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Message-ID: <39952asstr$1040299805@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: anon584c@nyx.net (Uther Pendragon)
Reply-To: anon584c@nyx.net
Subject: {ASSM} rp "Forget All That 02" {Pendragon} (MF rom wl lac) [2/12]
Date: Thu, 19 Dec 2002 07:10:05 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d

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, by Uther Pendragon.  All 
rights reserved.  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.

    If you have any comments or requests, please E-mail them to 
me at anon584c@nyx.net.  

     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.


                         FORGET ALL THAT
                       by  Uther Pendragon
                        anon584c@nyx.net


Part Two:

I haven't the slightest memory of feeding or changing The 
Kitten during the night, although I must have done so.  The next 
memory I have is of Bob presenting a hungry, dry, baby to me in 
the morning.  The Kitten, her mother's daughter, is not generally 
a morning person.  This morning, however, she was wide awake.  By 
the time I looked at the clock, it was after ten.  That explained 
it.  "What was that about?" asked Bob.  

"What was what about?"  I honestly hadn't the faintest idea 
what he was talking about.  

"Last night."  Oh that.  How should I know what my feelings 
were about?  It just seemed like a nice idea, and it had worked 
out fine.  It is also totally unreasonable of Bob to ask about my 
sexual desires.  They had been nicely under control before he 
started inciting them, thank you.  

"I don't argue when you want something."  Something sexual, 
I meant.  

"Yah!  Shure!" he said.  Well I haven't recently, at least 
not much.  "Anyway, I was inquiring, not complaining."  

"Considering the look on your face last night, it would show 
remarkable gall to complain," I said before remembering that Bob 
shows remarkable gall twenty times a day.  

"Look?"  

"You two look remarkably alike when you are blissed out."  
By this time, The Kitten had satisfied her first hunger, and was 
mostly playing.  I handed her to Bob and grabbed a robe.  I took 
as little time in the bathroom as I could, but she was not happy 
about the interruption.  

"I did get a bubble," Bob said on my return, "but only a 
small one.  Anyway, it isn't the same."  While I lay down and 
returned The Kitten to my breast, I tried to figure out why the 
bubble wasn't the same.  Same as what?  "She just blisses out 
from a full tummy," I believe that there is some maternal 
interaction involved as well, but never mind; I now knew what 
wasn't the same.  "I, on the other hand, only bliss out when I 
experience an erotic encounter with the most arousing woman in 
North America."  

"I just decided to run some things last night.  Is that a 
problem?"  

"Indeed not!"  

"When you want to run things," (Which is most of the time) 
"that's fine by me."  

"You wouldn't mind if I ran things today?  Or do you still 
have plans?"  Plans?  I had been out of bed, which does not mean 
awake, for half an hour.  At this time in the morning, he was 
lucky I could answer him coherently.  Plans were out of the 
question.  

"I don't have any plans at all."  

"Then I can run things?"  

"Go right ahead."  I must point out that I never would have 
given him carte blanche if I had been awake.  He began to knead 
my feet.  He does this sometimes when I'm tired or have been on 
them all day.  He did it frequently during my pregnancy, and that 
protects him at times like this.  About the time I see that he 
plans to take advantage of an agreement which he extracted from 
me when I was non compos mentis, I remember that he cared for me 
so gently when I was retaining more water than Lake Michigan and 
having problems fitting through doors.  

He finally had mercy on me, though.  He was kissing my 
stomach when it rumbled loudly.  

"Hungry?"  he asked.  

"Very."  

"You know, Mom wouldn't mind your feeding The Kitten while 
you ate."  

"The Kitten would mind my feeding myself while she ate."  
And so she would.  She even objected to my giving attention to 
Bob for that conversation, although I gave her plenty of 
reassurance in our pauses.  She is learning a little independence 
from Maman, but any independence on the part of Maman is a horse 
of a different color.  

The Kitten, however, finally finished her play and was ready 
to be burped.  She's the opposite of her father in that way; she 
starts off sucking on the nipples and ends up just playing with 
the breasts.  Bob started chanting "Just for a handful of silver 
he left us," and I escaped to take a shower.  

Bob's father was at work.  Katherine, Catherine, and Bob 
were in the kitchen when I got there.  I had decided to wait for 
lunch since everybody else would be eating soon, but Katherine 
asked, "Would you like to finish up the waffle batter?"  I 
couldn't say no to that.  She handed The Kitten to Bob, and gave 
me a hug first.  "Welcome home," she said.  I hugged her.  The 
Kitten hadn't allowed me to touch anybody else when we had come 
off the train.  

"It feels like home," I said.  I didn't mean like the home I 
was raised in; I meant like a real home.  Katherine got busy with 
the waffle iron and the batter.  "Waffles are a treat," I said.  
"We don't have a waffle iron, and the frozen ones don't taste the 
same."  

"Yes," she said.  "Bob was telling me that."  Suddenly, I 
suspected that this was the reason why she hadn't given me a 
choice between breakfast and lunch.  I looked over at Bob.  He 
gave me his innocent look, not one of his more convincing looks.  
"Are you really off coffee?" she asked.  I'm really off coffee.  
Nine months without caffeine taught me what an addict I had been.  
Not that I would start on Brennan coffee, anyway.  What's the 
point?  

Instead, I drank orange juice with my waffles.  Bob took The 
Kitten into the living room to play on the quilt.  "Are you sure 
she can't get into trouble?"  I asked when he got back.  

"Is she crawling already?" Katherine asked.  "She can't be!"  
She isn't.  

"She can turn over," I explained.  "and over, and over.  She 
travels sideways."  Bob and I spent some time listing her recent 
exploits.  It's not as if Katherine hadn't heard them before, but 
she was eager to hear them all again.  There was batter for one 
more waffle than I could eat, so Bob helped out.  

Normally, we would have talked around the table another 
hour, but Katherine was antsy to see The Kitten again.  "Wash up, 
would you dear?" she said.  "Let's go watch my namesake, dear."  
The first "dear" meant Bob, and the second meant me.  

The Kitten had managed to roll onto the rug, though not in 
any dangerous position.  I took her favorite rattle out of the 
diaper bag and shook it on the far side of the quilt.  She 
demonstrated her rolling technique for her grandmother.  As soon 
as she got to the center of the quilt, she got the rattle and 
verbal praise from two of us.  I think that Katherine's was quite 
genuine.  

"You know, dear," she said, "so many of my contemporaries 
see their lives as getting worse and worse.  Physically, of 
course, that's true.  But The Kitten is the crowning pleasure of 
a great period of my life.  And Russ feels the same way.  Vi is a 
pleasure, too, of course."  Vi is Kathleen Violet Brennan -- M.D. 
as of this spring, and we are all *so* proud of her.  

"It must help as well that you no longer have tuition to 
pay."  

"We're still helping with Vi's analysis," (Vi isn't crazy.  
She is in process of becoming a psychoanalyst.) "but yes.  And 
you aren't going to escape that easily.  Your degree is next."  

"Sometime soon," I said.  "Not while my baby needs me."  Bob 
and I had specifically decided on our trying for a child before I 
tried for a college degree.  "But you must have worried 
continually about money these past dozen years.  I felt 
incredibly guilty about the first trip to Paris.  We didn't have 
the time to warn you, but putting the air fare on our credit card 
was a little much.  We couldn't have paid it off without you; we 
shouldn't have spent it without one of those famous Brennan 
family meetings."  

"Russ was so proud of Bob for that.  'Anybody can see,' he 
said, 'when money is well spent; Bob has learned to see when it 
is well risked.'  Although I'm not sure that everybody can see 
when money is well spent, dear.  Russ's standards for 'anybody' 
are a little high sometimes.  Of course, Bob got a dissertation 
out of the risk, but Russ wouldn't have blinked if the risk had 
failed.  It was a good bet.  

"No.  My worst worries were before that.  And money was the 
center of it, but not the harshest worry.  Let's see, you met Bob 
early in my first year of teaching.  That was when he was in the 
tenth grade, and Vi was in the fifth.  I was in the third grade, 
of course.  They went on, but I didn't.  The year before was the 
nadir.  I was finishing up my teaching certificate."  

"I'd already taught art in New York, but there were two art 
teachers in this county laid off or teaching other subjects for 
each one still employed.  The first year we were here, we paid 
down our debt by six thousand dollars.  That was nowhere near ten 
percent.  I needed to have a salary, but Russ's position kept me 
out of most of the labor market.  The wife of the president of 
Brewster Office Equipment could no more work as a secretary than 
she could work as a cleaning woman.  

"So I needed to teach, so I needed some more courses to 
allow me to teach grade school in this state.  That meant more 
money going out.  And when I needed a car for my student 
teaching, that was the last straw.  I finally financed it on 
*my* credit record, since Russ owed everything in his name.  
We were almost as deeply in debt as we had been when we moved 
here.  And the tuition problem was looming on the horizon even 
back then.  We didn't get into that mess through lack of 
foresight, dear.  

"Once Russ came in shaking because of a near miss in the 
car.  That night, he laughed at himself.  'Why was I worrying?' 
he asked.  'That car crash would have settled all our problems.' 
That scared me.  Going broke worried me, but the idea of Russ 
driving the car into an embankment so his life insurance could 
keep us from going broke scared me to death.  I lay beside him 
shaking for hours.  

"Anyway, the next year, we finally sold the condo.  (That 
was a little after Bob met you, dear.)  That cut nearly thirty 
thousand off our debt, besides the condo mortgage.  I was earning 
money.  Russ finally went in to the bank which the company used 
and laid the whole record on the table.  They refinanced the 
mortgage on this place, giving us a variable rate; and we used 
the extra money to cut down the old debt.  We paid about two 
thousand less in interest, and all that we paid was deductible.  
Of course, the principal payments took most of that, but still.  
The year after that, he got a raise, I got a raise, and the car 
payments ended.  The last little bit of that debt was paid off by 
the money that Bob brought back from his second year of road 
construction.  

"We had checked out the tuition and room costs at the 
University already.  We put that amount into loan repayments and 
interest every year since my second year teaching.  Into savings 
at the very end, of course.  We knew that we could hack it.  

"You were rather a problem for us, dear.  But when we 
offered to pay for another year of your education, we knew where 
that money was coming from.  We never offered to pay for two 
years more.  You and Vi talk about the carpets which we sold; 
leave me a bed and a table in the house if I can keep my husband 
to share them with."  

I hadn't heard all of this before, although I had heard 
parts of it.  "I didn't mean to be a problem," I said.  I 
couldn't see how I had been.  

"You weren't a drain of resources, dear.  The problem was 
that we couldn't fit your tuition in with the other two.  That 
was the problem.  Indeed, we stopped paying Bob's room and board 
after the marriage.  I should have put the Chinese carpet into 
your room; that and my grandmother's dishes were what would have 
gone on the block were it not for you.  It just wasn't fair."  

Now, I lived my whole life with "It just wasn't fair."  This 
was a woman who once had every reason to expect that her husband 
was destined for higher income and higher responsibility, but he 
had a heart attack leading to his income being cut in half.  They 
had put everything that they had saved and could borrow into a 
risky high-potential investment; that went sour while her husband 
was lying in the hospital.  She had trained for a profession, but 
the demand for that profession had disappeared.  She was willing 
to pay for the education of her children, and each of them had 
chosen a career that required years of graduate study.  

Any of that could be covered with "It just wasn't fair."  
Any of that was less fair than most of the situations people 
describe with those words.  (Bob just finished teaching a course 
in which he required a short paper every week but one.  The 
students could pick the week to miss.  Many students, against his 
oft-repeated advice, skipped an early paper.  Several of these 
got into assignment crushes after taking that skip.  Most of them 
said that it wasn't fair of Bob to lower their grades since the 
second week they skipped was really necessary.) 

Katherine meant that it wasn't fair to pay tuition for "the 
other two," her children, but not pay tuition for her daughter-
in-law.  She meant that it wasn't fair to me.  

I didn't know what to say.  The Kitten saved me from having 
to say anything by spitting up on the quilt.  "I hope that the 
quilt isn't valuable," I said as I rushed up with some Kleenex.  

"Priceless," she said.  "My daughter learned to crawl on 
that quilt.  She already knew how to spit up.  Dear, babyproofing 
is our responsibility."  I gave her a hug, awkward on the couch.  

"Don't worry about college," I said.  "I did what I wanted 
to do.  And I'm glad that I did.  Besides, there is the French."  
They had provided the means for my studying that, mostly out of 
school.  

"You've been happy then?"  I had been, not continuously or 
deliriously happy, but mostly happy.  I was about to say so when 
Bob walked in.  

"She's married to me," he said.  "What was there for her to 
be unhappy about?"  

"Being married to you!"  Katherine and I said in almost 
perfect unison.  

Bob, willing to be a straight man but not an audience, 
ignored us.  "The Kitten's next meal is from a jar, no?"  

"Not for a while, Bob," I said.  "But there is an open jar 
of beets in the 'fridge."  

"Well, the first baby I fed developed brain damage," said 
Katherine, "but the second went on to become a doctor.  If you 
two would trust me with this one, you could take a little time 
without the responsibility.  Would you want to borrow the car as 
well?"  

"That's the story of this trip," Bob said.  "You want to see 
The Kitten, Jeanette's an essential source of nutrients, I'm 
entirely superfluous."  

"Now dear, not superfluous.  I'm sure that you washed the 
dishes quite well.  I'd like to thank you for that, dear.  Vi 
washed the dishes before you married Bob and educated him.  He 
did the laundry."  I should thank her for Bob's skill with the 
laundry.  For that matter, I didn't teach Bob how to load a 
dishwasher.  At home, he washes dishes by hand.  

"I don't think we'll need the car," Bob said.  "We'll be 
upstairs if you need us desperately."  I knew what he wanted; 
surely Katherine knew what he wanted.  

"What's with this 'us'?" Katherine said.  "You're 
superfluous, remember.  I'll try very hard not to need Jeanette.  
Oh my!  She's blushing.  Dear, after a decade married to Bob how 
can you still blush?"  Which made me blush worse.  

How could I be married to Bob and not blush?  I was terribly 
embarrassed by the transparency of Bob's actions.  On the other 
hand, while The Kitten is a darling, she does tend to interrupt 
at the most inconvenient times.  A little quality time between 
maman and papa without worry about her seemed like a great idea.  

"Maybe I wanted to go for a drive," I told Bob after we were 
safely in our room with the door bolted.  It was a fairly 
specious suggestion.  Anybody whom I would want to see would want 
to see The Kitten.  

"You said that I could run things today."  He kissed me 
deeply.  I sank into the kiss, and chased his tongue with mine.  
Bob's hands were all over me, but I couldn't respond.  After a 
minute, he stepped back.  "You're tense," he said.  

"It's having her down there knowing what we're doing."  

"Would you like to go for a walk?" he said.  

"You mean that?"  

"Once, when I lived in this room for example, I would have 
given my eyeteeth to have your consent to sex.  I'm spoiled now.  
I want your enthusiasm."  

At that, I kissed him with real enthusiasm.  "Bob Brennan, I 
love you!" I said.  We got dressed in warmer clothes, pausing 
only for him to kiss my belly, and went back downstairs.  

"You don't trust me?" asked Katherine.  

"We trust you utterly," said Bob.  "We're going for a walk."  

I suppose the outside was miserable from any objective 
perspective.  It was wet and cold, although we were dressed for 
Michigan and didn't mind it.  Bob always insists that cold rain 
is worse than snow.  

To me, at least, it was freedom.  I love The Kitten, I 
really do.  She's a particularly happy baby, partly -- we are 
convinced -- because we are there when she wants us.  But....  

Even when Bob's home and actually responsible, I listen for 
her cry.  Even when she is sleeping, she might wake up and need 
something -- comforting if nothing else.  "Whee!" I said.  "I feel 
like I'm playing hooky."  

"If I feeled like that, I'd be playing feeled hooky."  That 
this pun sounded funny to me at the time demonstrates just how 
manic my mood was.  

I hugged him and we kissed for a moment, then we rubbed 
noses.  This is a nice cold-weather hug Bob an I have stolen from 
the Eskimos.  "If you wanted to hug," Bob whispered into my ear, 
"there was no reason to leave the house.  We could have stayed in 
the room where I dreamed of you so many years.  I could have 
removed each piece of clothing and kissed each new piece of skin 
thus revealed.  You could have lain on the bed while I knelt at 
your feet and kissed up your thighs to your most secret, most 
feminine, place.  Then I could have kissed you there, and licked 
you there, and smelt" (I don't think that's a past tense, but Bob 
does) "your femininity turn to desire, and tasted your desire 
turn to lust, and then to passion.  And I could have been right 
where your passion is centered until it turned into satisfaction.  
And I would have enjoyed it, and you would have enjoyed it.  But, 
no, you needed to come out into the cold and rain."  

We were standing on the sidewalk alone in the entire world 
when someone said "Kids today!" quite loudly.  This man, who 
looked not a decade older than us, was less than a yard away.  We 
jumped apart, blocking his way even worse.  

When he had managed to get by us, and we were heading back 
towards the house, Bob asked, "Did he hear me?"  

"I don't think so.  Your mouth was an inch from my ear, and 
I had to strain to hear you."  We walked past the house; we had 
only chosen that direction because the man was going in the 
other.  Suddenly it was hilarious.  We walked along laughing and 
saying "Kids today."  

"Anyway," I said, "you can still do that tonight.  The 
Kitten would sleep through it."  Not that The Kitten is old 
enough to be shocked at where Papa kisses Maman.  

"But that would interfere with what I had planned for 
tonight."  

"What is it with you on these trips home?"  Bob is a sex 
maniac, but less of one than he was ten years ago.  We seldom 
have matinees in our own home.  

"Ah love.  Once upon a time, I lay in that room night after 
night.  Afternoon after afternoon, for that matter.  I lusted 
after you, totally unrequited."  

"Not totally," I said.  

"Not proportionately requited, in any case.  I lay there and 
dreamed of Jeanette Jacobs.  I lusted after her slender form and 
small breasts....  And, as the breasts grew, so did the lust.  
All those unrequited hormones flew out and hit the wall, as did 
something more palpable on one memorable occasion.  They stayed 
there plotting what they would do when they had the opportunity.  
And then, years later, you arrived within their ambit.  Time 
froze for them.  Every time we visit, they thaw out and turn me 
into an adolescent again.  They fly out of the walls and back 
into my bloodstream, leaving me helpless to do anything save 
fulfill the lust that has waited decades."  

"How did you manage," I asked "to kiss the Blarney stone 
without ever visiting Ireland?"  

"It is sober truth."  However, he did follow up with a more 
prosaic description of his desire for me when we were going 
together and feeling out our relationship -- if you'll excuse the 
double entendre.  

This is a story he's told before, but I remain fascinated.  
I don't know if it is a matter of boys versus girls or merely of 
Bob versus Jeanette.  I was interested in Bob, and interested in 
my body.  But those interests remained distinct for much longer 
than Bob says his did.  (Somehow, also, Bob's reminiscences omit 
those picture magazines that still live in three boxes, one in 
our apartment, and two in his parents' garage.) 

I'm glad we have a daughter.  Fifteen years from now, I'll 
know what she is thinking; that would never be true of a son.  
But I'm not even sure about our daughter.  I would *never* 
inflict my upbringing on her, but is the greater openness that we 
already show around her going to continue?  Will it make her into 
a little Bob instead of a little Jeanette?  And the next baby, 
will it be a boy?  Will we ever have one?  

"Why so pensive?"  Bob asked.  

"Oh Bob, hug me.  Bystanders be damned."  He did.  His puns 
are execrable, his vocabulary can make me blush, he thinks that 
passing gas is funny, his version of vacuuming a carpet doesn't 
make it worthwhile to plug in the machine, he can out-stubborn a 
cat without even trying.  He will, however, hug me when I need it 
without my telling him why I need it.  And no, you can't have 
him.  

"Everything will be fine," he said.  But I was chilled, and 
we turned back.  "You know," he said, "not here, but back home, 
we could arrange a time for me to watch The Kitten while you went 
out.  Saturdays, maybe."  

"I'll think about it," I said.  But what I really thought 
about was the hostage that we had given to fortune.  

She was in Katherine's lap when we got back.  Katherine was 
playing patty-cake with The Kitten's *feet*.  Neither of 
them needed us at all, and we slunk off into the kitchen to start 
lunch.  "I should do it," said Katherine, not terribly 
convincingly.  It was nearly three.  Katherine, an organized soul 
if there ever was one, had the week's menu on the refrigerator.  
Bob stirred up cream of tomato soup, while I made the toasted 
cheese sandwiches.  

When lunch was on the kitchen table, my daughter finally 
deigned to notice me.  She wouldn't be anywhere but in my lap.  
Bob finally had mercy on me and held a sandwich up to my mouth so 
I could eat.  

Brennans talk.  Bob is the champion, but not by much.  Over 
lunch, we talked about The Kitten's development, minor illnesses, 
and major charms.  Bob and Katherine talked about the recent 
weather patterns and whether these cast doubt on (Katherine) or 
supported (Bob) the idea of global warming.  

While Katherine cooked dinner, Bob and I sat in the kitchen 
with her and listened.  She reported every deed of The Kitten's 
time with her.  She told stories of Vi's babyhood, which I had 
heard before, and Bob's, which I hadn't.  "Oh, Mom," said Bob.  

"Hush," I said.  "This is fascinating."  Encouraged, 
although a little put off her cooking stride by the interruption, 
Katherine filled me in on Bob-before-I-met-him, including parts 
of grade school.  

When Bob's father got home, he was disappointed to find The 
Kitten in her late-afternoon fussy time.  After I had fed her, 
however, he did the burping.  "Christopher Robin goes hoppity.... " 
he recited, patting her back as he spoke and striding around.  It 
was so much like Bob that I could hardly keep from laughing.  

Dinner was more talk.  I dropped out and sat there like a 
spectator at a tennis match.  (Tennis matches are easier on 
spectators, though.  Only one person hits the ball at a time.) 

The Kitten deigned to visit Grandpa for an hour, but then 
wanted the familiarity of Maman.  As the time approached for The 
Kitten's last feeding, Bob and I said our goodnights and took her 
upstairs.  I changed into a robe while Bob changed The Kitten's 
messy diaper.  For the second time since getting home from the 
hospital, I had gone a full day without changing a diaper; there 
is something to be said for mothers-in-law.  

"Sit on the foot of the bed and lie back, will you?" Bob 
said.  I complied.  Once he was ready for bed and The Kitten had 
settled down for her feeding, he knelt beside the bed to share a 
nice long kiss with me.  Then he kissed my forehead.  "Talk to 
your child," he said.  I have the habit of talking to The Kitten 
while she is nursing.  I use French, so she'll have some 
experience of that language.  

"Ton papa fait le plan," I told her.  She took a few 
swallows, and cocked her head toward me.  "Je ne sais rien."  
Actually, I could make a good guess as to what he had planned.  
My guess was confirmed when he went to kneel between my legs.  

His kisses began just above my right knee.  He kissed me 
while I murmured to The Kitten and stopped when I stopped.  By 
the time her first hunger was appeased, he had reached to the top 
of my right thigh.  Then he started again just above my left 
knee.  By the time he reached the top of that thigh, I was 
squirming in need.  The Kitten, not much appreciating the ride, 
clamped on.  I controlled myself and murmured to her until she 
resumed playing with the nipple; she wasn't really taking much in 
by that time.  Bob waited through this period, and then kissed my 
lower lips.  While it was what I had wanted, that kiss did 
nothing to decrease my need.  

Stopping licking every time I stopped talking, Bob took 
forever to tease my inner lips open with his tongue.  I had 
enough forethought to move my hands on Kitten down to her diaper.  
I didn't want to let go of her because the sides of the bed were 
too close, but neither did I want to risk my fingers clawing at 
her skin.  Then I babbled on, losing coherence as Bob worked 
magic with his tongue.  I think my last words to her went 
something like: "Ton papa me baise...  Ton papa me ...  Ton Pa!  
Pa!"  

At that point, Bob stopped completely, raised his head, and 
said, "Are you calling me?"  

"Please Bob.  Oh please."  His chuckle was positively 
demonic, but he relented.  He returned to his licks and kisses.  
I just moaned rather than speeking.  Soon all the tension 
concentrated in a point.  Then it shattered, and so did I.  

I slowly came back together into a blissful repletion.  Then 
a nagging worry intruded.  "The Kitten," I asked.  

"I took her out of your arms," Bob said.  "I'll get a bubble 
in a minute."  I slid back into the bliss.  "There," Bob said 
some unknown time later.  "She's in her own bed asleep.  The 
Kitten is done for the night, but you aren't!"  He knelt back 
down between my legs.  

This time, he proceeded more directly.  He kissed my legs 
briefly, my mound only once, although that was a long kiss.  Then 
he was licking my labia once again.  So soon after the last time, 
they were exquisitely sensitive.  

"Grab a pillow," he said.  Good idea.  He wasn't going to be 
able to muffle my cries with a kiss in that position.  One hand 
held the pillow to my lips and the other felt down to his head.  
He resumed kissing where he had left off.  When I tensed, he 
slipped two fingers into me.  Then I pulled him against the 
center of all those lovely sensations while I gasped into the 
pillow.  

"You are wonderful," he said.  "Darling, darling, girl.  
Luscious and lovely."  

"And lonely," I managed to add.  When I go off into one of 
those climaxes, I usually recover in his arms.  This time he was 
way down there.  It was intimate, there is no denying that.  He 
even still had his fingers in me.  It was intimate, but it wasn't 
particularly comforting.  

He gave me another long kiss on my mound.  "Sorry, darling," 
he said, "but we are going to do it this way tonight."  He kissed 
upward across my stomach but didn't even reach to my breasts.  
Then he trailed downward again.  

Soon, he returned to my center.  His fingers moved within 
me; his tongue moved over me; my hips moved in response.  As I 
felt the gathering tension, I grabbed the pillow.  Then the 
climax seared through me.  I don't know what I shouted; I don't 
know how long it lasted.  I do know that I quaked and quivered 
and was filled with joy.  Moments afterwards, I was filled with 
Bob.  

He pulled me a little more off the bed and pressed into me 
before I knew what was happening.  He lifted my legs until my 
knees were on his shoulders.  Then he was moving deep within me.  
The strokes felt long and slow, but they didn't take him out of 
me at all.  The motion of his hips pushed me back and forth on 
the end of the bed while they slid him in and out of me.  His 
hands were all over me, stroking, tickling, pinching my earlobe 
while he teased a nipple.  

I soared away again, throbbing and throbbing, seeming unable 
to stop.  "Jeanette," he said sharply, once.  Then I kept 
throbbing until the support of his hips collapsed under me.  

When I became aware of my position, I was sitting on Bob's 
thighs and knees.  My shoulders were the only part supported by 
the end of the bed.  We were entangled in the covers.  The inside 
of my knees were against Bob's elbows.  "Are you okay?" he asked 
me.  Good question.  Nothing particularly hurt, but I felt weak 
and out of breath.  "Can you get up?"  

"I don't think so," I whispered.  "Can you?"  He shook his 
head.  We both broke out in giggles.  "Your parents will find us 
when The Kitten gets really hungry."  The Kitten can wake the 
dead if her needs aren't met.  

"I shot the bolt," Bob said.  "If you move *only* your 
left leg, I'll try to free my arm."  The second time we tried 
that it worked.  With one foot on the floor, I could move more 
weight onto the bed.  Bob extricated himself, and I managed to 
stand up.  What hadn't spilled yet of Bob's seed drained out, 
mostly onto my thigh.  I grabbed a tissue and cleaned myself off.  

Bob was still on the floor.  "I think my leg went to sleep," 
he said.  I helped him up.  

"You are the most adorable idiot in the whole world," I told 
him.  

He shrugged into a robe, and went across to the bathroom.  
He came back with TP, some of it damp.  We cleaned up the mess on 
the floor and on ourselves.  With all the time we'd taken, I was 
surprised that The Kitten hadn't awakened for her middle-of-the-
night feeding.  I glanced at the clock to see whether it was 
worth sleeping before then.  It was a little after eleven.  Bob 
got under the covers, and I snuggled into his arms.  

"I love you," he said.  

"Love you, too."  And I did.  


Continued in Part Three.
FORGET ALL THAT
Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
1997/12/24
1999/12/30
2000/09/10
2002/12/19

This is the second segment of the last story (so far) in a 
series of stories about the Brennans.

More of the story can be found at:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/brennan/fat_a.htm
Parts 1-3

The first story in the series is:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/brennan/forever.htm
"Forever" 


The directory to the entire series is:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/brennan.htm
Brennan Stories Directory 

The directory to all my stories can be found at:
http://www.asstr-mirror.org/files/Authors/Uther_Pendragon/www/index.htm

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