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<1st attachment, "jjanhtml.txt" begin>
WARNINGS: This story includes explicit descriptions of sexual
acts. If reading this might involve you or another person in an
illegal act, or you are offended by the exploration of adult themes
in literature or on the Internet, do not read further.
Copyright 1998-1999 by Jane Urquhart. The author is a member
of the Net Authors and Creators Union (NACU), which defends
the rights of Internet authors and creators. NACU intends to
bring suit against any person or corporation infringing copyright.
Specific permission is granted for publication in the news groups
Alt.Sex.Stories and Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated and for archiving
by the Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated archive and DejaNews. All
other rights are reserved. Do not repost or distribute by any other
means without express permission from the author.
NOTE: "Anniversary Edition." This is the first story I ever wrote,
and it was first posted to ASSM on March 6, 1998.
JANEY'S JANUARY (FM cons)
by Janey
When my friend Beth, sitting across the too-small table in
the Trident Caf,, dropped her bomb, I was eating those yellow
raisins that for some reason they put on your plate along with an
omelet. I choked, coughed, and just had time to grab a napkin
before the weird little things came flying out of my mouth. My
eyes and nose started gushing. In the middle of this fit one part of
my mind was already telling me that my life was going to change
radically.
When I finally calmed down, maybe three minutes after the
first explosion, I said, "What did you say?"
"I said I think my husband has a crush on you." She grinned.
Actually, I knew what she had said, but I thought maybe I
had raisin poisoning or something.
Nobody gets crushes on 33-year-old slightly overweight
vocational counselors who live in the suburbs with two kids in
school and perfectly adequate husbands. Except maybe nerdy
college boys who have too many hormones and not a clue what to
do with their nerdy lives. And probably not them, either, as far as
I can tell. And, especially, not a quite pleasant young engineer
who happened to be married to a gorgeous Mediterranean type
who happened to be my best friend during my freshman year in
college.
I wiped my mouth again and sipped my tea, which was cold
because they don't have sense enough to use boiling water in their
leaky little hot water pitchers.
"I don't think so," I said, "and besides, even if it were true,
why would you tell me? Why not just sock him in the chops and
keep quiet?"
"Well," she said, "I quite like the guy, and I don't mind his
wandering eye. After all, I robbed the cradle to get him--it's not
fair to monopolize his early youth and then not let him try to get
some of it back."
"You astonish me!" I said. Fair? I liked Beth a lot, but I
didn't think fair was one of her big things.
"Look," she said, "He was only twenty-two and just out of
college when I met him, and we got married two years later. I'm
four years older than he is, and far more experienced. I'm sure
he's not planning on leaving, but I'm not surprised he looks around
a little."
I remembered Beth in college. She had a succession of
boyfriends--she looked around all the time. But I hadn't seen her
since she transferred to a different college. Then she moved to
Boston a year ago and we picked up pretty much where we left
off. My husband and I both enjoy Beth and Steve, maybe because
they're so different from us. They don't have kids, we do. Steve is
an engineer with a short haircut who works for an oil company, in
the field a lot, and Beth is an accountant with a real career; Bob is
a history prof at one of the better local universities, and I'm a
part-time counselor with no ambition at all. We got to going to
movies together, then they talked us into going skiing with them
in Vermont and sailing in the summer. Beth has pretty much
slipped into the role of best friend for me, even though they have
a good deal more money than we do. But this kind of statement
was a shocker.
Kind of a nice shocker, though, I found myself thinking.
"Tell me more," I said. "How do you know about this
so-called crush?
"Oh, he says little things. Like, at least twice he's mentioned
casually that you looked awfully good in your bathing suit last
summer. And he saw this blonde bombshell in some TV movie
that other night and said she looked a lot like you."
"Oh, sure," I said, "She was five feet ten and had no tits and
raggedy-looking hair and freckles, is that right?"
"Come on, Janey," she said, "Don't put yourself down. You
look great when you dress up. Your hair is just curly, and some
guys salivate over women in those long skirts you wear."
My skirts aren't that long, maybe three inches below the
knee, but to tell you the truth I think they look better than the
crotch-high minis that Beth and half the other women I see on
Newbury St. wear. Leave a little to the imagination, don't they?
But there was no denying the five feet ten, the scraggly dishwater
blonde hair and the freckles. Maybe Steve had a fetish for
freckles. And Beth is probably seven or eight inches shorter than I
am. Maybe he yearned for the mountaintops.
"I'm just realistic, friend. Besides, my husband likes the way
I look. Or at least he used to."
"What do you mean?" Beth said. "Something wrong there?"
"Not really," I said. "I don't know why I said that. You
know, we're old married people with a family. Not so much hot
snuggling as there used to be."
"Poor baby, you're in a rut. Why don't you give Steve a little
encouragement when we go to the opera Friday night. Just a tiny
bit. Might wake you up. And might wake your husband up."
I was gobsmacked. Learned that word in an English mystery
I read, and it was definitely appropriate here. What you do in that
situation is change the subject. So I asked her whether she
thought this Baby Doe opera would be any good. It worked, and
the subject didn't come up again
---------------------
Back at work I was so busy I almost forgot about the
conversation. But not entirely. One of the kids looked a little like
Steve--muscular, blond, tight T-shirt, you know. But, unlike
Steve, green as grass. Steve might have been a baby when Beth
snatched him, but he isn't now. I kind of thought about Steve for
a minute, until we got to discussing software companies this kid
might work for.
That afternoon, driving down Great Plains Avenue with the
kids in the back seat, I looked at Needham for the first time in a
long time. Of course I lived there and saw it every day, but this
afternoon I looked at it. It was okay. Not much different from
the town I grew up in, except it was full of little people and where
I grew up they came bigger. And most of the houses were kind of
old, while my suburb was a bare field that was growing houses
instead of cotton. Still, a lot alike. Same kind of things going
on--not much, that is. It gave me a strange feeling I couldn't quite
put my finger on.
But home is great, really. I love Alan and Judy, and I heard
all about what was going on in the first and third grades and then
Bruce the weather man said it was going to snow a whole lot and
I wondered if there would be school on Friday and whether we
would get to go to the opera after all, and how I couldn't very well
encourage Steve if we were snowed in. Oops! I guess I must have
been doing some thinking I didn't know about.
Bob was full of news about the department, and how he
couldn't stand the new guy they were going to hire for English
history but he didn't have enough clout to stop the appointment,
and by God, one of these days he'd be a full professor and he was
going to be a tyrant. He wasn't very happy, but all his colleagues
at the history convention in December envied him because the
school was so prestigious, and I couldn't do a lot about the fact
that the department was run by a bunch of knuckleheads (I think
that's what he called them), so I kind of tuned out a little. He
gave me a goodnight kiss like I was his mother, and then tossed
and turned that night and didn't sleep very well. I had some kind
of strange dream about the sailing trip we went on but I don't
remember anything more about it.
They did cancel school the next day, but it turned out the
snow wasn't such a big deal so we went to the opera anyhow. The
fourteen-year-old girl next door likes to babysit because we pay
well, and she's a nice kid. We had to pick up the tickets at seven,
so we drove in early, parked at the Hancock and ate at Chili's in
the bar. I had some kind of watery beer with supper. I didn't like
it much, but I got a little tiny buzz on, so I didn't care. Bob doesn't
drink at all, but he doesn't mind if I do. He has some kind of
stomach problem. I wish he could loosen up a little, and stop
worrying about his job and life in general, and maybe he'd get
over it. I loved the guy, and hated to see him work so hard, but
that's what he says he has to do, and what do I know?
We walked about ten blocks to the Emerson Majestic and
waited around inside for Beth and Steve. It was too cold outside,
and I was nearly frozen, but the theater was warm, even if they
still hadn't finished rehabbing it. They got there ten minutes after
we did. Naturally I air-kissed Beth and Steve, and I think I might
have held on to Steve just a second or two longer than normal.
Maybe I got a little closer than usual, too. He felt kind of good,
even if I did have to lean down to get at his cheeks. Kind of a
hard body. My boobs hit him just below the shoulders. I do have
boobs, they just don't stand out like the prow of the Cutty Sark;
they're there, all right. I had on a black dress I liked and I had my
coat unbuttoned by that time. Now, you know, all of this went
through my mind, and usually when we met I just did the routine
and didn't even know I was doing it. Must have been those damn
raisins. Naturally Beth practically slobbered over Bob, but she's
that way, so it's normal. I think she had some kind of fancy
vegetarian sandwich, anyway, without raisins.
We sat way up in the mezzanine because the orchestra cost
$98. I don't see how people can afford to spend that much on a
show, but the mezzanine seats were really good and of course I
brought my little binoculars so I could see the principals very
well whenever I wanted to. The first act was terrible, really, like
they didn't know whether it was a comedy or a tragedy. But I
knew, because I knew the story, and I got kind of involved not
with Baby Doe, but with Horace. Anyhow, the lead soprano
couldn't stay quite on pitch and that drives me nuts.
I seriously considered suggesting that we leave during the
intermission, but I could see everybody else wanted to see it
through. Get their $38 (mezzanine seats) worth, I guess. It was
getting hot up in the rafters where we were, so I wanted a drink of
water. Beth said she wasn't about to walk down three flights of
stairs for anything, but Steve said he wanted to go, so I said come
on. Bob seemed to be happy to just sit and read the program. We
got down and Steve bought me a bottle of water for only a dollar,
can you believe it? OK, I can't help it if I worry about money, I
just do--maybe I'm like Horace's wife. I'll tell you about her in a
minute. Anyhow, the lobby was jammed, so Steve suggested we
go outside for a minute and get cool with all the smokers. It was
still cold as it could be. I shivered and Steve put his arm around
me and held me close to him. That turned out to warm me up
quite a bit more than I'd figured it would. In fact, I felt a little
tingle or two in places that normally don't get cold at all. Then
they flashed the lights and we went back in. Steve went off to the
men's room and I just watched all the people. Mostly they looked
pretty ordinary, but maybe nicer than the ones at the movie last
week when we saw Titanic. A lot of gray-haired intelligent
looking men who probably taught at Harvard and women who
looked like their wives--kind of thin lips. I still don't understand
why people in Boston don't dress up when they go to the opera;
it's the frumpiest city I was ever in. When my parents took me to
theaters at home the lobby looked like a peacock farm. Steve
came back and we headed back up the stairs. He had to take my
hand to get me through the crowd. He actually had calluses on his
hand, like the farmers back home. For some reason I got those
tingly feelings again. I think he must have, too, because he looked
kind of sheepish when he let go as we turned into the mezzanine
seats. I guess it's just as well that Beth and I were sitting together,
with our husbands on the outside, the way couples seem to do at
the theater. She raised her eyebrows a little when I plumped
down beside her, but I just kept a straight face. Nothing to
wonder about, was there? Maybe I did smile just a little.
You probably haven't seen this opera unless you're from
Colorado, but Horace is a miner who strikes it rich. He has this
wife who's very sharp and knows how to take care of money,
which he doesn't, but she has no vision, and he does. Then he
meets Baby Doe, who is divorced, and they fall in love. He
leaves his wife and marries Baby Doe, but the snobs don't like
Baby Doe because they think she's after his money. Anyhow, he
loses all his money because he can't believe his silver mines will
lose their value when William Jennings Bryan loses the election.
He's broke, but Baby Doe stays with him because she really loves
him. It's kind of a stupid story, in a way, and I'm smart enough to
see that, but the odd part is it's really true. Sometimes life is kind
of a stupid story, I suppose. It's a tragedy, all right, and the
second act was tremendously better. The baritone who played
Bryan at a big political rally could sing like a dream, and by this
time the authors had realized it was a tragedy and it hung together
a lot better. Poor Horace.
Steve and Beth had their car in a garage on Stuart Street, just
around the corner, so Steve went and got it. They offered to take
us back to the Hancock garage and I was so glad I could cry. It
must have been fifteen degrees. Bob and I rode in the back seat
and Beth turned around and talked at us all the way back to the
garage. She invited us for dinner the next Friday night. Monday I
had lunch with one of my other friends and I insisted on the
Trident. Their omelettes are pretty good, and I thought I'd like
some more raisins. I even figured I'd probably buy some at the
Star Market.
---------------------
Friday night. Of course during that week I'd gone to church
and shopped and played with the kids and cooked and talked to
poor forlorn about-to-graduates who didn't have any idea what
they were going to do after they finished college. And had lunch
with my friend at the Trident. That time the raisins gave me no
trouble, but then I didn't have Beth sitting across the table. Of
course I didn't think at all about Steve and Beth and Friday night
coming up, oh, of course not. Maybe a few thousand times is all.
Maybe I don't have enough to keep me busy.
Friday night finally arrived. I spent about three hours that
day--I didn't have to work--trying to decide what to wear. Me!
This was not a big thing; it was going to be just us and Beth and
Steve, and we swap dinners all the time and afterward play
Monopoly or watch a movie or just talk. So I dithered. One of
the things about me is, I don't dither. But I dithered on Friday.
Thank God it didn't snow, so the kids were off at school at least
part of the day, leaving me alone to dither in luxurious quiet. On
top of that, I don't exactly have a wardrobe like the one Imelda
Marcos has. I could give you a complete itemized list right now
but it would bore you. Looking through it ten times bored *me.* I
have dresses and suits and skirts and sweaters and jeans and stuff
like that. We usually try to be clean for these dinners with our
friends, but we don't dress up. I don't dress up for much of
anything. So I couldn't put on something slinky and get away
with it. Come to think of it, I don't have anything slinky. I finally
ended up wearing a gray wool skirt, just ordinary, a white blouse,
and this vest thing I got at Nomad a couple of years ago. With
little glass jewels on it. Same old underwear, naturally. You think
I had time to go to Victoria's Secret? Well, I did, but I didn't go;
in fact, I blushed when I thought of it. This is called serious
dysfunction. I tried to comb my hair but it wouldn't. OK. It's sort
of curly and unruly. But I did manage to get dressed by the time
Bob got home and got himself ready.
So we go way to hellangone out to Beverly, where Beth and
Steve live in a great big Tudor house. Got there around six. Rang
bell. Got hugged by Beth. She hugs awfully hard for such a little
person. We sat around for a while drinking good Italian red wine.
Good for the heart. Yeah, right. For some reason mine kept kind
of skipping, doing funny things. My pulse was somewhat higher
than usual. All this on the basis of a smart remark by a woman I
didn't fully trust, even though I loved her dearly, a perhaps
unusually warm greeting, a held hand and a funny look. Can I
help it if I'm crazy? I had refused during the week of the thousand
thoughts to veer onto the subject of why I was acting this way.
Beth went out to twirl the spaghetti or something. She cooks
these great Italian meals. Bob was looking at the books in the
bookcase. He does that. Then he sat down on a stool and started
to read one of them. He does that, too. He's an expert at
disappearing right in front of your eyes while you're still looking
at him. Steve looked over at him, then at me, and rolled his eyes.
He smiled. I was sitting in this big goddam couch that takes ten
minutes to get out of, but I struggled until I was standing up. Bob
looked up at me from his book and chuckled.
"They put that thing there to trap maidens," he said. "Why
don't you sit somewhere that doesn't eat you up?" Then he went
back to the book.
"OK," I said. Then I sort of sloped over to Steve's chair and
looked down at him. He looked up at me. Then I calmly sat right
down on his lap.
"Oof!" he said, and set his glass on the floor next to the
chair.
I said, "I bet I can get up from here in a tenth of a second."
"That depends," Steve said, putting both arms around my
middle. "Maybe I won't let you up." Bob didn't even look up.
Good book, I guess.
Steve sat there with this little grin on his face.
"Do you really want a slightly overweight suburban
housewife with two kids sitting on you?" I said.
He gently lifted one hand up until it just touched the bottom
edge of my right breast.
"After deep consideration," he said, "yes, I do. You aren't a
lightweight, but you feel pretty good to me."
Bob swam up out of the book again, looked over and
grinned. "Better you than me, buddy. She can hold you down in
that chair all night if she wants." I don't think Bob could see
where Steve's hand was, but I surely could feel it.
I leaned down and gently kissed Steve on top of his head.
That was when Beth came tripping back in. By the time she got
there the hand was back down around my middle, but I was still
sitting there like a great big doll.
"Hi, guys," Beth said. She looked over at Steve and me and
smiled beautifully. "I'm sorry to say dinner is about to be served."
She was wearing a frilly apron over her sweater and jeans and
looked like a million dollars. If I'd just cooked a big meal I'd look
like something out of Dickens. I was out of that chair in a
millisecond. Frankly, I was just a little dizzy. Wine does that. So
does Steve's hand, I'd just discovered.
We ate. Usual small talk. Steve had been in Indonesia a
couple of weeks earlier and he started to talk about the
environmental horrors and Bob was about to get right up on his
soapbox and orate, but Beth just quietly slapped them down.
"Not at dinner," she said. "No way. I'll send money to the Nature
Conservancy but I won't have endangered species at the dinner
table." Instead, she got us talking about Baby Doe, which was
just as bad in my opinion, and then Bob, of all people, brought up
the mosh-pit scandal. Two quarterbacks in a night club, etc. I
don't know whether he was for or against, because I'd had another
glass of wine and was playing footsie with Steve under that table,
and that kind of distracts me from significant conversations. Not
real footsie, of course, shoes-on footsie. But he knew I was there,
and I knew he was there. I got the idea that somehow Beth knew
we were both there and was laughing without cracking a smile. I
didn't care, then I did. I hadn't played any kind of footsie with
anyone in so long I couldn't remember when. This was awful. It
was like high school, only embarrassing. But, just like it was in
high school, it was kind of thrilling.
After supper I offered to help with the dishes, but Beth said
to just put them in the sink, so we all got them off the table in a
hurry and went out into the living room. We watched some
movie about a nasty American woman and some English wimp
she finally married. I liked the scenery, but I couldn't follow the
movie. Something was going on in my head about, is this all
there's going to be? Just footsie, and me sitting on Steve's lap for
two minutes while Bob reads a book in the corner? Now, wait a
minute! Here I am all hot and bothered and I really am crazy. I
made up my mind something else was going to happen. I wasn't
sure just what. I had to find out at least whether Beth was telling
the truth.
Beth declared an intermission and went out to the kitchen to
make popcorn. I followed her.
"Well," she said, "how's it going?"
"Going?" I practically screamed, but it was really a loud
whisper. "What's to go? I thought you said Steve had a thing for
me! He sure isn't much of a fast mover."
"God, girl, are you dense," Beth said. "You don't think men
have the guts to make a move in a situation like this, do you? I
kind of liked you in his lap, but I'm sure he thinks it was a joke.
You've got to do better than that."
"Well, I'm not ready to start a conversation on oil fields or
football," I said.
Beth looked exasperated. "I don't see how you ever got
married, even to a bookworm like Bob. You don't talk to men,
not at this stage, you do something physical. And the only kind of
body language they understand is touch. So get in there and reach
out and touch somebody."
"You're not much help," I said. I grabbed a bowl of popcorn
and stomped back into the living room. I was out of my element.
My element was more like the laundry room. Or javelin throwing.
I did that in college. Maybe I could challenge Steve to a javelin
throwing contest.
The guys were slumped down in their chairs looking bored,
talking about some oil find in Alaska. So I sat down in the
maiden-grabbing couch and said, "If you guys want any popcorn
you better come over here. I'm not going to pass this bowl
around."
Steve did move fairly fast when told. He was sitting next to
me in a second. Bob moseyed over to the fireplace and stood
with his back against it, getting baked. "When's Beth coming
back," he said. "I want to see the rest of the movie."
"Ugh!" I said. "Not much of a movie."
"Oh, well, there are lots of sexy women," Bob said.
"Nah," said Steve. "This is not a sexy movie. You ought to
see the ones the guys out in the oil fields have--especially the
Asian ones." He took a big handful of popcorn and stuffed it into
his face. "I don't think the women would enjoy 'em, though.
They tend to be made for men."
"You try out any of those Asian women while you're out
there?" Bob asked.
"Oh, my God no!," Steve said, shaking his head. "Every
time a thought like that crosses my mind my equipment freezes
up completely. Not just AIDS, they've got diseases out there you
never even thought of. I just watch the movies sometimes, and
think about getting home to my demur little accountant."
"The college boys have those movies, too," I said. "And
you're right, the girls don't much like most of them."
Beth came in and turned down the lights, and Bob came over
and sat down with us on the couch. Beth crossed her arms and
took off the blue cashmere sweater she was wearing over her
white T-shirt. "It's too hot in here," she said. Then she sat over in
the big easy chair Steve had been in. "Let 'er roll," she said as she
punched the play button on the TV control. I was wondering who
the show she put on getting that sweater off was for. Unlike me,
she did look like the Cutty Sark under full sail when she pushed
her chest out.
As soon as the movie started I just casually put my hand on
Steve's thigh. I noticed it had a big fat wedding band on the ring
finger. He didn't react at first, but when I pulled my fingernails an
inch or two up toward his groin he sort of grunted and put his
hand on mine. Bob was watching the movie and eating popcorn.
But both hands moved away after a very short time.
Nothing else happened, but when Steve helped me on with
my coat when we left, he just barely brushed my little nipple with
the back of his hand. I nearly jumped out of the coat, but I
calmed down enough to get it on and get us out of the house. On
the whole, I wasn't convinced anything had happened at all.
--------------
---------------"Janey's January," Copyright 1998-1999 by Jane
Urquhart------------------
--------------
Life went on. Beth told me Steve was out of the country
again, floating around Asia. I'd hate to have a husband gone as
much as Steve was, but it didn't seem to bother Beth. Thinking
about it, it seemed to me my husband spent a little too much time
in medieval Europe. Anyhow, Steve was Beth's problem. But
about ten days later, on a Tuesday morning, I came out of a
morning counselling session and found a note from the secretary
telling me to call Steve with a phone number. That had never
happened before. Being cool and calm as always, I ran back in my
office, sat down and passed out. Well, not really out. I shook a
lot. My face got hot. Somewhere considerably below my waist
got sort of warm. I figured I must be excited. So I sat there a
while reading department notices until I got back to room
temperature. That took maybe ten minutes. My next
appointment was coming in another ten minutes, so I went to the
women's room and then got a drink of water and came back to the
office. Then I called the number.
I got a snooty secretary, but she deigned to connect me to
Steve's office.
"Steve Walters," I heard.
"Jane Urquhart here," I said, primly.
"Oh, Hi, Janey," he said. "Uh, . . . I was just wondering if we
could have lunch or a cup of coffee or something. I could come
down your way."
He didn't sound the way I felt. Maybe just a little bit
hesitant. I held the phone at arm's length and took three big deep
breaths. "I'm honored," I said. "I have to catch the train in time to
be home at three, so lunch is OK if you want. I'm free from about
11:30 till 12:45. You know where Newbury street is? I can get
there by 11:45 and we can have a quickie--I mean a quickie lunch,
at the Trident bookstore. It's not too crowded on Tuesday."
"Great," he said. "I'll be there. Uh, where is the Trident? I
don't get down there too often. Do they serve lunch at a
bookstore?"
"Yeah, they do. It's between Hereford Street and Mass Ave.
Just up from Tower Records."
"OK, I'll take a cab. See you at a quarter to twelve."
"OK, see you. Bye-bye."
He mumbled something and hung up. I very carefully put
the phone on the hook. I was delighted with myself. I had
enunciated clearly and crisply. I had not sounded like a high
school girl. I had just made a lunch date with my best friend's
husband. Oh, God! I pulled myself together and started reading
the notes for my next interview. I decided it probably wouldn't
ruin the kid's life if I was a little unsettled when I prattled on
about test scores. After I saw the client I was sure he would ruin
it satisfactorily without my help. What's more, I got rid of him
fifteen minutes early--legitimately--and had time to dive into the
ladies for a minor overhaul before I had to leave.
Lunch was unusual. For instance I had a cheese sandwich
instead of the omelette. Steve said it was so cold he'd almost
rather be in Indonesia. I said sometimes we went to
Florida during the college breaks. Hot stuff, huh? Finally, after
we had finished eating and I had succeeded in pouring a second
cup of lousy weak tea, Steve reached out and took my hand.
"Listen," he said. "I'm no good at this. No practice. But I
think about you all the time. I have a bad case on you. What am I
going to do about it.?"
My hand was red hot. My face was kind of pink--I could tell
because I felt each blood cell as it rushed up past my neck. I was
full of witty repartee, so I said, "I don't know." Neat, huh?
Steve took a deep breath and said, "Would you consider
joining me some afternoon for a little experimenting? My
company has this suite at the Four Seasons where we put
visiting VIPs, but it's usually empty. I'm the guy with the key."
He put his other hand on my knee under the table.
My heart was going like a triphammer, whatever that is. I
found that I was answering him.
"Yes. Ten o'clock Friday morning."
Then Steve looked like he was the one who might faint. I
smiled and reached under the table and put my hand on his.
Now the next part was really romantic. He took both hands
back and dragged a little black book out of his pocket and opened
it to where there was a little ribbon. I watched, fascinated. I put
one hand on his knee just to see what happened. Nothing did.
"I'll be there before you get there. Room 607. OK?"
"Have something strong for me to drink," I said.
We got up--I left the tea--and he paid the cashier. He helped
me on with my coat and this time his hand brushed my nipple
hard. My knees didn't buckle, they just felt like the were going to.
Outside the store he took my arm, pulled me close and gave me a
little tiny kiss. He grinned. I blushed again and smiled.
"Bye, Janey," he said. "See you Friday."
He scurried off toward Mass Ave and I stood there a minute
collecting my wits. I finally started picking my way through the
ice chunks toward the scene of my helping endeavors. All I could
think of was Room 607. Room 607. Room 607. Room 607. I
got back to my office without getting run over.
-----------------
I succeeded in putting Room 607 out of my mind the rest of
the afternoon. When I got home, however, I got supper, got the
kids off to do their own things, and found myself with time to
think. All of a sudden this thing was real.
Bob was involved with some book. Normally I'd have left
him alone, but I wanted to talk to him. I still had time to call up
Steve and call the whole thing off. Did I want to? Yes, I did.
No, I didn't.
"Hey," I said, "I want to ask you something."
He looked up in a daze and said, "Sure. What's up?"
"Do you still love me?"
He got this funny what's-she-on-about-now look he gets. I
read it as saying that I'm some kind of weirdo, probably retarded,
and certainly an emotional basket case. It's not an uncommon
look. It always made me feel weird, retarded and emotionally a
basket case. Usually I sort of dry up and drop whatever subject
produced the look. I resolved to be resolute.
He finally spoke, looking back down into the book. "Of
course I love you! What's gotten into you?"
Nothing yet, I thought. "Well, you haven't given me a real
kiss since last summer. Occasionally you take me to bed, or,
rather, once we're already in bed you grab hold and we have sex,
but you haven't really made love to me since last summer, either.
If then. Maybe I've done something wrong, I don't know. I just
want to know what's going on."
"Oh, God, Janey, nothing's going on. I just got tenure, now
I've got to produce. On top of that I'm on the Faculty Senate, as
you well know, and I have to sit on at least five committees. I'm
working harder than I did while I was in the Navy. It doesn't have
anything to do with you. I married you, and I'm still here, aren't
I?"
"I know you're busy, and I know you worry a lot. But we
don't have any fun. I work, I take care of the kids, we go out now
and then, but you don't talk to me and you don't make love to me."
By now I was looking off into the distance--that is, not at him.
He put the book down, got out of his chair, came and stood
alongside me and put his hand on my shoulder. "I'm sorry, Janey,
I really am. I just get so involved I never think about anything but
the next problem. And I don't think you really understand how
important all this is. I'm doing it all for you and the kids. One of
the these days I'll be a full professor and we'll have more time."
"You said that when you got your Ph.D. we'd have more
time. Then you said when you got tenure we'd have more time.
Now it's when you're a full professor. Maybe when you retire?"
"I don't know how to please you, Janey. I do my best."
"I guess you do," I said. Then I opened the book I'd brought
to read and turned away from him, sniffling a little.
"I wish I could make you happy, Janey, I just don't know
what else to do. I really do love you."
"Yeah," I said. "OK." I'd stopped sniffling. He patted me on
the shoulder and stood there a minute. Then he went back to his
chair and started reading. I closed the book and got up, saying, "I
think Ill get on the computer and check my mail."
He didn't hear me.
When I got back into the little room we keep the computer in
I just sat there for a while. Thinking maybe I won't cancel Steve.
But I didn't think I wanted a full-blown affair--maybe a
one-morning stand? I didn't know. I knew I was getting in over
my head if I went to the Four Seasons at all. I didn't know
anything about sex except what I'd done with Bob about 400
times and a very few others before that weren't much. I've read a
lot of books, but they weren't very helpful. I sure as hell didn't
want to end up like Emma Bovary. On the other hand, some of
the books had some scenes in them that were hotter than anything
I'd ever done. Maybe I could learn something from this. Might as
well enjoy it.
So I got to thinking maybe I'd better learn a little before I
ever went to the Four Seasons. I had two whole days. Well,
minus the usual round of stuff I had to do. I clicked on the news
button and got a page that showed me Bob was subscribed to
some medieval history group. Show all groups, I told the damn
machine. Went down the list. Clicked on alt.sex.stories. Ugh!
Eight thousand ads. Great stuff like, "Want to see my pussy?"
Actually, I didn't. Back to the news group list. "Alt
.sex.stories.moderated." Maybe it would be better. It was. A
long list. I skimmed one on some little kid getting seduced by his
mother. Ugh! Then one that said "MF, rom." Not so bad. I was
getting the hang of this thing. It was about some guy rescuing a
woman who wrecked her car in a snowstorm. Oh, yes, he rescued
her all right! At this rate I'd take a long time to find very many
stories that would teach me anything. But the snow story was
sexy, so I read a couple of others. They made me feel sexy.
Maybe I learned a few things. My God, I couldn't believe there
were so many. I got started on one where he was getting ready to
tie her up. Not me, buster. People have some strange tastes.
The next day I went back to the Trident at lunch and bought
a little book I'd seen on the cashier's desk the other day--The
Pocket Kama Sutra. It was more to the point. Indeed. I took it
home and examined it carefully. Nice pictures. I kept it in my
pocketbook all the time. What if I put it away and somebody
found it? But what if I was in an accident and they looked in my
purse to find my name and address? This whole thing was
getting more complicated by the minute and I hadn't even done
anything. Except make a sex date with my best friend's husband.
Well, I was getting prepared, anyhow.
----------------
Maybe you don't understand this, I don't myself, quite, but as
those two days passed I got more excited but calmer at the same
time. The decision was made; no more thinking about that. I
finally tried to look at myself and understand what was going on
and I concluded that basically, I was just needy. Physically. The
kids touched me all the time. But Bob didn't. I wanted to be
touched--thoroughly. Wrestled with by a man. OK, I was a
pathetic creature. Yes, I was being totally reckless, taking a
chance on wrecking my marriage to a good husband whose only
real failing was that he was a workaholic. So be it, I thought.
Then I started picturing what was going to happen. I had
never been in a room at the Four Seasons, so I couldn't picture the
room very well. But a bed is a bed, and I figured the room wasn't
going to be squalid, not at the prices they charge. But would it be
warm enough? I wear sweaters at home all the time in the winter.
I could see myself hiding under the covers trying to keep warm
while Steve scrambled around trying to find me. And I couldn't
imagine how we were going to get to the bed. Was he going to
offer me a drink and chat a while, or would he leap on me the
minute I got inside the door and poke himself in before I got my
clothes off? In the latter case, would I be ready? Riding the train
from Needham does not usually stir me to heights of sexual
anticipation. I went to Victoria's Secret and bought new
underwear--nothing fancy, just new. I stewed.
--------------
I have this habit of getting everywhere early, but on Friday I
showed up at Room 607 at 10:20 a.m. EST. If anybody was going
to stand around waiting, it wasn't going to be me. My heart was
racing. Steve opened the door. We stood there for about ten
seconds. Then he took my hand and gently pulled me into the
room. He shut the door. He turned and took my hand again.
"Hi, Janey," he said.
"Hi," I said. At least he hadn't thrown me on the floor and
ravished me. Heck.
"Let me help with your coat," he said.
"Thank you," I replied, starting to shuck the gear. I was
wearing a fur hat, a wool muffler, and a beautiful white parka I
didn't wear much because it got dirty so easily. It was clean. I
was so clean, top to bottom and inside out, that I would have
glowed if it had been dark. Under the circumstances I had decided
not to wear my woolly knickers, so I was cold, but I didn't notice
it because I was so hot, if you get what I mean. We got the coat
off and he put it in a little closet by the door. I reached down and
one at a time pulled off my boots. This was not graceful, but it
was necessary. I was wearing a beige wool jersey dress that clung
to me like skin with a little blue scarf at the neck and a little gold
bird pin. And a diaphragm. No shoes.
Steve came back and held out his arms, then he kind of
lurched forward and I was getting the hug of my life. I bent my
head down a little and kissed him on the lips. He kissed back,
hard. I could feel his tongue searching around so I opened my
mouth a little. The tongue entered, the hug got tighter, I opened
my mouth some more and enthusiastically tangled my tongue up
with his. I started feeling the most extraordinary bulge gouging
into my belly.
That kiss lasted a long time. I had my arms around Steve's
neck, and he had one arm around my waist and the other on my
neck. I could feel my nipples pushing into his chest, and I was
beginning to get these tingles between my legs. He broke it up,
then put his hands on my sides and kind of rubbed up and down.
His thumbs came out and pushed into the sides of my boobs. He
looked solemn, so I smiled.
"Oh, God, I'm glad you're here," he said. "I was beginning to
wonder . . . ."
"Nice you waited," I said.
One hand came up and cupped my right boob. My knees got
weak. I still had my arms loosely around his waist. I pulled him
close and kissed him, with passion. He got my nipple between his
fingers and squeezed. It hurt a little, but it felt good. Very good.
He pushed me away and grabbed my hand.
"Come on," he said. He pulled me over toward the bedroom
door and kind of shoved me through. Once inside, standing
behind me, he put each hand on a breast and just held them there,
kneading, while he nuzzled my neck. I leaned back onto him,
quietly going nuts. I could feel myself getting very wet. I broke
away, turned around to face him, reached down and gradually
pulled the dress over my head. Then I just stood there and looked
at him.
"You're beautiful," he said. If this relationship was going to
be built on lies, that was one I liked to hear.
"Take off your clothes," I said. Sometimes I like to come on
strong, like the guy in that Czech movie.
The trouble with me is that I see the humor in everything.
Watching him get undressed was like watching a Buster Keaton
movie. It was like a standing hundred-yard dash. He had trouble
getting his jockey shorts down over his uh, well, penis. It was
standing there at present arms ignoring everything. (I was the
first woman in the Army ROTC in college.) Clothes flew through
the air. I can see myself standing there with this little smile on
my face. Once bare, he came close and held onto me for about a
tenth of a second, then started trying to unhook my bra.
I leaned my head back enough to say, "In the front, dummy."
His hands were shaking, but he got the hook loose and
slowly opened up the bra. What isn't there in quantity doesn't sag,
anyhow. He backed off and looked at me again.
"You're beautiful," he said. I still liked it.
Then he took hold of the waistband of my pantyhose and,
bending his knees, pulled them down to my feet. I shivered--it
wasn't quite as warm as I'd hoped. Panties followed. I took one
foot out of the pile of underwear before he pushed me down onto
the bed, which he had thoughtfully turned back before I got to the
hotel. He climbed in beside me and was sucking a tittie before I
realized I was horizontal. All this seemed to be happening rather
quickly, but what the hell? At first he just pushed his tongue
around and around. I could feel the wet part getting wetter. Then
he began actually to suck on the nipple. I thought of the little
babies I'd suckled, but it felt different. This time it was shooting
shocks of pleasure all the way to my toes. But he stopped just as
I was beginning to relax into the whole thing. He reared up and
came down on top of me. It turned out that his being shorter than
I am didn't interfere in any way at all. Seeing as how he was in
this all-fired hurry I helped him get where he wanted to be, and he
quieted down for a minute, just resting on his elbows and looking
at me. His dick (I have to call it something) was a nice size. It
slid in fast and I loved the filled up feeling it gave me. He leaned
down and kissed me. I was melting fast. Oh, my, I had him inside
me and it felt really, really good--what can I say. No words for it.
Exquisite?
Then he started moving in, and out, and in, and I responded,
pushing my hips up like I was trying to unseat him, but I was just
beginning to get that creamy feeling that women get sometimes. I
was being a good girl and helping him. He was moving fast--I
don't know how long this lasted, but it seemed like seconds when
started shouting, "My, God, I'm coming! I'm coming." Since he
was shuddering like Mt. St. Helens, I had already figured that out.
He nearly squeezed the breath out of me. Then he toppled off
like he'd been shot and landed on his back What the hell?
He flopped back on to one side and looked at me, smiling
this loopy smile. "How was it for you?" he said. I was
flummoxed.
After a little bit, I turned my body to face him and said:
"Pretty good as far as it went."
His face went all concerned and he said, "Huh?"
I smiled. What else? Then I said, "Look, sweetie, we are
having this illicit love affair, right? I think maybe you haven't
heard, but often there's a little bit more to it than this."
"You didn't come," he said accusingly.
"Actually, I didn't," I said, still smiling, "but that can be
rectified."
He looked a little bit more relaxed.
"What did you have in mind?"
I looked down at his exhausted-looking member (I read
Victorian smut sometimes). Then I smiled some more and said,
"I want to you go way down to the end of the bed and gently
stroke my right ankle."
He looked at me like I was crazy, but I knew this time I
wasn't, and anyhow, only my husband seems to be able to make
feel the way he looks like he thinks I am.
"Your ankle?"
"Yes, please."
Dutifully he got on his knees and crawled down to my feet.
He put one hand on my ankle (the wrong one, but I didn't think it
was time to start complaining). He kind of rubbed at it.
"Gently, please," I said, sighing in what I sincerely hoped
was a voluptuous manner.
He stroked gently, sometimes just with his fingernails. It felt
good. Quick learner. After a minute or so, I said, "It's OK to
move up a little now and then, just don't hurry. You could kiss
me down there, if you like."
"I think I'm getting the idea," he said.
I was enjoying the strokes. "You are, " I said, "you are."
Gradually he approached my upper thigh and stroked not
only the top, but the inside. I could tell he liked that almost as
much as I did because the flagpole was not looking so
much like last night's spaghetti. There was hope.
"You might use your left hand to gently caress my breast
while your other just keeps on with what it's doing." You can see
that in the heat of passion I even split infinitives. Good thing he
wasn't an English prof.
He plopped his hand down on top of my nipple. I gently
picked it up and moved it over to the extreme edge of tittie land.
"Right here, first, then approach gently."
I have to admit that I was getting a little impatient for more
action, but I am a dedicated teacher, and what he was doing he
was learning to do quite well. I wasn't cold.
"Kiss me now," I said. And he did. Gently. Then, all on his
own, he started kissing my forehead, and cheeks, and ears. Oh, a
very good pupil!
I reached up finally, put my arm around his neck, and pulled
him down for a long, involved, tongue-twisting wow of a kiss. I
reached down while this was still going on and felt for Roger.
Roger was turning into a little soldier again. When the kiss
broke, I smiled languorously and said, "May I call him Roger?"
"I don't care of you call him Ephraim," Steve said, "as long
as you keep your hand right there."
Steve stopped stock still while I gently fingered his Roger,
stroking every so softly right under the little slash. Roger
responded beautifully. Then, reluctantly releasing my new little
friend, I gently pulled Steve's head down to my neck
"Kiss me there," I said. "I like Roger, but I need my hand. I
won't forget him."
He did, and all this was beginning to affect deeply what I had
just discovered was my little Earlene. "Continue downward,
please, but not too fast."
He got down into the valley between my breasts, and I began
to shiver just a little. Not the cold. Then he kissed the right
nipple, then the left. He lingered there and once more sent big
shivers down toward my toes. This was getting really exciting,
and I liked it a whole lot. I was beginning to love Steve just a
little. I wasn't "in love," but I was sure loving what this guy was
doing.
"Take your time," I said, "but feel free to go further down."
He took his time. Maybe just a bit too much, but you can't
nitpick when a good pupil is doing reasonably well.
When he got down to my mound he stuck his nose in my
pubic hair and just wiggled it back and forth. I jumped. It
tickled.
"I love your enthusiasm," I said, 'but remember--be gentle."
Tickled or not, I found my legs slowly opening up.
Then I felt his tongue, just on the edge of Earlene's little lips,
and that turned me on--a lot. I kind of squirmed. He looked up
and smiled beautifully. Then he went back to work. He kind of
brushed over the significant part a couple of times without
stopping. "Easy," I said, "You might pay a little extra attention
to the hard little nub down there." He did. He kept that up for a
nice little while, even sucking on little Earlene until I found
myself practically hyperventilating.
"Goddamn it, get in there!" I shouted. He complied. Now he
was the one getting the breath squeezed out of him. He was so
spooked he kept trying to be gentle, so I said, "Stop being so
gentle! Screw me!." He had the nerve to look me right in the
face and laugh.
I felt the orgasm coming. I was meeting him halfway and we
were going like bunny rabbits. (Sometimes in the heat of passion
I get trite.) It felt like a train was coming. I had time to think,
"Oh, God, Freud!" before it hit me, but when it did I didn't think
anything at all except maybe something like, "Whee!" Now I was
the one shuddering and bucking and digging my nails into his
back and generally having a hell of a time. Great gusts of
tingling pleasure swept through me, radiating from that little
place between my legs. I found myself shouting, "Yes, yes!" as if
I were watching a fencing bout.
It took a long time for me to come down. I wasn't there yet
when he came, too, and it was all a big fracas. I was getting
wrestled with just like I'd wanted.
This time instead of rolling off he stayed on top and ol'
Roger just quietly melted away.
Finally I gave him a shove and he moved up tight alongside
me. I lifted my head and he put his arm under my neck. It was
cozy.
"Thank you," I said, turning my head to look at him. "Was it
worth the effort?"
"I'm speechless," he said. "I've never had an experience
anywhere near this. You are not only beautiful, you are
remarkable and wonderful."
"Learned it all out of a book," I said.
-------------
We did this caper twice more, on the following Tuesday and
Friday. Then, right at the end of January, I got this call from
Beth. She didn't waste time.
"What the hell did you do to my husband?" she screamed. I
held the receiver away from my ear a little, and started to talk.
"Well, you told me to encourage him, so I did. Turned out
he didn't need too much encouragement."
"Listen," Beth said. "I don't mind your taking him to bed at
all, that's fine. But he's gotten so gentle, so slow! He wants
foreplay, for God's sake! I married this he-man
wham-bam-thank-you-mam guy and you turned him into a pussy!"
"I'm sorry," I said in a little voice, once more gobsmacked.
"I just taught him a few little things I needed him to know."
"Oh, I guess it's all right," she said. "I can retrain him, and
maybe I'll get old and like it your way. But the way he is now I'm
afraid he'll want to move to Cambridge and read poetry!"
"Maybe he could teach you something?" I said.
"Huh," she said. "I know about fifty times as much as you do
about sex and I also know what I like, so you leave him alone."
"Yes, ma'am." I said in my little girl voice.
When she heard that she started laughing and wound up
asking me if I'd like to go to the Four Seasons for lunch.
"Oh, I don't think I'd like that," I simpered. "That place is so
full of memories."
She laughed again and we agreed to go back to the Trident.
----------
On the night of February 1 I was sitting there reading a
romance about some dim woman travelling through time to meet
her six-foot Scottish lover when I was astonished to hear Bob say,
"Hey, I want to talk to you."
I looked up and there he was, looking pained. Oh, my, I
thought--retribution time. "Sure," I said. "Talk away."
"Well, I'm ashamed to tell you this, and it's taken me two
days to work up the nerve."
I got up, went over to his chair and sat in his lap, feeling ever
so much more cheerful. Whatever it was, it wasn't the irate
husband bit.
"Tell Mama," I said. "I love you and I stand by my man no
matter what."
"I've been sleeping with Beth," he said, looking down into
my lap.
"How was she?" I asked.
He looked shocked.
"What do you mean?"
"Like, on a scale of one to ten, how do you rate her as a bed
partner?"
Now, Bob is six-feet-three, and when I sit on his lap he can
look right into my face, unlike others who shall remain nameless.
So he looked at me, and I could see relief sneaking into his eyes.
But puzzlement was right there with it.
"I never thought about that when I decided to tell you," he
said, "and I haven't much to go on, but . . . compared to most
people I'd give her about a seven, and compared to you a zero."
"Well, Steve was certainly no more than a two when I started
with him, but he's easily an eight now."
If he'd been sitting in my lap, he'd have fallen out. But I had
him pinned.
"Do you mean what I think you mean?"
"Yep."
"Oh, God, what a mess!"
"No, I don't think so," I said. "We can just forget all about
this. We're both terrible unfaithful people, but I still love you."
All of a sudden I panicked. "You haven't fallen in
love, have you?"
"No, no, no! All I want now is out. She's eating me alive.
And besides, I really love you and always have and always will."
"That's the nicest thing you've said to me in at least a year," I
said. "I guess I'll call her up and thank her."
Bob hugged me like he hadn't in years, and he cried a little,
almost. I could see the tears in his eyes.
"OK," he said. "We forget about it."
"Wait a minute," I said, "I have one more question: Where
did you go for these get-togethers?"
"The Park Plaza, why?"
"Oh, goodie!" I said, bouncing up and down and nearly
crushing the poor man. "The Four Seasons is much better!"
--------------------
Next time I ate lunch with Beth she said she had a
confession to make.
"You see," she said, "I really love you to death, and I
wouldn't hurt you for the world. So when I got this yen for Bob, I
knew I had to handle it just right. So I invented a crush for ol'
Steve, and with your help he promptly got one. I knew you were
ripe, anyway. That way, when you found out what I was doing
with Bob, you wouldn't be all that upset."
"Well, shit!" I said. Then I ate some more raisins.
-------THE END-------
Please write to Janey at janey98@hotmail.com
Web sites: http://members tripod.com/files/Authors/jane/wwwy98
http://annejet.pair.com/story
Copyright 1998-1999 by Jane Urquhart. The author is a member
of the Net Authors and Creators Union (NACU), which defends
the rights of Internet authors and creators. NACU intends to
bring suit against any person or corporation infringing copyright.
Specific permission is granted for publication in the news groups
Alt.Sex.Stories and Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated and for archiving
by the Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated archive and DejaNews. All
other rights are reserved. Do not repost or distribute by any other
means without express permission from the author.
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