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Message-ID: <40072asstr$1040811007@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: anon584c@nyx.net (Uther Pendragon)
Reply-To: anon584c@nyx.net
Subject: {ASSM} rp "Forget All That 08" {Pendragon} (MF rom wl lac) [8/12]
Date: Wed, 25 Dec 2002 05:10:07 -0500
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Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
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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 Eight:
Continued from Part seven.

I looked at Vi.  "It's Christmas Eve," I said.

"If not now, when?" she replied.  "You sit there," she told 
her father, pointing to one end of the couch.  "And you sit 
there," she told Bob, pointing to the other end.  They looked at 
her without moving.  

"Do it," I said.  "Or," I told Bob's father, "You won't hold 
The Kitten another time the rest of this visit.  And you," I was 
pointing at Bob, then I stopped dead.  

"She's my child too," he said.  I was going to say that he 
couldn't hold me.  But those words wouldn't leave my mouth.  

"Because you love me," I said.  "I beg of you to sit down 
and listen because you love me."  He looked at me for a moment 
before dropping onto the couch so hard that it bounced.  "Stay 
there.  Katherine, could you hold The Kitten?"  She did.  

"And get my nitroglycerine, please," said Bob's father.  
"It's purely precautionary." 

Vi rummaged through her bags while I rushed upstairs.  I 
returned with a package containing a tape recorder.  Christmas 
allows you to put anything in your suitcase without your spouse 
suspecting.  

Vi had hers set up when I got there.  "You go first," I 
said.  After all, Bob had articulated the charges.  

The tape player hissed and crackled.  The recordings hadn't 
been great to begin with, and they had been dubbed.  "I'm proud 
of both of you."  The voice was recognizably Bob's father.  

"But Bob," said taped Vi.  

"Both of you, but Bob does have the clear eye that Madison 
would have loved.  I'm glad that he wasn't around to see Bob's 
dissertation.  That was what he wanted for his people, you know.  
I was an anomaly.  He wanted clear minds but didn't care about 
business courses.  You can learn 'business' in well less than a 
year.  It might take you a decade to learn the inner workings of 
a steel mill or an auto assembly line, but general business 
practice is a very small area of knowledge.  Anyway, Madison 
would have paid anything to get Bob.  He could have operated the 
program.  'Look at the situation.  Report what you know, report 
what questions remain, report what is needed to find the answers 
to those questions.'  Madison said, 'Clear thinking can be 
taught; indeed it must be taught.  But it can only be taught to 
some people.'  Bob has learned clear thinking.  And not only 
about history.  He would have felt like shit if the trip to Paris 
hadn't turned up anything.  And rightly so, he grades on results 
not effort; he should be graded accordingly.  But he evaluated 
the risk correctly, and acted on it.  'Toujours audace.'" 

Then there was a break.  The whole tape was a series of 
conversations.  

"I don't know.  Talking about a woman's loyalty to her man 
seems like putting a demand on your mother, although she has been 
constantly loyal.  And I *don't* know.  Loyalty is not the-
way-to-win-a-woman, it is the essence of being a man.  Ask your 
mother, not I, what the essence of being a woman is.  But a man 
is loyal.  Your brother would die for Jeanette, that's easy; 
he'll also live for her, which is the hard part." 

A silence.  

"Well, he might have turned Madison down, but I'm glad that 
he didn't have to decide.  I like to think that I might possibly 
have been as hot as Bob is intellectually.  (You never saw your 
father when he was dealing with real scholarship every day.)  But 
he clearly is smarter about life than I was before my heart 
attack.  Maybe than I am now.  Then too, you kids have the 
benefit of my bad example.  But that sort of money is a horrible 
temptation.  'My wife is slaving away in an office without the 
benefit of a decent education.  I could buy so much for her 
including full-time college; I could relieve my parents of the 
burdens of debt and my sister of her worries about school loans.'  
Bob was never greedy -- never past the age when any kid is.  But 
you want so much for others." 

A sharp crackle.  

"He asked me once, 'And did you deserve Mother?'  Nasty kid.  
Well, I never claimed to deserve your mother.  And I will admit 
that I deserved the question.  The odd thing is that he may 
actually deserve Jeanette.  I know that he's done things to hurt 
her, although she is too loyal to allow anyone to mention 
them -- let alone to mention them herself.  Maybe not deserve her 
exactly, but have you noticed the changes in her year-to-year?  
All brides glow, but beneath that glow she always looked a little 
brittle.  Maybe it's simply that she was nervous around us and 
grew less nervous.  Maybe it was her pregnancy last year that 
made her seem much more settled in herself.  I dunno.  But she 
sure-as-hell isn't a woman in a *bad* marriage.  Except 
economically, of course.  I just made so many blunders myself, 
that I want to help him avoid them." 

A longer pause.  

"Success?  Would he teach more students at Harvard, or teach 
them better?  I made twice the money at thirty that your brother 
makes.  Nominal.  I thought that I was a success; I was wrong.  I 
hope that he makes more money, that he gets tenure in the Ivy 
league, that his research is cited in all the best places.  
(Though I don't know what the best places are for history.)  But 
he chose satisfaction over money.  And I hope that my example 
serves you two.  It's hell when all you can give your kids is a 
bad example, but it's worse if they then ignore it.  He's a 
success on the standards that he chose; I'm a failure on the 
standards that I chose; and his standards are gold to my brass.  
Which is odd, when you consider that the standard that I chose 
was gold." 

The tape hissed until she stopped it.  

I handed her my cassette.  There was silence as she put it 
in.  The first voice heard was mine, I'd started the tape a 
little late.  

"Thrown in jail?" 

Bob answered me on the tape: "Well, the official penalty is 
prison.  Stock swindlers don't serve prison time.  But every 
stock offering has to say that previous growth doesn't guarantee 
future growth.  He has a long list of investments that 'couldn't 
go down' which later crashed.  Let's ask him about this at 
Christmas ... if it isn't moot by then.  This bubble could last 
another two years; sometime I'll tell you about Disraeli.  It 
could burst tomorrow.  I remember this much of what he told me: a 
stock can be valued at the dividend it is paying now; it can be 
valued at the profit it's making now; it can be valued at the 
increased profit you think that it will make in the future; it 
can be valued at the increased price that you think that others 
will pay for it.  Marketers call the last, 'total return.'  The 
dividend plus the increase in price is the 'return' on the 
investment.  Economists call it a bubble or the 'greater fool 
theory.'" 

The timbre of Bob's voice seemed to change for the next 
passage.  Actually, I had used a different recorder.  

"They made a serious mistake.  My father points out that 
most people would like to know whether others would bow to 
threats before making them.  They want to say, 'Choose between 
him and me, unless you would choose him.'  This pattern he calls 
'seriously limited credibility.'  Anyway they threatened to 
resign unless their demands were met, and the board replied by 
accepting their resignations.  The board couldn't have behaved 
better if my father were on it." 

Then, without a pause: 

"Doctors get it.  You ever hear the joke about 'That's God; 
he only thinks he's a doctor'?  But once out of residency, 
doctors deal with reality rather than with senior doctors.  
Executives are surrounded with secretaries and subordinates.  The 
only thing that they have to deal with, rather than assigning 
others to deal with, are senior executives.  That makes 
socialization in the corporate culture their only survival task.  
My father is tough-minded, but I still don't understand how he 
survived all those years without succumbing." 

A short pause.  

"You'd do better to wait until Christmas.  I argue economics 
with my father all the time.  'Wrought ideas are always better 
than cast ideas.'  And who taught me that?  But I would never buy 
when he says sell.  That is a practical matter." 

The timbre of his voice changed again.  

"Charles, you misjudge my family.  My father, Kathleen's 
father, will back his daughter against the world.  Give him a 
what-if, and he'll answer a what-if.  Why blame him for that?  
Draw up sides, and he's on Kathleen's side.  Period." 

A hiss.  

"The weird thing...  You sure I'm not boring you?" 

"Not in the least," I said.  

"The weird thing is that he hadn't *managed* anything up 
'til then.  He'd evaluated plenty.  But all that he had bossed 
was a small, totally dedicated, team.  A skunk works, if you know 
that term, of never more than twenty men.  If they had known what 
was wrong with Brewster, they'd never have sent him.  They figure 
him for a dollars-and-cents man; but he finds out that the 
trouble was personnel.  So he deals absolutely fairly with the 
men, gets rid of the worst supervisors, and bides his time.  He 
waits until he knows an upturn is coming.  One of the biggest 
companies in the field was in the middle of a bitter strike.  As 
you can imagine, office furniture companies aren't hurt much by 
union boycotts.  Anyway, he invites the union leadership to the 
house.  He sells them on an agreement to have them sign a direct 
mail piece to union locals around the country to ask them to 
*look* at Brewster's product the next time that they bought 
office furniture.  The pitch was that this was a company that 
dealt fairly with the union, they should have a chance.  Second, 
he gets them to agree that every time a man is called back from 
layoff, productivity per person would also increase.  (He knows 
what was happening on the shop floor, and that surprises them.)  
Every time a man is called back, he calls him into the office 
first.  He tells him that his call-back is because the other 
workers on the floor are doing better work, and asks him to do 
better work so that the next man can be called back.  Two years 
later, quality is through the roof and prices have been 
relatively stable.  No one is laid off, and wages are 
competitive.  The union leadership looks like champions, and so 
does management.  They only fight about what they should fight 
about." 

The tape ran out, and I handed her another.  

"Ihm hmm.  Have you looked at the heater in the corner?  
Those shelves are attached to the walls.  I might be able to pull 
them over on me; you're too light; The Kitten doesn't stand a 
chance.  There is a switch controlling the heater; it is attached 
to the shelves at eye level.  A little bit of overdesign, there; 
but my father doesn't miss a trick.  Now, aren't you glad that 
you married me?" 

Then something of a pause.  

"You know it's odd.  When you two financed the tape, we all 
spoke of it as Jeanette's education.  Some tiny fraction for her.  
Without it, however, she might have gone on with the literature.  
I very much doubt that I could have written the dissertation 
without that and the radio and the magazines.  When we got to 
Paris, Jeanette knew what was going on.  She was au courant in a 
way that most French majors wouldn't have been.  The magazines 
and the short wave taught her about twentieth century France in a 
way that nothing else could have." 

"Russ wondered whether the gift of the magazines had gone on 
too long," Katherine said.  

"It's clearly too late to worry about this year," Bob said.  
"There is a little backlog now.  Nice to have someone else in the 
house storing old magazines.  By the summer, Jeanette will have 
some idea of her new pattern of living.  If the backlog is 
larger, then she can read it down after the last subscription 
expires.  For that matter, Dad must be running out of possible 
magazines.  We have money, Jeanette can subscribe to one of her 
favorites from the selection that he gave her.  The real gift was 
the experience.  That is permanent.  On the other hand if he gave 
her Science, ..." 

"But Bob is right about the magazines," I said.  "They were 
an incredible gift.  So was the radio." 

"And the tape recorder," Bob said.  "He always sees how 
things will work together." 

There was a squeal.  

"I've thought about that for two reasons," Bob said.  "Not 
about it being shoved down my throat.  He was right in the past.  
That wasn't where I would have spent my money.  I never objected 
to reading Newsweek, though.  I did think that it might be 
time for an assistant professor to buy his own." 

The recorder hissed quietly until Vi turned it off.  

"Now," she said, "You two know what everyone else in the 
room has known for years, how the other speaks about you when 
you're gone.  Bob, *I* might think that you're an idiot.  
Dad does not.  Dad, Bob *listened* to all those stories.  He 
retells them.  It is patently absurd for you two to bristle at 
each other all the time." 

"May I get up now?" Bob's father asked.  

"Go right ahead," she answered.  "So will I.  I have 
packages to wrap." 

"I would appreciate it if you left The Kitten in Katherine's 
hands a little longer, sir," I said.  "You are certainly entitled 
to your anger, but she's too young to tell that it isn't directed 
at her." 

"I bow to your wish," he said, "but you've lost the enormous 
respect that I had for you.  You should never, ever, have taped 
Bob without his permission." 

He and Bob went their separate ways.  He with a book, Bob 
with the print-outs.  I will never understand men.  

Katherine brought me The Kitten somewhat later, it was time 
for another meal.  "Did I do wrong?" I asked.  

"I'm sure that I don't know, dear.  You should 
know -- Kathleen should certainly know -- that people don't 
behave according to the facts, but according to something 
deeper."  The new feeding schedule put The Kitten on the edge of 
her late afternoon grumpy time just as I was trying to feed her 
out of a jar.  I would have to watch that.  Kathleen came in to 
watch, but I shooed her away.  When we were finished and washed, 
I took The Kitten into the living room and lay on the couch.  
Soon The Kitten was asleep on my stomach.  

Bob came downstairs.  "Do you want me to put her in the 
crib?" he asked.  I nodded.  He picked her up and took her 
upstairs.  I wandered into the kitchen and finished his cleanup.  
Kathleen (I have to remember not to call her Vi) was putting her 
presents under the tree.  I considered getting ours, but I didn't 
consider it to the extent of leaving the living room.  We looked 
at each other.  

"It seemed such a good idea," she said.  

"With The Kitten," I said.  "I wasn't being nasty.  Your 
mother showed me a trick to feeding her, and it only works if 
she's looking at me.  You were too diverting." 

"I didn't think you were blaming me.  It isn't your style.  
Don't bother cutting me down a peg; Dr. Schumacher will do it for 
you." 

"What did he say," I asked her, "about your plans?"  She had 
brought up her analyst, after all.  

"It didn't ever seem to come up." 

"Vi!"  I'm not at her level of perceptiveness, but *not* 
mentioning something like that must have meant some ambivalence 
towards the idea.  

"Yeah," she said, "I know.  Clear after the fact, isn't it?"  
She went back upstairs, and I looked for something else to think 
about.  

Bob's family had a Britannica from before Micropedia.  I 
pulled out the volumes that would cover all the authors whose 
names I could think of, nearly half the volumes.  I read their 
article on Balzac first.  Bob taught me that trick.  Reading an 
article on matter that you know lets you see the depth of the 
articles.  Then I went through the others in alphabetical order.  
Celine was interesting; maybe I would tell them that I couldn't 
come to the table until I had read about Verne.  

The adult Brennans might or might not have accepted that 
argument, but the youngest certainly wouldn't.  A few hours 
later, when I had read more than my mind was ever going to hold, 
Bob called that The Kitten needed me.  "Upstairs or down?" he 
asked.  

"Upstairs," I yelled back.  I left a pile of books beside 
the couch, my claim to be a naturalized Brennan, and went up to 
feed The Kitten in the rocker.  As I rocked, I murmured what a 
pretty baby she was.  But soon the events of the past afternoon 
overcame me.  "Ta maman t'aime, ...  et ta maman aime ton 
pere, ...  mais ta maman est un ane." 

"That's all true," called Bob from the bed, "if une maman 
can be un anything."  (Bob think that every noun should have a 
feminine form.)  "Mais son pere aime sa mere, aussi.  Tell her 
that."  And I gladly did so.  

"Do you really, Bob, after all I did." 

He got up and stood beside me.  "And didn't do.  Remember 
that.  Anyway, I said that I love you and I do.  I didn't say 
that I wasn't furious.  But I'm a lot less furious than I was 
when I left the couch you had me confined on.  (Y'know, that 
sounds a lot more intriguing than the reality.)   Anyway, we'll 
talk.  Does everybody have their presents downstairs." 

"Kathleen does." 

"Well, if Kaytoo has hers down," he said, "I can take ours 
down." 

"Bob...."  Calling her "Kaytoo" was a declaration of war.  

"Not even she will claim that I started this one." 

"I think," I said, "that you have a quarrel with me and she 
has a quarrel with your father." 

"My father has a heart condition.  Planning a quarrel with 
him violates her hypocritical oath, even ignoring her duty as a 
daughter -- as the two of you were so eager to do."  Bob stumped 
off, conveniently ignoring that he had verbally slashed at his 
father just before the incident in question.  

I couldn't even figure out whether "didn't do" was supposed 
to aggravate or mitigate the offense.  I mean, there was a whole 
raft of things that I didn't do.  I didn't include our lovemaking 
from the tape in which Bob told the story; I hadn't got Bob drunk 
to pour out his feelings for his father to the tape.  On the 
other hand, I hadn't warned him that I was taping him; I hadn't 
included some bitter statements he had made about his father.  I 
hadn't blown up the federal building in Oklahoma City or won the 
Nobel Peace Prize.  Just what that I hadn't done did he mean?  I 
went back to pouring out my feelings to my daughter.  

I knew how Bob would feel if his father died without 
resolving this tension between them.  This had seemed the only 
chance.  It had failed miserably.  

Life went on.  They make extra picture holders to fit in 
wallets.  I think that these are especially intended for 
grandparents.  We had filled two for Kathleen, except for one 
position left open for a picture of Charles.  I had elided the 
truth a little with her.  Bob, not I, was giving her the 
pictures.  Which meant that her presents were one load for Bob to 
carry down the stairs.  You can't expect him to put both the 
picture sets in one box, let alone a small box.  He came up from 
that trip to ask, "Are those encyclopedia volumes by the couch 
yours?" 

"Uhn huhn." 

"Are you done with any?" 

"I'm on the volume with Gide." 

"Alpha order?" he asked.  I nodded.  

He stayed down a long time after the last trip.  When he 
came in, he asked, "Are you two done?"  We weren't.  "Start 
without us," he called down the stairs.  When The Kitten was 
finished, he changed her and put her in the Snuggli.  He wore her 
down the stairs, and then put her down on the living-room quilt.  

They had waited for us.  Bob's father said grace and we all 
began to eat.  Bob had a sudden thought.  "Sorry about the mess I 
left in the kitchen," he said.  

"Mess?" said Katherine.  "It was neat as a pin." 

"I cleaned up," I said.  "I knew you had been interrupted in 
the middle." 

"You didn't even clean up the kitchen?" Bob's father 
started.  We'd just gone through hell to avoid this pattern.  

"Mr. Brennan, sir," I interrupted.  "We are your guests.  
Anything *we* can do to ease your burdens is *our* 
obligation and *our* pleasure.  Please feel free to ask 
*us* to do anything.  But, so long as *we* deliver, 
which one of *us* does it is *our* goddamn business."  
I could not read the expression that he turned to me, but it 
didn't make look like either pain or anger.  

"He had hours..." he began.  

"Dear, why did you slam the door so loudly when we got back 
home?" Katherine asked.  

"He could have done it...." 

"He couldn't do it immediately, dear.  Jeanette hadn't eaten 
yet.  Perhaps he offered to do it as soon as she had eaten, and 
she preferred his presence and said that they would do it 
together later.  Perhaps she thinks he should have done it, and 
wants to tax him with it in privacy.  If one of them did it, it 
was done.  She's declared their independence, and they don't need 
our supervision.  And I do believe that she did it much more 
nicely than Kathleen declared hers, don't you?" 

Kathleen gave a "what have I done" look.  I couldn't help 
her there.  

"And perhaps," I put in, "we are writing a book together and 
rearing a child together.  If Bob is working on the book and 
listening for the child, it makes no sense to climb the stairs to 
interrupt both rather than do ten minutes work downstairs.  

"I was serious about our division of tasks.  It's 
comfortable for us.  I got the encyclopedia off the bottom shelf; 
The Kitten needed me; Bob returned the volumes that I was done 
with.  We are in the middle of an argument, but he doesn't say 
'That's her mess, let her deal with it.' 

"When we were newlyweds, we divided up all the tasks very 
seriously.  As time went on, we found ourselves internalizing 
those tasks.  Every new apartment changed them slightly.  My 
pregnancy and the arrival of The Kitten threw them overboard.  We 
still have those assignments, but it's much more seeing the next 
job that's sitting there.  'Turn over the patties, the timer just 
rang.' 

"We added full time child-care and subtracted a full time 
secretarial job to our joint assignments when The Kitten was 
born.  Instead of my doing all the child-care, or a total 
juggling of assignments, we've fallen into the pattern of Bob 
having all his old housework assignments, but I do them if I get 
a spare moment.  That way, The Kitten is always my first task." 

"And," Bob broke in, "taking care of yourself is your second 
task.  Mother, this woman would need a nap in the daytime.  She 
wouldn't wake up at night and read (though she would wake up at 
night and nurse), she would actually need that sleep.  But she 
would feel guilty about it.  What would The Kitten do if her 
Maman got sick?" 

"Okay," I agreed.  I was trying to deal with his parents 
just then, not him.  "My second duty is to keep myself healthy.  
Still, there are plenty of days when I have time to spare.  Maybe 
I do the dishes, maybe I sort socks.  And maybe I take a nap or 
read a murder mystery.  The point is that I feel much better than 
I would if I were neglecting one of my assignments." 

"And," Bob said, "I would rather have the dishes be my 
responsibility and sometimes be relieved of it, than have the 
dishes be her responsibility and sometimes have it shoved off on 
me." 

"So," I continued, "We are just bringing our home pattern 
here.  You give all the assignments to Bob, and I pick up the 
holes if nothing else is pressing.  I will, however, help in the 
preparation of Friday's dinner."  This was a tradition.  Bob and 
I took Christmas dinner with my parents, and dinner the day after 
with his parents.  Kathleen and I assisted Katherine in the 
preparation.  

"I think," said Katherine, "that you will find your 
availability will be limited this year." 

"Her availability?" said Kathleen.  "How about mine?  I was 
supposed to have The Kitten all day today and hardly held her." 

"You yielded her up as soon as you had her," her father 
pointed out.  "You can hardly expect her grandparents to put that 
time in a bank for you." 

"This isn't The Kitten's best time of day," I said.  "You 
can all hold her tomorrow morning.  Kathleen can hold her as long 
as The Kitten permits, or until church, after dinner."  The 
Kitten isn't a toy to be shared.  On the other hand, she seemed 
to be glorying in it.  

"I brought her downstairs," Bob said.  "She can make her 
needs known, but we don't like to leave her on the other level." 

"Do you have one of those baby monitors?" Kathleen asked.  
"It lets you have some privacy without allowing her any."  
Brennan bluntness strikes again.  

"We've looked at them," Bob said, "but we won't really need 
them until we get a two-bedroom apartment."  Also, as Bob pointed 
out to me, a set just might appear under the Christmas tree.  

"Except that you could use it right now," Kathleen pointed 
out.  

"I don't think it is that critical, dear," Katherine said.  

"But it is," Bob said.  "She's right.  I bet the mall is 
still open.  Is there a Radio Shack or something in the mall 
these days?" 

"I really couldn't help you, dear," Katherine said.  Bob and 
Kathleen looked at each other.  One gift identified.  

"Tell me Kathleen," I said.  "I'm fascinated by parts of 
your work...." 

"You wouldn't be," she said.  "I mostly fetch and carry."

"It's more your studies, the diagnostic end.  What is the 
current label for adult siblings who regress to babyish behavior 
every time that they get together?" 

"Do you mean 'Brennan'?  That is not currently a diagnostic 
category, but we are working on it."  Bob and Kathleen were 
supposed to be in a state of declared war; maybe they were.  
Package rattling was accepted behavior around the Brennan 
Christmas tree, not just your own packages.  It was, however, 
considered mean to tell someone what their gift from someone else 
was.  Unless you were lying, which made it completely all right.  

"I warn you all," said Kathleen.  "My alarm clock is 
regularly set at six a.m."  The Brennan rule is that the kids 
can't come down on Christmas before their regular waking time.  
Kathleen and Bob could have it changed today, but they wouldn't 
dream of it.  It is part of the Christmas tradition.  So is 
arguing about it.  

"But," Bob said, "that's Central Time.  That is seven 
Eastern Time.  Anyway we have an alarm clock which rings hours 
earlier than that." 

"Well," Kathleen, "I'm going to check it's settings."  And, 
at that, we started wandering away from the table.  I went back 
to my encyclopedia articles until even Kathleen could see that 
The Kitten wanted Maman.  And soon we left for church.  

The Snuggli can be configured in all sorts of ways, Bob had 
it arranged so that The Kitten faced the same direction that he 
did.  Then he sat facing backward in the van.  The Kitten was 
perfectly happy on the ride there, I didn't know how she would 
take the ride back.  

The church uses a ritual that is called "Passing the Peace."  
You take the hand of the person next to you and say "The peace of 
God is yours this night."  ("...  this day," for morning 
worship.)  Then that person passes it on to the person next to 
them.  You can use a hug, rather than a handshake, if you want.  
Our pew went: the usher took Katherine's hand, she hugged her 
husband, he took Bob's hand, he hugged me with us both bent to 
avoid The Kitten who was still in the Snuggli, I hugged Kathleen, 
then I took The Kitten's hand.  (I wasn't being formal with The 
Kitten.  It's just that holding her is too common for a ritual.) 

This service was "Hymns and Lections."  About the second 
hymn, The Kitten decided that it was time to eat.  Our whole 
schedule had been upset.  "Trade with her," Bob's father said to 
him.  I sat between two big men each with his hand on the pew 
ahead of ours; it was almost a private booth.  A boy who couldn't 
have been more than ten had looked back towards us several times 
up to then.  He looked back once more during the next reading.  
Bob's father snapped his fingers -- the sound must have carried 
to the reader -- pointed his finger at the boy, and made a 
circling motion.  The boy faced front through the rest of the 
service.  He managed to leave at the end without looking in our 
direction.  He couldn't have seen anything; I was in a nursing 
bra and The Kitten was in the way.  I didn't stand when the 
others did, and I sang from memory.  

The Kitten was not happy to be deprived of my breast when 
the service ended, but she hadn't been drinking much for some 
time.  We stuck a pacifier in her and ducked the line.  "Sorry," 
said Bob's father in a voice that filled the space, "we have to 
get the baby home.  No rides this year, ask someone else."  He 
had already told that to several regulars.  

"Hi Vi," someone called.  

"Merry Christmas," she responded, but none of us was 
stopping.  

"All in?" asked Bob's father.  "All buckled?"  Once we were 
moving, The Kitten settled down.  Bob was still carrying The 
Kitten and led the way into the house and up the stairs.  With a 
hand hauling him up the railing, he can take two steps at a time.  
As soon as I could drop my coat and give her access, The Kitten 
clamped on to my breast and took two deep sucks.  Then she 
discovered that her tummy was nearly full after all and went back 
to playing.  

"The crisis is over," I said.  Ten minutes later, she 
agreed.  Bob got more of burp than usual, she must have swallowed 
air when she was on the pacifier.  I took my time in the 
bathroom, cleaning my breasts as well as my face.  I wasn't 
relishing this night.  

Bob visited more than the bathroom on his trip.  He took my 
coat downstairs and came back with the encyclopedia volumes which 
I hadn't put back.  Now I was a real Brennan, with a stack of 
books beside my bed which I might read sometime.  The door was 
locked, the Kitten was going to sleep, there weren't any more 
excuses.  

"I'm sorry, Bob, but the two of you bristle when together 
and praise each other when apart.  I couldn't help thinking about 
what would happen if something like the last argument were the 
last words you had with him."  (That's one reason that you say "I 
love you," when you walk out the door.  What happens if the last 
thing you said to your spouse was a dig?) 

"Look, I'm your husband.  Okay?  That's your child.  Okay?  
Learn the difference.  

"If that was the only thing you'd done, I would be through 
the roof.  I dunno, girl.  First you and Vi decide that you know 
better than two adult men what they need, then you two plan to 
manipulate us with that fool stunt, and then you betray me.  One 
of those conversations was from our marriage bed!  That is 
disgusting.  The ones from our table were bad enough.  I don't 
quote you; you don't quote me.  That's been our rule.  Then you 
*tape* me.  And you tape me in bed." 

"I cut out the bed part of it." 

"Great!  You had our intercourse on tape, but it's all right 
because you erased it.  But the part that you played for the 
whole damn family was from our bed!  It was part of my making 
love to you!  Do you remember your second 'game'?  Back then you 
said that you wanted me to talk to you.  Give me the tape and the 
recorder." 

I handed them to him.  He erased the tape.  Neither of us 
spoke while it went through both sides.  He removed the cassette 
and stamped on it.  Dissatisfied with the crack, he jumped up and 
came down on it with all his weight.  It shattered, and he almost 
fell.  He dumped the bits except the tape into the wastebasket.  

"I'll burn this," he said, knotting the tape up.  "There has 
to be more."  I nodded.  He went through the ritual with two more 
cassettes.  

"I must admit that I enjoyed that," he said after the last 
shards had stopped flying.  

"The rest is at home," I said.  

"We'll burn it all there.  That's one part.  I want you to 
swear that you'll never tape me in secret again." 

"I swear it.  On my wedding ring."  He looked surprised but 
accepted it.  

"I wish that you would treat me like an adult, but I'll 
never ask you to swear that.  You wouldn't keep that oath.  But 
you know what else you did?" 

"No."  This was getting awful.  

"You looked for a credible threat to keep me there, in that 
seat.  And you couldn't find one.  However idiotic and vile your 
plan was, you couldn't make the threat that you would ban me from 
your arms." 

"How did you know that was what I was thinking?" 

"Beloved, it was your only weapon.  And you decided that it 
would be too much." 

"That.  And I wouldn't go through with it.  And you know 
that I wouldn't go through with it.  I love you Bob." 

"And I love you.  And you appealed to that love, knowing 
that it was enough.  For that knowledge, I would forgive you 
anything." 

"But not yet!"  He looked confused.  "I want your 
forgiveness, need it.  But I want to ask it in a special place.  
Sit in the rocker." 

"You don't have to do this to get me to forgive you."  Bob 
has a horror of marital sex in-exchange-for.  

"I know that.  It's just that I need to be there to 
apologize." 

He stripped and sat down.  Bob has never turned down a 
sexual invitation from me since the days when he told his 
pubescent girlfriend that she didn't know what she was 
suggesting.  Of course, I could break that pattern simply by 
asking him right after a climax, or -- possibly -- when he is in 
the depths of one of his colds.  

I thought that I might have accidentally found a third way 
to break it.  He wasn't even slightly erect.  I turned off the 
overhead light and straddled him in the rocker.  "I love you," I 
said, "and I'm sorry that I taped you without your permission."  
I kissed him on the forehead, which I can't often reach, and then 
on the lips.  I caressed him all over his torso, courting him as 
he had so often courted me.  "And I could never refuse you.  
Never." 

He laughed at that.  I had refused him often enough in our 
dating days.  "Even in the early days, I didn't really 
*refuse*," I said.  "It was a matter of telling you that I 
wasn't ready.  You didn't demand, so I didn't refuse.  But I 
meant something different.  I could have refused you then.  I 
could have refused you in our first year, even.  But then you 
showed me what it was I would be refusing.  I would miss my 
passion, but I would be able to bear it; I couldn't bear losing 
your passion.  Oh Bob, want me, make me want you even more." 

Because I did want him, wanted him desperately, was torn 
apart that he wasn't in me; but that was entirely emotional.  My 
body would have accepted his then, but it didn't crave his body 
the way my mind craved it.  He figured out what I meant by what I 
said.  He pulled me down to his mouth for a long kiss.  His hands 
roved my skin while his tongue roved my mouth.  When he spread 
his legs and -- consequently -- mine, I had to grab the back of 
the rocker to keep my balance.  I shifted my grip onto his 
shoulder.  

He used the nails of both hands on me, between a tickle and 
a scratch.  One hand was on the bottom of my right breast, the 
other on the even-more-sensitive skin where my thighs meet my 
hips.  That hand soon moved the half-inch to my nether lips.  He 
played with them, rolled one against the other, stroked so 
lightly that he was only tickling the hairs, pressed one and then 
the other, before finally parting them.  Then he played similarly 
with the inner lips.  Before he parted these, I was ready for 
him.  The desires of my body had nearly caught up with the 
desires of my heart.  I could feel his grin at the moisture he 
found, but his mouth didn't leave mine for the longest time.  

He stroked that liquid up towards the top of my valley, went 
back to get more, stroked that a tiny bit higher, went back to 
get more....  I went from desire to agony.  I was determined not 
to ask for him that night, determined that he would set the pace.  
He, however, seemed uninterested in going further.  When I 
couldn't stand it a moment longer, I broke our kiss.  "Don't you 
want to be inside me?"  I asked.  

"Do you want it." 

"Horribly, for ever so long," I said.  "Couldn't you tell?" 

He grinned in the dimness of the night-light.  "Raise up."  
I did, and he moved forward in the rocker.  He was holding me 
spread, and I touched him with my fingertips.  I shuffled forward 
and settled myself down.  

When we made contact, I moved him to the precise spot.  Then 
I eased myself down.  I had to move again to make it all work 
right, but I slowly impaled myself on my love.  The entry felt 
wonderful, the heat felt better, and the fullness felt best of 
all.  The look on Bob's face suggested that he felt wonderful 
too.  "Should I begin rocking?" he whispered.  

"Oh yes, love," I said.  "And forgive me then." 

He got the rocker moving, which got him moving within me and 
all our critical parts moving against each other.  "I do forgive 
you," he said.  "I do."  And we rocked harder, and he moved 
further in and further out, and he rubbed all my critical parts 
faster, and he said "I do," much louder.  

I pulled his mouth against my breast.  "It doesn't hurt," I 
lied.  And he sucked on me and rocked us harder still.  It did 
hurt, but it also thrilled me.  Like that, he wasn't going in as 
deep, but he was rubbing up and down my valley with every stroke.  
He got milk that The Kitten had left, and he throbbed within me 
when it left me.  "Oh, forgive me," I sobbed.  My body stiffened 
away from his mouth.  

"I do," he shouted, and then he did.  He fell back and 
thrust upward.  I flamed in his arms and around his phallus.  And 
he did and did and did, thrusting up against me, pulsing deep 
within me, filling me with all the little Bobs.  

Which promptly ran out again as soon as he had left me.  But 
I stayed in his lap, leaning against his body.  The rocker was 
shoved back but it was safe.  We gasped there forever.  Then we 
cleaned ourselves and the rocker seat up and crawled into bed.  
"You didn't have to do that," Bob said.  "You know that.  I 
already forgave you." 

"*You* didn't have to do it.  *I* did.  I really 
wanted to feel forgiven, and I felt more forgiven like that.  I 
really won't record you again." 

"Against my will," he said.  

"Neither against your will, nor without telling you first." 

"I love you," he said.  "Even though I think you have 
absolution confused with baptism." 

"If you really forgive me," I said, "hug me tight." 

"I can't hug you as tight as I love you.  It would crush 
you."  But he hugged me tight all the same.  And I hugged his 
arm.  


Continued in Part Nine.
FORGET ALL THAT
Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
1997/12/27 
1999/12/30
2000/10/01
2002/12/25

This is the eighth 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_c.htm
Parts 7-9 

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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