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Message-ID: <39984asstr$1040476203@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: anon584c@nyx.net (Uther Pendragon)
Reply-To: anon584c@nyx.net
Subject: {ASSM} rp "Forget All That 04" {Pendragon} (MF rom wl lac) [4/12]
Date: Sat, 21 Dec 2002 08:10:03 -0500
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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, 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 Four:
Continued from Part Three.


The Brennans participate in what Bob, in his more cynical 
moments, calls Mammon-mas.  I dreaded the trip home in the train 
with all the loot they would give their first grandchild for her 
first Christmas.  They also, however, pay attention to the 
religious aspect.  On the last Sunday of Advent, we all made it 
into church during the prelude.  

The Kitten behaved a little better than she does at our home 
church, but Bob still had to take her into the narthex and carry 
her back and forth.  His father relieved him at the end of the 
sermon, and was surrounded by his friends commenting about how 
sweet she was when the rest of us came out.  

At Sunday dinner, my attention wandered to a sound from the 
next room, but I decided that The Kitten didn't need me.  When I 
was paying attention again, Bob and his father were talking about 
bubbles.  It took me a minute to see that they weren't talking 
about *her* bubbles.  It was economics.  "1987 did it," 
Bob's father was saying.  "People learned then that a sharp drop 
could be recovered from.  The problem is that they learned that 
one *would* be recovered from.  There is still air in the US 
market, but it will leak out.  Can it happen without a 'whoosh'?  
I don't know."

"Bob was telling me," I said, "that you could show that the 
claims I read are wrong that stocks are a sure thing for the long 
run.  I didn't get it all."

"I don't know it all," said Bob.  "I only remember the joke 
and the conclusion.  'Mr. Morgan, Mr. Morgan,'" he said in a 
falsetto.  "'What will the market do?'"

"'Son,'" his father answered in an artificially deep bass, 
"'the market will fluctuate.' Well," he continued in his usual 
voice, "the market has fluctuated ever since.  This is easier on 
paper than it is across the table..."

"You never spared me across the table," said Bob.

"And who would want to spare *you*?" his father asked.  
"Anyway, I'm not going to spare her, only apologize in advance.

"This is easier on paper than across the table, but there is 
a simple formula for the value of this year's stock market in any 
future year."

"That sounds like it would make you a fortune," I said.

"No!" he said.  "The formula is the product of multiplying 
four numbers together.  It is impossible to know those numbers, 
but it is possible to estimate their range.  

"The first number is GDP, or the value of everything that 
the country produces in a year.  The second number is the 
percentage of the GDP that goes to corporate profits.  Multiply 
these two together and you get the corporate profits for the 
year.

"The third number is what we call the price-earnings ratio.  
This is more usually applied to a single stock, but here we mean 
the ratio of the value of the stock market in that year to the 
profits which support that value.  Because the stockholders can 
put a quite different evaluation of the same profits.  Multiply 
that number times the first two, and you get what the stocks of 
that year are valued at.

"The fourth number is the percentage of stocks that year 
which actually exist this year.  Because companies continually 
issue new stock and new companies come into being and issue 
stock.  So in any year, the stock includes stock which didn't 
exist the year before.  If the stock market is worth twice as 
much in fifty years, that doesn't mean that the average stock 
bought this year is worth twice as much.  Also stocks disappear 
through failures.

"Okay.  Now there are four numbers.  The first one increases 
over time, usually but not always from one year to the next, but 
increases in the long run.  The fourth number almost always goes 
down.  The numbers in between generally fluctuate.  The 
percentage of the GDP which goes into profits fluctuates slightly 
except in real recessions, when it takes a plunge.  If Brewster 
would be working at 70% of capacity, we'd have -- not 70% of the 
profits -- but a disastrous loss.

"Anyway, aside from a few years, that percentage fluctuates 
within rather narrow bounds.  The price-earnings ratio, however, 
is a roller-coaster.  This year it hit highs that it hasn't seen 
in recent times.

"Now, the snake-oil salesmen point out that, historically, 
this product has increased over almost any twenty-year period.  
The history, with apologies to our historian," he nodded to Bob, 
who nodded back, "includes the price-earnings ratios of the past.  
Buying into a market with P-E ratios above fifteen is a sucker's 
game, historically.  Individual stocks can support it by growing 
much faster than the economy, but the market cannot."

"Y'know," Bob said, "the philosophy of history considers 
'History' to only mean the written analysis of what happened in 
the past.  It's a useful distinction, but we don't own the word."  
Great, just what my mind needed.  A summary of economic theory 
followed by lecture on philosophy and semantics.

"That's nice, dear," Katherine said.  And the subject 
changed.  

Undaunted by his previous experience, Bob's father insisted 
on feeding The Kitten her cereal and fruit.  She wore a bib with 
"Grandpa's angel" on it in fancy lettering.  *We* hadn't 
brought it.  He wore his suit pants and dress shirt, which was 
tempting fate.  Fate resisted temptation no better than the rest 
of us do.

Bob hauled his mother upstairs for an undisclosed purpose.  
That meant that he had mailed my Christmas gift to her and meant 
to wrap it now.  Just why this needs the heavy hand of secrecy 
every year, I don't know.  Bob specializes in clothes in a 
package that rattles and tiny gifts hidden in large packages.  
Packing them in suitcases tends to crush the packages, and 
mailing them would be worse.  (I can imagine postal inspectors 
calling the bomb squad after x-raying one of his specials.)  
Mailing them unwrapped so I never see my gift makes sense.  
Pretending that I haven't figured out what he is doing doesn't.  
Not after ten Christmases, one of which involved a gift which had 
to be mailed back North, it doesn't.

On the other hand, Christmas is a matter of tradition.

Bob's father brought The Kitten back in after washing off 
the disaster.  I will say this for her, The Kitten readily 
forgives the people who try to inflict baby food on her.  He sat 
down in his armchair and began a this-little-piggy game.  He 
stopped when she tired of it, turned her so that she was facing 
him, and recited "Plus que possible, ma poule noire, ..." I was 
intrigued.  French verse that I hadn't heard before.  He followed 
it with the English version, significantly different.

"What is that from?" I asked.

"The Black Hen is a poem in various languages in a book that 
we must still have.  You'd like it."  Actually, nobody in the 
Brennan family considers it possible that people won't like a 
book.  This man's son thinks that *Decline of the West* is the 
sort of book that one can't put down and that *Scientific 
American* is good popular reading.  However, the books that the 
Brennans recommend are surprisingly often good reading; go 
figure!  "Kate," he called to Katherine who was just coming back 
down stairs, "where is 'The Black Hen'?" 

"She's in the relative-when laying eggs.  Is that a trick 
question?"

"You know what I mean.  Where is the book?"

"The book, dear, is *A Space Child's Mother Goose*.  It 
isn't my book.  I have enough trouble keeping track of my books 
and library books in this house."  She had a point.  Everybody in 
the family had a stack of books by their beds which they had put 
aside because something came up which meant looking in another 
book.  At home, I limit Bob to four.  When there are five books 
in his stack, I put the bottom four back on the shelves in the 
living room.  When I was vastly pregnant, so pregnant that I 
could get almost anything from him that I wanted, he put them 
back on my request.

Bob's father changed to the game where he tries to catch The 
Kitten's nose with his finger while she tries to impale her eye 
on the finger.  "You should let her play on the quilt while she 
still wants to be in your arms, dear," Katherine said.  "Never 
let her get sated."  He obeyed, but settled back where he could 
watch.

"Are you happy about your decision?" he asked.

"Do you mean The Kitten instead of full-time school?  I'm 
quite happy.  My greatest unhappiness is dread that some of this 
might be taken away from me.  I have a husband whom I love and 
loves me, a child whom I love and who needs me.  I'm not certain 
that it is love at this age.  I and mine are reasonably healthy.  
We make enough to keep us warm and fed and such.  What more could 
I want?"

"A house of your own," said Katherine, "a car of your own -- 
I mean 'ta auto.'"  (She meant "ton automobile.") "You might want 
jewels or a fur coat or a housemaid or a nanny."

"A housemaid would be very nice, a nanny would be awful.  
I'd like a girl to come in and change her and then go away.  A 
house with a yard would be nice when she's walking.  If I won the 
lottery, I could figure out how to spend it.  If he won the 
lottery, Bob wouldn't quit teaching; you know that."

"But," Bob said from the foot of the stairs.  "I would take 
every summer off and spend it taking my family to France."

"You could spend alternate summers with us," said Katherine.

"Jeanette and I could go to France and leave The Kitten with 
you here.  We're really de trop."

"It's a deal," said his father.  "When can we expect her?"

"I was thinking of the terrible twos and most of her teenage 
years." That brought the subject to a laughing close.  I shivered 
and reached out to knock on the table.  We have so much.  

The Kitten gets fussy late in the afternoon, even when the 
two of us are alone.  The difference on this trip was that her 
fussiness took the form of wanting maman.  I took her upstairs to 
nurse her, looked at the rocker, and decided for the bed instead.  
With the covers rolled up on one side and me on the other, she is 
totally safe in the middle of the bed.  Besides, she is unlikely 
to try going far from me in those moods.  I lay down with her on 
my breast and spoke to her maybe three times.  Bob woke me an 
hour and a half later.  

"Do you want supper?" he asked.  I did.  He called down, 
"Ten minute delay."  Then he changed The Kitten while I was in 
the bathroom and getting my top back on.  I don't often use the 
nursing bra in private.

"Sorry," I said when I joined the table.

"Don't be," said Bob's father.  "You were caring for our 
grandchild.  For that matter, caring for our daughter-in-law is a 
priority, as well."  Now, that is not a warm emotional statement; 
but it's a genuinely loving one.

After supper, the conversation moved to church that morning 
and then the mechanics of getting The Kitten to the Christmas Eve 
service.  That moved on to our church in Michigan.  Bob mentioned 
that I had joined and had been attending more often.

"That's backwards," I said.  "My attendance went up first, 
and then the baptism, and then I joined.  I couldn't see any 
reason not to.  Actually The Kitten was the reason that my 
attendance increased."

"Yes, dear.  Parents start thinking about what sort of 
circles they want to raise their children in."

"That isn't it at all.  If I went to church with Bob more 
than once a month, the next time that I slept in, people would 
tell me that they had missed me.  This would embarrass me.  So 
once I had slept in, I had reasons to avoid attendance for a 
while.  The Kitten is a great excuse.  I can sleep in, and the 
next week it is all her fault.  I'll bet the first time she goes 
to church with her father while I sleep in, my attendance drops 
again."

"Or," Bob said, "as soon as actually sleeping-in becomes an 
option once more."  I don't know.  I think that I had just shown 
that sleeping around The Kitten was quite possible.  When she 
gets to the crawling stage, I could set up a child-proof area, 
move in with the sleeping bag, and let her choose her own feeding 
times.  But that was too nebulous to suggest then.

My attention drifted away, and they were comparing former 
pastors when it got back.  Which was a good excuse to let it 
drift again.  Soon The Kitten wanted to come back to the 
familiar.  "Maman," she said when I held her.  

"That's right, darling," said Katherine.  "That's mama."

But The Kitten had definitely said "maman." 

"Isn't she the cutest baby in the whole world?" asked Bob.  
The agreement was unanimous.  Even the conversation tailed off, 
and the three of us went upstairs soon thereafter.  "Happy?" 
asked Bob.

"Very," I said.  As I had told his mother, I wasn't 
continually happy or ecstatically happy.  I was usually 
contented.  "Bob, I'm scared."

"Why?  What can I do?"

"We have so much."  He came over to hug me.

"We aren't taking it from others," he said.

"But what if we lose it?"

"Then it would be stupid to not have enjoyed it while it was 
there," he said.  "Look at Mom.  She enjoys every day with my 
father.  It might be the last.  And The Kitten is surer if not so 
sad.  She won't be a baby much longer.  Let's enjoy her while she 
is."  I'm sure that his words made sense, but his hug was the 
only comfort.

Three is a crowd in a twin bed, even if one of them is tiny.  
Rather than risk The Kitten on the edge, I laid her between us.  
Bob held the bed frame all the time I nursed her because, I would 
guess, he was in danger of falling off.  He was right at the top 
of the bed kissing my forehead or hair occasionally.  Mostly he 
patted me or rested his arm on my side.  I felt much better by 
the time The Kitten was done.  

I went to the bathroom and made my preparations for the 
night while Bob changed The Kitten.  We used to change her both 
before and after feedings when she was newborn, but in those days 
she ran like a spigot and also had more delicate skin.  These 
days, we try for a change right before sleep but make an 
exception if she is smelly or really wet before the feeding.  

"Y'know," I told him when I came out, "you have done more 
changes than I have since we came here."

"My mother decreed that you wouldn't do any changes at all 
unless their changing her would mean one of them would have to 
invade our privacy.  She figures that one person handling the 
input doesn't balance three handling the output anyway.  They 
aren't interested in lowering *my* workload; but they have.  
When both of us are around and awake, I had *better* do the 
work.  Otherwise I'll spend Boxing Day at Mickey D's.  She's 
right, anyway.  You do more than your share of the work."

"Not counting that you earn our income."

"Well, that didn't affect housework when you earned all of 
our income."  That isn't quite the same.  In those days, he was a 
full time student.  These days, he does the breadwinning and I do 
most of the housework and child care, mostly child care.

"You're sweet," I said.

"And I have hidden motives for being sweet." 

"Not with your pants off, you don't."  He was laughing when 
he kissed me.

"I love you like this," he said.  He loves me all the time.  He 
prefers me like this.  For that matter, I do too.

We had a nice, long, quiet, kiss with our mouths closed.  He 
pecked me on the nose, hugged me briefly, pecked me on the 
forehead, and came back for a real kiss.  He kneaded my butt 
while our tongues played.  When we paused for breath I said, 
"Should we be standing up?"  He pulled off the top bed clothes 
and motioned for me to lie down.  Then he covered me and tucked 
everything in at the bottom before sliding in beside me.  

This time he stroked everywhere while we kissed.  Then he 
stroked only my mound and thighs.  I parted my legs to ease his 
access.  He played with my outer lips for a minute before 
beginning a frenzy of tongue play.  During that, he slipped a 
finger between my inner lips.  I smiled at his attempt at 
sneakiness.  I think half the nerve endings in my body are near 
there; does he really think that I don't notice?

All those little nerve endings not only noticed his arrival; 
they enjoyed it.  He stroked toward my clitoris but stopped 
short, a little closer each time.  Just when I was about to ask 
him to keep going, he kissed me so firmly that I couldn't speak.  
Then he did cross the magic spot.  I gasped.  I could feel him 
grin at that.

His kisses and caresses were lovely; but, as they became 
lovelier they became less adequate.  Rather that break the kiss, 
I trailed my hand down his chest to ask for more.  When he let me 
continue across his belly, I knew that we would have more very 
soon.  He was erect and hard and hot.  He was the one who broke 
the kiss.

"Do you think that you could be on top this time?" he asked.  
I thought about it.  The motions of his hand, if not exactly 
conducive to thinking, were very conducive to agreement.

"That would be lovely," I said.  He moved toward the middle 
as I retreated to the very edge.  Then I climbed over him.  This 
position, even after all the years of practice, takes a little 
adjustment.  He held me with one hand and himself with the other.  
As I eased down, he fitted us.  I had to move an inch lower in 
the bed, but I sat on him until I was totally impaled.

He inhaled with a hiss.  "Darling wife," he said.  "I love 
you, Mrs. B."

I said, "I love you, Mr. B," tightening his favorite muscle 
as I said "B."  I leaned down so he could lick my breast.  
"Gently," I said.  He was very gentle, and very loving, and very 
exciting.  Soon, I had to move.

I concentrated on making the motions that felt best for me.  
Bob had taken a while to convince me that this was what he 
wanted, but I can tell that he enjoys it.  My eyes having 
adjusted to the night light, I could see his frown turn into a 
grimace.  His hand reached between my moving thighs.  He stroked 
me in time with my motions, first on the lips and then on my 
center.  Suddenly, I couldn't keep to the rhythm.  Flame swept 
through me, and I went away into sensation, and into joy, and 
into ecstasy.

When I came back, I was sprawled on Bob.  He was hugging my 
hips to him, the only hug which wouldn't interfere with my 
gasping breaths.  "Sleep here," he said.  I couldn't, but I could 
stay for a few minutes.  All his careful adjustment of the 
bedclothes had gone for naught.  He was out of me and all the 
mess was running out on him.  I didn't even mention that; I know 
his priorities.

I had gone from comfort, to desire, to joy, to fulfillment, 
to being held in love.  Okay, *some* times I am ecstatically 
happy.


Continued in Part Five.
FORGET ALL THAT
Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
1997/12/24
1999/12/30
2000/09/10
2002/12/21

This is the fourth 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_b.htm
Parts 4-6 

Jeanette makes vague references to the advantages of 
breastfeeding at the beginning of this story.  More on 
this at:
<A HREF="http://www.aap.org/policy/re9729.html">
Outside Reference </a>

The first story in the Brennan 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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