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FORKS old had never been acute


"Forks" {Pendragon} (MF cons wl)

By Uther

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, 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

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

# # # #

By Uther
"Sniffles," Jeanette Brennan thought, "are an under-rated
physical handicap." At work, she dealt with stinky carbonless
copies. Every wipe of her nose brought those chemicals close to
her nose and eyes. Now she was trying to cook and needed to wash
her hands every time she blew her nose. Bob had spent his worst
three days lying face down on the bed, and then she had caught it
from him.

Her cold had never been as acute as his, but she could have
used a few days in bed nevertheless. She hadn't been working
long enough for sick days, however; and having a cold isn't
really being sick.

Normally, she could have prepared the tomato soup and the
sandwiches at the same time. As it was, she opened the cans and
dumped them in the pan, turned on the fire, blew her nose, washed
her hands, scraped out the cans, added the milk powder, turned
off the fire, blew her nose, washed her hands, mixed the milk in
the cans, stirred the first milk into the soup, blew her nose,
washed her hands, and finally guessed that it was safe to turn
the gas back on.

The night before, she had made enough rice for that night's
fried rice and tonight's tomato-rice soup. When she looked in
the refrigerator, however, she found half of it gone. Bob was
entitled to snacks, she hadn't labeled the rice, it wasn't as if
he had gone hog-wild on an expensive delicacy, but still.... She
dumped what was left of it into the pan.

She heard Bob call "Love you," at that moment. Then the
door slammed. She hadn't heard it open. Instead of coming and
hugging her, he made a rush to the bedroom. Then she heard him
blow his nose loudly. She finally got her hug after he had
washed his hands at the sink. She didn't want him dripping on
her hair, she didn't want germ-filled hands clasping her --
especially while she was cooking, but still she did need a hug.
She needed him to ask how her day was. Before he did, she had to
break the hug to blow her own nose. When she came back, she had
to stir the soup.

"Rain is much the worst weather for colds," said Bob.
"Freezing temps aren't half as bad. I can remember snowy days
when I was a kid. Much better than this rain. By the way, what
time is supper?"

"Look," she answered, "I didn't know when you'd be coming
home, you know. This damn cold has me spending more time blowing
my nose than cooking. When you were down with it, you didn't
wash one dish. If you want to eat sooner, you can set the

"I'm glad you're happy. How long to supper?"

"I don't have one reason in the whole wide world to be
happy. Why should I be? If you had spent one tenth the time
this summer learning to cook a few cheap dishes that you spent
fiddling with those charts, you could cook your own dinner. I do
most of the cleaning; why should I do all the cooking?"

"I know that you work hard. What I don't know is when
dinner will be."

"Ten minutes. Fifteen minutes. I don't know with all this
dripping and hand-washing."

"Thanks for the information. Hardly pays to turn on the
computer for that length of time. I have to write a paper due
tomorrow, and I had to finish the research tonight. That's why I
was late. Soup and... ?"

"Toasted cheese sandwiches. You say that you like them."

"I do, normally. They'll taste like cardboard tonight, but
everything does. I should be able to taste the soup, though."
Bob set the table with plates for the sandwiches, bowls for the
soup, glasses, napkins and soup spoons.

Jeanette finished the cooking, dished up, and sat through
grace. Then she got up and ostentatiously placed a knife and
fork at her place setting.

"Why," asked Bob, "do you need a knife and fork for soup and

Jeanette cut a piece out of her sandwich and brought it to
her mouth with the fork. "A place setting," she answered after
she had swallowed, "includes a knife, fork, and spoon. Always!
Even if you are not going to use any of them. You can stand up
and eat out of the serving bowls on your midnight depredations of
my planned meals; but, when this family has a family meal, we are
going to have a set table. You cut every corner. Do I have to
tell you how to set a table every time?"

"No you don't! I know how to set a table. You just have
different rules. I wash the damn dishes, and I don't want to
wash unused articles. Is that so strange? Who, besides your
mother, is watching to see how we set the table?"

"I'm watching. I want a family dinner, not a dorm snack. I
want a house that looks and feels and smells like a family home,
not smelling of three-week old laundry."

"That's unfair. The laundry is old because I was lying in
there with my nose running like a faucet. Now I'm behind in my
school work, and I have to catch up *tonight*. The laundry will
be done tomorrow. Anyway...."

"No, Bob. That's not true. The laundry is *two* weeks old
because you treat a cold like a case of diphtheria. It is
*three* weeks old because you didn't do it two weeks ago. If you
planned to do the laundry every week, we would have enough to
take you over colds."

"Jeanette, I am not your damned assistant. I do the
laundry. Period. I don't tell you how to cook, and...."

"You came in tonight criticizing the delay. When you have a
cold the world stops. When I have one, I can't run late by one

"I *never* complained about dinner being late! I asked when
it would be. You decided not to answer my question, but that was
my question. I had to ask it three times."

"You were implying...."

"You were guessing. I *told* you what I wanted to know. I
have a paper to write, and this sure as hell isn't helping. You
run the cuisine. I tell you what I like, but I don't supervise
the menu."

"You sabotage it, though! You ate the rice for the soup."

"I'm sorry. I didn't see the warning. You ought to stick
them on with tape."

"Well, I didn't think that I needed a warning. It was only
one night, and it was rice."

"Which is the cheapest food in the house. If I'd eaten
bread, there wouldn't be enough for sandwiches. Anyway, it
wasn't labeled. That makes it fair game. I don't tell you what
to cook, I don't tell you when to cook, I don't tell you how to
cook. We tell people, 'Bob participates in the housework.' Well
Bob is damn-well going to participate; he isn't going to follow
Jeanette's directions."

"It's not my directions. It's common sense. You said that
you would do the dishes and the laundry. That doesn't mean once
a year for each of them. That means doing them when they should
be done. You could have added vacuuming to your list; you think
that vacuuming *never* needs to be done."

"World survived before Mr. Hoover. That's not the point.
Every dirty dish gets washed; every dirty piece of clothing. By
me. On my schedule. By my method, with my choice of soap and
bleach and laundromat. You just can't distinguish between a
partner and a servant.

"Speaking of which, your servant, Madame, departs to write
his paper." Bob left his dishes on the table. When she heard
the computer make its boot-up bleeps, she picked up the sandwich
and finished it. It did taste like cardboard.

She was sorely tempted to vacuum the living room now.
Realistically, however, that would put as much strain on the
computer as on Bob; and they couldn't afford a new computer. For
that matter, she didn't want Bob to get a bad grade. The hell of
marriage is that it entwines two people's futures so thoroughly
that you can't really take adequate revenge without messing up
your own life. Anyway, she'd vacuumed on Sunday. What she
really wanted to do was to crawl into a murder mystery and not
come out until the world decided to meet her terms.

Lacking a murder mystery, she might as well do the mending.
She had a parted seam in one blouse and two buttons to sew on her
clothes. She saw no reason on God's green earth to sew buttons
on Bob's shirts; let him do it himself as he had done in his
summers away, and let him make a mess of it as he had done then.
She went to fetch the sewing box from the bedroom.

Before she reached it, she spotted a book on the bed. It
was a Rex Stout from the university library. Mending forgotten,
she undressed and slipped under the covers in her robe. She was
nearing the midpoint of the book when Bob came in. Archie was
going to the ballpark when Bob sat on the bed. He slipped under
the covers and cuddled her. "Tell me when you get to a stopping
point," he said.

"Probably as good a place as any," she admitted. "Oh, Bob,
I do love you most of the time."

"Well, I *love* you all of the time. I can *stand* you most
of the time."

She giggled. "Well I wouldn't go that far about standing
you," she said. "Save me a space." He was on the side of the
bed when she got back but moved over for her. She doused the
light, doffed her robe, and slid into the space he'd abandoned.
"Warm," she said. He was thoughtful that way. He hugged her as
she backed against him. He nuzzled and kissed her neck.
"Mouth?" she asked.

"I'm still too drippy."

"I already have the cold."

"But still...." he said.

She settled down to receive his kisses for a while. His
hand went to her breast. She pushed her hips back, less to
increase contact than to communicate approval. He shifted so his
thigh was pressed into the crease between hers. While her body
relaxed in his warm -- familiar -- embrace, her nipples stiffened
to his toying fingers. She turned on her back when the quiet
petting felt insufficient.

Bob was quick to accept the implicit invitation. "Love
you," he said as he ducked under the cover to kiss her shoulder.
From there he kissed a trail to her right breast. He was still
too stuffed up to breathe through his nose, leaving the kisses
feeling different. They weren't less sexy or more sexy, just

His hand cupped her left breast until his mouth had reached
her nipple, then tickled down her stomach toward where it was
needed. She became increasingly impatient as he played with the
hair on her delta. Finally, however, he reached her labia. In
no mood for teasing him this night, she already had her legs
parted wide. She pressed up when he first clasped her whole
mound, then widened her legs when he slipped a finger between her
labia. He switched breasts while his fingers teased the entire
sensitive area. She was tensing in anticipation when he withdrew
to simply clasp her again.

"You okay?" he asked perfunctorily.

"Yes. Want me on my side?"

"Please." Practiced, they reached the position in moments.
He used his hand to place himself at her entrance, then slid
inside gently and slowly. She allowed time for his left hand to
snake under her and clasp her breast and his right hand to return
to her mons. Her arch backward to improve the impalement
signaled the beginning of motion on both their parts. The
friction, the fullness, the pressure of his groin on the back of
her labia, and the play of his fingers on the front of them soon
regained the arousal that the change of position had lost.

She went past that point, spasmed and soared, heard Bob's
"Oh darling!" in response. The pace of his thrusts into her
clutching tunnel quickened. Then his hand abandoned her mons for
her hip. He drove into her and pulled her back onto him. He
throbbed within her and grunted somewhere behind her.

Then they were both finished. They lay joined together
below the waist, but with their torsos at an angle. Bob petted
her right arm slowly. She used the first Kleenex he passed her
for her nose, and asked for another for the mess. He finally
moved back and she snuggled against him. She fell asleep with
him cupping her breast, and she didn't even wonder what Nero
Wolfe would do next.
The End
Uther Pendragon
This is one of a series of stories about the Brennans.

The next story in the series is:
forthrig.txt "Forthright"

The first story in the series is:
forever.txt "Forever"

The directory to the entire series is:
brennan.txt Brennan stories Directory

A non-Brennan story in which a couple's quarrel figures
prominently is:
mcmurdo.txt "McMurdo Sound"

The directory to all my stories can be found at:
Index to Uther Pendragon's FTP site


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