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FOR HIM split into lips He stood


"For Him" {Pendragon} (MF rom wl oral)
# # # #

by Uther Pendragon
You have to understand two things. First: I trust my husband Bob
more than I trust any other human being in the whole wide world.
Second: That is about two inches. We are, as they say, working
on that.

His parents are helping put him through school, but money is
still very tight. Birthday presents aren't in the budget. For
my birthday, when we were both working, he had done my share of
the chores -- except dinner -- for a week. He'd also served me
breakfast in bed and cooked dinner on my birthday. (Bob can cook
any of five main dishes. Three of these are on the expensive
side of our budget, and the other two are well beyond our means.
There is something wrong with meatloaf being a luxury dish.)

Anyway, that was my birthday, in August. Then came his
birthday, in October. We still hadn't had any money to spend on
presents. Besides, it's almost all joint money. So I'd asked
him, "What do you want for your birthday that would cost less
than $2.75?"

"You really want to know?"

"No. I asked the question so you would answer with a
question, and I would never find out."

"What I really would like," he'd said, "is a sex slave for a

"You want an extra day of games?" That is our word for the
sexual variations he introduces into our life occasionally.

"No. I want a day of your attention. Not baking me a
birthday cake, and when it's done we have time for a quickie. I
want all Jeanette's attention for the full time we both are home
on my birthday. And I want that attention centered around sex."

However, I had still wanted to give him a private birthday
party. I am a wife, and we are a family. The calendar had
decided the question. Bob's birthday was on a Tuesday. The
Saturday before, I would start my period.

By that Sunday, the idea of being a sex slave had seemed
utterly degrading, but the rest of my life hadn't seemed that
much better. Anyway, I'd figured that I would give him more than
he asked for. His birthday gift from me would be a certificate
offering "One sex slave from 11:00 p.m. Friday until 1 a.m.
Sunday." That way he would get all of his "games" out of his
system on one day. I would get to throw a family party on
Tuesday, he would get more time on Saturday than Tuesday would
have afforded. Win-win? Maybe.

On Tuesday, I'd made a special dinner and had served the
cake that I had baked the day before. (The food budget was shot
for the month.) The cake was chocolate with chocolate icing, and
we both gorged. His parents had sent a $100 check which Bob had
immediately apportioned into $80 for food and household for the
next ten weeks and $10 pocket money for each of us. (Did I
mention that he is a good sport?) I really think that he liked
my certificate more. We had gone to bed and made love, with lots
of chocolaty kisses if no rolling around on the bed.

Although I had hated the idea on Sunday, by Thursday I was
both intrigued and turned on. I prefer to be in control of my
life, but a one-shot of total non-control was perversely

* *

Then it was Friday. I got up from dinner and said: "The
name of the game is: 'Bob studies real hard tonight because he
won't Saturday.'" (Nine-to-five sucks; but it is nine-to-five,
they don't send you home with papers to sort into files by

Bob really dug into the books, though he took a break in the
bedroom in the middle. I washed the dishes, officially his job.
In the bathroom, I took a shower, inserted my diaphragm, and made
other preparations. I took a broad red ribbon and taped one end
to the small of my back and the other just below my navel. It
ran between my legs with a bow at a *very* strategic location. I
own two robes. One is utilitarian and keeps me warm. I put on
the other, which had been part of my trousseau. I came out a few
minutes after eleven.

I walked quite stiffly. One sudden move would have freed
the ribbon. Bob was in bed reading a textbook. I got a wide

"Well," I said, "Aren't you going to unwrap your birthday

"First," he said, "I'm going to kiss my loving wife a 'Thank
you for the lovely gift.'"

He did, quite thoroughly. I was worried, but he kept his
hands on my shoulders. He removed my robe, quite slowly,
revealing each breast separately and kissing it before going on.
Finally, he drew the robe off and stepped back.

He broke up.

I find Bob's laughs infectious. I had to grab the ends of
the ribbon before I joined him this time.

Still laughing, he removed the ribbon. "I love you," he
said. He kissed where the tape had stuck below my navel, and
then where the bow had been centered. While I climbed into bed,
he lit a candle and turned off the light.

For a while, being a sex slave was a lot like being a wife.
We kissed for a good long time while he petted me all over. He
moved his kisses to my breasts and his hand between my legs. The
kisses turned into suckling on my left breast, as the caresses
between my legs turned into light strokes across my clitoris. I
was ready for him, then eager for him. He must have been able to
tell that I was eager. I was pushing up with my hips, for God's
sake. Usually, he comes to me before this stage. Now I needed
him. I reached out for him.

"Lie still, bed slave," he said.

We don't do this any more. In the first week of our
marriage, my only climaxes had been from his hand. For a month
longer, he had given me a climax before intercourse as a sort of
insurance policy. Now, the only time I finish to his hand is
during the first few days of my period. The rules seemed
different for sex slaves.

After speaking, he switched breasts. The words, the
surprise, the pause, the change, all pulled me back from the
height of my readiness. Bob persisted until I was moving again.
As the waves hit me, he released the nipple for a moment.

"I love you," he said quickly. Then he sucked again. And
the waves took me away.

When I came back, he was tucking the sheet around my
shoulders. He lay beside me and whispered my name, and love, and

I lay flat. He pulled my hips into his legs in a gentle
hug. His other hand cuddled my head, while he occasionally
kissed my shoulder through the sheet. We both waited for my
breath and energy to return. When they did, I turned my face
toward his.

He shifted so we could kiss. Tongues danced with tongues,
then lips touched sweetly and quietly. His head and shoulders
rose up, I lay back flat, and he resumed the kiss with his lips
angled across mine. The kiss was ardent but had only half his
attention. His hand caressed my breast for a while before
parting my thighs. He stayed on the thighs, stroking up and down
on the insides in a light tickle. I shivered.

Bob rose and pulled the blanket over my top half. The
apartment was beginning its nighttime switch from too-hot to
too-cold. That was not why I shivered, but the blanket was

Getting between my legs, Bob began kissing my thighs. One
kiss on my right leg, one on my left, he moved slowly higher.
About the time he got to delicate ground, he stopped to maneuver
the cushion under my butt. I lifted up for it knowing that my
center was now totally accessible to his mouth. Still he took
his time, kissing my thighs and my delta.

I was fairly hot before he kissed the center of my labia
majora and parted them with his hand. Then he was licking the
labia minora. About that time, I lost track of the particulars.
I had this wonderful sensation. Then he did something else, and
I had another sensation which was even lovelier. I remember
particularly, though, that he moved his hands up to cup my
breasts. After that, there was nothing but sensation. I felt
tighter and tighter, but also that I was floating a little above
my body. Meanwhile, there were pulses of pleasure.

Then, the tightness pulled me back. It almost hurt; I felt
close to panic, as though I were about to break. Then I did
break. Fire burnt through me. Then I was that fire, flaring
with it. Then it was warmth rather than heat; I was swelling,
pulsing, warmth.

Then I was Jeanette again, held in Bob's arms and shielded
by his body, wrapped in the covers with him all around them. If
he surrounded me, I surrounded a very important part of him. He
kissed my forehead and crooned love words and love sounds and my

It was lovely, but I wanted to feel his skin. My top half
was cocooned in the blanket, and my legs were out in the air. He
stayed in me, but raised his torso on that pivot. He lifted one
hand at a time as I pulled the covers out from under them. After
I tossed the covers over most of him, he arranged them to cover
us both. I was still on the cushion.

"Comfy?" he asked.

I tightened his *very* favorite muscle. "How did you get

"I snuck up on you while you were distracted."

"Do love slaves get kisses?"

He moved so that our mouths could meet. We kissed with
closed lips, then really kissed. It took him a long time to
answer. "Only if they are really sexy love slaves."

He adjusted his position so that he could rest his weight on
his elbows while reaching my breasts.

"Look to your left," he said.


"Because you are a sex slave, and you have received a direct

I turned my head to the left, and he licked my right ear.
It tickled, the soft breath after it tickled more, the fingers
just touching my nipples tickled as well. I writhed. He was
almost still as I provided the motion at our juncture.

But that got to him. He straightened so that he could move
in me with deep, slow strokes. I matched him, then had to speed
up. On every stroke, he filled me completely, pressing inward
until our pubic bones bumped. He drove into me, but somewhere
within me a force drove me against him even harder. The flame
was flickering again, then flickering around me where I was
around him. I reached down to pull him more tightly against me.

He went first. I could feel him pulsing within me and feel
his seed hit me. I got one look at his grim, tortured face.
Then the fire flared again. He pulsed, the fire pulsed, I

When I looked at his face again, the grimness was all gone.
He looked like a baby who had fallen asleep full. Some of his
weight was on his arm bones but most was on me. I wanted that
weight. I wanted to hug him but my arms were a little weak.

I recovered my breath and the strength in my arms. I did
hug him. This position is great during sex, but not afterwards.
As my legs had lowered, they had carried him out of me. Most of
the mess was presumably on the cushion which could be chucked out
of bed.

(The cushion is a pad for lifting my hips. Pillows hadn't
given the right amount of support. The cushion started as a
short board, was wrapped by some trousers that Bob had ruined
with acid, was padded by an old mouse pad that someone else had
ruined with SnoPake, and was covered with a quarter of a torn bed
sheet from his parents' house. It serves its purpose without
announcing it, demonstrating what my non-handy husband can
construct when it affects his vital interest.)

Finally he roused himself. He gave me a hug back, before we
parted to clean up. I dabbed myself; he dabbed himself. Then he
dabbed the cushion, and tossed it out on the floor. I moved over
to the far side of the bed. He got up to blow out the candle.
He slipped under the covers and almost to me. I nestled back
into him.

"Bob loves Jeanette," he crooned, "Bob loves Jeanette, Bob
loves Jeanette, and I love you."

"Do sex slaves get sung to sleep?"

"I was singing about my wife. It's supposed to make you

Never happen. Well, it will never happen from singing that

He got nearly through two more verses before he fell asleep.

I followed.

* * *

Bob is no sadist. He wouldn't beat me with a whip or wake
me early on a Saturday morning.

However, he knows my patterns. As I came awake, he began
kissing my back and my neck. He moved back to avoid my stretch,
and afterwards I turned toward him. We kissed. He tasted of
toothpaste and smelled of soap. Figuring I didn't, I broke the

He ducked under the covers to begin kissing my breasts. I
wasn't really awake yet, but there are worse ways to ease into
the world than near-dozing with a husband expressing his love and
avoiding the ticklish parts. Bob carefully did. By the time he
got down to my belly, my bladder -- if nothing else -- was awake.
I could also smell coffee.

I got up, grabbed my old robe, and headed for the bathroom,
pouring a cup of coffee on the way. By the time I had drunk my
third cup, I remembered that this was a special day. I doubt
that real slave-masters made coffee for their slaves, but, on the
other hand, maybe they did want them awake. I brushed my teeth
while wondering whether Bob wanted me in the kitchen or in bed.
I didn't wonder very hard.

He was wearing a robe himself. While we kissed, he clutched
my butt through the robe. Soon he had his hands under the robe
and all over me.

"Get in bed," he said. When I did, he slid the cushion
under the covers. I lifted up for it, but _deja vu_ struck.

"Didn't we just do this?"

"You had breakfast in bed for *your* birthday." This was a
non sequitur even for Bob.

"You want breakfast?" I started to get up.

"You got to choose the menu on *your* birthday." It took me
a second to get it, and then I cracked up. I'm helpless when
that happens.

Bob pounced. In a moment, he was under the covers and
between my legs. He hauled the top of the doubled-up covers back
over his head and stuck his tongue in my belly button. That
didn't help one bit. I started to push his head away, but he
tickled my side. In a moment, I was holding his hands away from
my sides and giggling like a madwoman. He kissed all over my
stomach as the giggles made it bounce. By this time, the
bouncing was hilarious. By this time, _Hee Haw_ reruns would
have been hilarious. When I finally came down, he was kissing on
and around my delta.

"Good morning," he said.

"You promised not to take advantage when I go off on a
laughing fit."

"And I explained that I meant that I wouldn't do anything
which you would normally resist. You're a sex slave who can't
resist anything at all. Anyway, my wife gets kissed here pretty

The argument is years old. He promised a week before the
explanation. I pouted at him to show that I was not convinced.
He pouted back, and we competed for a minute. The game brought
me back to laughter, if not to helplessness.

When he kissed my labia, I shivered. He parted the outer
and licked the inner ones. Suddenly, I was nearly afloat down
there. I blushed, though he never complains about that. Indeed,
he parted those labia to lick up some of the wetness. Then he
moved to the top so he could touch my most sensitive point. I
stretched my legs wide to give him access.

The licking and the kissing and the sucking were light at
first. They teased until I reached down to hold his head against
me. Then the sensations were stronger, and I just held him there
and moved with those sensations. He slipped his hands under my
legs and up to my breasts. I let go of his head with one hand to
pat one of his hands, then clutched his hair again.

Then I forgot all that, being too busy just feeling. The
sensations were slow, undulating, waves of desire. Then they
were tightening throbs of pleasure. Then they were jolts of joy.

And then they were gone. Only ghostly tremors and memories
of the sensations ruffled the sensuous lassitude of fulfillment.
The next thing that I noticed was Bob lying next to me and
cuddling me. When I turned my head toward him, he gave me a
quiet kiss, and then a kiss on the forehead.

"What are you thinking of?" I asked.

"FRC," he answered. That was not what I had expected.

After he had conceded that both of us couldn't be students,
he came up with a scheme in which I would read one of the books
that he was studying and discuss it with him. That way my
education isn't totally on hold. We'd selected a book known to
cognoscenti (or at least cognoscenti in his class) as FRC, after
the authors. Our discussions have come to take place in the bed,
with him petting or hugging me. I'm not allowed to use my hands
until we cover the section to his satisfaction. Incredibly, the
system works for both of us. I have some idea of what the modern
West meant to China and Japan, and he goes into class discussions
on top of the data and occasionally informed by my naive

"Do sex slaves read books?" I asked.

"They do if they are told to. And they had better know
their lessons. Roll over on your left side."

He removed the cushion before fetching the book. If my
memory doesn't match his, we look in the book. After sliding in
behind me, he urged me to move my torso forward until I was bent
almost to a sitting position. Then he moved his thigh up between
my hips.

With us in that position, he started asking questions about
the Meiji restoration. The position was more than ordinarily
distracting. Soon, I was -- aside from the direction of gravity
-- sitting on his lap. His erection lay between us, pressed
against the crack in my butt and getting harder by the minute.

He asked "Which han led in support of the restoration and
what leaders did each supply to the central government? Open
book." Damn straight that's an open book question.

As I paged through the book looking for what men came from
Satsuma, he moved back from my bottom. When he returned forward,
his fingers parted my labia. I stuttered something just before
his penis touched my threshold.

"Keep talking," he said while easing himself inward. I
moved to accommodate him while reading every name. He didn't
challenge any of them, although some are identified in the same
sentence as from other han. The entry was slow, and the further
in he got the less problem he had with the angle. I was in a
quandary, were we talking or making love?

We were talking. Once all the way in, he returned his
attention to my answers.

"That's nonsense, you know. Iwakura was a court noble.
Begin again."

For more than an hour he drilled me in two ways. I answered
questions about the chapter while he either rested quietly within
my vagina or firmed himself up by moving smoothly in and out.
Sex slaves get a lot less discussion and a lot more fact
questions in their history lessons than wives do. Either that or
the paper he had in his hand was a prepared list of questions.

"Okay," he finally said, "you know your stuff." I pressed
back against him while tightening within.

"Now what?" I asked, rhetorically.

"Now breakfast," he said, And he pulled out and got up.

"I didn't think sex slaves were expected to cook." But my
stomach said that this one should.

"You obviously haven't read much John Norman. Maybe we'd
better call it brunch. You can wear the apron. Period. I'll
come watch."

We called it lunch.

The ultimate in obscenity is cooking lunch in nothing but an
apron while your husband ogles you lewdly. He was wearing his
glasses and a robe which had a tent in front most of the time.
Ten more minutes could have taken care of *that*.

We ate and made the necessary pit stops. Sex slaves get
assigned the wife's cooking, but not the husband's dishwashing.
On the other hand, Bob just soaked them.

Back in the bedroom, Bob had another surprise. The previous
night, he had tied a rope to the legs at the head of the bed and
found two bandanas that we wear when hiking. He now tied one
bandana around each of my wrists, with all the extra cloth on one
end. He pulled all the covers to the foot of the bed, had me lie
down, and passed each bandana through a separate loop in the
rope. He pressed the long ends of the bandanas into my hands
while saying "Hold them tight."

The room was getting warmer, but he covered me with the
sheet. He talked about my being tied up. I raise my hand the
way I did in fifth grade. (Well not quite. In fifth grade I did
not expose a breast with that motion.)


"The proper appellation is 'master.'"

"The proper Appalachian is 'plateau.' Master, these bonds
aren't all that escape-proof."

"Injun giver."


"Jeanette, if you were to escape into another state, is that
state required to return you to me?"

"Mr. Calhoun says 'yes.' Mr. Lincoln says 'no.'"

"Lincoln never attacked the fugitive slave laws. He
specifically endorsed them in Congress and after being elected

"I bet that your John Normandy didn't give lectures when
*he* had a slave girl tied up."

"That's a bet. How about continuing this game into
tomorr ..." Poor boy, reality struck. Tomorrow he would be
studying like mad. "How about another day like today in two

"And what do I get?"

"If you win I'll be your sex slave then."

"No bet! Maybe, if you are a very good boy, study hard, and
learn to pick up after yourself, maybe I'll make you my sex slave
at quarter break."

"Deal." Trust the Brennans in any contract, but never bet
with them.

"I said 'maybe.'"

"If I really tied you up you'd freak, so this is tying you
up. Any letting go is breaking out of the game and taking back
your gift." He was exaggerating; I wouldn't freak, but then I
wouldn't let him tie me up either.

He put the end back through the rope loop and back in my
hand. He wrapped the very end around my little finger. "Now
keep it that way."

I've seen pictures of people tied spread-eagle. This wasn't
like that. My head was near the top of the bed, and my hands
were at about the same level closer together than my elbows were.
My legs were together (for the moment) and not tied at all.

The first thing that Bob did was to grab the bottom sheet at
the foot of the bed and give it a sharp yank downward. The
wrinkles under me disappeared.

Then we had a nice kiss. I understood why my arms were tied
when Bob started from there on a path of kisses. He spent lots
of time in all the ticklish places like the insides of my ears
and the corner where my neck meets my shoulders. When I wiggled,
he put his hand between my legs. That being a hell of a place to
hold me down, I think he had other motives. He spent only a few
minutes on my left breast and none on my right one. Soon he
licked my belly button. Then he traveled to my side to kiss
there. He had kissed my back, he had even kissed my butt, but he
had never before kissed my side under the ribs.

"Cheat!" I say, wiggling mightily. "Vicious, cruel, nasty.
You're just doing that because I'm tied up." He gave me his best
nasty grin.

He kissed up my side to my armpit. This tickled so much
that I kicked my legs, but it stopped very soon. Bob didn't look
happy. Now it was time for *my* nasty grin.

"It is called deodorant," I said in my most saccharine
voice. When he headed for my mouth, I ducked.

Veering towards my left breast, he kissed his very fanciest
pattern on it. That means kissing a full circle around the base
followed by a slow spiral toward the tip. He actually had to
move on the bed to do the whole circle. At the tip, he played
and sucked and licked and lipped. I was getting quite turned on.
His lips and tongue played with my nipple and areola. His hand
between my legs was not really attacking any critical parts, but
neither was it ever still. Finally he gave a peck goodbye to the
tip of my left nipple on the way to the right breast.

"I love you," he said while between them.

He kissed the same pattern on my right breast, but when he
got to the top he spent only a minute licking all over and around
the nipple before slipping out of the side of the sheet and
slipping in the bottom. He lifted my legs to slide the cushion
under my butt. (You can't fool me, we *were* repeating.)

Once between my legs, Bob kissed a line from my delta to my
right breast. He licked his way to the top before playing
elaborate licking and sucking games with my nipple. His hand
stroked the inside of the backs of my thighs. After petting my
labia, he slipped a finger into my vagina. This is not something
he does very often.

He kissed the breast goodbye and pecked a similar kiss on
the other. Then he moved back down. He parted the labia with
his hand to lick the furrow between them. Soon he was licking in
a slow rhythm that just missed my clitoris while rubbing his
finger on the front of my vagina in time with his tongue. These
near misses were damnable; I wanted more.

He licked my clitoris once. I shook. He pulled his finger
out only to put two in me. They wiggled and turned together,
then they started wiggling against each other. Somehow, there
was an internal tickling, making me hotter than ever. I felt
like a clock spring being wound tight. When the fingers stopped,
he gave me a sucking kiss right over my clitoris. I wound
tighter yet. The fingers resumed, stopped, and were followed by
some licks.

Every time that I felt my climax approach he changed what he
was doing. This went on as the spring wound tighter and tighter.
I couldn't stand it any more. "Please," I said, "please...."

I couldn't finish the request, but Bob understood it. His
fingers continued as his lips come down. I was being sucked,
licked and tickled inside all at once. The spring tightened
impossibly, painfully; then the clock exploded.

I went flying into pieces, but I was still connected enough
to my center that the sensations there still fed the explosion.
Then I felt nothing.

I was being kissed on the forehead. I was being petted on
the arms and hair. Bob was murmuring between kisses, "Sweet
Jeanette. Oh, darling. Gorgeous Jeanette. Darling girl.
Beautiful, beautiful, Jeanette. Oh sweet. Lovely darling...."
A kiss after every statement. You get the idea.

My wrists were sore, my stomach was a little sore, I felt
wonderful. Bob was sort of crouched over me with a leg on either
side. He had no weight on me, but Junior was bobbing around and
sometimes tapping me. I was flat on the mattress without the
cushion. The top sheet was gone.

Bob spread his kisses across my whole face while I caught my
breath. Every once in a while, he pulled back to say something
like "I do love you," in a strangely emphatic tone, as if I'd
just contradicted him.

When my breath was mostly back I moved my mouth toward his.
He immediately moved back down the bed for a real kiss. In this
position, he was more kneeling over me than crouched. His tongue
played with mine before exploring my mouth. By the time he
returned to my tongue I was out of breath again. I moved my
mouth sideways to breathe, and he licked my ear. When I ducked
that, he settled on my neck. Although my hands were still tied,
I could fight back. Junior was about an inch above my stomach,
and I rose up enough to rub against it.

Bob swung off me to my right before moving his mouth down to
my right breast. He tickled me between my thighs. I tightened
these together, then relaxed. He sucked on my nipple. I spread
my thighs, but he still played on my legs rather than their
junction. Then he stopped sucking and raised his hand to my
shoulder. With a little help from him I rolled over. He nestled
behind me spoon fashion while starting to spread my labia for his

"You okay?" he asked casually. Of course, I was okay. I
could remember putting the diaphragm in that morning.

That morning!

I shouted "No!" and rolled over to the edge of the bed. I
shook my hands free of the stupid rope. "It's hours over the
effective time," I explained.

"Okay. Come back here. It's easily fixed, and the danger
was minimal."

"Minimal danger? Do you know what a baby would ...?"

"The diaphragm without anything else is partially effective.
You are just coming off your period. One occasion of totally
unprotected intercourse during the height of your fertile period
is much less than 7% likely to lead to pregnancy." I couldn't
believe he was saying that. Contraception is important to us.
Future planning is important to Bob.

"You want to go ahead?"

"Of course not. I want to treat this as less than a Seldon
Crisis." He had a point. He'd asked. He was careful. I
started for the bathroom and the supplies. "Lie down, love
slave," he says, "and while you're about it, tie yourself up

"You think that you are going to do the insertion?"

"I thought it was worth a try." The man's fixation on my
genitals is unnatural.

"Juneteenth!" But I grabbed the red ribbon on my way out
the door.

Having needed to take the bandanas off to work, I left them
off. Before I returned to the bedroom, however, I taped the
ribbon back in place.

Bob was lying on the bed when I returned, and he looked
close to tears when he saw the ribbon. He kissed me quite
gently. He took the ribbon off slowly and kissed both sticky
spots. Then he kissed me again on the bottom of my delta.

"This slave begs of Master," I said, "that she not be tied
up for a while. Her wrists are sore."

Bob was concerned. "The game was never meant to go that
far," he said. "Family rules." One family rule is that any
promise that I make is conditional on its not causing me pain or
permanent damage. "Where does it hurt?"

I showed him. "I didn't notice at the time," I explained.
He kissed both wrists. I remembered that my little finger hurt
too. He kissed that.

Before I could think of any place else that hurt, he
gestured me into bed. He spent a long while kissing my forehead
and face, then got to my mouth. We had a real kiss, tongues
playing with tongues. Bob was remarkably gentle for the rest of
the petting. Finally, I had to take the lead.

"Do you want me on my side again?" That is the position
that Bob calls "a la foret." It is sort of a spoon position --
maybe a dirty spoon.

"Please yes." Simon Legree needn't worry.

I rolled to my side to help him in. Considering that I was
dry down there when I left the bathroom, I was remarkably juicy.
"Oh love," said Bob, which meant that he had noticed, too.

He took one stroke out and in to make sure that he knew the
way. Then he slipped his arm under me to reach my left breast.
When his other hand reached between my legs, I parted them to
make room. Adjusting his body to reach those parts had pulled
him part way out. I arched my back slowly, impaling myself on

He began to move his hands and then his hips. I felt him
stroke my nipples and my labia. I felt him stroke within. I lay
there for a moment just feeling before I met his motion. Then I
moved to his tempo. After some time, I felt the familiar
tightening that announces the nearness of my climax. I wanted to
feel his first. I tried to hold back. I spread my legs and
reached back to touch him.

"I can't," he said. That meant he would.

I tightened around him. "Please come first." I've often
wished that. I'd never said it before.

He hesitated a moment. Then his strokes came longer and
faster. I felt him throb within me and his seed strike me. One
stroke later, I was throbbing too.

. . .

He held me very tight. He was slipping out of me, but
neither of us worried about the mess. When we breathed in at the
same time, there wasn't room for both of our chests to expand.
Though we sort of laughed, he didn't loosen his hug.

"I love you very much." He took a breath. "Oh delightful
darling." He breathed again. There was more of this. Very nice
to hear, even if most of it shouldn't be taken seriously.

He finally grabbed two Kleenexes. We each used one to wipe
ourselves off. Then we dabbed up the worst of the mess on the

We scooted over to a drier section.

"Did you really mean that?" he asked.

"Probably not. What?"

"That you wanted me to come first."

"I really meant that. I've told you that I like to feel you
squirt inside me." I like to see him, too, but that position
wouldn't allow that.

"You are the sexiest girl in the whole world." He kissed
the back of my neck.

We lay like that for twenty minutes or so. He wasn't
seriously petting, but his hands wandered. Junior, pressed soft
against my butt, stirred occasionally.

"How about you?" I asked. "Do you like seeing me climax?"
That got a response from Junior, followed by one from Bob.

"Desperately. It is the most beautiful sight in the whole

"That's why you like kissing me down there."

"One reason," he said. "You can't imagine how sexy you look
and taste. And smell for that matter."

"You are seriously weird."

"I'm male. I don't go around putting down your half of the
human race. Anyway, harem slaves aren't permitted to insult
their masters."

"Give the man an inch! One love slave for one day, and he
wants a harem."

"I have a harem. There's my bed slave, and my wife, and
Jeanette Brennan, and Jeanette Jacobs."

"You never got Jeanette Jacobs into bed."

"I used to lie like this, well not quite like this, and
caress her breasts. Feel them just like this." He suited his
deeds to his words. "I'd stroke them all over, like this. Then
their cute little nipples would grow up, like that. Sometimes,
I'd turn her on her back, like this. And I'd kiss all over her
breasts and her nipples." He took a long time demonstrating his
technique, hands staying up on the breast level. Finally, he
pulled the sheet over me and petted my legs and delta through it.
"She used to enjoy it too. I bet that she went home on more than
one night wishing I *had* got her into bed."

"How much?"

"A kiss." Okay, *some* bets with Bob are safe.

"You win." There were some pretty vivid dreams after those
petting sessions. I can remember cursing because he kept to the
line we had drawn.

He swept away the sheet while I kissed him. "Isn't it
better like this?" He resumed the kiss while stroking around my
center. It was a long time before I had my mouth free to answer.

"What makes it better?" I asked. So he showed me.

After a while I was feeling very raunchy, and Junior was
perking right up. I reached over to hold him. This is normally
a no-no, Bob being afraid that he'll come immediately. I didn't
see much danger of that this time, and Bob didn't try to resist.

"This probably won't work," he said.

"Isn't that my line?"

"No. Your line is, 'It won't work, so let's not try.' My
line is, 'It might not work, so let's be prepared to try
something else.' Big difference." So he thinks. "Why don't you
come on top?"

I climbed over him to sit on Junior, who was just firm
enough to go in. I took two firming strokes before finding the
motion that excites me the most. Bob petted his favorite areas,
but his face didn't show the tension that I love to see. I bent
so that we could kiss while he moved his hips up and down.

"See if you can bring your right leg back without losing
me," he directed when that kiss was finished. I tried and
succeeded. Then he pushed fully inside again. He pulled the
pillows down near my hip and shoulder before turning us so that
these were supported by the pillows. I was neither on top nor
side-by-side, but somewhere between. He got one arm under me to
pull me to him. As my left leg came up to wrap around his hips,
he touched my cleft with his free hand.

This was not a position for rambunctiousness. We swayed or
rolled an inch side to side. His hips drove him into me and back
out no more than half that. We kissed.

"Are you comfy for a long period?" he asked. I nodded.
"This is lovely, you know. Enough of your weight to feel it.
Butt in my left hand." He squeezed, and I tensed the muscle in
greeting. "The right hand can reach a breast." He did so and
rolled the nipple with his thumb. "Or it can go to more
sensitive areas yet." He left it on the breast, though. "Your
lovely legs are pressed into mine, and my most sensitive part is
immersed in your wet warmth." We lay there for a while making
only small motions. We kissed again.

"Ah love," he resumed. "I used to lie in my bed and dream
of driving into you. You were wrong about my never getting
Jeanette Jacobs into that bed. There were few nights when she
didn't visit my dreams. I would imagine stabbing my hardness
into your softness and galloping to a mutual orgasm. Never did I
dream that the greater pleasure would be to float like this with
you against me as well as around me and writhe forever."

But forever ran out. I shoved against him harder than he
was shoving against me. He reached around my hip to touch my
labia. I tensed and pressed against him as he followed that path
to its top. As he neared the clitoris, I clenched around him
while pressing to take another millimeter in. He gasped in my
mouth. He stroked my clitoris a few times, and everything came

And then everything came apart.

"Oh love," said Bob. Somehow I heard it though I could
sense nothing else but pulsing, soaring joy. "Darling girl.
Sweetheart. Dearest. Beautiful Jeanette. That's right...."
Slowly, I came back. My eyes were inches from his face. He had
the widest grin that I have ever seen. He was still talking.
"Darling. Oh Jeanette. Oh love. If I could tell you. Gorgeous
sweetheart...." I lay half on him while he hugged me, a warm
hand on my back, a tight pull on my hips. He pulled the sheet
over me. He had come out, but I felt no drips. He kept

. . .

When my breath came back I kissed him, partly to express my
love for him, partly to shut him up. The second part didn't

"What would you say to meatloaf for dinner tonight?"

"That it would be followed by crackers and peanut butter for
the next two weeks."

"Silly! Why did you think I needed extra pocket money? I
have the fixings already. Can you do the vegies and...?"

"Starting?" The darling needed "pocket money" for a dinner
treat for the two of us.

"Why don't I go first?" We share many things, but kitchen
work space isn't one of them.

"Can I dress for dinner?" I asked.

"Not a memsahib if you don't?"

"May I wear clothes?"

"Anything for such a sexy woman." That wasn't what he had
said at lunch.

While he prepared the main course, I showered and dressed.
We normally bathed in the morning; on occasions that we felt
grungy or wanted to be especially romantic, after dinner. This
time, I needed a shower. I also renewed the contraceptive. I
could tell that this evening wasn't done. I took my time while
listening with half an ear. When I heard the oven door close, I
returned to the kitchen. The rest of the dinner wouldn't take
much time, and there was plenty of time for a kiss. You would
think that the preceding ten hours would have sated a satyr.
Bob, however, kneaded my rump as if he'd just returned from two
weeks in a monastery.

I finally waved him away to his shower. Rice, green beans,
and apple sauce for fruit-dessert don't take long to fix. I
wiped off the table and set it. The timer dinged to announce the
piece-de-resistance. Bob returned newly shaven in time for the
dishing up.

Bob rattled off, "For the bounty you have set before us and
the love you have placed within us, we give you thanks, O Lord."
Our eyes expressed pleasures in food and company that our full
mouths are too polite to utter.

"Do you want to continue after dinner?" Bob asked.

"I'm not an Indian giver." Actually, it had been fun. I
wasn't about to concede that to *him*, however. "What's the idea
of the abrupt end? Worrying about schoolwork?"

"Don't use dirty words like that at table. I sort of think
that I got what I came for in that last session."

"Pardon me," I said, "but I thought that in the last session
you did *not* climax."

"Darling, delightful sweetheart, *you* did. And I was
there. I was there for a complete Jeanette orgasm all around me
and right in front of my eyes. Did I tell you that your orgasms
are the most beautiful sights in the world?"

"Or words to that effect."

"Well, they really are beautiful. They really are. But
that doesn't compare to the feel of you around me when you come.
That was the most sensual experience of my life; it compares with
our wedding night and that time in the forest."

By this time, I was almost in tears. We finished the dinner
in silence. I, at least, was too deep in thought to give the
luxury the attention it deserved.

I put the left-over meat loaf and the jar of apple sauce in
the refrigerator. Bob, who doesn't believe in leftovers,
finished the non-treats. He started the dishes while I returned
to the room. By this time, the apartment was in the too-warm
phase. I stripped and got into bed. I carefully draped the
ribbon over me, the bow in nearly its old position, the ribbon
curled over my hips. Lying there, I thought of a man who split
*his* gift into pocket money for each of us since he needed his
pocket money to buy a joint treat on his birthday. And the
convolutions of that sentence don't *begin* to cover the
convolutions of my thought. Somehow, the same thing was involved
in a man who considered my climax his best birthday gift. Bob
makes a lot of mistakes, but he loves me. I was teary-eyed when
he came in.

"Jeanette. What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong. Bob, don't ever leave me."

"Not while there is breath in my body. I've sworn that on
the altar."

"That's all I ever wanted," I said, "to be married to you."

"Then you'd better get some new goals or your next fifty
years will be awfully dull. So, if all you want is to be married
to me, and you are married to me, why are you crying?"

"Because I like being married to you." Among Bob's major
virtues is that he'll believe a woman who tells him that she is
crying out of joy. The truth was much more complicated this
time; but I couldn't understand it, much less convey it.

Bob slowly lifted the ribbon from one end so that he could
kiss the path that it revealed. I readjusted the bow which had
gotten misplaced. He finally kissed the place where my delta
begins to split into lips. He stood to undress. He started to
light the candle.

"Why don't you put the living room light on, instead?" I
asked. He did and adjusted the door to reflect the most light
onto the bed.

"I do love you, Bob." That wasn't one percent of my
thoughts earlier, but it was all that I could express coherently.

"I love you too. From the day I first saw you."

We got into a good position for a quiet kiss. When his
hands started roaming, I petted his arms. He took one of my
hands and put it on his chest. This is permission for any
petting which I want to do. He dropped the kiss to move to my
breast, but I kept petting and rubbing his back and chest.

As I parted my legs for his hand, the tension rose again.
When need replaced desire, I reached between his legs. He spread
his knees apart by ninety degrees. I moved the shaft out of the
way and stroked the sack for a moment. When I returned to hold
the shaft, it thickened. He rolled to his back. "Think you
can?" he asked.

He followed when I scooted over a bit. I climbed on top.
Slowly, I sat back and engulfed him. I can walk around for a day
without noticing, but there is an emptiness within me when he is
not there. After I was in place and had checked that I still
knew the moves, he made kissing motions. I leaned over to bring
my breast tips to his mouth. After that, we kissed tongue to

I sat back up before squeezing him within me. There was no
tension in his face, just pleasure and a hint of hunger. He held
my breasts, a warm brassiere. Our eyes locked until I needed
mine to guide my motions.

He'll pet me in this position, while I rub myself against
him and watch desire capture his face and body. We can signal
love with our eyes, and we can talk. It's a delightful
experience when we have the headroom.

That night, after I had kissed at him, and he had kissed
back across the space, I began moving up and down. "You couldn't
have loved me that first day," I said, knowing that I had his
complete attention.

"Absolute love at first sight. There you were standing up
to a senior girl, back straight, eyes perfectly level, staring
her in the nipples." He squeezed mine, very gently, to emphasize
the word.

"She wasn't that tall." A few inches taller than me at

"She wasn't that tall." I didn't like his teasing tone.

"I wasn't that short." I tightened his favorite muscle to
squeeze him while I rose around him. His face shifted toward
tension, and he hissed in appreciation. But not even this was
going to make him admit that I hadn't been a midget freshman.

"And I loved you immediately," he said. "Maybe I admired
you for one minute first, but it turned into love before you
could really notice." What I could notice was his hips moving
under me. He intended to push himself further in, and that
worked. But there were all sorts of interesting rubbing and
brushing going on as well.

"I can distinctly remember having your help plotting to get
other boys to like me. You were a friend. I went out with other
boys, and I didn't really date before high school." Did my voice
sound as tense to him as it did to me?

"Remember the flap when I drove up to your house." I'd been
a freshman dating several boys, one a sophomore. My parents had
been pleased with my social acceptance, if slightly possessive.
Then they had noticed that I was a fourteen-year-old whose last
four dates were with the same sixteen-year-old.

"I still have nightmares."

"That was in January," he said. "Right after Christmas. We
met in September. There are only so many events that could have
happened in between."

"You were a friend before you were a boyfriend." I can
remember lying in my room wondering what he thought of me,
whether he thought of me.

"I loved you. I might not have connected that to the date
scene, which was totally artificial at that point in my life. We
talked every school day. Anyway, it probably took me a while to
see that it was love. I'd never been in love. Emotions don't
jump out at you with labels attached."

"I should have kept a diary." I said, knowing that I
couldn't have kept a diary. My mother would have read it.

"Anyway, I love you now. I don't want to fight about a few
weeks." That was desire talking. Bob loves to argue about
anything. The man has his priorities clear: sex, food, argument,
in that order. Mind you, I didn't say that he has his priorities

He was getting close. I bent down to offer him my nipples
again. He sucked them in turn. When I kissed him, he pulled me
to him instead of opening his mouth. He turned us. He came out
but returned so soon that it was a long stroke.

"Are you near?" he asked. I was. I needed him to drive
into me. I nodded and pushed my hips up. He set a long, deep,
steady stroke. The tempo captured me, and I met him.

I watched his face as it tightened into near agony. Then he
thrust into me as if he were trying to reach my throat. His
expression turned to triumph. He throbbed within me. Then I
throbbed around him. Then there was only me. Then there was

. . .

He was heavy on me, and I was happy. I hugged him. A
little later, he was even heavier. I listened to his breathing.
He was asleep. I rolled him off and over so he was facing away.
I dabbed myself and the sheet. I adjusted the top sheet and
pulled the blanket near. We didn't need it yet, but we would. I
lay so I was hugging him. The light was on in the living room,
much too far away to turn off. He snored like a walrus. But it
was the walrus I love.

Later in the night, my bondage ended.

For Him
Uther Pendragon


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