a statue.  But, as they say, there is more.  My  
wife is a feminist on many things, and can pull me up short when  
I take her assent for granted.  In bed, however, she prefers the  
responsive to the initiating role.  When she dresses without her  
bra, she is amenable to my advances for immediate sex.  Junior,  
like a little Pavlovian puppy, rose to the signal that he would  
be fed.  "Can dinner wait?"  I asked as I started for the  
bedroom.  "I love you dearly."  I wanted to get the coming-home  
"I love you" out of the way before we got any deeper into the  
serious stuff.  The thought was a little silly in context, but we  
always said it after the first kiss. 

"And I love *you*.  Dinner will wait."  After negotiating the 
doorway, I set her down and we had another kiss.  I'd expected to 
see the impish smile that she usually wears when she springs one 
of these delightful ambushes.  Instead, her expression was almost 
the same desperate solemnity that she had worn walking down the 
aisle towards me.  I tried to process this datum, but was too 
distracted.  "You do the shirt," said Jeanette as she dropped and 
began untying my shoes.  I was briefly unhappy about that; my 
feet had done more sweating than I wanted her to smell.  Clearly 
however, the lady succumbing to my advances had no intention of 
consulting me on the script. 

Naked, I removed the blouse and skirt which were her entire  
costume.  She was quite damp, but her nipples were not erect.  I  
took care of that little problem before pushing her toward the  
bed.  "Are you okay?" I asked perfunctorily.  With the time she'd  
spent planning this, she wouldn't have ignored contraception, not  
Jeanette.  Hearing no answer, I looked in her face.  She shook  
her head while biting her lip. 

"You said that we could," she said.  The surprise broke me  out 
of my rut.  She dropped onto the bed and sprawled out.  "Look  at 
me."  I caught her meaning.  The breasts which I loved to kiss  
and suck and hold were really intended to feed a child.  The wide  
hips and separated thighs which had cradled me so often and so  
delightfully were separated to allow a baby's passage.  On the  
other hand, I loved that body almost as much as the spirit which  
inhabited it.  Did I want those pert breasts distended while  
Jeanette nursed and droopy ever after?  Did I want that svelte  
waist and smooth skin swollen?  Sometimes my modest proportions  
were too much for her tunnel, and I had to move slowly until she  
accommodated me.  How could it endure being stretched by the head  
of a baby? 

On the third hand (or perhaps another organ), I found the  
situation incredibly erotic.  Woman is a mystery, and this  
particular woman is more mysterious than any other.  I had  
pierced the mystery of her virginity, had seen and touched and  
tasted the mystery of her vulva, without removing more than the  
outer veils from the central mystery.  Fertility is yet another  
mystery, and I was beguiled -- if a trifle frightened. 

"Are you certain?" I asked. 

"I'm *decided*," she said.  Certainty in our situation would be 
foolish; and my wife, her choice of mate excepted, is never a 
fool.  She'd made her decision, however, and would live with it. 

"Oh darling.  Oh God, darling," I babbled.  I was almost  crying.  
We were not being precipitate; we'd discussed the matter  to 
death.  Now, however, we were committed. 

I knelt beside the bed to kiss her again.  Somehow, we had  the 
sort of tremulous, desperate, kiss that we had shared when  the 
kiss was as far as we went.  Her temples were wet when I left  
her mouth.  I kissed those tears away. 

I got totally hung up on her breasts, kissing them all over  
between sucks on her nipples.  I think that I was asserting my  
claim before some baby displaced me.  Finally, I kissed lower. 

"The pad?" I asked hopefully.  This raised her for my mouth.   We 
had oral sex less often than not but used it for our special  
times.  This time was special, but I couldn't argue if she saw it  
as a time to concentrate on the genital aspects. 

"Please," she said.  She lifted her hips as I slid the pad  under 
her.  I knelt between her feet and kissed her thighs.   When I 
reached their juncture, she was spread open to receive my  kiss.  
The most enticing aroma in the world led me to her center.   If 
you had told me the previous week that there could be a more  
delightful taste than the one that I had then, I would have  
scoffed.  The taste this evening, however, was as heady but  
slightly sweeter.  I blamed my imagination for a moment, thinking  
that the consciousness that this act could end in a child must be  
misleading my senses.  Then I realized that this was the first  
time that I had tasted her when she had not inserted her  
diaphragm and spermicide.  Every previous time, there had been  
the slightest bitterness hidden in the taste. 

I tore myself away from the feast long enough to say, "You  are 
glorious."  Then I returned to teasing my darling.  When I  felt 
her tense on the edge of orgasm, I inserted two fingers.  I  
found the spot on the front of her tunnel and stroked that while  
I sucked the nubbin on top of her valley.  My shifting had  
inevitably cut into her tension, but soon it returned.  Then it  
redoubled.  She bucked under my lips before I felt a rhythmic  
grip on the fingers that I had inserted.  My beloved came in a  
rolling orgasm. 

Then she fell limp.  I covered her perspiring body with the  
sheet.  Lying next to my sweet wife and hugging her, I felt  
delighted in her recent pleasure, protective of her present  
defenselessness, reverent toward that mystery of future  
fertility, and a little proud of my part in the proceedings.   
"Bob loves Jeanette," I crooned.  "Sweet, dearest, darling, you  
are safe in my arms." 

"Oh Bob," she said when she'd recovered.  That was my cue to  
kiss her.  She hugged me when I did. 

I was conscious of the soft breasts under me during the  kiss.  I 
stroked her side, and my strokes grew more intimate as  her 
nipples hardened.  "Love you," I said on the way from her  mouth 
to her breast.  Soon she returned to the state of tension. 

When I started to move down in the bed to get between her  legs, 
she said, "Help me with the pillow."  She then tried to get  her 
pillow between her hips and the pad.  I braced myself and  lifted 
her legs while she slipped the pillow where she wanted it.   I 
couldn't resist kissing that sweet derriere before lowering it  
onto the pillow.  I hadn't figured out what she was trying to do,  
but anything which allowed our union was fine with me. 

The position was too much of a temptation, though.  Once  between 
her legs I kissed and licked her center until the scent  and 
taste aroused my phallus to demand participation.  Then I  slid 
up her body and kissed her forehead before slipping in.   
Enclosed in her, I paused to savor the warm welcome and to say,  
"Love you; love you a lot," before beginning the ancient rhythm. 

When we were first married, we experimented with most positions.  
Some we found wanting and discarded, some we found wanton and 
retained.  I had found as the years progressed, however, that 
fairly subtle variations in position or motion could produce 
great changes in sensation.  At this angle, I could sink more 
deeply into Jeanette than I ever had before.  She, on the other 
hand, could hardly move her torso.  She crossed her legs behind 
me after a little experimentation and contented herself with 
putting pressure on my butt with her ankle and heel. 

I stopped my strokes in favor of a rotary motion of my hips,  
stirring within her and rubbing my groin against hers.  I could  
tell that she was approaching her orgasm when she groaned  
something which sounded like "You," and tried to reach between  
us. 

"Do you want me to go first?" 

"Yes," she said clearly. 

I resumed stroking in and out, setting the rhythm that I knew 
would take me over.  When my phallus swelled in anticipation, 
she grasped the base with two fingers.  "Oh love!" was all that 
I could say before I came in gouts and grunts. 

"Stay there," she demanded before she, too, was taken beyond  
coherence.  Her moans were accompanied by clutches at my  
suddenly-sensitive member and the drumming of her heels on my  
thighs.  I did my best to obey.  I stretched above my love on  
extended arms, letting my bones carry the weight that my muscles  
were too weak to carry at that moment. 

I watched my dearest in the twilight.  Her torso shivered in  
time with her inner clutches, and there was a grimace on her  
face.  Then she relaxed and blushed at her earlier insistence.   
The pink reached her breasts, and her nipples came out again to  
say hello before they slowly sank away. 

A final quiver of her tunnel forced my shaft out.  She looked 
disappointed, but clearly that cork could not be put back into 
that bottle.  I moved off her and to her side. 

"I love you," I said.  She was still up on the pillow, but I  
hugged her across her shoulders with my right arm.  "I love you  
desperately." 

"It's all right, then?" she asked. 

"All right?  It was tremendous.  You are wonderful." 

"I mean all right about the baby." 

"Having a baby will be marvelous.  Depriving you of an  education 
for years more will be terribly unfair." 

"Oh Bob, do you think your colleagues will sneer at me?" 

"For having a baby?  Their ZPG commitment goes only so far.   
Haven't you seen how all the women cluster around Sarah Thorsen,  
and that kid will be her fourth." 

"For not having an education.  Everybody around you knows so  
much more than I do." 

"You've been to faculty parties.  When does the conversation  
leave you behind?" 

She giggled at that.  We are both ignorant of the present TV  
programs.  When we were first married, we had decided that we  
could afford neither the money nor the time for television.  By  
the time that we could afford the money, Jeanette was deep into  
her French and didn't want to spend several hours a day being  
entertained in English.  When we were home but not dealing with  
each other, I read and Jeanette either read or listened to her  
French radio. 

"Okay," she said.  "It's more often 'West Wing' than plate 
tectonics."  I resisted the opening.  I have read *Scientific 
American* since my youth (and there are still articles which I 
can't follow).  Jeanette has an unreasonable overestimate of the 
average difficulty of the magazine.  I have gradually tempted her 
into reading selected articles on history and paleontology.  She 
could have known about plate tectonics if she hadn't been so 
stubborn.  On the other hand, Jeanette *is* stubborn; and I love 
her, stubbornness and all.  Right then, I maybe loved her more 
than usual. 

While I had been thinking that, Jeanette had been thinking  her 
own thoughts.  "Do you feel outgunned at departmental  parties?" 
I asked her. 

"Not really.  But you seem to worry about my getting enough  
education." 

"I worry about your getting the college education that  marriage 
robbed you of.  That doesn't mean that you come off as  
uneducated in casual conversation.  I never worried about that."   
The truth is more complicated, as truth so often is.  I had  
really worried about depriving her of her education.  When she  
had first brought up the question of her appearing jejune,  
however, it had seemed plausible.  It no longer did. 

I had married a girl, after all, not yet nineteen and often  
unsure of herself.  This was a woman.  She ran an office and a  
household.  She had managed to navigate through the public  
transportation systems of Paris and Boston.  (Boston is harder.)   
When we had discovered that many of the documents that we wanted  
were handwritten or partially handwritten, she'd found a library  
with a handwriting text for *eleves* from 1911.  We still have 
photocopies of that as well as of the documents. 

"Well," she finally said, "nobody seems to look down on me."   
That's an understatement.  Jeanette makes conquests wherever she  
goes, not exclusively male.  Which reminded me. 

"I met your current instructor today.  He says you're a  great 
student, and that he really likes your papers." 

"That's nice," she said, "but the standards for  undergraduates 
might be a little lower than those for faculty  wives." 

"Well a PHT counts."  That's 'Putting Hubby Through.'  Then  I 
changed the subject.  "You look awfully uncomfortable.  Let me  
remove that pillow." 

"No!" 

"You going to stay like that until the rabbit dies?" 

"Ihm hmm.  Which reminds me, would you do me a favor?" 

"For the sexiest woman in the whole world, I'd do anything." 

"Yeah.  But what would you do for me?" she asked. 

"You are the sexiest woman in the whole wide world," I said.   
"For you I would wrestle grizzlies, swim the Atlantic, climb the  
highest mountain, vacuum a carpet, anything." 

"Would you finish up dinner?" she said.  "It's ramen and  
sandwiches." 

"Well ... I dunno about that.  Do I have to crush the  dujours?" 

"Nope.  I already crushed them." 

I kissed her belly between hair and navel, about where sperm  was 
meeting ovum if her wishes were coming true.  "Swim well," I  
said.  She giggled. 

"And," she said as I carried shorts and trousers out the  door, 
"you'd only vacuum the *center* of a carpet for me." 

Washed and partly dressed, I finished fixing the ramen.  She  had 
the vegies already in the water and the blocks of noodles  broken 
into small chunks.  I started the water boiling before  finding 
ham sandwiches on a plate in the refrigerator.  Jeanette  had 
been a real busy girl since she had seen the envelope.  Since  I 
crushed the blocks for her as often as not, her crushing them  
this time was a release of nervous energy while she was waiting  
for me.  Or, maybe, she had anticipated my joke. 

I dished up the soup, grabbed the sandwiches and squeeze  bottles 
of catsup and mustard, and put everything including  napkins and 
a trivet on a tray.  Jeanette had covered herself  with a sheet, 
but she still looked both ridiculous and sexy in  that position.  
I put mustard on her sandwich before handing it  to her. 

"Now," she said, "that is care." 

"No problem.  There are lots of lips to kiss which won't get  
mustard on them."  Jeanette and I love each other dearly, but we  
aren't particularly compatible.  Her liking for mustard is only  
one example.  "I suppose," I added, "that you want me to feed you  
your soup, as well." 

"Would you?  That would be sweet." 

"Put my pillow under your head.  I won't pour it down your  
throat. You'd choke."  So I put the trivet on the sheet, just  
south of her breasts, and spoon fed her while I ate a sandwich  
with my left hand. 

"The spoon," she said, "would be less likely to spill if you  
kept your arm away from my breast while it is full." 

"I'm the one who washes the sheets," I responded.  "Anyway,  
they'll need a washing after this meal."  Just to please her,  
however, I changed the path of the full spoon.  "I suppose that  
you have some complaint about the return path as well."  She  
didn't, but her giggles spilled more of the soup than would ever  
have dripped off the spoon. 

As you might guess, this meal took quite a long time.   Jeanette 
finally had to visit the bathroom.  We finished in the  kitchen 
after that. 

"Let's eat out night after tomorrow to celebrate this new  
contract," I suggested.  "Do you want to pick me up after work,  
or should I come home first?"  I would be teaching an evening  
class the night in between, too rushed for any celebration. 

"I don't know, Bob.  I think we have to tighten the budget  
again.  We still aren't living on your salary, and *three* of us 
might have to fairly soon." 

"Not for the next nine months, certainly." 

"But still."  We had handed in new W4s at the new year.  All  the 
deductions were on my check, and hers represented her after- tax 
earnings.  This made it easy to see that, even when the car  
payments ended, we would be spending more than I brought home.   
I'd get a little more in the fall, with added seniority and a  
doctorate; but, as she had said, still....  We don't want to send  
her back to the office when our son is still in diapers. 

"Whatever you say," I told her.  "You know that I enjoyed  
tonight's celebration more than any restaurant meal."  I started  
to wash the dishes and she went off to do her own work.  We went  
our own way in the apartment for the next several hours.  I  
graded papers, and she did some cleaning and straightening before  
retiring with what I thought was _Contes Drolatiques_.  Instead,  
I found her busy with a calculator, pencil, and paper when I got  
to the bedroom. 

"What are you doing?" I asked. 

"Rethinking our budget." 

"Going to leave me any pocket money?" 

"One beer a quarter," she said. 

"As long as you leave in enough for the daily call girl." 

"Fat chance.  You're oversexed, but you're not *that*  oversexed.  
Besides, you're too tight to pay for what you can  get free."  
Besides, as she didn't mention, my pocket money  doesn't cover 
much more than lunch. 

"But my wife doesn't understand me," I said. 

"Bob, no one.  In the whole blooming world.  Will ever.   
Understand.  You!" 

"I'll take that as a compliment.  Done?" 

"For tonight," she said, handing me the stuff.  I put it on  the 
dresser before turning off the light.  She scooted over, and  I 
snuggled next to her.  "We really don't have enough in  savings," 
she continued. 

"Darling," I reminded her, "we got married on the prospect  that 
you would look for work.  We moved to Boston on that same  fine 
prospect.  We have more in savings than we ever had before.   We 
have a positive savings rate and several assets.  We each have  
medical insurance.  I don't like going to my family, but they are  
there if something goes wrong. 

"Anyway," I finished, "we are further from the pit than we  ever 
were before.  Why are you worrying now?" 

"I'm worrying because it's not just us anymore.  We took  those 
risks for ourselves.  It's not fair to bring a tiny baby  into a 
risky situation.  Oh, Bob, tell me that it is going to be  all 
right."  She turned to face me and pressed herself into my  arms. 

"It will be fine, darling," I said.  "Everything will be all  
right.  I'm here for you, and for our child.  Don't worry."  I  
hugged her tight and gave her little protective kisses on her  
forehead.  "You rewrite the budget.  I'll pack a lunch.  We know  
how to live cheap, you and I.  If we don't have your salary, we  
don't need the car.  Did you figure that in?" 

"You're right.  And I didn't"  She kissed me full on the  mouth.  
Now, I knew that this hug was for comfort.  We had  already had 
glorious sex that evening, I was getting too old for  seconds, 
and we both needed our sleep.  I knew all that, but  Junior 
didn't.  As Jeanette's tongue sought mine, it started to  
stiffen.  She smiled, which interfered with the kiss.   
"Somebody's feeling ambitious," she said. 

"Ignore him."  I pulled her back into the kiss, but she  pushed 
her thigh against my erection rather than ignoring it.  I  never 
really feel that I've kissed Jeanette enough, but this kiss  had 
clearly served its purpose.  When we broke the kiss, she  turned 
and snuggled back against me.  Her nipple was surprisingly  firm 
against my palm as I cupped her breast.  I didn't laugh  aloud, 
but I think she felt the snort of humor against her neck.   She 
pushed her hips back against Junior in retaliation.  "Are you  
serious?" I asked.  "Are you ... ?"  I was going to say, "okay,"  
but that was no longer a question. 

"Want to try?" she responded.  I kissed the back of her neck  in 
answer.  I played with her nipple rather than simply holding  it.  
When my hand went lower, she reached back to hold me.  Only  when 
we were both ready did we move our torsos apart.  She fitted  me 
into her and then pushed back against me.  There was the  
slightest instant when I wasn't going in right, but then I  
slipped into the familiar warmth. 

"I love you," I managed to say before my attention moved  toward 
our juncture.  She rolled so I could slip my left hand  under 
her.  Gripping both her hips, I drove within her slippery  
tunnel.  This seemed to last for a voluptuous eternity before I  
felt my orgasm approach.  I reached between her legs again.  A  
few brushes of my finger around the little nubbin were enough to  
carry Jeanette over, and her internal clutches brought my pulsing  
release.  We lay there in panting lassitude until I passed her a  
Kleenex. 

When her back again pressed against my chest, I started  singing.  
"Bob loves Jeanette.  Bob loves Jeanette.  Bob loves  Jeanette.  
And I love you."  As I cupped her breast once more, my  thought 
drifted back to our earlier conversation. 

We had entered into another relationship.  Our child was not  yet 
born, not even a fetus, but -- at most -- a blastula.  We,  
however, had been planning as parents.  It was my last thought  
before I dropped off. 


THE END 
Foretaste 
Uther Pendragon 
anon584c@nyx.net
1997/05/08 
1997/10/21 
2000/04/07
2001/11/25
2002/10/21
2003/11/16


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

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

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

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


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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