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Message-ID: <61083asstr$1301623802@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: Uther Pendragon <nogardneprethu@gmail.com>
Subject: {ASSM} "Morning Has Broken - M" -- Uther -- MF wl
Lines: 1609
Date: Thu, 31 Mar 2011 22:10:02 -0400
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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, 2011, 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 nogardneprethu@gmail.com.

  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.



  Morning Has Broken -- M
  by Uther Pendragon
  nogardneprethu@gmail.com

  MF wl


  David Blake swatted at the alarm and growled. Then he
  woke sufficiently to remember that this was <b>the
  day</b>. He was marrying Jen this afternoon. He shaved
  carefully, sang the entirety of "As Man and Woman, We
  Were Made" in the shower, and breakfasted in his
  underwear. He dressed carefully, got the tux out of
  the closet and the corsage out of the refrigerator,
  and was ready to leave in plenty of time. The plane
  from Newark wasn't so prompt, so he cooled his heels
  at O'Hare for nearly an hour.

  Mom had stayed with Deborah and they all flew out
  together. Deb, her husband Keith and son Stephen along
  with Mom. Stephen ran to him, was picked up and
  hugged. Then he shook hands with Keith hugged Deb,
  hugged Mom. He led them off to baggage claim still
  carrying Stephen.

  "He can walk by himself, you know," Deb said.

  "When he wants me to, I'll put him down." And Stephen,
  who had been confined in a taxi and then an airplane
  for far too long, soon wanted him to. At baggage
  claim, they stood a way off from the others.

  "Ask your dad how many bags they have, including
  Gramaw's." Stephen ran off and came back to report
  that there were four. "What color is the first one?"
  Again the run.

  "Red with a yellow marking tape." Keith was looking at
  him weirdly. Since the luggage carousel was empty,
  that didn't matter right then. By the time that
  Stephen had reported that the second bag was grey, but
  that marking tape was still yellow, Keith was
  grinning. Smart guy, which made his marriage to Deb
  even harder to understand. Three round trips were
  enough to wear off Stephen's edge, so they stood
  watching until Keith and Deborah had all 4 bags. Dave
  took 2 of the bags and led them to his car. Keith sat
  in front with him, and Stephen crowded into the back
  seat with the women.

  "We have just about enough time," David said.

  "When is the wedding?" Mom asked.

  "Officially, 1:00. Depends on the DS, though. He's
  visiting another church at some distance first. We
  need to hear Jen preach at 11:00."

  "Well," said Deb, "it will be her last chance to say
  anything without your interrupting."

  "You think she's going to stop preaching?"

  "She's getting married."

  "Which isn't retirement. She's up for a vacation,
  which will also be our honeymoon. Then she's back in
  the same pulpit for another year. I'll be commuting to
  Garrett, which is closer to O'Hare than this church is
  -- although it's a longer drive time in rush hour. We
  hope that she gets a church closer to Evanston after
  this year. Wait 'til you hear her."

  Mom, who could hear an argument starting, asked about
  the countryside that she could see almost as well as
  he could. Her eyesight was worse, but his attention
  needed to be on the road.

  At the church, a woman helped him get the corsage in
  the refrigerator. Weird! Jen was supposed to wear it,
  not eat it. But that was his directions from the
  florist. Then they all filed into a back pew. A couple
  he recognized moved out to give them room to sit
  together. Jen's sermon, if not great, was thoroughly
  prepared. She didn't sound nervous. He gave Keith the
  keys to his car and an introduction to a local who
  steered him to a burger joint. Stephen couldn't be
  expected to put off lunch until after the wedding.
  David took his tux to the men's room and dressed. He
  stood on the back stairs until Reverend Campbell --
  Jen's DS and the man who would perform the wedding --
  showed up. Well that was one less worry. Not that he'd
  expected a glitch.

  "Sneaking away?"

  "Jen's in the office, wearing what I'm not supposed to
  see until she enters the sanctuary. This church ain't
  exactly the Temple. I'm as close as I can get and
  still be out of sight." Then he saw that his answering
  the gibe seriously showed his nervousness. His smile
  got a huge grin in return. Well, of all that a DS had
  to deal with among his clergy, weddings were probably
  the least worrisome things. "I've probably been in a
  score of weddings. This is the role to make you
  nervous."

  "A score. And did anything go wrong?" Campbell asked
  after looking in the kitchen to send word that he was
  there.

  "Not really. A couple of brides nearly walked off.
  Neither one was the one who should have. A soloist
  didn't show, sending the bride's mother into
  conniption fits, but hardly marring the service. You
  think I shouldn't worry about this one?"

  "Especially since you're the soloist. Do you have the
  license?"

  "Right here." He showed it.

  "And the rings?"

  "Hers. I sent mine in to her."

  "There will be a wedding. You don't have the
  reputation of caring all that much about the
  peripherals."

  "I find that the likelihood of disaster has little
  influence on one's state of worrying about a
  disaster."

  "Ain't that the truth?"

  And the ceremony went off without a hitch. Jen was
  stunning in her white gown, but Jen had been stunning
  in sweatshirt and Jeans. At the reception, he met
  Jen's grandmother, her younger sister, and the
  sister's fiance. Jen met his family. Keith took the
  family back to O'Hare in David's car, with a promise
  to mail to the honeymoon hotel the description of
  where he'd leave it at long-term parking. They changed
  back into traveling clothes.

  Then they exited the church to a shower of rice.
  Everything had been done; everything had been said.
  But people weren't ready to go. There were more and
  more photos, more and more platitudes. Kids who had
  been brought by their parents instead of paying a
  babysitter, were running around -- more fun than
  watching three people make long ritual speeches. Then
  too, the reception had been long on sugar.

  One of the running kids fell down right at his feet.
  He began to howl. David picked him up and sang the
  falling-down song to him. The kid quieted down, and
  his mother retrieved him.

  Joe Englehard, chair of Jen's staff-parish committee,
  drove him and Jen to O'Hare in plenty of time. Then
  they were on the plane together. There was a lot he
  wanted to do with Jen, but he couldn't think of
  anything he wanted to do with her before an audience.
  She, however, had a question.

  "Where did you get that song?" Um, she'd seen it when
  he'd suggested it. Must mean the publisher.

  "Wren has a publisher. I can't remember the name at
  the moment, but the license was quite reasonable."

  "No. The one you sang to the kid. The falling down
  one." Okay. Entirely different song.

  "The Ecumenical Institute is a lay-training group on
  the west side of Chicago. I learned about it when I
  was still in New York.  Strange that a Chicagoan
  hasn't heard of it." Which was really context, not an
  answer. But he wasn't sure how much of a context she
  had.

  "And they taught you that song? That's lay training?"
  Well, that told you how little she knew about E I.

  "Well, the boy wasn't ordained, was he? Anyway, they
  have a live-in staff, they call it an order.  An order
  of married couples.  An original idea, though you
  could claim that William Booth had it first.  Anyway,
  I digress." Ask David Blake whether the bus had gone
  by, and you'd get a discourse on the internal-
  combustion engine. Still, he wasn't sure yet what
  parts she needed to know.

  "E I, as it is called, has families. And they make up
  songs to express their theology just as Charles Wesley
  made up songs to express his.  Or to express John's.
  So, they make up some songs, at least that song, I
  can't think of any others right now. They make up some
  songs to express their point of view to their
  children.  Notice that the kid stopped crying." Which
  is why he'd adopted the song.

  "Stephen seemed to disapprove." He did. And why was
  Keith hanging around that late anyway? Well, they
  weren't at the airport when he and Jen got there; they
  must have caught their flight.

  "Stephen has heard that song before. He stops crying,
  though. He knows that he'll hear the song again if he
  doesn't."

  "Seems to me that crying after you fall down is what
  you'd expect from that age." That was worrisome. They
  would, presumably, be parents some day. Not right
  away, but some day. Bystanders could say: "Johnny is
  young enough; his crying is natural," and "Timmy is
  older: he shouldn't be crying." Parents had to bring
  the child from one stage to the other. It was
  something you learned, just like spelling. But, unlike
  spelling, schoolteachers wouldn't do the job if the
  parents didn't.

  "Oh, it is.  And the song doesn't say to stop crying.
  The song merely suggests a new context. The reason
  toddlers are built so close to the ground is so they
  don't (usually) get hurt too bad when they fall down."
  You fall; you cry; you get up and go on. Sooner or
  later, you learn that the second stage isn't
  necessary. He hadn't really cried when he'd learned he
  didn't make a good pastor, but he would have been much
  better if he'd had the 'going on' stage firmly in
  mind. Well, they were discussing E I. Maybe he could
  drop a hint.

  "You should take one of their courses." She'd either
  love it or hate it.

  "I'm not quite a layman." A little too much self-
  depreciation mixed in with the resistance.

  "They teach courses for clergy, too. And courses
  either clergy or laity can take. I took courses from
  them while I was at the D School." As he'd taken them
  when he was studying for a PhD, he wasn't belittling
  her in suggesting that she take some. "Look, I don't
  have any of the materials with me.  Just keep an open
  mind; that's all I ask." And she looked like she
  would. But she was off chasing the negativity.

  "I know you don't think I'm very well educated...."

  "Compared to what?  You have a second degree; high
  school is about average for the country.  If I don't
  think you know enough to quit learning, I don't think
  anybody does.  I certainly don't."

  "You know one hell of a lot." Couldn't she see that
  she, too, knew one hell of a lot. That wasn't the
  question. He didn't go around moping because she was
  prettier than he was.

  "But not enough. The background for New Testament
  studies is daunting. You have to know the culture of
  the people who wrote the books. And most of them were
  split between two worlds, mebbe three or four. Saul
  was a man of the eastern Mediterranean Hellenist
  culture, but he was also a Jew. How did the Septuagint
  influence him? And there are things about Hellenist
  culture we don't really know.  Rome had to have had
  some influence, and what were the peculiarities of
  Tarsus? We laugh about Jen's being a Chicagoan and
  David's being a New Yorker. But people are much more
  mobile today than they were in the first century, and
  Tarsus had its own laws and centuries of history.
  Certainly the Jewish heritage, of which we know a good
  deal, influenced Paul a lot.  Anyway, I should know
  all of that.  I should certainly be on top of what is
  widely known about that stuff. And I'm not."

  "'Widely known' meaning maybe a dozen people know it?"
  Now she was defending him again. Couldn't she see that
  knowing wasn't something that reached 'enough.' Nobody
  knew enough, so she shouldn't beat herself over the
  head for not knowing enough.

  "More than that. Thousands probably, maybe hundreds of
  thousands. Historians and classicists know a lot more
  about Hellenist culture than I do. And scholars of the
  Old Testament know more about the Jewish heritage than
  I do. Some of what they know is relevant to what I
  need to know. And just reading one book isn't going to
  help.  Unless that book is the Septuagint."

  "You read Greek."

  "Not well enough. Which is what I've been saying about
  the rest of this." He thought of an example, although
  the name of the play escaped him. "Look, back when the
  Germans were occupying Paris, they had a regular
  censorship of the theater. A new play was submitted to
  the censor. These guys who read French, regularly read
  French plays, were fucking-well living in France,
  studied this play written in contemporary French. They
  passed it as irrelevant to the current scene.  It was
  an adaptation of a tale from classical Greece. The
  play was put on, and it inflamed the audience with the
  spirit of resistance, just as the author had intended.
  Now, if those guys couldn't see the subtext of the
  play written in the language they shopped for
  groceries in, what chance do I have to see the subtext
  of a book written in a language which has been dead
  for more than a millennium?"

  "And what chance do I have after having taken a few
  courses?" Well, yes. They were in the same boat.

  "After having taken a few courses. And those were
  after sitting for years listening to preachers, who
  had only taken a few courses themselves, sermonize on
  that passage. And you had your formative years shaped
  by Sunday-school teachers who never took course one.

  "You know, sometimes I think I'm a little hard on the
  feminists who reject Paul."

  "Hey!  I'm a feminist." Which wasn't the point.

  "Assuming you would have chosen this career without
  being a feminist, and that's a big assumption, a few
  months of men calling up the church and asking when
  the pastor would be in would have made you one."

  That drew a smile, but he went on.

  "Anyway, I don't think you reject Paul. What happened
  was that generations of men told wives to be subject
  to their husbands as a strict commandment and that
  husbands should not be harsh with their wives as good
  advice, if that. So, when some women reject that
  interpretation, and reject it they should, they reject
  Paul along with it."

  "So, you won't be harsh with me so long as I'm subject
  to you?"

  "In the first place, that isn't what Paul said," he
  started off. "There ain't no conditions. I'm supposed
  to be loving towards you under all circumstances. Now,
  I'm human and you'll see my temper fairly often in the
  rest of our lives. But that isn't what the scripture
  says; that's sin dwelling within me. In the second
  place, it's not at all clear that you owe the same
  obedience as a Greek Christian wife in the first
  century did." Hadn't Jen taken his general course on
  Paul? She shouldn't have forgotten this. And she
  didn't look as if she was being reminded, either. But
  he was going full tilt. A gun in his face wouldn't
  have stopped him. He'd already rattled off, "When she
  got married, she undertook an obligation to obey.
  Becoming a Christian didn't mitigate that obligation.
  You, on the other hand..." He came to a dead stop
  while the situation slowly percolated through his
  brain. Jen was grinning at him. "...Are leading me
  on."

  "Hey! I fell in love with my professor." Which was
  nice to hear, but more of this might make her fall out
  of love with the bore.

  "Sorry. I'm a dump truck. Push the right button and I
  dump the whole load."

  "That's fine. I asked, after all. Now, start giving
  tests and I'll complain real fast."

  "Seems to me that you did fine when I gave tests." One
  of his better students, as well as the prettiest.

  "Hmpf. Then why did I get a B as a final grade?"
  Because she learned a great deal, regurgitated it when
  asked, but didn't push it further. She almost never
  contributed in class. Her paper had shown the student
  she might have been. But he didn't want to be her
  professor; he wanted to be her lover and her husband.

  When the conversation was clearly over, he held her
  hand. Much better than the conversation, much as he
  loved to talk. She was so accepting of being with him
  and his touch that she went to sleep. He wore that
  acceptance as a badge and kept her hand in his. He'd
  be beside her while she slept for the rest of her
  life, often holding something better than a hand. But,
  still, holding a hand was nice. He thought about his
  luck with Jen. It might be the only success he'd see.

  She thought him extremely learned. He wasn't
  particularly. He was a good teacher, whatever many of
  his class thought. And he was conscious that a teacher
  who thought himself better than his students thought
  him was in serious danger of deluding himself. He
  certainly wasn't a <b>great</b> teacher.

  He'd been a failure as a minister. He was able to give
  a good sermon, but hadn't inspired anyone he knew of
  to live a conspicuously Christian life -- as opposed
  to a conventionally moral life, which most of them had
  been doing when he showed up in town. And if that
  wasn't the test of a preacher, what was? He'd not been
  effective as a pastor, a counselor. He'd felt himself
  being ineffective some times; not many had come to
  him, and -- as his time in a particular pulpit went on
  -- the calls for this service had diminished. That
  seemed to him to be a judgement on his effectiveness,
  and one which agreed with his own judgement.

  The story of Christianity was a story of movements.
  Which is why he wanted Jen to check out the Ecumenical
  Institute. That was a genuine movement, and a positive
  one. (There had been many negative, even demonic,
  movements in history.) Jen said that he was clear-
  headed, and he was. It was more a curse than a
  blessing. Between great movements forward, even during
  them, Christianity required pastors to keep the
  faithful relatively faithful. He wasn't equipped to
  lead a movement; he wasn't equipped to be a pastor.
  And he was clear-headed enough to see that he wasn't.

  Well, enough of dark thoughts. He had his love's hand
  in his. And <b>she</b> was equipped to be a pastor. He
  would love her, and support her, and aid her with his
  clarity. Even he had a gift. He squeezed her hand
  lightly enough to be sure he wouldn't wake her.

  Some time later, she squeezed his hand. This wasn't
  fondness, although he realized it was a form of trust.
  They were coming in for a landing, and she was
  nervous. The girl rode with him, even with him singing
  or talking, on a busy highway in perfect composure.
  When a trained pilot was landing a plane with
  clearance -- meaning no other pilots were in the way -
  - she got nervous. Well, nobody, even Jen with her
  perfect body and sweet disposition, was totally
  perfect.

  "Look," he offered, "I'd planned for another flight.
  Do you want me to find a taxi which will take us the
  whole distance?"

  "I'm fine."

  "Seriously...."

  "Seriously, I'm fine."

  Well, there was nothing to do about this trip. Jen
  seemed to prefer flying to having her fear of flying
  pointed out. But he would see about later trips.
  Amtrak gave an entirely different view of the country.

  The inn for their honeymoon was more-or-less as
  advertised. Jen looked pleased, which was more
  important. After dinner, they walked down to the
  beach. It was Jen's first view of the Atlantic, and a
  peaceful view. Back at the inn, he shaved and
  undressed. He wore the robe coming out; she'd seen him
  naked, but he didn't want to push intimacy on her.

  Jen took a long time in the bathroom. Women tended to,
  at least Mom and Deb had. Still, he got anxious. This
  was the first entire night that they would have
  together, and he wanted it to begin. When she came
  out, she was wearing a white nightgown, a sexy one. He
  whistled.

  "Naked?" she asked when she'd lifted the sheet. Not
  quite. He showed her his ring. She didn't look
  convinced, but she lay down and came to him for a
  kiss. They started chastely, mouths closed. When she
  opened her mouth, he let his hands rove over her. The
  nightgown didn't interfere with his touch. If
  anything, it added an excitement. This was his first
  time with Mrs. Jennifer Blake. He wasn't going to
  treat her as if he took the privilege of this access
  for granted.

  When she removed her nightgown, he took that as
  invitation to enjoy all that skin. He took his time
  with her luscious breasts, kissing all the smoothness
  before he got to the nipples. As he stroked her
  thighs, he realized that he was rushing things. He
  didn't have to drive her home <b>this</b> night.

  "I forgot. We have all night," He admitted. "Well, not
  all night but loads of time.  We can sleep in in the
  morning." He went back to start over correctly. He
  began on her hand -- the one without the rings -- and
  kissed a line up her arm. He continued until he
  reached her breast. He kissed all of that, only
  holding the other one, until he got to her nipple.

  As he sucked that nipple, he stroked her thighs. The
  beauty at the top of them was calling him. When he
  could no longer resist that call, he kissed across the
  valley between her breasts. He kissed and sucked that
  nipple while using his finger to cover her clit with
  her moisture. He didn't have that pleasure very long,
  though. She pulled his hand away. Had he been too
  rough? No. She spoke.

  "You."

  "Yes. Jennifer!" Then he was entering her sweet,
  moist, warmth. Her softness enfolded him. When she was
  clasping all of him, he adjusted his posture so that
  his weight was on his elbows and his hands were on her
  breasts. She wrapped her legs around him, so that even
  more of him was enclosed in her. "Oh, Jen." She was
  holding him in her arms, as well. "Oh, love." He moved
  through that warmth, that welcome, that love.

  He was approaching his climax too rapidly, with the
  motion, the friction, the sensation of her in his
  hands and all around him. He tried to hold back. Just
  as he did, it was no longer necessary. The sweet girl
  was responding to him. "Oh Jen." He stroked through
  her rhythmic clasps more rapidly while his feelings
  peaked. He drove into her and erupted. "Oh, Jennifer!"
  They were pressed against each other for a moment.

  Then he collapsed onto her softness. Then he moved off
  her, and out of her. He lay on his side holding her,
  and she moved back into the spoon position. He hugged
  her to him. He had to go to the john once during the
  night, but she was still in a position that allowed
  him to renew the hug when he returned.

  He woke with a naked Jen beside him, the finest
  situation he'd ever woken up to. Soon, though, he had
  to relieve himself. Then, too, he shouldn't try to
  kiss her until he'd shaved again. He got into the
  shower. It was a splendid day, with no task before him
  but pleasing his new wife, and that was much more
  self-indulgence than chore. He burst into song. Until
  he heard the bathroom door open, he didn't remember
  that his singing was more than self-expression. He
  might have awakened her.

  "Sorry," he said. Marriage was more than constant
  pleasure -- even on a honeymoon. It was another person
  to consider, and he'd neither experience nor talent
  for considering others.

  "Sing it through." Well, his talent for singing was
  better than his talent for considering others. He sang
  it all through. He stopped soaping to concentrate on
  the song. Jen flushed right after he finished the
  song. He finished his wash and rinse. He shaved and
  then returned to the room with a towel wrapped around
  him to hide the incipient erection. She might be
  amenable, but he didn't want to look demanding,
  especially when he'd shown he wasn't thinking about
  her.

  "Sorry. I felt happy and I've got into the habit of
  singing in the shower when I'm happy.  I'll have to
  remember that I'm not alone anymore."

  "And you'll have to remember that I like your singing.
  I asked for your singing." That was a sweet response.
  She was lying in bed, and he came over to her.

  "You're sweet." And her kiss was sweeter than her
  words. He lay down beside her and began to caress her.
  She broke away when he got serious, though.

  "I need to make my preparations and wash," she said.
  She went into the bathroom. He heard the shower
  running. Waste of water, he intended to get her dirty
  again. She came out wearing her robe, but dropped it
  to climb into bed with him. They kissed.

  "Good morning. A much better morning than the ones
  after I had to drive back from seeing you." And,
  kissing him and welcoming his caresses, she was making
  it an even better morning.

  "You didn't like visiting me?" But she was smiling. If
  she wanted more explicit compliments, he enjoyed
  complimenting her. For that matter, he liked to talk
  and this was a subject matter that was unlikely to
  bore her soon.

  "I didn't like leaving you. I like sleeping next to
  you all night. I like having you in bed with me in the
  morning." And he liked petting her when they both were
  awake with empty bladders.

  "And I like being in bed with you in the morning, too.
  And I like hearing you sing in the shower. Do you
  think I could talk the trustees into putting a shower
  into the Independence parsonage?"

  "You can ask. Maybe you shouldn't tell them the
  reason." Although they might think that reason
  romantic rather than erotic. She'd educated them to
  see that a minister could be a woman. Leave breaking
  it to them that a minister could be erotic to a later
  preacher. Anyway, one of her parishoners knew that she
  was quite erotic, and he was tasting all the skin he
  could in this position -- well not all, but all he
  could while resisting the greater temptation of the
  nipple.

  While his mouth was moving slowly towards its goal,
  his hand was savoring a great deal of the rest. When
  he brushed over her thighs, the dear girl spread her
  legs to give him even better access. He could have
  reached her center, but he teased himself -- and, he
  hoped, her -- by keeping to the smooth, white, thighs
  as long as he could.

  "David." So, he <b>had</b> been teasing her. He
  stroked over her lips, parted them to reach the inner
  ones, finally parted those to reach her moisture. When
  he stroked that up to her clitoris, she sucked in a
  breath audibly. By then, he was on her other nipple,
  sucking it to firm, quivering, responsiveness.

  But there was a lot he hadn't kissed. He started down
  her breast and across her belly. When the path led
  under the sheet, he pulled it off and got between her
  legs. He kissed the inside of one thigh and then the
  other, every change of thighs bringing him closer to
  the goal and further into range of her aroma of
  arousal.

  She clutched his hair in both hands and moved his head
  to her groin. He licked and kissed those lips, parting
  them with his tongue. Each lick started low, and went
  higher. Each lick ended higher than the previous one.
  Then his tongue touched her clit. He rested it there
  for a second, then went back down her slit. He
  alternated licking her lips and just touching her clit
  while her belly grew firmer and firmer under his hand.
  Then, she went over with a shout.

  "David!" She jerked under his mouth. He could do
  little more than hold on as she writhed, but he sucked
  when he could. When she grew still, he kissed her
  mound and moved back to lay down beside her. He put
  his arm across her and clasped her shoulder. That
  shouldn't be sensitive. He blew into her ear once, but
  she shivered.

  Her first voluntary move was to put her hand over the
  one he had on her shoulder.

  "Jen. Jennifer Blake."

  "That's my name." Which was why it was such fun to
  say.

  "The Reverend Mrs. Jennifer Blake," to be precise. He
  kissed her mouth. She responded, and he petted her.
  His tongue touched hers, and he tasted her sweetness.
  When his tongue pulled back, hers entered his mouth.
  He sucked it gently before kissing a trail down her
  face and neck to her lovely breasts. This time, he go
  to a nipple fairly fast and then simply jumped to the
  other. Since he didn't know how much his previous
  sucking had irritated them, he kept to licking.

  Then he moved between her legs and went back for
  another kiss on the mouth. Her tongue still tasted
  sweet. Her lovely, responsive, nipples were pressing
  against his chest. From this position, the breasts
  were more comfortable to kiss. He gave both
  smoothnesses their due before licking the nipples
  again. He needed her warmth. This time, he'd only get
  her ready with his tongue. When he started there,
  though, she spoke.

  "Now, David." He agreed completely. She was pulling at
  his torso. He smiled at her as he complied. He spread
  her lips with his fingers, and placed himself in her
  entrance. "Yes."

  "Yes!" His tip slipped between her slippery lips. She
  clasped his head as it entered there. Then she was
  caressing his shaft while his head drove deeper into
  her. Totally encased in her welcome, he paused to look
  in her eyes and smile. Then he let his desire move him
  through that warm clasp.

  Her welcome wasn't only there. She stroked her hand
  all down his torso. She held his bottom, pulling him
  against her. She met his strokes with her own. Then,
  hers were ahead of his. He tried to keep moving
  slowly, but he wasn't sure he could.

  "Oh," she said, but she didn't climax then.

  "Yes, Jen,  Yes, love." Come soon, darling, or I'll
  come without you. But he didn't. Her body writhed
  under him just before she clutched around him. Now, he
  could let himself go. But, now he wasn't holding back,
  the orgasm was a little beyond him. He stroked through
  her clutches and then through the smoother, but still
  warm and welcoming, tunnel as she relaxed. Then, it
  came. He drove into her and pumped what felt like
  gallons into her.

  He managed to move onto his side before sleep took him
  far away. He woke alone, but hear the shower running.
  He could have told her that the first shower was a
  waste of water. When she came back, she started
  unpacking. He needed a second shower, too. She was
  nearly dressed before he was out. He scrambled back
  into his clothes, and they went down to lunch.

  Their after-lunch ramble was inland. He held her hand,
  sometimes switching hands when they changed
  directions. There had been all that time in school and
  in front of her congregation when he'd wanted to touch
  Jen and couldn't. Now, they were honeymooners. Anybody
  who knew them, and few did, only knew them as
  newlyweds. Holding hands was perfectly appropriate;
  kissing was perfectly appropriate. Going further was
  for privacy, but it was perfectly appropriate, too. It
  would be the observers, if any, who would be breaking
  the social contract. They finally wandered back to the
  inn.

  "Swim?" he asked her.

  "Has it been an hour? I really need to finish
  unpacking." He could unpack, too. And they might get
  in a little innocent necking. It was too soon after
  the last for him to do anything serious.

  "That first, then." Jen shouldn't have any 'shoulds'
  nagging at her. She'd have enough of them back in
  Independence. A pastor's duties are never done; they
  are, at best, prioritized. "I don't think we need to
  hurry. The Atlantic isn't going to leave if we're
  late."

  But, whatever his resolutions about clearing her mind
  of nagging duties undone, he stopped her for a kiss.
  Then, he suggested the sensible division of the drawer
  space. It would have been sensible for the closet
  space, too, but there was only one closet. when he'd
  filled his side, there was plenty of space for Jen.

  She went into the bathroom to change into her swim
  suit while he put on his suit and a T-shirt and shorts
  for the trip to the beach. Either she had some
  residual modesty or she wanted to make a production of
  the suit. If the latter, it was worth it. She came out
  modeling a sexy bikini. He whistled, and it was well
  worth a whistle. She spun slowly so he could see it
  all, then covered up with a beach robe. He left his
  glasses in the room. He didn't have another pair if
  these got scratched or broken.

  Jen looked comfortable in the ocean. He'd worried,
  especially after she exhibited the phobia about plane
  travel. He left her and took a swim. He'd enjoyed the
  lake, had even enjoyed pools when he used them, but
  something about the ocean made swimming more fun. He
  went north keeping just in sight of land. When he came
  back, she was at the towel.

  "Ready to leave?"

  "Just about," she said. "I've developed some itches."

  "Salt water. Give me a few minutes in the sun." He got
  into his non-beach clothes, and she put her robe on.
  They both stepped into their flip-flops, and he picked
  up the towel. He held her left hand for the entire
  trip back; he was carrying the towel in his left hand.

  In the room, he helped her out of the robe and bikini.
  Proper removal of a bikini top required the smoothing
  of his hand between the cup and the flesh so it didn't
  come off shockingly fast. When she turned around, he
  scratched her back from far enough away that he could
  ogle her bottom at the same time. He remembered his
  rare glimpses of her clothed bottom back in Garrett.
  Those had been nice, but unconfined was even better.
  They had separate showers -- his third for the day
  although he scrupulously avoided soap this time.

  "Walk before dinner?"

  "Sunblock before walk?" she replied. "Although it
  seems the wrong time." Well, she probably should. He
  still considered sunburns something you either avoided
  by proper moderation or suffered through. On the other
  hand, he didn't want to suffer -- let alone have Jen
  suffer -- a sunburn on their honeymoon.

  "Well it would come off in swimming, anyway. And it's
  cheaper to cover less skin."

  "Maybe that's why so many of them didn't go swimming."

  "Maybe." He thought that many the women came to the
  beach to be seen in their suits. Why some of the men
  were on the beach but not in the water, he couldn't
  say. They'd have looked better totally underwater.
  Maybe they were afraid that the Atlantic would
  overflow if they all went in at once. More likely,
  they were there to look at the women.

  They sat on a park bench, in the shade despite the
  sunblock.

  "Enjoy your swim?" he asked her.

  "Very much, but I don't think I floated any higher."

  "Somehow, swimming in fresh water takes more energy.
  Some of it is to stay on the surface.  I can't just
  float."

  "I float in fresh water." Of course, she had all those
  luscious curves, some of which were buoyant. And he'd
  heard somewhere that a woman's vagina held enough air
  to help her float -- even the uterus did. So, the
  parts he loved best might keep her afloat. They talked
  about swimming, then about other things. He was
  getting hungry, but he'd had plenty of exercise today.
  Jen hadn't done all that much swimming, and --
  although she'd participated in the more pleasant
  exercise -- she hadn't moved so much; she might not
  have burned as many calories as he had. But if had
  been an early lunch after no breakfast. He glanced at
  his watch.

  "Hungry?"

  "Now I think about it."

  "We don't have to go back to the inn's dining room.
  Feel like fish?"

  "That's what you should have asked this afternoon. But
  I wouldn't mind eating some." That earned her a groan.
  He kissed his favorite punster, and they went in
  search of a restaurant. Jen ate with a healthy
  appetite. He liked that about her -- she lived in her
  body, not 'just visiting' like some women who thought
  that spiritual. Of course, he suddenly realized, he
  sometimes was just visiting when he lived in her body.
  But that was when he lived most vividly.

  Dragging his mind out of the gutter, he asked about
  her food preferences.

  "You've introduced me to a lot of diversity. I like
  that."

  "And I like to watch you eat. You enjoy things."

  "Are you telling me that you want me fatter, because I
  think I gain weight around you. That was all very well
  when it was a sometimes thing. It might not be for a
  marriage."

  "Well, for a marriage we won't always be eating out.
  If you want to limit things, we'll do so. I'm a
  survival cook. I can keep myself alive in the kitchen.
  You've eaten a third of the recipes that I can serve
  to company. Maybe I'll cook some nights, and you can
  diet easily since what I prepare won't tempt you."

  "I don't think you're that bad."

  "As I said, you've eaten one of the dishes I can serve
  company. But it isn't getting you fat I like about
  your eating. It's that you treat your body as though
  you like it. And, since I like your body, I'm glad
  that you do, too. Maybe you can compensate for more
  caloric intake by establishing a rigorous exercise
  program after bedtime."

  "David!" She blushed -- quite prettily. She then
  looked around. He didn't bother. Kids who knew they
  were going to be tested on the subject matter often
  didn't listen to what he was saying; he never expected
  strangers to do so.

  They held hands back to the inn. This was a nice
  habit. He doubted that they could maintain it in
  Independence.

  "I like holding your hand," she said in the room.
  Maybe they could maintain the habit.

  "I like holding yours, too.  Even if it is mostly
  euphemistic."

  "Euphemistic?"

  "Well."  He turned her to put a hand on each breast.
  "If we walked like this, you might not like the
  attention you got from passers by."

  "To say nothing of stepping on your toes." She was
  laughing. He kissed what he could reach of her from
  that position. Then he took off her blouse and bra. He
  kept kissing her while he figured how to remove her
  jeans. She was still laughing at him, but she pushed
  the jeans and even her panties down when he finally
  found the zipper. He petted her, reaching her mound
  and even her legs. That however, required that he bend
  over -- which removed much of his front from her back.

  "This would be easier in bed."

  "From this state," she replied, "you have to help."
  She had the jeans down to far too walk. He could have
  carried her to bed -- cave-man image, but he knelt in
  front of her to remove her shoes, jeans, and panties.
  Then, since he was right there anyway, he kissed her
  mound and sniffed the aroma which said that she was
  interested. When he let her go, she went to bed. He
  took off his own clothes and joined her there.

  They had a nice hug and a kiss that didn't need any
  bending over. But she started back up.

  "I have to make my preparations." But he'd had some
  ideas.

  "I was thinking."

  "About?"

  "We're started on a new life together. How about
  trying an experiment?" Allowing her to raise the
  objection of 'unromantic' before he suggested the
  actual experiment. But he wanted to know how many
  orgasms she was capable of.

  "What sort of an experiment?"

  "Well, we know you can have more than one orgasm in a
  single session. What we don't know is how many. Now,
  once I get my jollies, that's the end. I know that;
  you should have seen that. So...."

  "So?" Get explicit, Blake.

  "So, we don't have any obligations in the morning. We
  don't really have any obligations in the afternoon.
  So, tonight, why don't we see how many orgasms you can
  reach...? Reach orally?" And, in doing that, he'd get
  repeated views -- views, feels, sounds, even smells --
  of the most beautiful woman in the world in her most
  beautiful state.

  "You really want to do that?" He shouldn't have
  described it as a clinical experiment. Too late now.

  "Oh yes!"

  "Let me make my preparations, anyway.  Just in case."
  Which sounded favorable. And a good idea; he didn't
  trust himself through this experiment.

  "And then experiment?" He wanted to nail this
  agreement down.

  "And then experiment." She sounded interested as well
  as willing.

  He watched her walk away, appreciating the flex of her
  butt cheeks. She came out in her nightgown. Well, it
  was a sexy nightgown. Besides, taking it off was part
  of sex play. Besides, he needed to make his own
  preparations, too. He wanted to neither scratch her
  with his whiskers nor leave her in the middle to empty
  his bladder.

  Probably petting in the middle of this would be
  inappropriate. So, when he came back to her, he
  started an elaborate petting session. Besides, the
  closer she was to orgasm before he got to her
  clitoris, the more stimulation the clitoris could take
  later. They kissed, and he petted her through the
  nightgown. When he figured that both of them found the
  nightgown an impediment, he helped her remove it. The
  kisses then only began on her lips. He kissed down to
  her breast and stroked down to her mound. He even
  stroked the labia majora. This was too soon to get to
  the labia minora, though.

  When he'd kissed down her torso nearly to her mound,
  he got between her legs. She raised her knees. He
  began his kisses on her breasts, and kissed a
  different path down her abdomen. All the time, he was
  still stroking her mound and labia with his fingers.
  The second path of kisses ended at her mound. Then he
  moved to her legs. As her knees were conveniently
  raised, he could start above the knee and lick from
  there nearly to her loins. He did this first to his
  right and then to his left.

  Jen was tense, and it looked like the right sort of
  tension. Yes. When he licked her labia, she was
  flowing. He alternated licks on her labia and her
  clitoris while her torso went rigid. Then she writhed
  under his mouth.


  As soon as she relaxed, he thrust two fingers into
  her. They felt for her G-spot. He let her clit alone
  but rubbed directly over that little bump. When her
  tension seemed at another peak, he resumed licking her
  clit. He was rewarded with her clutching around his
  fingers. He sucked gently on her clitoris to continue
  the orgasm.

  When she was no longer gripping his fingers, he rubbed
  her G-spot again. But he stopped moving his fingers
  and went back to licking her labia and clit when her
  legs squeezed his head. He added G-spot stimulation
  when he thought it would bring her over. It did. She
  contracted around his fingers again and gasped his
  name while he sucked her clitoris. This climax seemed
  to last longer than the previous ones had.

  "Yes, Jen," he said when she'd relaxed. He wriggled
  his fingers to stimulate her G-spot again. "Yes,
  dearest." She had three more orgasms around his
  fingers, although they seemed to weaken from that last
  peak. Then she pulled him away by his hair.

  No means no, even in marriage, and that seemed a
  fairly definite no. He pulled out his fingers and got
  out from between her legs. She curled into the fetal
  position. He lay beside her waiting for her to
  straighten. She'd had six orgasms, and the third had
  seemed the most intense, physically. That told them
  something. Between inhaling the odor of her arousal
  for what seemed like an hour and having had her
  writhing under his mouth, he was intensely aroused. It
  would have been great to have participated in her
  third orgasm. That was for him. Maybe she would enjoy
  six of an evening more. They could, of course,
  alternate between what pleased her most and what
  pleased him most. It wasn't as if she'd ever refused
  him. She might just now, she might even be said to be
  doing so just now, but that wasn't denying him. That
  was having had enough sex just then.

  And, after all, whatever her solitary habits had been
  -- and he wasn't going to ask in expectation that she
  would accord him reciprocal reticence -- they probably
  didn't extend to multiples. A period of extended
  exercise could quite possibly improve the tone of
  certain muscles. Six might be her current limit. That
  didn't prove that it would be her limit next year. If
  so, he had better get his tongue in shape. He wouldn't
  fool himself that his phallus could handle that.

  Jen relaxed in sleep. He cuddled his love in the best
  approximation of the spoon position that her posture
  allowed.

  When he awoke the next morning, she was sleeping
  nearly straight. He cuddled her until his bladder
  drove him into the bathroom. This looked like a good
  day, a much better day than any before his marriage,
  even better than the day before. He sang in the
  shower, and Jen came in while he was singing. If she
  made a habit of that in Independence, the flush might
  cause problems. He didn't know about the water supply,
  but it couldn't be generous; nothing about the
  parsonage besides the space was. Well, worry about
  that when they put in a shower.

  Jen was back asleep when he returned to the outer
  room. Well, she probably needed her sleep. A pastor
  had demands 24 hours a day, and he already knew that
  Jen was conscientious, maybe too conscientious. Not to
  mention that her fiance had been demanding her time as
  well. The drives, at least, would be fewer after this.
  He'd sit and watch her sleep, but he wished he had a
  book to read. He'd brought a Bible, but this wasn't
  the time to study. He did think about the expansion of
  his book, though. It had started out as being about
  Paul's teachings on marriage. Then, undergoing pre-
  marital counseling, he'd realized that the church's
  teaching on marriage wasn't quite Paul's. And he'd had
  enough counseling courses himself to know that this
  wasn't a peculiarity of Campbell's. He'd written one
  short paper on an entirely different subject to keep
  his hand in, but he'd put most of his time in reading
  several current books on Christian marriage -- by that
  time he'd been more of a scholar doing comparisons
  than a future bridegroom learning the rules. Now, he
  was going back through history. He didn't want to
  spend the rest of his life writing his next book, and
  it was already looking longer than his publisher would
  be willing to print. On the other hand, he was unable
  to abandon an intellectual problem. He wasn't even
  sure he wanted to be the sort of person who could.

  But Jen was stirring. Even covered by sheet and
  nightgown, the sight was arousing.

  "What time is it?" He glanced at his watch.

  "Quarter to ten." She headed into the bathroom, and
  came out -- considerably later -- dressed. So much for
  his chance to get in a little morning love.

  "Breakfast?" She asked. He offered her his arm and
  took her downstairs. They were still serving
  breakfast, but the waitress gave them a coy look. So
  they were on their honeymoon, that didn't mean that
  they had spent the morning having intercourse, as she
  obviously believed. Then he smiled. Well, it hadn't
  been his decision that they hadn't. And they had spent
  the previous morning having intercourse. And last
  night hadn't exactly been spent in political
  discussion. Let her think what she wanted.

  Jen had a good meal and a second cup of coffee. she
  didn't look fresh as a daisy afterwards, though. Well,
  this was a vacation -- a beach vacation.

  "Beach?"

  "Okay," she agreed, "but let's take the sunblock." She
  changed in the bathroom while he changed in the room.
  Sunblock was a great idea, as he got to apply it to
  Jen. Even though all his favorite places to rub were
  covered, this was great fun. She turned face down and
  went to sleep soon afterwards. He'd thought enough
  without paper in front of him that day. He didn't want
  to go in swimming for the next hour; for that matter,
  he didn't want to go in when Jen couldn't know where
  he was. He should have brought a book. He spent a
  little time appreciating Jen's curves. Even the small
  of her back was sexy. As to her hips overflowing that
  small bikini bottom... He soon turned partly over to
  hide his erection. He relaxed down on the towel and
  gazed at her face. He might even have dozed a bit.  He
  was alert, though, when she first stirred. It had been
  a good deal more than an hour.

  "Want to go swimming now?"

  "Do they have ladies' rooms here?"

  "On the beach?" It seemed a strange idea. For that
  matter, people less ladylike than Jen would go out in
  the ocean a little and pull their suit bottoms aside.

  "Let's go back to the inn." On their way, he noticed a
  drug store with a PB rack. When he'd let Jen into the
  room -- her suit didn't have any place to store a
  keycard -- he went down and bought a Tom Clancy. It
  looked like the sort of book that would keep his eyes
  busy without taxing his mind. She was in blouse and
  slacks when he got back; they weren't going back to
  the beach. He held up the novel.

  "I figured that this would do for beach reading."

  "Did I abandon you?"  she asked.

  "Not in the least. You were right there, and dressed
  quite revealingly. I ogled."

  "Still, I should have stayed awake." The girl had too
  many 'shoulds' in her life already. He didn't want to
  be another, and -- if he were to be one -- there were
  things he wanted more than her staying awake.

  "Why?  This is our honeymoon, but it's also your
  vacation. If you need to sleep, then sleep." But he
  had another thought. "It's just that sleeping on the
  beach might lead some people to ask themselves what
  you'd been doing in bed that you hadn't gotten enough
  sleep there."

  "Oh you! Can't you keep your mind out of the gutter."
  Well, since she put it that way, no.

  "My mind was not on a gutter. You might call it a
  valley or a groove, but not a gutter."

  "Do you want to go out to lunch?" Point for his side.
  She'd changed the subject.

  "Sure. But are you ready for lunch yet?" He'd be
  happy, but she'd just worried about gaining weight.

  "I was thinking of exploring the town to
  find where we'd want to eat."

  "Fine." It was her time. "I should change." When he'd
  dons so, they went out. They identified a couple of
  restaurants that looked interesting. They ate in a
  fish place and returned to their room. They had a nice
  kiss, but swimming wasn't the only thing you shouldn't
  do the first hour after eating. he stepped back.

  "David..."

  "Yes?"

  "Your experiment." That sounded bad. It had been 'your
  experiment', not 'our experiment.'

  "Yes?"

  "I don't want to repeat it." Well, it was an
  experiment. "It was delightful at the time. I don't
  want you to think that it wasn't. But I've felt wrung
  out all day." That sounded definitive.

  "All right. I already knew it wasn't the sort of thing
  we could do while you were at the beck and call of
  your parishioners." Keep a little possibility open
  without threatening her. "If you want to try again,
  let me know.  Otherwise, we'll put it away."

  "I know you wanted to do this for me." Which was
  understanding of her. At least she wasn't calling him
  selfish, which maybe he was.

  "I wanted to do it. But my pleasure comes from seeing
  your pleasure. If your pleasure doesn't last into the
  next day, neither will mine."

  "I'm glad you understand."

  "Two is our limit?" That way, when he'd given her an
  orgasm, he could share the second.

  "Two is a special occasion."

  "Well, a honeymoon is a special occasion. But,
  somehow, I get the impression you don't want to go for
  two tonight."

  "How perceptive of you."

  "Why is it that any description of David Blake as
  'perceptive' sounds sarcastic?" Which got a laugh from
  her -- not a denial, which he wouldn't have believed
  anyway, but a laugh. He might not be perceptive, but
  he was clear-headed.

  After a bit, they went back to the beach again. They
  went swimming, or at least dipping, instead of
  sunning. The exercise was fun, but he missed his
  ogling. When he was sure an hour had passed, he
  challenged her to a race -- a point where the land
  jutted out which could be seen from where they were
  and back. He specified breast stroke coming back. She
  demurred at first.

  "Race you?  No way." That was all right; he intended
  to trail her, after all.

  "How much of a lead do you want? But back to here.
  Free style going, breast stroke coming back. Go out to
  where you think it would be fair. Then stand up, wave,
  and start off." Her swimming wasn't bad, but he knew
  he had her on endurance.

  She got out a good distance, waved, and took off. She
  was pushing herself too soon. He got close on the out
  leg. On the return, she used the breast stroke, as
  agreed. That meant a frog kick. He got as close as he
  cared to get to a kicking swimmer, and ogled her
  through the water. The view of a frog kick from
  directly behind, especially in that bikini, especially
  Jen in that bikini, was arousing in the extreme. He,
  however, didn't want to end the race with an erection.
  When they got close enough to their starting point
  that this was a danger, he moved to the side and
  overtook her. The breast stroke, dirty puns aside, was
  his best stroke.

  He was standing in the water when she puffed up to
  him. She clung to him, which started to give him the
  erection problem again.

  "That's more effort than I want to make again soon.
  You should compete in the triathalon.  How do you do
  running?" Well, she wasn't teasing him about the
  erection. Maybe it wasn't obvious in this suit.

  "I'm okay in all of it.  I'm not prize material,
  though."

  "You can sure beat me."

  "But you're prettier."

  "You could have passed me earlier," she said.

  "But that wouldn't have been as much fun to watch."

  "Humpf!" She went back to the towels, and he swam the
  course again. By the time he got back, he had had
  enough exercise, and the erection had disappeared.

  "You know," she said when he joined her at the towels,
  "Garrett is full of people who think that you're an
  adult."

  "Growing old is mandatory; growing up is optional."

  "You're impossible!" Which was what Deb said. But it
  was much more fun to hear from Jen. He got the sun
  block and looked at her. "I've already put it on."

  "Bet you end up with a diamond-shaped sunburn on the
  small of your back." That got her to turn over. He
  applied the sunblock to her back. He went from there
  to her legs, in case she'd missed the backs of her
  legs. As he started in on the inside of her thighs,
  however, she stopped him.

  "We're in front of all the world."

  "They don't know us." But he went back to Tom Clancy
  until Jen wanted to return to their room.

  He helped her out of her suit, and then she showered
  off the sunblock. She came out in bra and panties. She
  accepted two kisses and a cuddle before she pushed him
  away for his own shower. She was lying, fully dressed,
  on the bed reading the novel when he came out.

  "I didn't know you were a Tom Clancy fan."

  "I'm not, really." But she didn't offer to give him
  back his book.

  "I know. It was the only book available.  The Gideons
  are slipping these days."

  "I'd prefer Tom Clancy. I'm on vacation." Well, so was
  he, but he could read scripture even so.

  "Go ahead. I brought a Bible." He'd also brought a
  wife, however, and she was much more interesting. He
  lay down where his mouth was close to her arm. So he
  kissed that.

  "Hey! Read your own book and let me read mine." She
  was laughing. Maybe a less desirable reaction to his
  kisses than a moan of pleasure, but a good reaction,
  nevertheless.

  "Okay." He found the Song of Solomon and read "'I
  compare you, my love, to my mare harnessed to
  Pharaoh's chariot. Your cheeks show fair between their
  pendants and your neck within its necklaces.'" It
  wasn't the sexiest passage in the book, but he'd been
  in a hurry.

  "Where did you get that?" Showed the difference
  between girlhood and boyhood.

  "Song of Songs.  Didn't you read it?"

  "It wasn't covered in any of my courses."

  "You weren't an adolescent boy. One of the first books
  of the Bible I read all the way through. Before some
  Gospels." He tried to think back. "Maybe before any
  Gospel."

  "No wonder you're a biblical scholar.  Your two
  interests coincide." She was laughing again. Maybe
  laughing still.

  "See? I may not be perceptive, but I am consistent."
  But she wanted to read and rest. He let her -- only
  touching her bottom with his leg. He even reread the
  Song. Some OT scholars thought it had been a series of
  songs for wedding celebrations. Sure fit. When he grew
  hungry, he watched her page turning. When she seemed
  to be at a stopping place, he spoke.

  "Dinner?"

  "Mmm? Sounds like a good idea."

  "The place specializing in southern food?"

  "Let's." They had a late supper as they'd had a late
  breakfast followed by a late lunch. Even so, Jen
  didn't want to finish the generous portions they were
  served. He vacuumed up what she left.

  June or no, it was dusk when they got out, and the
  streetlights were on. They had no obligations. They
  wandered the town, kissing when they were in deep
  enough shadows. The drug store where he'd bought the
  PB was closed by the time they passed it, but it
  brought to mind the problem of two readers with but
  one book between them.

  "Is the Clancy all right, or do you want another
  book?"

  "You want your novel back?" Well, that or another
  book. But why get two books for him and none for her?

  "That's okay," he told her. "I figure I can finish it
  back in Independence. It's not as if you were going to
  take it far from me."

  "That's right. We'll be living in the same house."
  This was a thought much more important than reading
  matter.

  "Sleeping in the same bed." And, to remind himself --
  to remind both of them -- that they'd be sleeping in
  the same bed quite soon, he put his hand on her bottom
  to feel it flex as she climbed the stairs in front of
  him.

  In the room, she let him help her off with her clothes
  until she got to the underwear. Then she went into the
  bathroom, but she took the bag with the diaphragm with
  her. She came out naked, but he went into the john
  instead of taking advantage of the situation.

  When he returned to bed, she asked, "Did you even pack
  pajamas?" Of course he had. Did she think he didn't
  consider contingencies?

  "Pajamas and a robe. If I have to, I'll wear them.
  What if one of us comes down sick?"

  "That's your idea of when to wear pajamas?"

  "Yep! Or there is some problem that requires a
  maintenance man." Somehow, a conversation about
  pajamas had become a conversation about nudity. "I
  figure that there is no reason to cover myself around
  you.  I..." he pushed back the sheet "...have nothing
  to hide from you."

  "Except your sense." The lovely girl gave him such
  openings. He'd been thinking about verbal openings,
  but his cock twitched when he thought of the word.

  "That's what I said." She smiled. Even better, she
  kissed him. It wasn't even a joint effort; he was
  lying flat on his back, and she was leaning over to
  reach his mouth. When she lay back, he reciprocated.
  From her mouth, he kissed down to her breast. When he
  stroked her delta, she spread her legs. He responded
  by caressing her thighs.

  He kissed a trail down her breast, down her torso. He
  kissed all the way to her thigh while kneeling on the
  bed to her side. Then, he had to shift position
  entirely. 'Swinging from the chandelier' no longer
  sounded so funny; crawling around a shifting surface
  avoiding all the best supports because it would hurt
  her was a pain. Between her legs, he kissed her thigh
  again, and then trailed kisses up the thigh to her
  delta. He spread her labia majora and licked her
  juices from her labia minora. Then he slid his arms
  under her thighs. He reached up her body all the way
  to her sweet breasts. With one in each hand, he went
  back to licking up her juices. He'd promised that this
  would be a one-orgasm night for her, and he ensured
  that by just avoiding her clitoris with his tongue.

  "David," she moaned finally. He raised his head.

  "Yes?"

  "David, please!" Well, it wouldn't be polite to ignore
  a lady's invitation. He slid his arms out from under
  her legs and lifted himself from the bed. He moved up
  above her body until he was almost in position. He
  shifted his weight onto his left arm to free his right
  hand to open her and place himself.

  Then he slid into her warmth, her moisture, her
  welcome. He kissed her eyebrows and returned his hands
  to her breasts. Then he took smooth strokes, as slowly
  as he could manage, through her wonderful slickness.
  Her nipples were firm under his fingers. Her face was
  responsive in his sight. He felt all of her soft,
  warm, grasp slide over the head of his cock; she
  looked pleased. He felt her entrance slip along the
  entire length of his shaft; now, she looked worried.
  the friction was driving him to move faster and
  faster, and the speed was increasing the friction. She
  was moving her bottom, lifting it as he drove down,
  retreating as he rose up. Her face expressed pain.

  She clutched his bottom and pulled him tighter as he
  drove into her. She clasped along his length, clasped
  again. He took one more stroke through that clutching.

  "Jen!" he cried. He pushed into her and throbbed
  although he was already in as far he could get. He
  pumped his essence into his love. When she collapsed
  an instant before he did, he dropped his left arm and
  thrust with his right. He lay panting on his side
  facing her.

  Soon, she turned and spooned back against him. He held
  her in his arm. His breath hit her neck, and she
  wiggled. That moved her bottom across his cock in a
  way which would have been arousing at any other time.

  "Sweet Jen," he said.  "Sweet Jennifer. This is the
  way it is supposed to be. Sweet Jen in my arms all
  night." And they went to sleep like that.

  June or no, two bodies or no, it was chilly when he
  woke up in the night. He got up and managed to get the
  top sheet out from under her. When he came back from
  the john, he covered them both and hugged her again.

  The next time he woke, it was morning and Jen was
  still in his arms. When he needed to go to the john,
  he tucked the sheet around her. Once in the bathroom,
  he shaved and showered. This was the ideal morning. He
  sang about it, remembered that this might bother Jen,
  remembered that she liked his singing, even his shower
  singing.

  "Morning has broken, like the first morning. Blackbird
  has spoken, like the first bird...."


  The end
  Morning Has Broken -- M
  by Uther Pendragon
  nogardneprethu@gmail.com
  2011/03/31


  These same events from Jen's perspective, can be read
  in:
  http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/Gjt/bla_03f.htm
  Jen's experience

  The first adventures of David with Jen:
  http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/Gjt/bla_01m.htm
  "Jen"

  The next adventures of David with Jen:
  http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/Gjt/bla_04m.htm
  "In the Morning -- M"

  Another story about another couple beginning their
  marriage:
  http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/Gjt/pie_04m.htm
  "Legal"


  The index to almost all my stories:
  http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/index.htm
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