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From: Christopher Marlowe <xtofermarlowe@yahoo.com>
MIME-Version: 1.0
Subject: {ASSM} All His Heart
Lines: 101
Date: Fri, 28 Jan 2005 08:10:01 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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On the middle of Thanksgiving day, I-94 permitted 80
miles an hour easily. Traffic was light, the state
cops were not particularly interested, and Chris had
learned the trick of always staying in sight of
someone who was willing to go just a little faster
than he. He'd make Chicago-to-Minneapolis in four
hours, maybe a bit less. Then it'd get tricky, working
with the maps to find Geli.

Chris hadn't seen Angelica in nearly thirty years.
Thirty. Years. One of the things that astonished him
about pushing fifty was how _real_ things stayed, with
all that time between. He'd loved her with all his
heart. Still loved her. Loved her when he married
Helen -- had Geli only known, she could have vetoed
the wedding. 

He and Helen were through now. Lesson One: Don't get
married while someone out there holds a veto.

But Geli had said, thirty years ago: "Chris, I never
want to see you again." And because he loved her, she
never did.

He was driving up to Minneapolis on this day of
reunions because he was at last ready to forgive -- so
ready, that he no longer needed to hear her ask
forgiveness. And he needed her to forgive him.

While they were at college, she'd slept, casually,
impulsively, with a friend of hers. (Twice. Chris was
sure she never did anything impulsive without
repeating it, just to prove who was boss.) Geli had
confessed. She still loved Chris. She wanted to be
clean. 

Chris wouldn't let her. He browbeat her for weeks,
until she said that wasn't the only guy. There were
others, before the college friend. A college professor
at a high-school summer camp who didn't mind a little
jailbait tail. She had her family drop her off the
next summer for seconds on that one.

Back in her room, incredibly, she wanted to know what
was on his mind. "You're the only one I can tell my
troubles to," Chris had said, "and my trouble is that
my girlfriend's a slut."

Geli eased him back onto the bed, and kissed him,
gently, deeply, and laid kisses down his throat and
his chest as she unbuttoned his shirt. Chris might
have been depressed, but he was nineteen: His cock
filled and had hardened by the time Geli undid his
pants. She breathed soft and warm onto it, nuzzled it,
kissed it, drew it into her mouth. 

Geli sat up and looked into Chris's eyes. Her left
hand stayed on his cock, stroking it, teasing the skin
just below the head, smiling softly at feeling him
turning slick. With her right, she undid her jeans,
and slipped out of them. (Did Chris relent, and caress
her pussy that evening? He couldn't remember.)

She bent down to his face and kissed him, long and
hard, her tongue exploring his. She put her leg over
him, and with her hand stroked his cock between the
lips (always so creamy, always so wet) of her pussy.
And she rocked back. And he was in her. She sat up,
rocking her hips, until a sigh came to her breath and
she closed her eyes. She hung her head, as though to
watch her bush as it loved Chris's cock, and then bent
all the way down, for the serious fucking. 

And Chris came.

"And how was that?" she asked, as she rolled off of
him.

"Nothing," he said. "It was nothing. It was like
beating off to the girls in the porno films."

As he drove down I-94, Chris tried to imagine another
moment in his life of which he was so ashamed. He'd
loved her with all his heart. It just wasn't a very
good heart.

And with all that, it had lasted nearly a year longer.

I-94 gave way to I-35, and then the Minneapolis street
network. He got out of the car. He came to her. He was
there. Crestfield Cemetery, Section 24, plot 182A,
grave 4. Angelica Marie Howard, a suicide thirteen
years gone. He fell to his knees; he wept.



		
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-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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