

WARNING: This is a story for adults. If you are under 18, please
stop reading immediately.

This story may be archived on free web sites but is not to be
distributed without 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.

NOTE: This story is part of a series. Later stories sometimes
refer to earlier ones, but each also is meant to stand alone.
Three stories have appeared previously--"Janey's January,"
"Janey's February," and "Janey's Trip." My web site is
http://www.asstr.ml.org/~Jane!Urquhart.

 

JANEY'S MARCH  (FM cons)

by Janey	

	I got dragged to the pen show.

	Every year, all these fountain pens, old and new, put on their
best rags and roll down the ramp in the ballroom of the
Swissotel, located right in the middle of downtown Boston next
to a huge closed-up mall that looks like one of Saddam's
bunkers. They're just pens, but the atmosphere is as tense as it
must be at Versace's Spring Opening. Pen fanciers of all stripes
come to feed their addictions. Unfortunately, my husband Bob is
one of them. He's a medieval historian, and now that he's got
tenure he wants to spend money like water on--fountain pens.
Some of the pens that are on sale do look medieval. Me, I can't
write anymore--I just beat on the computer keys. Why doesn't he
collect Model A Fords, or Empress Josephine's letters, or maybe
campaign posters from the Holy Roman Empire? I don't know. He
collects fountain pens.

	I'm a very nice person, even if I am a five-foot-ten
33-year-old part-time vocational counselor with messy hair and
no tits. So every year I go to the pen show with Bob. He likes
company on the trip into the city, and he likes to gloat when he
makes a particularly spectacular purchase. This year we got poor
Betsy, our wonderful sitter, to drag herself over on a freezing
cold Sunday morning after church when it was snowing like
mad--after all, spring had come to Boston, so naturally we had a
snowstorm. We kissed the little ones goodbye after I made sure
there was some gruel for them and slithered off down Route 128
(America's Technology Highway, don't laugh) and the Mass
Turnpike and wound up at dear, departed Lafayette Place. We put
the car in a nearly-deserted parking lot, trudged through the
slush and entered the hotel. Then the fun began.

	Actually, fountain pens make my teeth hurt, so, even though I'm
a very nice person, there's no way I'd do this except for a
large reward. Now, the Swissotel (they spell it all lower case,
but that looks silly on paper) has, in fact, a very nice Sunday
buffet brunch. That's my reward. We got seated, ordered cups of
tea, and then marched to the buffet. I piled about eight pounds
of scrambled eggs, a peck of hash browns, twelve sausages, half
a honeydew melon and a few garnishes on the teeny little plate
they gave me and then we ate in a leisurely manner. I usually
have a second helping--all this for only $14.95 apiece--and at
least one more cup of tea, and I'm in rare good humour, ready to
battle the pen show. That's how it was on March 22. 

	We collected our gear and headed for the elevator. Suddenly I
saw someone I know.

	"Oh, my goodness, hi, Janey, I didn't know you were a pen
person!" Air kisses from one of the dear PTA mothers. My teeth
started to hurt early.

	"Hi, Marilyn," I said. "It's not me, it's him." I pointed at
the culprit as we piled into the elevator.

	"Oh, Bob," Marilyn said. "I didn't know you were a pen person!"
Very high quality simper. "Do you two know my husband John? 
Janey Urquhart, this is my husband John. Bob, this is John."

	I looked at John and said, "Are you a pen person, too?" Somehow
a tiny sneer crept into this statement, right about where "pen
person" got mentioned again. The elevator door opened. Marilyn
and Bob were out of the starting gate like Secretariat. As we
sidled up to the registration desk, John turned to me.

	"Actually, no," he said. "I'm just along for the ride." 

	Notions began forming in my head.

	Obviously, Marilyn wasn't aware of it, but Bob and I both knew
John from the Little League fields. His and Marilyn's boy Nicky
is a fall crop, as we say down home, just as I was. John is a
very handsome man, if you like the Mediterranean type, and I
do--they're male, aren't they? Besides, nearly everybody in town
knew John because he was prominent in all sorts of town affairs.
He's a stock broker; a good deal older than I am with nice wavy
hair, even though it's mostly gray. He's maybe a little thick at
the waist, but still quite attractive. I'd enjoyed talking to
him at the games. Of course, he's only four feet tall, like most
men, but I've learned to make allowances. He's tall enough
sitting down, anyhow. 

	The notions coalesced into a grand plan of action.		

	"Marilyn, dear," I said, "Why don't you and Bob keep each other
company inside? I know Bob always feels guilty and hurries when
I'm standing there bored out of my mind and tapping my foot. But
John and I can go down to the bar and get drunk, then you two
can feel free to spend as much time at the show as you want."

	Said John: "Excellent idea!"

	Said Bob: "Are you sure you don't want to come in, Janey?"

	Said Marilyn, in her little-girl voice: "It's all right with
me."

	Said Janey (that's me), dripping syrup: "Oh, no, Bob, you go
right ahead with Marilyn and you two can pick us up when you're
done. Take your time. We'll see you when you get there." Turning
to John, I said quietly, "Let's get out of here before somebody
sells us a pen." He nodded and we headed on tiny feet for the
elevator.

	I said to John, "Doesn't she know we know you?"

	"Guess not," he said. "She never comes to the games."

	"You mean she voluntarily misses the opportunity to cheer her
son on to victory in the greatest Little League franchise in
Boston's western suburbs?"

	"She does," John said, rather defensively. "She's not really
stupid, you know, she can't help the way she talks. She's smart
enough to get out of going to the Little League games."

	The elevator dumped us in the lobby while I pondered this piece
of intelligence. We found the bar and found a seat. We ordered.
Scotch for him, red wine for me.

	Both of us, Bob and I, go to way too many Little League games.
From what I had just heard, it's possible to send only one of a
pair to these contests and still avoid being considered
unnatural parents. Maybe Marilyn really isn't as dumb as she
sounds.

	We chatted a little about the wrestling season--our sons are in
that, too. We deplored the weather. That done, we got down to
business. Or, at least, John did.

	"I can't get over my luck," he aid. "I've been dreaming for six
months about getting you off by yourself."

	Oh, my, thunderstruck again.

	"You have?" I said intelligently.

	As I said before, John is handsome, charming and probably quite
rich, all great qualifications for almost anything. Obviously,
the only problem with him was that he'd just gone bonkers.

	"Yes, I have," he said. "You are an Amazon, an Artemis. I see
you standing out there at those horrible ball games in your
jeans and sweater and I drool. I have this perfectly rational
desire to leap on you and ravish you right there on the
sidelines." He smiled. "So far, I haven't done it, but it's
always a possibility."

	This man has cojones, unless he carries around a ladder and a
blackjack. Brains, I wasn't so sure.

	"Amazon, huh?" I said. By now you may have noticed that witty
repartee is my strong point.

	"I wish I had a room here, right now," he said. "We could get
in that elevator and be wafted off to bliss."

	Wafted?  Artemis? He must have a classical education, too.

	"Well," I said, "let's consider this. How would you go about
persuading me that getting wafted was such a good idea?" 

	I was beginning to feel a little apprehensive. This fine man,
despite his wonderful vocabulary, apparently not only had
designs on my fair white body but thought he had a fair chance
of  bringing them to fruition. I was not familiar with this kind
of situation. My tiny, hardly noticeable affair with my friend
Beth's husband Steve was in the nature of a friendly little get
together. Just a nice game among friends. Despite our having
shared Little League torture, however, John was a relative
stranger. Did I want to get involved with a stranger, even a
rich, handsome one? Would I end up testifying before Ken Starr's
grand jury?   

	He toyed with his Scotch glass, then answered my question.

	"Probably the first thing I'd do," he said, "is accidentally
brush your hand, like this." He accidentally brushed my hand. I
liked it. A little song went skipping along in my head--brush my
hand, brush my hand. To hell with you, Ken Starr. "Then I'd say,
'Oh, pardon me."

	"Of course," I said. Of course, of course! Do you think I'm
going to get all huffy just because some really nice man
accidentally brushes my hand?

	He took my hand in his.

	"That wasn't really an accident, you know," he said. "I just
wanted to touch you." What a shocking confession! Actually, I
had already figured that out.

	My hand stayed put. "I don't mind." Nobody ever got prosecuted
for holding hands, did they?

	He lifted the hand in question off the table and kissed it
lightly. "That wasn't an accident, either," he said. Then, with
his other hand, he brushed my cheek. Brush my cheek, brush my
cheek, the little song went. "If this place weren't so public,
I'd lean over and kiss you."

	"I might conceivably allow that, if this place weren't so
public," I said. My God, he does subjunctive, too, I thought.
This man has potential. I really like men who know about the
subjunctive--they have a sense of  the unknown, the possible,
the conditional nature of the universe. 

	"Being equally unwilling to do that here in public, however,"
he said, "I'd take your hand and say, 'I have some delightful
etchings up in the room that you really ought to see.' Looking
soulfully into your eyes, of course."

	"And I'd say, 'Oh, how nice! Etchings are my favorite form of
art. Could we go up right now?'" Like hell I would. I wouldn't
say that, would I? I'm a law-abiding citizen. Nobody is going to
pull this on me. But I do like etchings. If they're the right
kind. And this did seem to be a whole new vista upon which even
an underachieving mother of two ought at least to gaze. 

	"Why don't we just assume we're doing it," he said. "Then we
could cut out all this 'And then I'd do this' stuff? I'll go
first."

	"You mean pretend--sort of like a run-through?"	

	"Exactly," he said. "Please." He stood and pulled out my chair
as I began to rise. He's at least a head shorter than I am.
(Pretend, pretend, the little song went.)

	"Are you sure we should do this?" I said. I thought, am I sure
we should do this?  Have I ever been sure about anything? Well,
no. I usually go with the flow. Maybe just this once. And it's
just pretend, isn't it?

	"Why not? Marilyn is good for two hours in that show, at least.
And I imagine Bob is just as bad."

	He took my arm and led me off toward the elevator. "This is
happening awfully fast," I said. I paused. "But, on the other
hand, if it doesn't happen fast it won't happen at all."

	We pretended to enter the elevator. The doors closed, and we
were wafted up to his floor. 

	As we entered room 607, he said, "I owe your friend Beth a
great debt of gratitude. She told me that I should be direct
with you. I'd never have had the nerve, otherwise."

	"You know Beth?" I said, shocked. "How do you know her, and
what else did she tell you?" Beth is a squat little monster
who--I mean a lovely, successful accountant who owns her own
business, lives in a palace on the North Shore, and occasionally
leaps into bed with my husband. She is my dearest friend, I
might add. At least I think she still goes to bed with my
husband now and then. He has a special kind of "I've been
fucking Beth" sheepish look when he comes home late from class
some days. This all started a while back, and I won't go into
detail, but Beth and her husband, Steve, are the people we pal
around with--you know, go to the opera or the movies, sail in
the summer, feed each other dinner, throw the occasional orgy,
the ordinary things people do together.

	"She's my accountant," John said, "and I'm her broker. I've
known her for years."

	"Oh," I said, mulling that over. "So what else did she say?"

	"I quote: 'Janey's not bad for an amateur, but she does require
a lot of stroking.'"

	"She's not exactly a pro herself, the little bitch." I paused.
"I think."

	"I think she was speaking figuratively," John said. "Given what
I hear about you--pillar of the community, perfect wife and
mother, role model for the next generation, and so on--I was
astonished to hear that you and Beth are friends."

	"She's the role model," I said. "Get rich and have fun is her
motto--woman of the 90s, maybe the double-zeroes. And we're
friends because I need a bad influence. How would you like to be
a 'pillar of the community'? That gets boring after a while,
and, whatever else she may be, Beth is never boring. Without
her, I'd just go on holding up the roof."

	"My dear," he said, taking my hand--we were still standing by
the door of the room, chatting away--and gently pulling me close
to him, "as you well know, I'm a pillar of the community myself.
But I really didn't bring you up here to talk about Beth."

	"You're right," I said. "Show me your etchings."

	He pulled me closer and put his arms around me. I lowered my
face toward him and he hesitated, then kissed me, thoughtfully,
rather calmly. He ran a hand down my back, stopping just below
my waist. It was a nice kiss, but I was puzzled--where was the
fire? So I asked.

	"Hey, you dragged me up here. You wanted this. What's wrong?"

	 "I think I'm frightened," he said, looking down. Then he
looked up. "I never thought this would happen. I'm not used to
this sort of thing. And I think maybe you're being kind to me. I
don't think I could take that."

	Was I hearing right? Was this some kind of generational thing?
He couldn't be more than fifty or fifty-one.

	"Listen, John. I am a nice person, but I'm not THAT nice. You
dragged me up here, don't go all funny on me."

	I grabbed the hem of my sweatshirt (my Longboat Key
sweatshirt--I only wear the Harvard one for yard work) and
struggled to get it over my head. Looking John straight in the
eye, I then unbuttoned my white blouse and shucked it. I reached
behind, unhooked the bra, and dropped it on the floor. I
unzipped my jeans. He got the message. By the time the jeans
were around my knees his shirt was off and he was trying to
catch up. I kicked the jeans away, slipped out of my knickers
and stood, waiting. While he was still trying to get his socks
off and at the same time ogling me, I went to the bed, threw the
covers back, and sat down. Kind to me, kind to me, went the
little song. I shook my head--didn't need that.

	He stood up, having finally shed the raiment. I reached out and
took his hand, pulled him down beside me.

	"Better," I said. "I take it back. You didn't drag me up here,
you wafted me."

	He laughed, a little self-consciously. A fairly good sign. I
reached toward him, pushed. He lay back on the bed and scrunched
around so there was room for me alongside him. Then I gave him a
little kiss. Not the other way around. Now I've had some odd
surprises in my life, like the time one of my fellow athletes
accidentally stuck a javelin in my butt, but this one was
unique. I am not the aggressive type. That's Beth, not me. I go
with the flow. But not this time--there wasn't any flow.

	So I kissed him again, this time with verve and panache. It
worked. He woke up and began taking part in this operation. He
kissed back, mouth open, tongue exploring and all. Put his arms
around me. Not bad. Warming up around here. So I slipped down a
little and kissed a nipple. Wow! Old Albert down there coming to
life. But, somehow, it wasn't right. I'd swear he flinched when
I first touched that nipple--not frisson flinch, scared flinch.
I stayed right there and licked a little. Something told me to
take this slowly.  

	So, instead off hurrying off on the winding trail to
Albertville, I lifted my head and kissed him on the lips again,
rather quietly, gently. Backed off and looked at his eyes.
Closed. Kissed him again. He clutched me tightly, so I hugged
him back. I just stayed there until I could feel him relax a
little. Slowly, I eased back to the other nipple. Just a taste,
then a little more. Tasted much the same, and Albert apparently
liked it. Once again, I was beginning to feel the empty feeling
"down there" that always comes before fulfillment. Down a little
more, a couple of light nose rubs on his stomach. Stayed there a
while, just nudging, the way a little kid might. He was relaxing
a little more. I had to push some curly chest hair out of the
way for all this, you understand, but, heck, look what the guys
have to put up with when they go south. I was beginning to like
this leadership gig. But I could see it carried certain
responsibilities.

	Lying there, I reached up and stroked his cheek. Very lightly,
several times. His eyes were still closed. I began to think this
guy was seriously scared of me. Absolutely nobody who knows me
at all is really scared of me. Maybe my kids, but they tend to
laugh a lot when I get mad and scream and threaten to turn them
into worms the way my mother taught me to.  (Gotta be careful
with that witch stuff--sometimes it works.) 

	All right. Just what does a good leader do when said leader is
an almost six-foot woman, slightly overweight, lying naked
nearly on top of a scared man who's five-six at the most and at
least fifteen years older than she is? I could probably reach
down suddenly, grab dear old Albert, gulp him down and send John
screaming from the room. The other option was more like Type X
management--was that what they called it?--where you listen and
take into consideration the needs of your employees and bind
them to you forever and ever, or at least until you decide to
downsize. He's a nice man, so I decided true leadership required
me to take it easy. God, all this thinking in the middle of what
I always thought of as mindless foreplay. Do guys have to do
this all the time? Or only when they deflower virgins?
(De-flow'r vir-gins, bong! Crazy song was getting dramatic. Very
distracting.)

	So I took the scenic route, moving along at an easy pace,
stopping for a little breather now and then. Gets you there just
the same, doesn't it? I thought of Marilyn and Bob, down in the
ballroom running their hands through piles of fountain pens like
misers with their hoards. I sent them a little telepathic
message--take your time!

	Gradually I approached the fork in the road. Then I took the
path less travelled and gently caressed old Albert with my hand.
A few light, easy strokes to calm his master down. Gave him a
nice kiss. Then a couple of little tiny licks, right where it
counts, just under that ridiculous slit. John groaned. He was, I
thought, beginning to get used to this. I took just about an
inch of the monster in my mouth and held it lightly, giving John
time to appreciate what apparently was an entirely new
sensation. A tentative lick. Whoops! John jerked like he'd sat
on a bee. Then he calmed down and actually said something.

	"My God, that's wonderful!" Silver-tongued charmer!

	I backed off enough to answer. "I think you may get used to
it." 

	Then back to work, lazily at first, working up to
industriously. This was fine; I like a nice penis as well as the
next woman, but I was being forced to be artful. Not my forte.
Still, not awful, either. John commented again: "Ah-h-h-h."
Succinct, but clear. He put his hand on my head. No problem--I
wasn't going anywhere. By the way, girls, if this doesn't start
your lubrication going, you need to call a plumber. Mine was
fine. Usually by this time I'm getting that langorous "take me!"
feeling. Not this time: more like, "I've got you now!" Hormones
on red alert. Gentle sucking motions, tongue on warm flesh.

	All this Florence Nightingale stuff was, however, getting a bit
tiresome. Time for a little self-help. So I reared back,
straddled him, duck walked up a bit, reached down and aimed the
weapon at the target. Bullseye! I went down very, very slowly.
All of a sudden hands were all over me; very nice. One on each
tiny boob, not really gentle the way I like, more like milking
the cow, but you can't expect perfection every time. This
bigtime stock broker was about as awkward as I've been told 
high school boys are. He did hit the nipples now and then. I had
a sharp pang of nostalgia--wished it were Sandman, my fantasy
lover, lying there getting all this goody. Get a grip.

	A little knee flexion and just the right squirm and I was
enjoying this a lot. The old electric shocks were starting in my
great, big, voracious quim and zipping right up throuigh my
stomach. I was doing all the work, but I was in control, and
control I did. Very carefully, down, slowly up. Power is a great
aphrodisiac. 

	I put my hands on John's chest, leaned down and kissed him,
hard and long, then sat up and continued working up and down,
slowly, then not quite so slowly, then pretty fast. Slippery,
slippery! Nice. Very. Bigger shocks. His hands working my
nipples. That nice, hard, warm thing in me! It felt so good I
slowed down again, straightened up, deciding to take it easy.
But John was pushing back, not taking it easy at all. He'd
finally gotten into the swing of things. I pushed down hard,
stopping the action entirely. My eyes were closed, my head
thrown back. I waited a long time, maybe a minute. Just feeling,
no thoughts. It was a kind of meditation. John put his hands on
my arms, just holding them lightly. Learning to follow. Then I
started again, slowly, slowly, up and down. Bigger shocks. A
little faster, then a lot faster. He was beginning to shake. Me,
too. He convulsed, squeezing my breasts harder than I'd have
liked, squirting warmth into me. Then I lost it all as my shocks
all joined together, became big spasmodic waves, only slowly
retreating, leaving me limp, ready to lie there, on top of him,
giving him little kisses all over his face as I subsided.

	After a while, I rolled off. Had to let him breathe.

	Then I leaned up and supported myself on my elbow.

	"John, " I said, "you don't do this very much at home, do you?"

	He smiled a gorgeous, winning smile and turned toward me,
stroking the top of my breast. "Not this I don't.  I never did
anything like this before in my life!"

	"You want to explain 'anything like this?'"

	"Janey, I have to confess--I'm not very experienced at this."

	"You don't have to confess--I figured it out all by myself."

	"You have to understand," he said. "I went to college during
the early sixties. No sexual revolution, no change since 1850 as
far as I know. I did a little groping around, but nothing else.
Then, when the so-called revolution hit, I was in business
school. Need I say that business schools weren't hotbeds of
revolutionary fervor? Most of  us were poor kids--me very much
included--and we were much too involved with studying hard so
we'd get decent jobs to mess with any mere revolution. So I'm
not very experienced."

	"You did a fabulous sales job on me."

	"I'm a salesman," He explained. "I don't have to know a damn
thing about the product to get you to buy it. It never occurred
to me that I'd be so scared I couldn't deliver what I promised."	

	"Marilyn a little shy?"

	"You could say that. She's a lot younger than I am, but she was
raised the same way I was. She thought the Church didn't approve
of sex in any shape or form."

	"I'm not all that experienced, either, but I've had at least
one great teacher. Would you listen to some advice?"

	"Certainly."

	 "Marilyn," I said, "is not only shy and miseducated, she's
what we call a femme. No, that's not right--I'm a femme, whether
I look like it or not. She's a super-femme. She bullies you,
doesn't she?"

	He looked embarrassed. "Yes, she does. She acts so hurt I can't
fight back."

	"I figured that. Sometime soon, you look at her and say
something like this: 'I've been looking at you all evening and I
have got to have you--right now. If you don't mind, I'd
appreciate it if you'd go to the bedroom, take off all your
clothes, lie on the bed and spread your legs. I'll be in
shortly.'"

	"Wait a minute!" he said. "She'd either faint or call the cops."

	"I don't think so. I think she'll give you a funny look and go
without a word. Anyway, I'm not finished yet. Give her about
five minutes, then follow into the bedroom, lie down next to her
and do what I just did to you. Do it very slowly and lovingly.
Keep your mouth on her tiny little quim until she wails like a
banshee. Women do not, I repeat, do not, refuse that little
service. Then continue as before. I think she'll follow you
around like a puppy for at least two days."

	"You know," he said, "if you hadn't just driven me out of my
mind, I'd say you're crazy."

	"Try it. What have you got to lose? I'm not saying to punch her
out, just give her an instruction. She's a super-femme. She'll
melt. Bullies are like that."

	Then I gave him another nice, big kiss and started to get up.
"Let me know how it goes."

	"Oh, Janey, Bob's so thrilled! He got a vintage Parker 51 for a
song!"

	I blinked. Blinked again. The real world, the real world--the
little song again. Heck. Under the table, my hand quietly loosed
itself from John's.

	"Hi, Marilyn," I said. "How'd you make out?"

	"Oh, I didn't buy anything," she said, "I didn't have Bob's
luck, and everything was too expensive." Poor little girl.

	Just then Bob walked over to our table. "Hi, Janey! Did you get
drunk?"

	"No, we just talked," I said. "I enjoyed it."

	Then we all looked at Bob's Parker 51 and got ready to leave.

				-------------------

	The minute we walked into the house I yelled, "Hey, Betsy! Want
to take the kids to a movie? Double time rates!"

	Bob looked at me. "What's up? I could take the kids out if you
want some time to yourself."

	I glared at him. "No, you couldn't. Just let me take care of
this."

	He caught on, and smirked.

	Betsy came in. "What do you want me to take 'em to, Janey?"

	"Oh, Texas Chain Saw Massacre or maybe Death Wish XLI."

	"Oh, Janey, you're so weird! How about Titanic? I've only seen
it three times."

	"Fine, Betsy, just make sure they wear their lifejackets. Bob
and I have something to talk about, so I'd appreciate it if
you'd just get the kids ready and go ahead. Thanks a lot." She
went off to collect our dear children.

	I turned to Bob.

	"If you don't mind, I'd appreciate it if you would go into the
bedroom, take off all your clothes, and lie down on the bed.
I'll join you shortly."

	Bob had to lean on a chair; he nearly fell down laughing.

	"Yes, mistress," he said, through the guffaws. "I trow thou
wilt be there soon?"

	Damned old medieval historians. But I couldn't keep a straight
face--I started laughing, too. It was funny. I'd really rather
be a femme. And Bob knew it. Still, I kind of liked that
leadership kick. One of these days the worm will turn. Then I'll
fix his clock.

			-----END-----   

Please write to me at Janey98@hotmail.com

