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Subject: {ASSM} To Those Who Wait 02 {virgosun} (MF Fsolo cons rom)
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Date: Sat, 28 Feb 2004 07:10:04 -0500
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Tom flew out again that evening, heading for his cousin
Neil's maritime business and a new life. Pam resumed
forging hers. Sometimes they rang each other as weeks
became months, going back to those long phonecalls as
Tom started to sound happier. He was learning
navigation, which he found completely fascinating, and
had even become a qualified scuba diver; in his words,
when he looked in the mirror of a morning, he almost
didn't recognise himself for some of the exciting things
he had done since leaving Linda.
When Christmas rolled around, Pam answered Neil's invite
to fly down to the coast and celebrate with the family.
Brendan would be home from college, and he had always
loved the sea and to visit Neil's when he was a much
younger boy. So mother and son would together return to
the bay and the boat trips. Tom gallantly offered to
pick them up from the airport.
She bustled from the plane and down the passenger ramp
at the terminal, Brendan with a knapsack over his
shoulder behind her, and peered about the people milling
around the reception area. She looked for brown tweed
trousers with neat seams and a knitted beige vest, a
collar and tie, but couldn't see him anywhere, so she
wandered out into the centre of the concourse. She was
aware Brendan hadn't come with her and expected the
teenager had wandered to a drink machine for a can of
cola, and eventually turned around to look for him too.
Perhaps he had spotted Uncle Tom already?
Brendan had set down his pack and was standing beside a
bench seat wearing that half-smirk so much like his
father's. The man who had been sitting there had risen
and came toward her, some quite attractive stranger
intent on speaking to her. His short, neatly-trimmed
brown beard was frosted with grey, and the little hair
he had was crewcut to a short fuzz. His dark eyes smiled
as though he knew her, although she expected he would
ask her for directions. But then he called her by name,
politely expectant. "Pam?"
"Oh my God! Tom! I walked right past you!"
"I know," he laughed, gathering her in a hug that she
drew back from so that she could look him over in
wonder. Yes, the same refined nose and chiselled face,
but now with a beard, and he was rid of that limp and
tired-looking combover. He looked much happier than the
last time she had seen him. He wore rumpled cargo pants
and loafers, a polo shirt and spray-jacket, and seemed
right at home in that attire. The beard kept him warmer,
and the combover had been impractical when the seabreeze
kept blowing it off his scalp, he explained.
They set off for their seaside hotel, joining the family
for the best Christmas Pam could remember in some time.
Brendan thoroughly enjoyed himself in the company of his
uncle and a cousin-by-marriage to the family, Ryan, a
seasoned yachtsman. She was amazed to watch Tom,
formerly a complete landlubber, moving around the deck
of the sailboat they cruised upon with a skill and
alacrity almost matching Ryan's. Simply watching them at
work was a private joy. The pair had clearly become good
friends and were both quite easy on the optic nerve,
especially Ryan.
"I told you things would only get better," she said to
Tom at Christmas dinner.
"They have, yes," he said wistfully. "But I miss Emmy
so, and worry about her, and...well, there's a vacuum in
my life. I've looked about, and don't get me wrong, it's
been splendid to be able to look, but, nothing much has
happened."
"He does all my looking for me, now that I'm hitched,"
Ryan quipped, glancing at Pam from dark, deepset eyes
that smouldered. "Got himself sunglasses so that he can
check out the joys of summer on the dockside, all those
babes topless sunbathing on the foredecks..."
Brendan laughed, and Tom managed a distinguished poker-
face. "Oh, come now Ryan, I don't believe Tom would do
anything so crass," she clucked lightheartedly, although
she had known Tom for too many years to fall for that
innocent look. Sobering, she addressed herself to him.
"Never mind, Tom, it does take time. You've got to live
empty for a while, so they say. It's not easy, but you
do have to take a break from being one half of a
partnership and rediscover yourself, and find out who
your friends are. You look to be doing really, really
well."
"You've shown me the way, Pam," he smiled. "Take some
courses, do something new, change your hairstyle even."
"At least Pam didn't grow a beard," Ryan teased.
***
Pleasant as the Christmas break was, it also left her
with a bitter taste in her mouth. Being in the company
of Tom's cousin Shelly and her quite striking husband
was always difficult. She had first met Ryan at Mark's
funeral; he had merely been a friend of the family then.
He had needed a lift to the airport after the ceremonies
were over. Pam had been going to offer him a ride, but
Shelly had gotten in first, and had stayed for dinner
with him while he waited for his flight. Pam couldn't
help feeling opportunity had knocked then, too cruelly
close to Mark's death, and Shelly had picked it up
instead of her.
_Face it, Pam, you're jealous!_
He was a very attractive man, a few years younger than
Pam, a good six feet tall, slim and athletic. He was
black-haired and swarthy, tending to keep stubble that
made him look a little rough; very appealing with his
craggy, square features. He was alert and intelligent,
an excellent foil to Tom's lightning-quick wit, a very
clever man. To see him and Tom together almost hurt, and
at first she didn't realise why; but it was because he
was the leader to Tom's loyal follower...he was, in some
ways, Mark all over again. Tom had found a new elder
brother to look up to, although Ryan was actually
younger than him.
He'd also been wearing a pair of comfortable cotton
shorts around, the soft folds of which had clung just
enough to his hips to entice the eye with hints of very
pleasing contents. Pam had found it almost
distressingly difficult to keep her eyes off him, even
when his wife was about, or he was dandling his baby
daughter. There was never any way Ryan would pay her any
notice; but in fantasy, anything was possible, and he
could be the stuff dreams were made of.
Pam retired late one night with her mind full of Ryan.
He'd been wearing those damn shorts again, and she knew
that if she didn't pleasure herself tonight she was in
for a grumpy day tomorrow. Brendan had stayed back
aboard one of Neil's boats, roughing it for the night,
so she had the motel room to herself, and the great
empty double bed. It was hot, so after she showered she
did not dress, but went to bed and drew up the sheet
only. She lay on her back with her legs wide apart,
running her hands up and down her body with languid
strokes. If only the end of the bed would bow under the
weight of a man, coming to kneel between her legs, and
run his fingertips over her skin and kiss her breasts.
The light of the full moon slanted through a veil of
curtains she had drawn. Her eyes half-closed, she
fancied she could see Ryan standing there, lean
musculature highlighted, skin pale as an alabaster
statue. He would be wearing that half-smile of his, and
nothing but those shorts, but not for long. One tug on a
drawstring, and the shorts would fall away, revealing a
long, straight pole standing out from his hips just for
her.
He would kneel on the bed and lean over her, lips
caressing her mouth as his hands roved over her breasts.
She would not have to touch herself any more, for his
fingers would do all of that for her. He would kiss her
throat, moving slowly down her body to suck her nipples
and flick them with his tongue. His fingertips would
dance over her hips and belly, down to her moist bush,
and his lips would follow...
There had been things Mark would not do. She had wanted
him to kiss her all over, in every place, but he hadn't
wanted to do that. She would have bathed, shaved, made
it clean as it could be to assuage his fussiness, but he
had not been tempted. Nor had he let her kiss his
manhood, for his body had been his temple. He would have
come within seconds. She had wanted to taste him, yes;
but more than that, she had wanted him to taste her.
Shelly was a new-age woman unashamed of sex. She had
said enough of Ryan to intimate he enjoyed going down.
It was his "thing", and he was damn good at it too!
Would he press his face fearlessly into the curls of her
snatch, and then sneak the tip of his tongue into her
slit, there to just touch her pulsing clit? Would he
kiss these lips as passionately as he kissed her mouth,
while his tongue dipped and lapped, mixing his saliva
with her juices? Would he make little circuits of her
opening, or would his hot breath puff lightly across her
burning clit? Would his tongue wriggle inside of her,
strong and lithe, darting and whirling, and would his
fingers join the dance? She could feel his stubble rough
upon the skin of her inmost thighs and her labia, and
she would knot her fingers in his thick black hair and
drive him in to where she wanted him, and he would lick
her until she screamed for mercy.
Her fingers pretended to be a tongue. Damn her for
leaving the dildo behind this trip!
And when he was finished, when she could respond to him
no longer, they would curl up together, snug beneath the
sheet in a cosy haze. As her thoughts drifted away from
consciousness, fantasy and reality swirled and mixed in
a surreal sexual slide-show. Ryan became Mark, who
couldn't be Mark because he would never do cunnulingus,
and Tom briefly appeared and cuddled her but he was Tom
cleanshaven with a combover who was not now-Tom of the
wetsuit that made him look a lot more macho than she had
ever seen him before...the wetsuit belonged to a
snorkeller that was Ryan who nuzzled her thatch...she
was sitting in one of those exclusive airport cafe clubs
wearing no knickers, and Ryan dressed in a conservative
neatly-pressed suit knelt between her parted knees and
put his head under her skirt and licked her cunt, and
she looked at the clock because it was taking so long
and Tom would be late...
***
It was the cuddling bit at the end of her fantasies that
made her ache with sorrow. She awoke in the early
morning, chilled and bewildered, and crept out of bed to
find some pyjamas and a coverlet and get herself decent
again.
The next morning, the family gathered on the dockside
for a special treat. Neil's firm had just completed the
construction of a large luxury motor launch with room
for twenty guests. For a week they would be his guests
on a shakedown voyage before the cruiser was passed on
to its new owners. Accommodations were split between
single cabins and double staterooms.
However, there was greater demand for single rooms than
doubles. Rooming everybody to the best compromise
required the wisdom of Solomon; and when all was said
and done, Neil found himself with two single guests and
one double bedroom left.
"Do you two mind?" Neil said apologetically. Pam wasn't
sure it was entirely proper, but Tom laughed it off.
"We've been friends a long time," he said. "I'm sure we
can be mature about this."
"This is because we're Mr and Mrs Franklin, isn't it?"
Pam asked tartly. "Oh, very well, but if anyone should
make any lewd suggestions I will not stand for it!"
"I'll try not to snore too loudly," Tom smiled.
Less a night-owl than Tom, Pam turned in first. She had
a quite frumpy but practical pair of button-up pyjamas,
shapeless and unflattering, which seemed most
appropriate for sharing with a friend. She was just
putting out the reading-lamp when Tom took his turn
getting ready for bed. Something had told her he was a
striped flannelette drawstring pyjamas kind of fellow;
no surprises there. The bed was so large there was
plenty of room, and new, so it didn't sag in the middle
and roll them together. Tired but invigorated by the
trip out to sea, she fell asleep, and they never touched
all night. She was scarcely aware he was there.
For two days it was polite "good nights" and "good
mornings". All the same, it felt strange to be in a
double bed after all this time, and especially to be
sharing it with a man. It was...nice. But a little
frustrating. If she bumped his back or feet when she
rolled over, she felt awkward, as though she had crossed
some unspoken boundary of conduct.
"I've been worried that I've disturbed you when coming
to bed late," he admitted, and agreed he too had found
it pleasant to be in bed with a woman again, but also
disconcerting. "But if it had to be anyone, I'm glad it
was you," he added, voice warm in the darkness.
She agreed. He might have become Sailor Tom, but he was
still Tom, a known quantity, familiar and safe.
On the third day out, the launch sailed into hot, humid,
oppressive conditions. It was so sultry everyone changed
down to their lightest clothing; Pam and the other women
dressed in bathers, Pam wearing a skirt and loose blouse
over hers. Likewise the men stripped down, baring chests
in the heat; even Tom left his shirt undone. He had
always been lean, and while his stomach had sagged a
little with the years, he wasn't carrying the excess
ballast that many of the older men were.
Ryan, of course, went back to wearing those damn shorts,
and his stomach wasn't far off washboard.
At last, sun-flushed, sticky with suncream and salt
spray, Pam retreated downstairs to her shared cabin to
shower. Burrowing in her dresser, she found the
lightweight summer nightie, linen and rather short, then
turned and pulled the blanket off the bed. The sheet
would be all that was necessary tonight, especially with
the heat of a second body in the bed as well. She lay
down, but slept only fitfully, tossing and turning. Time
must have passed, because she eventually became aware of
Tom's heavy, warm presence nearby. He was motionless,
breathing soft, deep and rhythmic, sound asleep.
Which was all the more irritating, for she was now wide
awake, grumpy and bored. A pressure within her was
building, a need she had been resisting. Perhaps it was
hormonal; perhaps it was loneliness, or three years of
hunger. Knowing why it was there didn't help it go away.
If she'd had a room of her own, she could have dealt
with the matter privately and gotten over it.
She hadn't been under the sheet, so she swivelled and
sat on the edge of the bed without disturbing him, and
stood up angrily. Perhaps what she needed was a quick
walk on deck, some cooling night air, or a glass of
water. She'd have to throw a robe around herself if she
went out. There was a crack of light above and beneath
the door, where the outer hall was lit at all hours; the
small amount of light that was let in being just enough
to make out the room's furniture, the outline of the bed
and its sleeping occupant. The satin sheen of bare skin
gleamed. He had opted for boxer shorts as nightwear in
the heat.
But she didn't want to fool around looking for a gown in
the dark. She wasn't thirsty. What she wanted to do was
lay on her back in comfort on the bed, and think of Ryan
or any one of several attractive men; to imagine she was
with them, and that they touched her in special places
and secret ways, and murmured sweet nothings as they
gave her pleasure. Sweat oozed beneath her breasts,
beads gathering between them. Touch. That was what she
wanted right now. Needed.
_Surely you have these feelings, Thomas, now that
Linda's gone. You must know them well. Men need it even
more than women._
For a while she stood there, simply studying the play of
the highlight along graceful contours of muscle and
sinew, his manly shape. He was curled on his side,
facing her, breathing deep and sound. Had he ever woken
taut and needful while she slept? What did he do about
it? What men always did, she guessed. It was so much
simpler for them.
A droplet of perspiration trickled, caressing, down her
cleavage. It was hot...too hot for clothing. The collar
of her nightie was open and loose. Slowly, enraptured by
the tartishness of what she did, she unbuttoned the
front, with languid caresses easing the straps from one
shoulder, then the other. The linen crumpled down, so
that her breasts swung gently free. Night air stroked
her back and kissed her nipples, which drew erect with
the thrill of nudity.
In the dark, she could be bold and brazen, someone other
than daylight Pam who strove to be cultured and ladylike
at all times, and never to offend.
_Look at me, Tom..._
There was something ferociously exciting about baring
her body before someone other than her husband; she who
was so prim and proper, so concerned with reputation.
Especially being so raunchy before a man so decent as
Tom. It didn't matter that he was insensate. Her breath
caught in her throat as her heart raced, and her nipples
stood upright and sore with need. In youth her bustline
had been splended, although motherhood and age had taken
their toll; she cupped the weight of each breast in her
hands and lifted them, rubbing them in slow circles
together, being the wild wench she had never dared be.
Still, the Need had to be answered, and he was deeply
asleep. If she were careful, she would be safe. After a
time, she hitched her nightie back up, but eased her
hands beneath the hem and under the elastic of her
panties, sliding them down until they dropped. Smiling
at him, she teasingly lifted the front hem of her gown
so that her snatch would be visible. Her slit was so wet
that the cooler air made her twitch on contact.
Then she lay carefully beside him on her back, not
touching him, legs parted slightly, comfortable. She
closed her eyes and called Ryan to mind, watching his
lean body at work on the foredeck. Tom was there too,
always the pair of them at work together...she hadn't
noticed before, but Tom's bottom was neat and round in
the boardshorts he wore...Ryan, oozing raw sexuality,
and Tom, saucy as never before. She had a wicked habit,
and her hands moved over and under her nightgown, across
her moist skin, working her up to the pleasure she
craved, the sweet release.
A gorgeous dream-man made love to her, his face and body
changing and morphing with her need, her whim, her
desire until his identity blurred as her body thrummed
toward the peak. A confusion of illusory tongues and
lips flickered at her engorged, throbbing clit but it
wasn't enough, she needed penetration, and her fingers
were not long enough, not wide enough to do it. Her back
arched, her bent legs tautened, lifting her pelvis as
she strove to reach that sublime place. Still the dam
would not break, the release come, and sweat poured from
her skin as her body started to shiver, then shake
violently as the climax happened...
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