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Subject: {ASSM} Scenes, by Vickie Tern, 1/17  TG Femdom F/m m/M F/M etc
Date: Mon,  1 Oct 2001 08:10:05 -0400
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Scenes, by Vickie Tern, 1/17  TG Femdom F/m m/M F/M etc

This is a tale about a married couple who try to meet each 
other's needs, and also their own.  What they think are each 
other's needs, that is.  What they think are their own.

It includes explicit sex scenes.  Married sex, mostly, gentle, 
loving, and appreciative, mostly.  If by reason of age, 
temperament, or moral principle you shouldn't or don't want 
to read about such things, think hard what to do about it, 
and you'll figure it out I'm sure.








                  Scenes from a Marriage
                      by Vickie Tern
                 
                    (vickietern@aol.com)   



                             1.

Carl wasn't really small, maybe only a little below average, but he
was thin, gawky even for a teenager.  His lean arms and narrow
chest and small shoulders refused to bulk up no matter how much
"Man-Power Protein Supplement" he drank and no matter how much iron
he tried and failed to pump.  So when the girls in his high school
wanted to practice being girls on some guy they'd ignore him,
overlook him.  Sometimes even literally -- they'd stand in his path
chatting with some acceptably tall, massive guy who happened to be
behind him, never noticing that they were blocking his way.  Carl
would just wait till they moved on, too polite to interrupt the
flirting and too unassertive even to say "Excuse me!"  He was
easily ignored.

No way was he a fit boyfriend for any self-respecting high school
girl.  But some of them found he could be a friend nevertheless,
that he was always a patient and sympathetic listener when they had
a problem to talk through and their regular girlfriends weren't
available.  They'd get on the phone with him and talk about the
hopes and heartaches of their relationships with boys, sometimes
for hours.  He'd sympathize.  After a while they never thought of
him as a boy, not the kind of boy who mattered, anyhow.  He was
sort of more like one of them, one of the gang who hung out
together and could often be seen leaning across a table in the
cafeteria, foreheads practically touching, ignoring the pizza under
their faces and giggling as one or another of them held the rest
spellbound with tales of intimacies with one or another boy friend. 


Such intimacies were all new and magical to the girls, so whatever
any one girl did and how she felt about it had to be shared, turned
round and re-examined by everyone.  Kiss a boy on a first date? 
Well, yes, but with his tongue in you?  His finger in you?  Blow
him on a second date if you really like him?  Maybe, if he wasn't
too arrogant, if he didn't take it for granted that's what you'd
do.  Or maybe even if he was arrogant, that's self-confidence
really, that's a good thing in a boy.  If he was shy and you wanted
to kiss his cock to see what it was like, how big and so on, and
wanted him to know, should you suck on his thumb to tell him?  When
he squirted, should you swallow it?  Should you try to share it
with him?  If he'd accept it from your mouth into his, you could
get him to do other things too, one of the girls had heard.  But
none of them were quite sure what things, not just yet.

Carl never ventured an opinion on sex, since he was neither a
representative boy nor a makeshift girl.  What could he say?  He'd
listen, always feeling a little left out yet always feeling
privileged to be there at all.  He'd sit there while they talked
make-up and clothes and girls' magazines and pop stars and local
scandals, and boys, boys, boys.  It was way better than sitting
nowhere.  And as long as he listened and nodded, he belonged!  One
girl even invited him to her pajama party, and he would have gone,
too, except that her mother heard and vetoed it despite protests
that it wasn't fair, that Carl wasn't really a boy, no one thought
of him that way!   They liked having him around.  He was
comfortable.  He was a safe harbor where they could let down their
sails when they returned from cruising uncharted waters with real
boys.  

So though he wasn't exactly a boy, being a boy made him better than
one more girl in some ways.  They'd try out new looks and flirty
repartee on him to get his reaction.  They'd ask him if this weird
mix and match outfit or that retro eye liner was too much, what
would he think if he were a guy?  Or if this new short hairdo was
more flattering than their old smooth long hair.  In time they
learned to respect his opinion.  He'd listen to what they were
really saying, not just the frivolous-sounding surfaces but the
tangles of anxiety and hopeful pride underneath.  And he had
instinctive good taste, so he always gave good advice.  They loved
him for it.  One girl told him he was so sweet and so understanding
of girls he really deserved a boyfriend of his own!  Then when he
blushed, they teased him.  He was so dear!

The other guys thought he probably did have a boyfriend of his own. 
To them he was that weird kid who hangs out with girls, probably a
fag or a queer, whatever.  Especially after an incident when the
girls all got tipsy on a little wine and trooped down to the Nail
Factory for manicures, and another girl from their school saw them
and reported that he'd gotten one too.  No matter that it was only
clear matte polish.  There he was, surrounded by girls, sitting
where only girls sit, his hand gracefully extended to the operator
while she buffed and painted his fingertips.  That tied it.  No boy
wanted to be seen with him after that.  Not even the boys who were
discovering that they were indeed themselves fags, queers. 

A few times Carl tried to get a girl interested in him as himself,
as a boyfriend, not as a friend who was a boy.  But it was always
no go.  He wasn't their type, not for that kind of thing.  So he
got used to it, to not being their type.  What he had going with
them was still a lot better than nothing.  He was grateful for it. 

More than grateful, if the truth be known.  Because Carl loved
girls, being with girls, being surrounded by them, being accepted
by them on any terms!  They were so incredibly attractive!  He was
charmed by their smooth skins and graceful movements, the soft
round shapes of their faces and bodies, the way their hair bounced
when they tossed their heads, their baby doll chins and their huge
eyes.  The way they held up their hands in class with their wrists
bent way back, and talked with their wrists way forward.  The way
they stretched their lips smooth to apply their "Charm-Kist" candy
flavored lipsticks and then later their serious Revlon and Estee
Lauder shades.  The way their new brassieres lifted and thrust out
their new soft mounds and stretched their sweaters.  The way they
shook their shoulders provocatively to make a point, their mounds
waving in emphatic agreement, unanswerable.  The way they now and
then produced naughty remarks or foul language unexpectedly,
starting from way back inside themselves and then suddenly blurting
the words, then giggling at their own daring, their unhallowed
venture into male prerogative.  Girls were wonderful!  He just
wasn't their type, that's all.  Not for a boyfriend.

Real girlfriends being unattainable, Carl secretly settled for
facsimiles.  All through high school and into college he maintained
an imaginary sex life much like that of other boys' -- he lusted
after the ripe women pictured in "Playboy" and the brazen ones in
magazines depicting anatomical details, like "Screw."  Recreating
those babes in his imagination, he'd ask them what they'd like and
he'd advise them what he'd like, while his hand pumped his own
member.  It wasn't too bad.  He'd attempt conversations with them
and they'd reply eagerly, until eventually one of them would leap
up onto him and wrap her legs around his waist and lean back in
ecstasy while he lunged his always-ready-to-hand cock repeatedly
into her vitals.  The sex was always good when he himself played
all the parts, when he did for them what girls do so he could do to
them what boys do.  He got good at it.  "Oh, Carl, you're so
wonderful!" they'd tell him afterward.  He'd tell himself, that is.

Then at last, marvelously, when Carl was a Junior in college a real
romance with a real girl blossomed, sex and all!  With a girl who
did think he was wonderful!  He was still known to be a nice guy,
a good friend a girl could talk to about nearly anything, and he'd
become a whole sorority's acquired mascot -- they'd even wander the
house in their bras and panties when he was around, paying no more
attention to him than to each other or to some pet dog.  One of the
sisters was a lovely girl named Carol -- they joked about their
similar sounding names when they first met.  She was also thin like
Carl, like Carl she had dark hair trimmed below her ears, and she
was also a Management major.  They were in lots of the same
classes, and sometimes loaned each other their notes.  Other
sorority sisters joked that they were almost twin sisters, and Carl
felt pleased because he admired her.  Usually, though, Carol looked
right through him, thinking about other things.

Carol liked big, hard-bodied men.  Football guys, tennis players,
bodybuilders piqued her interest, but not men with Carl's build. 
The previous year she'd fallen hard for a basketball player, a
well-known cocksman who'd condescended to use her as his
readily-available cunt.  She'd doted on that man the whole time,
but when Fall classes resumed he'd stood her up, told her off, told
her he preferred a different doormat.  Still weeping, hoping
hopelessly against hope, she'd called Carl, could they meet
somewhere and just talk?  

They did, and Carl gave her tough advice and welcome consolation. 
They ended up in the Student Union Snack Salon with their heads
close, talking about all sorts of things, ignoring the pizza under
their noses.  Carol looked into his eyes, and was startled to
realize that he was a nice looking boy in his own right, really a
man, not just a local nerd who hung out with girls because he
wasn't much of a guy.  He cared about her problem, he was genuinely
concerned for her, she could tell!  That was so sweet of him!  On
impulse she hinted that she might be willing to go to an upcoming
campus cookout with him as her date, and he asked her.  They did,
and they enjoyed it, a lot, and when he timorously kissed her good
night she asked if he'd want to accompany her to next Saturday's
sorority dance.  Then the third time they went out it wasn't to
attend some event with all their friends, it was to go off by
themselves, to drive to a road house some distance away and dance
together and just talk.  They definitely wanted to see much more of
each other.  

They did.  Carol came to respect and admire Carl, and Carl was
ecstatic, wildly elated.  She was beautiful, she had the most
delicate mannerisms, she was smart, so her opinions mattered, and
she liked him!  She cared!  About him!  He would never forget that
moment when they were walking back from class through the winter's
first snowfall, both of them well bundled up, and she'd put her
face up to his and held it there until he finally realized why and
dared to kiss it.  And she'd kissed him back!  With feeling!  It
was ... bliss!  

They fell in love.  Carl was still more skin than muscle, but he
had enough of a build by then so when he proposed going steady and
she agreed and they finally undressed completely to make love, she
was as happy to run her hands over his lean, hard shoulders as he
was to caress her perky, soft, generous breasts.  That first time
was so beautiful, considerate, and affectionate, so very tender! 
Different, Carol found, not at all like sex with other guys!  She
showed him a position she liked and guided him into her, and he
ebbed and flowed and rose and fell over her and in her until at
last she gasped and hugged him, and he came inside her, he came
into this wonderful girl Carol, into a real girl, for the first
time anywhere ever!  It was utterly sublime!  How could anyone
contain such joy?  

Thereafter he was altogether hers.  She became everything to him. 
His precious darling, the love of his life, his reason for being. 
Her body and her face were more provocative than his most
erotically saturated magazine dream girl's.  Her cute decisiveness
of manner entranced him, her absolute certainty about all sorts of
things reduced his own considered beliefs to rubble.  Whenever they
disagreed, he'd always concede before an argument could develop. 
It was a miracle that she loved him, and he knew it, that she cared
for him, and he knew that too.  He'd let nothing ever put those
things at risk.  Nothing!

Carl never stopped thinking of Carol's body as a holiest of holies. 
He was never happier than after a date when she'd open her dorm
room to him and shrug off her bra and panties and lie down primly
crosswise on her bed, feet on the floor and legs ajar, waiting for
him to lift her skirt and unveil her quim and sink to his knees
between hers and devoutly lick and kiss her delicate pink labia
until they swelled up thick with pulsing blood.  Then to part the
folds of flesh protecting her clitoris with his tongue, and lick
and lap that little nubbin until she groaned and rolled around, her
thighs by now wrapped tight around his head, her ankles locked
behind him.  Then she owned him utterly!  Only when she came down
from her orgasm and released him could he feel that he'd earned the
right to rise from the floor and mount her and enter her and then
rock gently against her until they released their erotic tensions
together, she for a second time, maybe a third, he finally at last. 

As she saw it, he never crammed into her soon enough once the
gifted face he buried in her pussy had brought her off.  For Carol,
lovely as it was, cuntlapping was only a warm-up for the main
event.  She was eager to feel Carl stuffed into her, slipping and
sliding himself into her, slamming into her.  She wanted to feel
again what she'd felt with that last boy friend, that basketball
player who'd jilted her.  She'd fucked that guy even on their first
date, because she knew he was all coiled muscle, and she wanted to
feel it flexing and tensing inside her.  It'd been great -- she
could scarcely walk the next day, but she'd nevertheless spent the
whole time smiling.  Then for months she'd never worn panties when
she was near him -- she never wanted him to feel inhibited!  She was
Miss Available to him at all times, and he used her at whim.  She
loved his hard fucking!  That was why she'd had such a hard time
giving him up.

Carl was different -- respectful, considerate, reverent even.  Once
he dawdled so long licking and sucking her cunt, and she got so
worked up, so impatient, that she impulsively grabbed his hair and
hauled him up bodily from between her legs and onto her body.  She
wanted cock!  He barely had time to unzip and pull out his dick
before she thrust her groin at him, already spasming.  He'd slid
his thing into her while it was still sticking awkwardly out of his
fly, no time allowed for him to unbuckle and drop his pants.  

Those pants were soaked when they finished, drenched, and the whole
crotch area was stiff and crusty the next day when it dried and he
had to leap into them to rush to class!  He learned from that, and
thereafter he stripped bare even before kneeling to kiss her mound
hello and then devote himself to her slit.  Bare-assed was better. 
He was her naked lover always on his knees in her presence.  She
enjoyed that.

But once his lower parts were naked she'd side-track him
mischievously for her own entertainment, sometimes even before he
could go down on her.  Sitting there on her bed, she'd tell him to
rise and stand before her, which he did!  Then she'd look up at him
slyly and take him into her mouth and begin to suck on him.  In
time she invented a game in which she forced him to cum in her
mouth by embracing his backside so firmly he couldn't pull out. 
Then she held his cum puddled under her tongue when they separated,
and then when she had his complete attention she'd obviously,
lasciviously, almost mockingly swallow him down, never taking her
eyes off him.  Two points for her.  "None for you," she'd say, her
tongue still coated.  If he could kiss her first and share it, only
one point for her, and one for him.  Cock-sucking him deprived her
of her fuck until he could recover, but it was fun to tease him
that way.  Anybody could fuck!

She loved the feel and flavor of cum, and there was no reason he
shouldn't too, she reasoned.  So, lovingly, she elaborated the game
to give him a chance to share it another way.  She let him fool her
into thinking he was a long way yet from peaking, supposedly. 
She'd ease her grip on him so he could withdraw from her mouth just
in time to spurt all over her face.  That made two points for him. 
Then he could take his well-deserved victory lap, kissing and
licking her face clean of his cum, all of it.  She'd insist -- to
the victor go the spoils.  He did it even though it felt odd,
licking up his own cum with its peculiar salty flavor and its
sticky feel.  But just as he'd kiss her when her mouth was full 
of him even though he knew she'd transfer it to his mouth, he did it 
because she wanted him to do it.  And because it provided a wonderful
excuse for him to lick her face, her eyelids, the hollows under her
cheeks, the pulse point throbbing in front of her ear, all the
places he loved.  It was heaven for him to sink his face into the
curve of her neck and kiss and lick her over and over.  He'd go
breathless doing that!  What was licking a little cum, given that joy?

She thought that his passionate devotion to her face was to the
taste and feel of sperm, that he loved it as much as she did but
was too embarrassed to say so.  One of those things men couldn't
ever confess, she supposed.  So to please him she often let
him win.  And always, after they'd made love and her pussy was
still oozing and she was lolling back half-asleep, she'd tuck his
head under the covers for a farewell kiss on her lower lips, then
hold him there, giving him plenty of opportunity to suck his own
precious nectar out of her.  That felt so good!

She wanted it, so despite his initial distaste he did it.  He'd
read that only girls liked cum, girls and gay guys, and he was
neither.  But after a while he didn't mind, he could do it easily,
though he never came to love it the way she did.  Especially after
they fucked and it was mingled with her own sweet juices.  He loved
those.

After their first few gentle fucks a determinedly lecherous look
crossed Carol's face.  One night in her dorm she told him abruptly
to lie on his back.  As he wondered why she mounted him, crouched,
leaned back on her thighs, and sank down onto his prick until it
was deep inside her.  Then rose and thrust and writhed, his prick
glistening, her pussy never tighter nor more swollen, her moans
never louder than when she climaxed lunging on top of him,
altogether in control of her own movements and sensations as well
as his.  

That was only the first of many times she fucked him instead of the
other way around.  When on top she was always rougher, more
abandoned, wilder.  That was how she found she could give herself
the hard fucking she craved, the kind that basketball player had
always given her.  Carl wasn't capable.  He was always gentle,
easing sweetly in and out of her, trying to prolong her pleasure. 
She appreciated that, even loved him for it, but there were limits! 
This was one way she could have it both ways.

She made Carl happy by becoming his special girl, and when Carl was
happy Carol was very happy.  Carol had previously dated only hunky
studs, thinking that was what a girl should do.  Carl was no hunk,
but he was everything else she'd ever wanted, or close enough.  He
was kind, sensitive, caring, responsible, a loving partner,
considerate, always respectful of her wishes, and dedicated to a
future they could share equally.  And they complemented each other. 
Where he was tactful, indirect whether praising or finding fault,
she was forthright.  Where he was quick, improvisational, maybe
careless, inclined to go on impulse, she was methodical, exact. 
When he hesitated, she was decisive.  They studied for exams
together, and paced and tested each other, and increasingly admired
each other's minds.  They became absolutely convinced that they
were made for each other, and they were each awestruck that they'd
found each other.  They married soon after graduating near the top
of their class.  

She kept her own last name of course.  Carl wondered how people
would be able to tell they were married, not just living together,
if they didn't have the same name.  He offered to take her last
name.  

"But then they could still think we're brother and sister, couldn't
they?" Carol told him.  "Don't worry.  They'll know what we are by
the way we behave.  And how we behave is what counts, isn't it?"

Carl thought commitment counted for something.  That they were each
others'.

"Oh, you sweet dear!  We both know what our commitments are!   
We'll always be each other's, regardless of how things look!  So 
who cares what others think?"

Carl couldn't find an answer to that.  He kissed her lips, and then
she spread her legs and he kissed those lips too.


end 1/17

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