From: "Michael K. Smith" <mksmith1@bellsouth.net>
Subject: {ASSM} New Story: Coping, by Michel K. Smith
Date: 23 Jan 2000 00:00:00 GMT
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[I was writing something else entirely, when I had to pause for a couple of
days and write this one instead.  I don't know why -- it just sort of wrote
itself....]



                                     Coping
                              by Michael K.  Smith



   Even as he flicked off the bedside lamp just after midnight, Tom knew it
was going to be a long night.  He wouldn't be falling asleep anytime soon,
if at all.  His eye followed the familiar patterns the shadows cast on the
walls of the dim bedroom, remembering how Margaret had once talked him into
a game of "cloud shapes" with the shadows.

   Margaret had been gone six months.  Six months tomorrow, in fact.

   Tom's mind shied away from an extended contemplation of that datum.  He
couldn't help but think about it, but it wouldn't help things to dwell on
it all night.  With a sigh, he pushed back the covers and padded naked into
the bathroom.

   The container of sleeping tablets Dr.  Wetherell had prescribed three
months before was still half-full.  He hated to take medication for
anything less than severe illness, but he knew that without an occasional
tablet for assistance, he would again lie awake all night, growing more
miserable and despondent by the hour.  And in the morning he still would
have to go to work, but he wouldn't get anything useful accomplished.  And
then his boss would give him that look that combined sympathy, strained
patience, and calculation, as he obviously wondered whether Tom would ever
return to his old, efficient managerial ways.

   He ordinarily allowed himself only one tablet at a time, but tonight,
after a moment's thought, he shook two out of the vial and quickly downed
them both, dry, before he could talk himself out it.



   At a quarter after midnight, Tom was hazily aware of a light tapping at
his door.  Then it creaked open and a reddish-brown mass of hair appeared
in the opening.

   "Dad?" Rachel opened the door a little further and peered at the form
under the covers, all the way over on one side of the big bed.  Whenever
she saw her father alone in the bed he had shared with her mother, her eyes
blurred.  She swallowed and stepped all the way in.

   "Daddy?  Can I come in here for a little while?  I can't sleep because .
.. .  you know.  Thinking about Mom and everything.  Dad?"

   Tom shifted under the comforter.  Part of his mind was aware that his
daughter had entered the room, but he couldn't seem to make his tongue
work. He settled for an incoherent mumble.  Rachel took this for permission
and quietly pushed the door shut before tip-toeing to the vacant side of
the bed.  At thirteen, her legs were already long and athletic, and she
made it in three graceful, barefoot strides.  Carefully pulling back the
covers, she slid between the smooth, cool sheets, settled herself, and
closed her eyes.

   And opened them again.  She actually had hoped to be able to talk with
her father a little bit.  She knew what tomorrow was.  But she realized the
anniversary was probably even worse for him, and she didn't even consider
waking him.  Probably couldn't anyway, if he had taken one of those pills.
And he probably had.

   Gazing thoughtfully toward the master bedroom's dressing area, she
finally climbed out of the bed again.  The label on the container said she
-- her father, rather -- could take up to two tablets at a time.  Just one
would be enough for her.  She shook one out onto her palm, studied the
number code on it, and swallowed it with a handful of water from the tap.



   Usually, a sleeping tablet meant a profoundly dreamless sleep.  But, as
he often was, Tom became aware of tonight's dream beginning to form.

   He was driving home from work, just as he always did, relieved to exit
the freeway and to wend his way into the far reaches of their subdivision.
But as he turned the corner of their cul-desac in the growing dark, he
suddenly noticed a human form sprawled in the street.  He slammed to a halt
and fumbled with his seat belt, but when he looked again, the street was
clear.

   He got out anyway and looked around -- and then he saw the body again,
halfway up his own driveway.  It was a woman and it looked like. . . .  But
then it was gone again.  He finally eased the car up the drive and around
the corner of the house into the brick carport, watching carefully for a
reappearance of the body, but the way remained clear.

   And when he went into the kitchen, there she was.  Margaret, sprawled
lifelessly on the tile floor, a broken coffee mug near her hand.  He knew
she was dead, knew she had had a coronary, knew that the doctor would tell
him over and over that there was nothing he could do, had *never* been
anything he could do, she had been dead since sometime that morning.

   With a choking, strangled sob, Tom dragged himself almost physically out
of the horrible truth of the dream.  He turned the other direction on the
pillow and felt himself sinking down into the mattress again.

   Another dream -- but this one recalled pleasant memories from early in
their marriage, before Rachel's arrival began to require circumspection and
more careful timing of their romantic impulses.

   Tom's dream-self smiled, remembering the times Rebecca would be waiting
for him at the kitchen door on his return from work.  Sometimes she wore a
wispy negligee, showing off her slender, almost boyish form, posing for him
in the doorway with one hip canted, knee turned in like a pin-up.

   Sometimes she would be naked, wrapping herself around him before he had
a chance to take off his jacket.  Once she had even come out into the sunny
carport that way, watching him with a crooked grin as he got out of the
car. She was stroking her pussy with both forefingers and the aroma of her
was nearly overwhelming, even outdoors.

   And sometimes they didn't even make it back to the bedroom, but fucked
right there in the kitchen, or in the living room.  Once, he had turned her
around and pressed her up against the sink, pushing down his slacks and
then entering her from behind as she pushed her small, firm ass hard
against his groin.

   Tom-in-the-dream remembered Margaret's slender waist, the slight flare
of her hips, the lovely, unblemished expanse of her lower back.  He
pictured the way the muscles worked and the flat bones shifted as he spread
his hands across her back, the way she could grip and squeeze his cock with
her cunt as he pushed deep, deep within her.

   He remembered her breasts, too: Not large but not immature, with dark
red nipples that could become as rigid as light switches.  He was fond of
her breasts -- but he was crazy about her ass.  The first time he ever saw
her, she was wet and laughing in denim short-shorts and a halter top, doing
her share in her sorority's Pledge Week Car Wash.

   He had stood across the street with his textbooks under his arm,
mesmerized by the beauty of her bottom.  The next day, he prevailed on a
girl he knew at the house, and that Saturday they had their first date. 
From that evening, there had been no one else for either of them but each
other.

   Margaret acknowledged the debt she owed to her ass in catching his
attention in the first place, and she delighted in showing it off for him
-- wiggling provocatively as she preceded him up the stairs, or sitting on
his lap and clenching her gluteal muscles.  Once she had raised her skirt
with her back to him in a hotel elevator to demonstrate that she had
removed her panties before leaving their room.

   In his dream, Tom did what he hadn't had the nerve to do on that
occasion.  He pressed her flat against the mirrored interior of the
elevator car, grinding himself against the perfect hemispheres of her ass.
Then he stretched her arms high up the wall, working the head of his
stiffening cock between her cheeks, straining against the warmth and
moistness that spread out from between her legs.  He kissed the back of her
neck and nipped the flesh a little.  Margaret had sometimes enjoyed being
man-handled a little, and she moaned and leaned her head back against his
shoulder, her thick red hair tickling his nose.

   His cock was poised at the entrance to her, and there he paused,
nibbling at her shoulder as he made a game of pushing into her a fraction
of an inch and then withdrawing.  And, as she sometimes did, Margaret
responded by whispering "Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me, . . ." and making small
animal sounds in the back of her throat, knowing how that aroused him.

   "Oh, Tom, . . .  put it in me.  Oh, God, fuck me!  Daddy?  What. . .  ?"

   Margaret had never called him "Daddy" before.  Strange, Tom thought, as
he began pushing a little harder.  Damn, she was really tight, much more
than usual.  He slid his hands back and forth around her hips, enjoying the
shape of her.

   "Daddy?  What are you doing?  Are you. . .  ?  Ohhhh. . . ." The voice
faded with a tremor.

   Tom tried to blink his eyes and the elevator car began to fade. 
Margaret looked back over her shoulder, only . . .  only she looked
different, and a little fearful.

   He peered down at his hands, squeezing and massaging the youthful, naked
hips.  The head of his penis was wedged between the cheeks of Rachel's ass,
pressing against the opening to her pussy.  And his daughter, lying spooned
on her side beside him, was slowly humping back against him.

   "Oh, Daddy, . . .  is this what you and Mom used to do?  Do you need to
do it with me, now?  Will it help you, Dad?"

   The effect of the sleeping tablets was sloughing away now.  Tom finally
understood what he was doing.  His desperate mind dreaming about fucking
Margaret, his body reaching for what was available.  He lay trembling,
feeling the rigidity of his cock, overwhelmed with lust, wanting so badly
to make love to his wife.

   The thing was, Rachel at thirteen was agonizingly alluring.  Tom was
sure she was the image of her mother at that age.  Sweet, pretty, with
thick auburn hair and a slender figure like her mother's, too . . .  and so
unknowingly seductive.

   "Do you want to . . .  to fuck me?  Go ahead, Daddy, if that's what you
need.  I can do it, I know I can."

   She pushed back against him again and her tee-shirt rose higher on the
small of her back.  Her lower back formed a lovely curve and the sight, in
the dim light, of her bare, smooth bottom below the hem of her shirt burned
itself into Tom's vision.  He was very aware of the soft warmth of her
flesh beneath his hands.  And the first inch of his penis was now hidden
from view.

   Tentatively, almost without meaning to, he pressed forward just a
little. Another half-inch of his cock slid into Rachel, and she shuddered
-- but not, he thought, in pain.  Then the muscles of her young cunt
squeezed him, sending shivers through his own body.  He couldn't help
himself - he wasn't even sure he was in control any longer.  He held his
breath and pushed harder.

   "Oh . . .  God . . .  ohhhhhhh . . . ." Rachel balled up the sheet in
her fist and hunched her shoulders.  "God, that feels so . . .  oh, Daddy .
. . ."

   Tom watched in agonized fascination as his penis disappeared inside his
daughter.  He moved slowly, he didn't want to cause her any pain, but he
kept moving.  And finally, he was there, buried in her.  He thought about
all the times he had done this with Margaret, watched himself fucking her
as she writhed in his grasp, panting and moaning.

   Rachel was trying her best to hold still for him, but her pelvis was
moving back and forth sensually, still pressing her ass against him with
involuntary little jerks and twitches.

   Slowly, carefully, he pulled his cock back until most of it was exposed.
Then he pushed it into her again.  Rachel sighed deeply, lifting her head,
straightening her arms in front of her.  When he was completely buried in
her again, he pulled her hips harder against himself and pushed even more.
Rachel groaned and shook her head, and the lovely auburn tangle brushed
across her shoulder blades.

   "Oh, Daddy, it feels so big!" Her voice was soft but urgent.  "Are you
going to do it all, Dad?  Are you going to have a . . .  a . . .  ?  What
do they call it?  An orgasm?" The sound of his daughter's voice saying such
things raised Tom's mind to a white hot cauldron, bubbling with the need to
finish what he had started.

   Out again, slowly.  In again.  Out, a little faster.  And in.  And out
and in.  Rachel's cunt was wet now, and his cock moved more easily.  Tom
was breathing harder and he could felt the tingling begin to build, back
there behind his genitals.

   Rachel was gasping and shaking, almost sobbing, but she had reached back
and was clutching her father's hand where it squeezed her hipbone.  He was
sure she didn't want him to stop, not now.

   As the pressure in his groin mounted, he remembered the sensation of
coming inside Margaret.  He wanted so badly to feel the constriction, the
explosion, again.  But this was Rachel, not Margaret.  He tried to hold
that thought in the front of his mind.

   And an instant before the last moment, he managed to pull himself out of
her, sliding his slippery cock up the vee between her cheeks.  Then he
erupted, and he watched in continued fascination as his steaming semen
stretched far up his daughter's bare back, white streamers across her short
ribs and along her spine.  Another jerk, another geyser of come puddled in
the small of her back.  Another, and a milky tear oozed down her ass.

   Rachel's face was buried in her pillow and she was gasping for breath,
her shoulders heaving up and down.  "Did you do it, Dad?  Did you?"

   "Yes, baby.  But I didn't come inside you.  It'll be okay, I think." He
stroked her back, wiping up his come as he went.  So lovely, so enticing,
so sweet, so sexy.

   When Rachel had caught her breath, she turned over and snuggled up to
his chest.  "That was really something, Daddy.  It felt so strange -- but
so nice!" She spread the flat of her hand across his sweat-damp chest.  "I
wish I could do everything for you that Mom used to do, Dad.  I miss her so
much, but I could try to take her place, if you want me to. . . ." She
peeked up at his face.

   Tom smiled down at his daughter.  No one could replace Margaret, not
even Rachel -- but he thought they would be able to manage things together.
Just the two of them.  One way or another, they would cope.


                              END

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Copyright 2000 by Michael K. Smith. Copies may be made and posted
elsewhere for personal
enjoyment, but all commercial rights are reserved.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

-- 
Michael K. Smith            mksmith1@bellsouth.net
play = http://book-smith.tripod.com/booksmith.html
 ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ 
      THESAURUS (n.): An ancient reptile with
             an excellent vocabulary.

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