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From: anon584c@nyx.net (Uther Pendragon)
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Subject: {ASSM} rp "Forlorn.01" {Pendragon} ( MF rom lac ) [1/2]
Date: Mon, 10 Jul 2000 20:10:50 -0400
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IF YOU ARE UNDER THE AGE OF 18, or otherwise forbidden by law to 
read electronically transmitted erotic material, please go do 
something else.

    This material is Copyright, 1997, Uther Pendragon.  All 
rights reserved.  I specifically grant the right for all 
reproduction necessary for normal Usenet propagation.  I 
specifically grant the right of downloading and keeping ONE 
electronic copy for your personal reading so long as this notice 
is included.  Reposting requires previous permission.

    I read alt.sex.stories.d.  If you have any comments or 
requests, please post them in that newsgroup or E-mail them to me 
at anon584c@nyx.net.  Please use "{ASSD}" at the beginning of the 
subject line of any posted reply.  

     If you save erotic stories and you prefer that other 
household members not be exposed to them, I recommend that you 
use a file zipped with the PKZip option -spassword.  (Where the 
password that you choose would, presumably, not be "password.")  
This still leaves the titles of the files and the fact that they 
are encrypted open to anybody.

    All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as 
public figures in the background, are figments of my imagination 
and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly 
coincidental.

                      #     #      #     #


                             FORLORN
                         Uther Pendragon

Part 1


My disappointment was absolutely ridiculous.

     First of all, my wife Jeanette was overburdened.  I do help with our 
baby; but she has the major responsibility for child care.  She also takes 
a course in French Literature.  It's a level higher than the courses she'd 
taken previously, not beyond her reach but a stretch.  The first paper of 
the quarter was due that day; and she knew that she would soon, perhaps 
that day, have to present it to the class. 

     I teach at the University, which is why she can take one free course.  
I left my office and met her at the front door.  She handed me the diaper 
bag and the car seat (with The Kitten, our four-month-old baby still 
strapped in it).  She said "Love you, Bob; she'll probably get hungry," 
before rushing off to her class. 

     "Love you," I called after her.  And I did.  

     But I do wish that she had said "Happy birthday" as well.  

     My progress up the two flights of stairs to my closet was interrupted 
three times by coeds and once by a secretary who wanted to coo at The 
Kitten.  "Isn't she the cutest baby in the whole world?" I asked one coed. 

     "She is a darling," was the response. 

     I suppose that my office isn't really a closet; it has half a window.  
There is room for my desk, my cellmate's desk, chairs for the two of us, 
and standing room for up to three students.  Luckily, The Kitten only takes 
up room on the desk. 

     I couldn't stay depressed long in her presence.  Indeed she, Catherine 
Angelique Brennan to be formal, is the primary reason that I should have 
been happy as a lark.  We had wanted a baby for a long time.  The Kitten 
was here, was healthy -- an unexpressed dark-hours worry for expectant 
parents -- and was the cutest baby in the whole world. 

     And Jeanette's class time was my quality time. I held my daughter 
against my shoulder while I read my copy of *When We Were Very Young* to 
her.  She keeps her own copy, a gift from her Aunt Vi, at home.  For 
swaying in time with the poetry's beat an office chair is a good substitute 
for a rocker. 

     And the rocking reminded me of the second reason that I should be 
happy.  For a long period, our sex life had been restricted.  First there 
were the mechanical details involved in enhancing the chances of 
conception.  "Making a baby" is lots of fun, but seriously trying to do so 
restricts your choice of positions.  Then, as her pregnancy advanced, we 
had to abandon having her on top, then having me on top, and then any 
penetration at all.  The period immediately after The Kitten's birth had 
constrained our sexual activities as well.  Over the last three months, 
however, the constraints have disappeared. 

     Interruptions had been plentiful.  I think The Kitten has a sixth 
sense; but Jeanette disagrees.  She points out that we hardly have a dinner 
which isn't interrupted either.  "You just care more about our time in 
bed," she says.  Anyway, interruptions can be dealt with.  And they provide 
a great excuse. 

     Before the baby, Jeanette had sometimes been reluctant to engage in 
sex play before the "proper time" for bed.  Nowadays, however, Jeanette 
agrees that any evening nap by The Kitten provides an opportunity that 
might not recur that night.  For that matter, the last feeding before 
bedtime has become almost a ritual period for foreplay.  Jeanette lies down 
on the bed, The Kitten lies at her breast, and I get any skin left over. 

     This rarely extends beyond foreplay, although we might protract the 
foreplay luxuriously.  My oral ministrations, originally reserved for 
special occasions and then makeshifts when genital intercourse was no 
longer possible, now regularly garnish our bedtimes. 

     And, when The Kitten is away (in sleep), the mice get to play. 

     The previous night, for example, I'd teased Jeanette to the edge and 
kissed and licked her over that edge.  We'd all lain there in the afterglow 
until The Kitten was totally done.  I'd changed her before taking her to 
the rocker to burp her.  Our bedroom wasn't really designed for three, but 
everything almost fits; her changing table was once my dresser, and I 
managed to put her in her little bed without leaving the rocker.  

     "Aren't you coming back?" Jeanette had asked. 

     "I thought that you might join me."  She'd laughed but came to sit on 
my knees facing me. 

     "Going to rock all your girls to sleep?" 

     I'd pulled her closer and had patted her back.  "Christopher Robin 
goes hoppity, hoppity," I'd begun.  She stopped me with a kiss.  Somewhere 
in the midst of our kissing, the joke had disappeared.  The nice thing 
about that position is that any spreading of my legs spreads hers more.  
I'd used that access to tease her until she'd been ready.  She'd broken the 
last kiss and leaned back while she grasped me.  That had given me the 
chance for a couple of kisses on her breasts before she'd fitted us.  Then 
we'd rocked together.  I'd slid within her until she'd been on the edge 
once more.  A few touches on her magic button had taken her over.  Her 
gasping moans and rhythmic clutching around me, had begun my own ... 

     My musings were interrupted by a student.  "Is Professor Johnson 
here?" she asked.  And then, when I pointed out that his posted hours 
hadn't begun yet, "Hi, Kitten, want to come to Jackie?"  The Kitten clearly 
did and enjoyed a few minutes of appreciation from somebody new.  When she 
looked anxious, Jackie handed her back.  Johnson came in just then, still a 
little early.  "Professor Johnson," the girl asked, "that paper you 
assigned this morning, is it due the fifth?" 

     "November fifth, that's right."  He looked at me when the girl left, 
and we both laughed. 

     "You have an admirer, Catherine Angelique," I said.  He grimaced 
good-naturedly.  He'd complained some about my doing child-care in that 
office, but he'd stopped after a visit from the dean of women to tell me 
how strongly she supported the idea of men participating in parenting.  She 
came, rather than phoned, while Johnson was in the office.  Message sent, 
message received. 

     The Kitten made the mouth motions which signaled that she was hungry.  
I took sixty seconds to come up with the bottle, and she took thirty 
seconds to shriek her starvation.  The only way I can find to bottle-feed 
her is lying on my arm facing away from me, with the tiny bottle held 
horizontal in my other hand.  When I'd tried it with her on her back and 
the bottle above her, she'd applied the suction that she normally applies 
to her mother's breast.  The resulting volume of milk had almost drowned 
her. 

     I walked her out in the hall for that feeding.  She would suck a 
little and then look up at me.  "That's right," I said.  "Mommy's not here 
right now.  Daddy's looking after you.  And Mommy left her milk so you 
could eat.  She loves you.  And I love you.  And we'll keep you safe and 
warm." 

     The Kitten's physical needs are satisfied by bottle feedings, but she 
never treats them to that blissed-out look that she gets when she is 
nursing.  Who can blame her?  She seems to enjoy Daddy's burping strategy, 
however.  "Just for a handful of silver he left us ..." I recited, pacing 
the hall with a swagger and patting her firmly in time with the verse.  A 
satisfactory eruction accomplished, we went back to the office. 

     Changing diapers does not count as quality time from my perspective, 
although The Kitten expresses her pleasure at losing those encumbrances by 
waving her arms, kicking her legs, and occasionally voiding her bladder.  
This time, however, was without incident.  My desk was safe and my office 
mate minimally offended. 

     I leaned back with her on my shoulder and rocked silently.  Having had 
an exciting morning, she was soon asleep.  I put my pocket watch on the 
desk and let my mind stray. 

     There is something both comforting and sensual about having a small 
life breathing against your chest.  I know that Jeanette feels the same 
way, and I've taken advantage of her feeling once or twice.  Mostly, we 
restrict ourselves to foreplay while The Kitten is nursing, but not always. 

     One night, we'd been convinced that The Kitten would sleep for hours 
more.  We'd luxuriated in the time and privacy.  I had kissed Jeanette 
everywhere else before she had parted her legs and given me access to her 
center.  With her lying on her left side and my lying on my right side 
behind her, we can look each other in the eye while I kiss her, at least 
when no baby is between us.  I had savored her odor and taste while teasing 
her with my tongue.  Then she'd stiffened, and her eyes had focused 
elsewhere.  After I had sucked and licked her to a rather noisy climax, 
we'd lain in quiet repletion and -- in my case -- eager anticipation. 

     At which point, The Kitten had surprised us by crying.  I popped the 
pacifier into her mouth while I changed her, but she clearly wanted the 
real thing.  Barely recovered, Jeanette had lain back with the baby on her 
belly while I had kissed her gently. Soon her knees raised and spread to 
give me access.  "She won't go back to sleep after this one," she warned. 

     "I'll put her in the car seat on the bed and shake the bed to keep her 
entertained." 

     "Est-ce-que ton papa est bete?" she asked our child.  "Non?  Est-il 
*tres* bete?"  Catherine's responses to these conversations being silent, 
Jeanette reports them to me.  "She says that you are *very* silly." 

     Meanwhile, I'd been lying far down the bed with Jeanette's thighs and 
quim within easy reach.  I had given her an occasional kiss on the ribs, 
but only my hand had done anything serious.  I'd been careful to keep my 
motions gentle, but the physical pleasure of brushing that fine hair and 
smoothing those thin lips had slowly been overtaken by the emotional 
pleasure of seeing Jeanette's renewed arousal.  My arousal hadn't been in 
question, by then it had become painful.  "Are you okay?" I'd asked her 
perfunctorily, being certain that she'd taken care of the contraception. 

     "Bob?" 

     "Let me try this way."  She'd looked a little dubious, but had allowed 
me to raise her legs and slip under them.  Lying at right angles to her, 
I'd parted her lips again.  That time, however, I'd had more than a finger 
to slip inside.  That position is a little clumsy, there being no muscle 
pattern to move one in and out.  All that had meant, however, was that my 
entry had been excruciatingly slow as her warmth enclosed me millimeter by 
millimeter. 

     Once enclosed in that moist clasp, I'd only been able to rock side to 
side to generate internal friction, but that hadn't been my main goal.  My 
fingers, still on her labia, had resumed their caresses.  She'd turned from 
The Kitten to look at me as I'd gone further.  A few strokes around her 
clitoral area had been answered by her stiffening and muffled gasps.  She 
had reached her right hand to find my left.  Then she'd given me the gift 
of ultimate intimacy.  Silently, she had spasmed around me. 

     It had been a minute before her eyes met mine again.  "I love you," 
had been my greeting.  Asked then and there whether any other gift could 
have matched that, I would have laughed at the idea.  So why was I feeling 
so forlorn today? 

     "Love you, too," she'd responded. 

     "Didn't feel lonely?"  That had been her complaint when we'd tried 
that position long before.  It does separate all of of our bodies but the 
critical parts. 

     "Felt loved," she'd answered.  "All my family loving me."  She'd 
extricated her hand from mine to hold The Kitten to her breast.  Then her 
left hand had pushed its way between my thighs. 

     I'd parted them immediately but warned her, "I can't hold back if you 
do that.  There won't be anything for later." 

     "Don't want later.  Want now.  Want my husband."  Excited by both her 
words and her hand, I'd resumed my rocking from side to side.  Rocking like 
that I had slipped a mere inch into and out of her slick warmth.  Her eyes 
locked to mine had communicated her love as clearly as her feather-light 
caresses to my scrotum had communicated desire.  When she had tightened 
herself around me in time to my strokes, I'd lost it.  She'd greeted each 
pulse of my seed with a quiet "yes." 

     Anyway, it was time to pack The Kitten back up.  I did so, looked for 
Jeanette, and headed for my classroom.  This was the bottleneck of our 
schedule.  If she were running a little late, she'd head for the classroom 
where I was to teach next.  She was not there, however, and I brought The 
Kitten inside.  We had two minutes until the scheduled beginning of class, 
but the fuss at my entrance made clear that no one would settle down before 
Jeanette arrived.  "Oh Professor Brennan, can I hold her?" were the first 
words that I heard. 

     "She stays in the car seat"  I ruled.  "Her mother is expected 
momentarily, and this is a class in history.  It's time to turn in your 
papers."  But then I relented.  "You can look if not touch.  Isn't she the 
cutest baby in the whole world?" 

     "Does that question count on the final grade?" asked one coed.  There 
is one smartass in every class. 

     "Thirty percent," I responded.  "What's your answer, Deborah." 

     Deborah, who was a joy to have in the class when -- and only when -- 
we were discussing history, answered, "Sorry Professor Brennan.  I have a 
nephew who is *really* the cutest baby in the whole world." 

     "Well, I'll excuse you in that case.  But if you plan to become a 
professional historian, you'll have to put aside these personal biases and 
respond only to the objective facts."  For some unfathomable reason the 
entire class broke out into roars of laughter at this. 

     "Hello Kitten," came an unmistakable voice from the doorway.  "Are you 
keeping Daddy's class entertained?"  The Kitten brightened noticeably at 
Jeanette's appearance.  Jeanette grabbed the car seat and the diaper bag; 
she knew that time was critical.  "Parlerons," she said to me.  "Nous 
t'aimons." 

     "Je vous aime."  I responded, before turning to the class.  "Europe," 
I said to them, "is a matter of physical geography in one sense.  In 
another sense, it is an idea.  Three of the great seedbeds of civilization 
were in contact with each other, Nile, Mesopotamia, and the Indus.  The 
lesser, but still early, civilization of Crete was in touch with Egypt.  
With the spread of Aryans, or speakers of Indo-European languages, contact 
with Indian civilization was interrupted.  Meanwhile other groups, most 
notably the Phoenicians came to the fore.  Joined by various Aryan groups 
which had now adopted civilization, these formed a multicultural exchange 
of ideas and trade.  We might say that the Eastern Mediterranean 
civilization had begun. 

     "This civilization came to be politically dominated by successive 
semi-barbarian Aryan groups from its edge.  First the Persians, then the 
Macedonians, and finally the Romans."  If they absorbed one percent of that 
summary, they were faster on the uptake than I have any right to expect.  
Mostly, I was dropping the hint that the history we studied had a history 
of its own.  I took a breath and slowed way down. 

     "In one of the most troublesome provinces of the Roman Empire, a 
strange sect arose, and spread, and is spreading still.  Christianity was 
not European by birth, but it will define Europe for the rest of our study.  
And it is the subject of this week's selections."  They were back in the 
classroom and starting to pay attention.  They moved into the arguments 
historians make around the birth and spread of Christianity. 

     "Schweitzer's approach is theological, not historical," said one 
student.  He was summarizing what the editor had said and making me suspect 
that he had read the introduction and not the passage. 

     "Right," I replied.  "He was a theologian dealing with a theological 
question, and his summary -- which is what we have here -- was theological.  
But he raised one methodological point which every historian should be 
aware of.  What Schweitzer did in his book was to look at a long sequence 
of studies of "The Historical Jesus," and look at each author's positions 
on theological and moral issues aside from that book.  Guess what? 

     "Each author's description of Jesus' positions was a good description 
of his own position. 

     "Now this is an extreme example, but it is a common danger.  When you 
'go behind' your source texts, you are in danger of replacing uncertain or 
conflicting reports with definite-but-imagined events." 

     This started them off.  I like teaching, and I especially like 
teaching majors.  A "problems" course like this one is about doing history 
more than it is about the particular issues.  Read one source and you have 
a clear idea what happened; read five sources and you have some glimpse of 
the real questions about what happened.  You also see the questions which 
the secondary sources had to struggle with. 

     Maybe two-thirds of these students were interested in such questions.  
One or two others engaged themselves deeply in the particular issues.  Half 
of the interested group actually considered these questions between 
discussion sessions instead of reading (maybe) the book and winging it when 
the talk started.  A minute before the class was scheduled to end, I 
started handing back the papers from the week before.  However interested 
in the discussion, they were more interested in grades.  Some of them, 
however, wanted to hammer down points that I had moved the class past.  I 
walked out into the hall before responding, "Anybody who doesn't have class 
can follow me to the cafeteria." 

     Four took me up on it.  Two were still arguing with each other when I 
left for my lecture class on "Intro. to Western Civilization."  Those 
students straggle in over the first eight minutes of class and would bolt 
if I ran one minute over the scheduled end of class. 

     Then I spent several hours in the library.  Jeanette and I are working 
on a book which involves a small slice of the diplomatic records of France.  
The diplomatic history of one country, however, necessarily involves other 
countries.  I have a long list of names, some of them of dubious spelling, 
which were mentioned one time or more in the correspondence.  So I look in 
disintegrating copies of *Who's Who* and then the index of book after book 
for some reference to the person who might fit that name. 

     When I left those bright lights for the outside dusk, my mood 
paradoxically brightened.  I'd found two possibles, and I was convinced 
that a birthday celebration awaited me at home.  My pace quickened.  


Continued in Part 2 
Forlorn 
Uther Pendragon 

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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