WARNING: This story doesn't contain much explicit sexual matter,
but there's probably enough for the usual warning. If you are
under 18, or live in a jurisdiction in which such matter is
illegal, please stop reading now.

This story may be archived on free web sites but is not to be
distributed without this note and the name of the author,
changed in any way, or sold. Please do not re-post without
consulting the author. Copyright 1998 by Jane Urquhart.  My web
site is http://www.asstr.ml.org/~Jane_Urquhart

 INTRODUCTION: I don't usually stick an introduction in front of
my stories, but this one needs one. For one thing, it verges on
blatant self-promotion. But what can I do? See, this guy who has
read most of my stuff wrote me a nice letter the other day
praising my latest, and then he asked me a question. His wife
is, it seems, a great romance reader, but she doesn't even know
about the sex stories on the Net. He thinks she'd like them, but
he doesn't want to upset her with one of those 100-proof stroke
stories he reads all the time. So would I please tell him which
of my stories he should start with to ease her into the sex
story world? So I recommended a couple. Then this happened.
Well, I think this happened. Oh, nuts! MAYBE this happened.



EROTICA 101  (Humor; FM cons)

by Jane Urquhart



	"Hey, Michelle, I want to ask you something."

	I was deep into one of those novels where a big hairy Scot was
distressing a damsel no end when my husband produced this
remark. Since talk of any sort is not one of his big things, I
swam up to answer.

	"Yeah?" 

	I'm always gracious when people interrupt my reading.

	"I wanted to ask you," he said, "if those romance things you
read all the time are sexy."

	Now as far as I know--and I ought to know if anybody does,
right?--sex is not one of my husband's big things, either. To be
fair, his technique does seem to have improved a little in
recent months, but he's still not one of those guys I hear about
that's always wanting to make out on the kitchen floor. And not
very romantic, either. So this question sounded mildly
interesting. 

	"Well, sure," I said. "They're love stories. So they're kind of
sexy, yes."

	"No," he said, looking slightly embarrassed, as if he'd seen me
sitting on the pot or something, "I mean, do they describe sex
much, go into any detail?"

	"Well, no," I said. "Not to any great extent. The men are
always feeling up the heroine toward the end of the book, but
the chapter always seems to finish when the really heavy
breathing starts." Now I began seriously to wonder what this
conversation was in aid of.

	"See," he said, "I found this stuff on the Internet I thought
you might be interested in. Sex stories."

	"No kidding?" I said. "I knew there were some there, but I
assumed they were just crap--you know some guy sticking his
ten-inch tool into this pneumatic blonde chick or something. I
like real stories."

	"No, really," he said. "There's a lot of that, that's for sure,
but their are some real stories, too, good ones."

	"Fancy that," I said, having no faith whatsoever in his
literary taste. But what the hell, we were actually having a
conversation, right? I was getting downright mellow. "Why don't
you print me up one, then? I wouldn't mind taking a look." He
said, OK, he would, and shut up. I went back to hairy old
Scotland in the 1440s and forgot all about it.

	The next day he handed me this printout, maybe fifteen pages
altogether. I read it that night. It's about this clunky babe
with good legs getting laid under a palm tree on a desert
island. She likes it. I would, too. It even turned me on a
little.

 	I handed it back to him.

	"Not bad," I said. "At least the grammar's good, but there's
not much of a story, really. You got anything that's maybe a
little more complex?"

	"Actually, I do," he said. "By the same woman. This one's true,
she told me."

	"She told you?" I said, amazed. "You write to these people?"

	"Sure," he said. "They like to hear from readers--they don't
get paid. Anyhow, I asked her a few months ago when it first
came out if it was true, and she said it was."

	"OK," I said, "Make me a copy, please." He did, and he gave it
to me when he got home from work the next evening. It was at
least twice as thick as the first one. It looked long enough to
be a story.

	I read it at lunch the following day. More like it. Same woman,
but this time it was a long, involved story about her seducing
her best friend's husband. Again with details. Interesting
details. The hero, I guess he was, reminded me of  Mike, my
husband. Clueless. But the story part wasn't bad--they act like
real people, even go to some ditsy opera, and all her worrying
is even kind of funny. And I find it turns me on good this time.
I even found myself thinking of my best friend's husband, who is
a hunk.

	 If  hubby was reading this kind of stuff, I thought, then how
come I'm getting eight hours sleep nearly every night?

	So that night after supper I asked him that very question.

	"Well," he said, "I try to save it up for Saturday nights. We
both need to be awake at work, you know, so we need our sleep."

	OK, maybe this is true. Not that I need to be all that awake at
work, but OK. And I had noticed that Saturday nights were a tad
more active than they used to be.  But that's not all I wanted
to know.

	"I notice," I said judiciously, "that these people seem to
engage in certain activities we don't."

	"Yeah," he said, turning bright pink. "I've always been afraid
you'd think it was dirty if  I tried anything different."

	"Dear Heart, you might ask," I said, exasperated, "You could
say something like, 'Would you be upset if I practiced my
cunnilingus on you?' I don't think I'd divorce you if you asked
that."

	He looked a little surprised and said, "Well? Would you?"

	"Would I what?" I said. "Divorce you or be upset if you wanted
to practice cunnilingus on me?"

	"Either," he said, smiling at last.

	"Well, I certainly wouldn't divorce you for that," I said, "and
I guess I'd allow you to practice at least once to see if it was
worth while." I'd allow him to practice until he got a gold
medal. Hell, I'd give him a gold medal myself.

	"Really?" he said. "Gee, I'm amazed! I thought you were just
too straight for that. Actually, Janey says in one of her
stories that women don't turn that down, but I didn't think it
applied to you."

	I got up out of my chair and headed for the bedroom. I took off
all my clothes, took a shower, and looked back in the living
room. He was still sitting there at the computer, reading
something.

	"Hey!" I said. "Come and practice. Now." Strike while the iron
is hot is my motto. And I got into the bed.

	He came in, looking sheepish again, and took off his clothes. I
had a sheet over me, but there was plenty of bare flesh in view.
Maybe not enough, I thought, and pulled the sheet down a foot or
so. I have boobs that Janey woman would give anything for.

	"How long since you read the story?" I asked while he was
taking off his socks.

	He blushes again. Good God. "I read it just after I made the
printout," he said. "I wanted to make sure it wouldn't be too
raw for you."

	"It wasn't," I said. "Do you remember what she made the guy do?"

	"Yeah," he said. "She told him to stroke her right ankle and he
got the wrong one."

	"Right," I said. "Now I want you to do just what he did, OK?"

	"Like act out the story?"

	"Exactly," I said. "You brought it home. What did you expect?"

	"Can I kiss you first?"

	"You may," I said. Dividends already. But my vagina was getting
warm and just a little damp, and I wasn't sure just how much
foreplay I was interested in.

	So he climbed into bed, managed to get an arm around me and
gave me a big kiss. More of a kiss than I'd had in quite a
while. Tongues wrestling, arms squeezing. I guessed all that
time he spent on his computer wasn't wasted after all.

	Then he backed down to where my ankles were, pulling off the
sheet as he went. It was a little chilly. If I had my druthers,
I'd sleep in a hooded sweatshirt, but I couldn't expect action
wearing that, could I? We have to sacrifice for our art. But so
far it had been a hell of a lot of sacrifices and not near
enough art. Anyhow, he pulled down the sheet and began to stroke
the ankle gently. This writer babe at least gave good
directions. No major complaints about that, but by that time I
was getting eager for the main event. I restrained myself, but I
did open my legs wide enough for a six-lane highway. He followed
the directions, finally getting up to my tiny little quim, and I
was liking this quite a bit. He kind of burrowed around. Her
directions get a little vague at this point. I decided to put in
a footnote.

	"What you do now," I said helpfully, "is use your hand to open
it up a little. I wouldn't mind a few little strokes with your
finger, either."

	Compliance followed. He really is a nice man. He finally got
his tongue in and started trying to eat my clit. I about jumped
out of my skin.

	"Whoa!" I said. "Take it easy, for God's sake! Just kind of
flick it a little. Warm it up, so to speak." He retreated,
slowed up, and things got better. Not much later I was holding
his head and yelling, "Go for it!"

	Well, all that fairly heated him up, and we went on to a
rousing, three-star fuck. I got to thinking the Internet was,
indeed, going to revolutionize life as we know it. It sure as
hell was revolutionizing mine, and I was all for it.

	The next evening Mike came home wearing this knowing grin. He
grabbed me and kissed me hard, bending me over backwards like
some kind of flamenco dancer. Well, shiver my timbers! Casanova,
move over! Wherefore art thou, Romeo? This was MY HUSBAND!

	Who wants to cook when romance beckons?

	"Let's send out for pizza," I said, coyly.

	"OK," he said. "I brought home a bottle of red wine, it'll go
good."

	Wine? This guy sits on the couch whenever he can watching some
stupid game and drinking a six-pack. I didn't know he even knew
what wine was.  All right, I wasn't that familiar with it
myself, but I'm adventurous. I'll try anything. But Mike?

	"Wine?" I said. "Where'd you get that idea?"

	"Same place," he said. "The way I figure it, this Janey really
knows how to live. Her father was a war correspondent, and her
mother is still an actress, and they've got money, you can tell.
She has this job she doesn't think much of, but it sounds OK to
me--better than being an assistant manager at a tire store. I
think she just does it for fun, or something. Anyhow, she seems
to have a good time, even if she is a little dumb sometimes. And
she drinks red wine, and her characters all drink wine, so why
not try it? It's supposed to be romantic."

	I was getting a little jealous. He really liked this babe. I
came straight out of the potato fields--Fort Kent High is not a
major institution of higher education. But my family is
respectable, my father's a farmer, and I'm no dummy. I read a
lot, and it's not all romances, either. I know when something's
fishy. First thing you know he's going to buy a silk shirt or
something. And maybe get himself a college girl. Hell with that!
But I didn't say anything. Well, not much. 

	Mike had to struggle to get the damn bottle open. He had this
corkscrew, but it didn't work or something, and we had cork all
over the kitchen counter. I took the bottle and put the wine
through a tea strainer and we drank it out of orange juice
glasses. After the first couple of sips I thought it wasn't too
bad. Unusual for Mike, but not bad. The pizza man came pretty
quick. I was almost as hungry as I was curious.

	"How old is this Janey?"

	"She's thirty-four," he said. "Her birthday was July 12." I
relaxed a little. The babe's over the hill. Way over.

	"And how do you know these details?" I inquired.

	"Oh, it's all in the stories," he said.

	"Does she write to you a lot?"

	"Nah," he said. "I send her a note when I read one of her
stories, and she sends back about two lines of thank-you.
Polite, but not much else. Why the quiz?"

	"I don't know," I said. "Have you got another one for me
tonight?"

	"She's supposed to be writing what they call 'vanilla,' but I
don't know about this one," he said. "You up for some pretty
wild stuff?"

	Wild stuff? Moi? (I saw somebody in a movie say that. Very
hoity-toity. I'm working on becoming a sophisticated woman.)

	"I guess I can handle it," I said. "If it's really filthy, I'll
throw it away." Like hell. After I finished it I'd give it to my
friend Jeannette at work. She's on the perfume counter and
thinks she's really hot stuff, but we get along pretty well.

	So we finished the pizza and made out a little but didn't do
anything hot. He wanted to watch some baseball game--something
about a home run record. I read a copy of Cosmopolitan I picked
up after work. Had some interesting stuff in it.

	I got tired of the Cosmo by the eighth inning and started on
the new story. Well, now. We sure as hell weren't going to act
this one out. No way. It was about "a small informal orgy" with
Janey's friends. Still, I did smile a little when I thought
about Jeannette's husband. Nothing's impossible. When the game
was over and he came back to earth I told him I'd read the story.

	"How'd you like it?" he said.

	"Not bad," I replied calmly. "In fact, pretty good. I don't
think we can afford Florida, but it's summertime, so we can go
down to Ogunquit or Wells for a day or two. You want me to call
Jeannette now?" 

	He was practically out of his chair.

	"Now, wait a minute!" he shouted. "It's just a story for God's
sake! I bet it isn't even true. Are you out of your mind?"

	"No," I said, "I just thought you were showing me these things
so we could do some of the things they did. What people like
Janey and her friends do."

	He was getting mad. I was about to giggle.

	"Goddamn!" he said. "What's the matter with you? You know I
wouldn't ask you to do anything like that!"

	"You don't want to throw a leg over Jeannette?"

	"NO, I don't want to throw a leg over Jeannette!" he said. "And
I don't want that bastard Doug pawing you, either!"

	I pouted.

	"So who's gonna paw me, then?"

	"I am, you silly bitch!" he said. I always like it when he
calls me names. Proves he's got blood pressure.

	"You are?" I asked innocently. "When?"

	"Now!" he said, loudly, and jerked me out of the chair. Back
into flamenco position. He's pawing at my boobs. Goody!  First
thing you know we're in the bedroom, in the bed, and if you
think this McGwire person I keep hearing about can hit home
runs, you just don't know my Mike!

	After it was all over and we'd calmed down a bit, just lying
there cuddling, he apparently thought things over.

	"You were kidding, weren't you?"

	"Well," I said, "I got your attention, right?"

	He smiled this loopy smile and said, "You sure did!"

	"By the way," I said, "I haven't read anything in those stories
about blowjobs. Janey opposed to that? I wouldn't object to a
little research, say, tomorrow."

	We're lying there like two hogs after a good feed, naked as
jaybirds, and he blushes. Again.

	"I didn't know you'd even heard about blowjobs," he said.

	"Well, I did," I said. "I've just been hearing about them since
I was ten, that's all." I didn't think there was much point in
talking about that time in my last year of junior high. But I
did think that anything that kept him interested in lying around
naked with me was worth discussing. You got to understand--Mike
may not be totally swift about personal relationships, but he's
big and strong, and he makes good money, and he's going to go
back to school part time in the Fall to finish his business
degree. I love him, too. A lot. We're going to have about
eighteen kids. But not right away.

	"Actually," he said, "I think Janey's partial to cunnilingus.
She wants her women to get theirs. But in her last story she did
mention blowjobs a little."

	"Printout. Tomorrow," I said.

	"Well, OK, but I don't know if you'll like this story. It's not
a Janey story--says so right at the top. It's about the author
and this old geezer--he's pushing fifty, for God's sake--getting
it on in some big hotel down the coast. But it's full of  this
literary kind of stuff and moonlight and so on. The sex is good,
though--maybe her best yet."

	It sounded pretty good to me. I like "moonlight stuff" a lot.

	"Tomorrow," I said, "Without fail."

	I kind of dragged around the next day, but how much energy does
it take to sell underwear in a mall in South Portland? I mean
"lingerie."

	Mike looked like he'd just done the Indy 500 on foot when he
got home that night.

	"Here," he said. "I ate a sandwich at work. I'm going to bed.
Now." He handed me another thick printout.

	"I love it when you talk dirty," I said.

	He just looked at me and grinned, then started shucking his
clothes. I was a little bushed myself. No action that night, not
by a long shot.

	Lunchtime the next day was devoted to a careful reading of this
major literary effort that Mike found not quite his kind of
thing.

	I understood it, all right. All of it. I thought it was
terribly romantic. Especially the blowjob part. 

	Well, there's no point in going into any more details. Let's
just say he found my efforts worth while. Not to say "world
class" like his favorite heroine. But quite satisfactory.

	We were coming up on our first anniversary. We were doing all
right, for my money. In all areas. I wasn't picking potatoes,
and he wasn't working in a gas station. What more can you ask?

	There was, however, one thing I still wanted. So I got Mike to
show me how to send e-mail. He also taught me how to find the
newsgroups and I started reading stories on my own. I found some
I really liked. Then I wrote to Janey.

	"Dear Mrs. Urquhart:

	"I think my husband is your biggest fan, and I like your
stories, too. But I want to ask you a big favor. You see, Mike
is a little shy, but he thinks everything you write about is
just super. If it's OK with you, it's OK with him. Anyhow, if
you could bring yourself to do it, you could help me turn one of
my favorite dreams into reality. I sort of get the idea you
won't like it much. But I want you to write a story for me--one
that'll give Mike some new ideas.

	"You know this writer Crimson Dragon? She's really good, but I
don't think Mike reads her stuff. Crimson writes these real
sweet stories with a twist. I'd really appreciate it if you
could write one like some of hers. Nothing heavy--just a sweet
story where there's a little friendly bondage.

	"Yours truly,

	"Michelle Lefebvre"

				----THE END----  

Please write to me at janey98@hotmail.com

Eat Maine potatoes.

