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From: Max_Wojtylak@yahoo.com (theGreatxIam)
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NNTP-Posting-Date: 9 Aug 2002 23:18:38 GMT
Subject: {ASSM} Fish Tank Ch. 4 (MF)
Date: Sat, 10 Aug 2002 02:10:03 -0400
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NOTE: I hereby grant permission for all archiving and other uses of
this work, public or private, free or paid, in any format whether
existing now or to be invented in the future, so long as a copy of
this note and credit to "theGreatxIam" is given and no alteration is
made to the body of the work. Copyright 2002, theGreatxIam

The Fish Tank
in honor of ASSD's FishTank
Chapter 4 (of 5)
By theGreatxIam

TV Guide, bitter about having to pull millions of copies with Jon and
Janelle on the cover, took it out on Pete and Des.

The editors sicced their best investigators on the pair. These were
the sleuths who had uncovered Jennifer Aniston's favorite ice cream
flavor, the shami who told the world that Eddie, the "Frasier" dog,
was a son of a bitch.

True, it wasn't much of a track record, but then TV Guide didn't
usually go in for hard-hitting exposes. This was different, though.
This was money.

Pete got off fairly easy, even so. He was what he said he was: a
48-year-old bachelor with a history of serial monogamies, a modest
career as a free-lance writer after 20 years at a variety of trade
magazines the like of "Small Animal Veterinary Assistants Monthly." He
had no family left except a distant cousin in Pittsburgh who had him
confused with her ex-husband's nephew, the nephrologist.

There were several speeding tickets, all paid, and a fistfight with a
current boyfriend of an ex-girlfriend in college, but he'd already
divulged all those things during the course of the show. It appeared,
as far as TV Guide could tell, that Pete had no skeletons left in his
closet because he'd flung them all out into the open.

Des was a different matter. She had said nary a word about her past on
the show, and the biography provided in the publicity packet was
scarce. Husband? No. Children? No. Job? Retired. When the publicist
had called her up, after she'd been chosen, and asked, "Retired from
what?," there had been no pause at all before Des's answer: "Working."

The magazine editors were sure something juicy was hiding behind all
those one-word answers. A term in prison, perhaps? That hard-bitten
exterior would fit perfectly in "women in chains" movies, and the
"Tank" producers' background checks might have missed a thing or two.
A sex change? For a little woman, she did have a deep voice. Secret
Satanic rituals? A stint in a New Orleans whorehouse? There had to be
something.

This kind of imagination, let the reader note well, is what comes of
watching too much TV.

The editors were disappointed. Des had no skeletons -- not the
scandalous metaphoric ones they were looking for, anyway.

What she had was an older sister who had run away to join the circus
-- at 23, leaving behind two children. Des had raised them and looked
after her ailing parents while going through a succession of
small-town jobs just ahead of rounds of layoffs. Her relatives said
she was too busy for a relationship. The rest of the town said she was
too demanding, too persnickety, too smart. The man she'd been engaged
to when her sister ran off refused to talk, and the boy and girl she'd
raised said she'd asked them not to.

It wasn't juicy, but with the right twist on the headlines it sold
magazines.

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

Being described as too demanding at least reduced the sympathy factor
for Des, but she still wasn't pleased by the article.

"Too demanding?" She threw the magazine across the living room. "Yes,
I was demanding. I demanded a man have half a brain. I demanded he
have some plans for his life beyond nickel beer night at the VFW next
Saturday. I demanded he have some knowledge of sex beyond what he and
his buddy did behind the barn when Mommy wasn't looking."

Pete laughed. "So the guys back home weren't your type?"

"No, they ... Wait a minute. Don't you hand me that sympathy crap
now."

"No sympathy. I'm just curious about what it takes to please a woman
like you."

"Takes a hell of a lot more than you got, buster."

"No doubt. Though I've satisfied a woman or two in my time."

Her eyes glittered. "Two? Let's not exaggerate. There's your mama and
who else?"

He pursed his lips. "Tough talk. I bet you scared the hell out of the
good ole boys at the feed store. Meanwhile I was getting rave reviews
from the women I met."

She tossed her head and snorted. "Did you have to pay them extra to
say they liked it? Or did they throw it in as a freebie?"

"How droll," he said. "Is that an example of the rapier-like wit that
was lost on the local yokels back home?"

She glared at him.

"Cat got your tongue?," he sneered. "Like it got those two kids who
couldn't be bothered to defend you?"

"Leave my kids out of this!"

"Your kids?" He raised his eyebrows. "Rather possessive, aren't we?
Ah, but then possession is nine-tenths of the law. Pity no man ever
found you attractive enough to slip you the other tenth so you could
have a kid of your own."

"And they say I'm a bitch. Is that the charm that won you a wife? Oh,
wait, that's right. You never got married either."

"Yeah. That's me, the pot calling Ma Kettle black. Except, of course
--"

"Except what?"

"Except Ma Kettle didn't wear tight T-shirts so the world could see
what a hot old lady she was."

Des looked down and cursed. Her nipples were bulging into the thin
fabric of her shirt. She crossed her arms in front of her chest. "It's
cold in here," she said.

"I'm comfortable," he said, uncrossing his legs.

She laughed. "Is that your ego in your pocket or are you just glad to
see me?"

The crotch of his shorts was, indeed, tented. He grinned broadly. "If
you're going to put up a billboard," he said, "you have to expect
somebody's going to pop up to look at it."

"What's that, your best line? I bet that pulled them in down at your
corner meat market."

"I didn't need lines," he said. "Not when I have the old
Jack-in-the-box here."

"You can jack Jack yourself, pal. You're not getting into this box."
But she did keep looking.

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

Not a single light was on inside the Tank, but it was lit softly by
the glow from a hundred candles outside. The diehard fans who called
themselves Ichthyologists had made a ritual of their all-night vigils.

Refracted and reflected by a dozen planes, the candles twinkled like
stars when seen from inside the house. A writer who spent a night
inside once said that was what it would have felt like to be adrift on
a spaceship in the middle of the Milky Way. It was a touching line,
although his editor took it out because she didn't understand why
someone would be flying through nougat.

The master bedroom was at the very center of the house, where the
effect was most pronounced. There, lying in bed -- a very comfortable
bed, with silk sheets and firm but yielding pillows -- Des was on her
side, facing Pete.

They had shared the king-sized bed for several nights by then. Des has
made a fuss at first of firmly enforcing a borderline between her side
of the bed and his. When even a corner of one of his pillows slipped
across, she shoved it back with fury.

But that night her hand crept across the invisible line. Her leg
slowly slid toward him. When he rolled over and bumped into her,
waking up, he protested that she was on his half.

That was patently true, but she flatly denied it. They bickered. He
pointed to the middle of the headboard, then to her hand. "My side,"
he said. "There's the line."

"Ah," she said, "but there's my side, your side, and then the part in
the middle. No-man's land."

Pete frowned. "No-man's land? But you're in it."

She stretched and the lace of her short black nightgown failed to
completely cover her. "Yes," she said, "but, then, I'm not a man, am
I?"

He smiled, and his boxers showed evidence that she had not lost her
appeal.

They talked quietly about nothing much. Her hand made its way to his
hair. His slipped onto her thigh. Color rose in her cheeks.

The talk died a natural death. Their caresses grew bolder. They
kissed.

It was not, as rumors among the Ichthyologists later had it, an
explosion of passion after that. They still moved slowly, but slow and
steady can get you around the bases, too.

She sighed when his lips at last touched her breast. He groaned when
her hands moved inside his shorts.

The sheets rustled as they moved together. She opened her legs. He
rolled between them. They made intimate contact.

And he pulled away.

Her eyes snapped open. She reached out to him. He rolled all the way
over to the far edge of the bed.

"What's wrong?," she asked, talking to his back.

"You deserve better," he said. "I'm not good enough for you. A crumb
like me? Please."

"No," she said, "no, it was good. It will be good. Don't leave me
hanging like this."

Pete rolled onto his back and spoke to the ceiling. "You want me? YOU
want ME?"

"Yes," she said, "yes."

"Tell me."

"What? Oh. I want you."

"No, that's not it."

"I don't understand -- like this? I want you, lover. I need you inside
me, now. Come to me, fill me up!"

He sighed. "No. That's not it."

"Tell me what you want! Should I talk dirty? Squeal like a schoolgirl?
Be shy like a virgin? What?"

"You need to apologize."

"Apolo -- for what?"

"For all the nasty things you've said about me. For all the arguments.
For all of it."

"Are you kidding? We're just having sex here, not reaching a peace
treaty."

"OK, then, if you don't want --"

"Yes," she said, "yes, fine. I'm sorry. I apologize. I shouldn't have
said those things. I'm sorry I hurt you. I'm sorry."

He rolled away again.

"Hey!" Des poked him in the back. "What gives?"

"You weren't sincere," he said, and went to sleep.

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

Pete brought her breakfast the next morning, oatmeal and fresh fruit.
She watched him warily, but he showed no sign that anything was amiss.

He had done the laundry and he bustled around the bedroom putting
things away. He even put her clothes on padded hangers.

He was like that all day, thoughtful, helpful, friendly. They talked a
lot about their pasts -- the producers had abandoned the idea of
giving them daily tasks and challenges after Pete read them the Riot
Act, so the two of them had a lot of time on their hands.

Des was hesitant at first, watching him carefully, speaking slowly as
if choosing every word. But he never turned on her, was always
charming. And he could be very charming. The stories he told about his
childhood had her laughing so hard she fell off his lap.

By dinner time, they were best buddies, chopping celery and husking
corn side by side.

The change could be traced in the crowd outside, too. It had thinned
out. For the first time all season, there were gaps in the line along
the walls.

Like kids who get bored with their ant farms, some people tried to
stir things up. But "Des: Pete Wouldn't Fuck You If You Were the Last
Woman on Earth" didn't get a rise, not even when the signholder held
it to the wall right in front of her and screamed his lungs out. And
the two teen-aged girls who wrote "She says you can't get it up" in
lipstick on the side of the house only got puzzled frowns. It might
have helped if they'd written it to face inward so the people in the
house could read it.

Nothing seemed to break the era of good feeling that had fallen over
the Tank like a wet blanket.

That night, as she got ready for bed, Des selected a red nightgown so
wispy that two very respectable businessmen were caught dry-humping
trees along the side of the house. She paraded it in front of Pete,
whose black silk boxers showed his appreciation.

They turned out the lights and the candles outside made the night glow
again. It was as romantic as living in a fish tank could get. Or it
was until a couple of guys set up klieg lights outside that spotlit
the coosome twosome like the center ring in the circus.

Pete gallantly drew the covers over them, so all the audience could
see -- those whose retinas weren't immediately fried by the kliegs --
was movements under the covers, like rats in a sack (to use the
metaphor of one disappointed watcher). And a minute or two later, when
a neighbor discovered the extension cords snaking into his back porch
and pulled the plugs, the crowd couldn't even see that.

What they missed under the covers was more of the same from the night
before -- tender kisses grown hungry, groping hands finding their
targets.

The temperature rose quickly. Des pulled her nightgown over her head
and pressed her body to Pete's.

"This feels so good," she said. "Why did we wait so long?"

Pete had no answer. His lips were busy on her neck.

They touched. They caressed. Her nipples grew hard and pressed into
his sweaty chest. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him closer,
rubbing against the erection that throbbed inside his shorts.

"You were so nice today," she said. "Do you want a treat?"

"Depends on the treat," he said.

"Well, it's some of this --" Her lips fluttered kisses down his chest.
"And some of this." Her hand slid under the waistband of his boxers
and over his manhood. "Mmm, I think you like that."

As her kisses came down his body, she peeled off his shorts. She ran
the rubbery head of his penis along her cheeks, letting the sticky
fluid leaking out of him trail along her face.

She began with light kisses all over the shaft, like raindrops on a
sunny day. Then she licked him, especially along the ridge on the
bottom, as his breath came in bushelfuls.

Her hands closed around his rod as her pursed lips touched the top.
She pressed down, little by little, making her mouth engulf him. Her
tongue swirled over the tip, a ballerina's solo.

Pete's hands grabbed fistfuls of the silk sheet. His toes curled and
his back arched as Des slowly, slowly took him in.

Her cheeks hollowed as she ministered to him, slipping him deeper and
deeper inside, then bringing him out with her lips still tight to his
flesh.

His hands found her head. Fingers entwined in her hair, he pressed her
onto his shaft. He began to moan, rising in pitch, and then it cut off
abruptly.

Des gulped, pulled off gently, milked him with her hands and licked
his shrinking rod clean.

When his hands dove between her thighs, she opened herself to him
swiftly, rolling onto her back.

He twisted around until his body was between her legs. He began to
nuzzle the soft skin of her inner thighs. She sighed and brushed her
fingers through his hair.

He approached her center slowly but was drawn to it like a bee to a
flower. The light brush of his fingertips along her opening made her
flush. She trembled as his tongue came closer and closer. Musky odors
rose. Her hips swung upward, chasing satisfaction.

He pulled back, sliding his head back out from under the covers.

By the time Des had curled around and poked her head out as well, Pete
was propped up on his pillows, reaching to the nightstand for a glass
of water.

Her voice was soft and pleading. "What's wrong? What happened?"

"It wasn't good enough," he said quietly.

"It -- you mean me? But, I -- you --"

"I wasn't good enough. My technique's all wrong. I don't have the
moves. I couldn't please you."

She reached out to him. He flinched.

"No," she said, "you were great. Magnificent! Just do what you were
doing. Or perhaps --" She brushed his leg with hers.

"Don't lie," he said. "I can't please the ladies that way."

"Oh, Pete! No! Believe me, I loved it. Any lady would."

He sniffed. "Then, when you're a lady, perhaps you'll be so
entertained."

She pulled back and snarled. "What kind of sick joke is this? Are you
schizo or what? You want me, you don't want me. You like me, you hate
me. It's like living with Sybil. God, what a jerk."

"That's the attitude that cost you your pleasure," Pete said. "No
wonder you never married. Who would want such a disagreeable woman in
his bed every night?"

"Listen, you. Stop this crap. I'm not stupid. I'm no child --"

"That's true enough."

"Bastard. Look, if you can't take me, go screw yourself. And I mean
that literally. I've had far better lovers than you, and they weren't
so namby-pamby that they couldn't put up with my talk. Yeah, and what
I have is worth it, too, pal. Or did you forget that little job you
just got? And that wasn't even my best.

"I've got moves that would make your eyes pop and your balls start
swinging like church bells. But, hey, if you can't cope with a real
woman, take a hike."

"You're right," Pete said when she finally took a breath.

"Of course I am," she said. "So can we skip all the nonsense and just
get to it?"

"You're right to reject me," he said. "I couldn't satisfy you. Why
try?"

"Oh, for the love of -- Are we back to this again? Come off it. We're
two healthy adults. And we're stuck in here for another eight days.
Let's enjoy ourselves."

She reached across the mattress and found his penis hard again. She
squeezed it softly. "Looks like he still wants to play."

She grabbed his hand, tugged it toward her crotch. "Let's go," she
said, and her voice had developed a whiny tone. "You can't get me all
hot and bothered and just drop it. I'm no teen queen but I can still
make you feel good. Come on!"

Pete pulled away, carefully extracting himself from her grasp. He
grabbed his pillows as he got out of bed.

"Where are you going?" Des sat up, the sheet falling from her breasts.

Pete didn't answer as he walked out of the room.

She was breathing hard as she watched his silhouette go. Her eyes
blazed.

Then she drove a fist into the mattress and fell back against the
pillows. Into the night she muttered harshly.

"Cunt-tease," she said. 

To be continued...

For the complete story and more, visit
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/theGreatxIam/www
For more about the FishTank, a place for writers to get feedback,
visit
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Desdmona/www/FishTank/base/index.html

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