"Forget All That 1-3" {Pendragon} (MF rom wl lact)
FORGET ALL THAT
by Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
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All persons here depicted, except public figures depicted as
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and any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly
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# # # #
FORGET ALL THAT
by Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
Part One:
You'll have read that breast-fed babies have fewer colds and
stomach-upsets. Studies suggest that they will be safer from
asthma and have fewer allergies as they grow up. There are even
suggestions that they will develop a higher IQ and be less
susceptible to acne in adolescence. People tell you that
breast-feeding might make you less likely to suffer from
cancer in later life and will definitely speed the loss of that
extra weight that you developed during pregnancy.
Forget all that.
The real reason for breast-feeding your child is that, when
you visit your in-laws, it's the only way to get her back from
her grandparents. And from her aunt. Have I mentioned her aunt?
Well, I may be exaggerating a little bit.
My husband Bob and I went home for Christmas when our
daughter was seven months old. She was quite a hit on the train,
and The Kitten enjoyed the attention for most of that time. By
the middle of the second day, however, she'd had enough of being
the cynosure of a score of strangers, enough of new sensations,
enough of being fed under a cloak. She even seemed to dislike
the swaying of the train, which she'd loved when the trip began.
As anyone who has traveled with kids will guess, this tantrum was
peaking about the time that we arrived at the station where Bob's
parents had been waiting for more than an hour.
When we struggled off the train with all our paraphernalia,
Bob apologized for The Kitten's mood. "Right," said his mother.
"And next you're going to blame Amtrak for your tardiness. Is my
namesake going to say hello?" At that point The Kitten wouldn't
let her hold her, much less this strange woman. Katherine
was disappointed but philosophical. "Been there, dear. I mean
where you are not where she is. But we've probably all been
there too, just don't remember it." They had a baby-seat already
installed in the van. (Bob was also carrying one; car seats have
other uses.) We all got in, and we were on the road.
By that evening, after a long nap and a long nurse in
absolute privacy, The Kitten and I were fit to meet people. Her
grandmother got her first. "Come to Grandma Brennan," said
Katherine, and then, when she had her in her arms, "CATHerine
Angelique Brennan, CaTHERine Angelique Brennan," all eight steps
to "Catherine Angelique BrenNAN. That's you." The Kitten
gurgled at her. "Well I think that you *should* be proud. And
guess what?"
"Oooh," said The Kitten.
"My name is Katherine, but with a K. YOU were named for
ME!" Unimpressed, the Kitten made a grab for the string of beads
around Katherine's neck. "Don't worry," Katherine said to me,
"those beads are safe. Vegetable dyes." She did take the
precaution of putting her glasses on a high shelf.
The baby food, disposable diapers, and baby wipes that we
brought had multiplied while I slept. A table, neatly covered
with a plastic garbage bag, had been set up for "downstairs
changes," in Katherine's words. The senior Brennans had not only
been eager for our visit, they had prepared for it. I commented
on that to Bob when we were in bed that night. The room came
equipped with a dim night light; there was a quilt on the floor
and another one downstairs for any occasion in which The Kitten
needed to be on the floor; there was a changing table; The Kitten
slept in a refurbished crib. (Our bed however was still the
twin-size from Bob's teenage years. That's all right, there is
plenty of room for two in a twin bed.)
"Ihm hmm. Have you looked at the heater in the corner?" I
had. It was an electric space heater. In front of it, keeping
The Kitten from getting too close, was metal shelving such as you
might find in a tool room. "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 doesn't
miss a trick. Now, aren't you glad that you me?"
"*Now* I am."
"Well, you have to take the bitter with the sweet." Meaning
that I would have to put up with my husband to get my in-laws.
Truth to tell, I was very happy with *him* right then; and I
rapidly became even happier. He kissed all over my face before
starting to nibble my ear. I pulled away to give him a real
kiss. Our tongues played for a bit before he began to caress me.
Bob is usually a marvelously slow, gentle, and seductive
lover. This was one of the occasions, however, when he was an
annoyingly slow, subdued, and dilatory lover. For those times, I
have some subtle hints to suggest to him that I'd welcome a more
rapid approach. This night, for example, I took his wrist in
both my hands and moved it so his hand was between my legs. He
grasped my meaning ... and my mound.
His kisses traveled over my face to my neck while his hand
kindled a flame down below. You can talk of Don Juan or
Casanova, but Bob knows *me*. He knew the spot on the side of my
neck which turns me on when he licks it. He knew how to wait
until my arousal was great enough that the turn-on was stronger
than the tickle. He knew that my nipples were sore and to lick
them very gently rather than on them. He knew how to
stroke me to take me to the ragged edge of my climax.
And he knew that I wanted his kiss to muffle my cry as he
stroked me over that edge.
He knew that I loved being held by him as I recovered from
the climax. His arms were around me and his voice whispered in
my ear. "Beloved, marvelous Jeanette, sweetheart, darling,
sweet, love, darling Jeanette ..." he murmured as I gasped.
"I love you," I said when I had recovered my breath. "Give
me a little time."
"All you need." He took my right hand, however, and began
kissing each finger. When I reached my left hand across toward
him, he kissed the palm of my right. That kiss tickled; it also
aroused me. "Now?" he asked.
"Not quite." I moved down in the bed a bit. "Now." We
kissed as before. This time, however, I caressed him as much as
he caressed me. When he licked my nipple, I stroked the backs of
my fingernails down his abdomen.
"It's been two and a half days," he said.
"For me too," I answered; but I stopped at his pubic hair.
After I had toyed with this for a moment, he groaned and started
climbing over me. As soon as he was between my legs, I scrunched
down a little bit more.
He kissed me once on the lips and then came forward until he
touched me. After an instant of adjustment, Bob eased in. I
curled myself up to meet his thrust. When he was all the way
inside, filling me completely, I kissed his shoulder. "Let me,"
I said. Then I kissed down until I could lick *his* nipple,
which hardened for my tongue. He straightened more at that
attention, but it was a strain on me even so. I dropped my head
back on the bed and slid my hands up his arms to his back. He
moved slowly back and forth, in and out.
The sensations of his motions within me were delightfully
arousing; the sensations of his muscles tensing and moving under
my hands were arousingly delightful. I slid my hands down his
back until I could cup his hips which were driving our entire
connection. I felt them harden as they pushed him inward, loosen
as he eased back out.
"Love," he whispered as they tensed; he slipped deep in me, slowly filling
me up. "You," he whispered as they relaxed and other muscles pulled him
back until only my entrance held any part of him. "Love, ... you, ...
love, ... you." He was speaking louder now, although not quite at his
regular volume. His motions were still slow and steady. I raised my loins
to meet his motions, curling my belly in the process. "Love," clenching
muscles, sliding entry, curling belly, complaining springs; "You,"
softening muscles, withdrawing husband, relaxing belly, complaining
springs. I used my grip on his hips to pull myself into his thrusts .
"Love," clenching muscles, sliding entry, curling belly, straining arms,
complaining springs; "You," softening muscles, withdrawing husband,
relaxing belly and arms, complaining springs. He sped up a little for my
pulls, but he tried to slow his withdrawals even more. I wanted none of
that delay.
I tucked my fingers so that the tips touched my palms. That
rather ruined my grip for pulling him closer, but you can't have
everything. As he started inward, I straightened my right hand,
scratching his butt and a little of his inner thigh. I was still
moving my fingernails backwards, and they are the short
fingernails of a typist and mother. Still, they scratch. He
shoved forward hard. He stayed pressed into me for a second.
"Jeanette?" he said.
"Ihm hmm?" I responded. I don't know what I was asking,
much less what he was. So I tightened his very favorite muscle
around him. That started him moving again. I waited another few
strokes before straightening my left hand to scratch him again.
The very next stroke, it was my left hand again. I chose the
hands in random order at random intervals, although always when
he was coming in; I had no desire to have him pull all the way
out. Soon he was moving much faster, saying "Love" on every
thrust. He abandoned the "you"; he had to breathe sometime.
Oddly enough, my concentration on all this stimulation had
lowered my own excitement level. That was okay. I had had a
climax, I wanted to feel his. I caressed his driving butt.
Then, as he sped up once more, grunting instead of saying words,
I slowly moved a finger to the point right behind his scrotum.
Just before I pressed there, I clasped around him as hard as I
could. He shoved himself into me as if trying to reach the top
of my head.
He grunted once more. Then he was pressing against me,
shaking, and groaning. He pulsed within my clasp and I felt him
spurt deep within. Doctor Gupta can say what she wants, I do
feel his seed hit me. I could just make out his grimace in the
dim light.
Then he collapsed on top of me. After a minute I rolled him
over until I could see his face again. He looked just like his
daughter when she has fallen asleep nursing.
There is room for two in a twin bed, you need a double bed
for two and a wet spot. I seriously doubted that Bob would
change any diapers that night. Still, I was a very satisfied
woman as I drifted off to sleep. Daughters and husbands both
create messes, but my and my husband are both worth it.
Part Two:
I haven't the slightest memory of feeding or changing The
Kitten during the night, although I must have done so. The next
memory I have is of Bob presenting a hungry, dry, baby to me in
the morning. The Kitten, her mother's daughter, is not generally
a morning person. This morning, however, she was wide awake. By
the time I looked at the clock, it was after ten. That explained
it. "What was that about?" asked Bob.
"What was what about?" I honestly hadn't the faintest idea
what he was talking about.
"Last night." Oh that. How should I know what my feelings
were about? It just seemed like a nice idea, and it had worked
out fine. It is also totally unreasonable of Bob to ask about my
sexual desires. They had been nicely under control before he
started inciting them, thank you.
"I don't argue when you want something." Something sexual,
I meant.
"Yah! Shure!" he said. Well I haven't recently, at least
not much. "Anyway, I was inquiring, not complaining."
"Considering the look on your face last night, it would show
remarkable gall to complain," I said before remembering that Bob
shows remarkable gall twenty times a day.
"Look?"
"You two look remarkably alike when you are blissed out."
By this time, The Kitten had satisfied her first hunger, and was
mostly playing. I handed her to Bob and grabbed a robe. I took
as little time in the bathroom as I could, but she was not happy
about the interruption.
"I did get a bubble," Bob said on my return, "but only a
small one. Anyway, it isn't the same." While I lay down and
returned The Kitten to my breast, I tried to figure out why the
bubble wasn't the same. Same as what? "She just blisses out
from a full tummy," I believe that there is some maternal
interaction involved as well, but never mind; I now knew what
wasn't the same. "I, on the other hand, only bliss out when I
experience an erotic encounter with the most arousing woman in
North America."
"I just decided to run some things last night. Is that a
problem?"
"Indeed not!"
"When you want to run things," (Which is most of the time)
"that's fine by me."
"You wouldn't mind if I ran things today? Or do you still
have plans?" Plans? I had been out of bed, which does not mean
awake, for half an hour. At this time in the morning, he was
lucky I could answer him coherently. Plans were out of the
question.
"I don't have any plans at all."
"Then I can run things?"
"Go right ahead." I must point out that I never would have
given him carte blanche if I had been awake. He began to knead
my feet. He does this sometimes when I'm tired or have been on
them all day. He did it frequently during my pregnancy, and that
protects him at times like this. About the time I see that he
plans to take advantage of an agreement which he extracted from
me when I was non compos mentis, I remember that he cared for me
so gently when I was retaining more water than Lake Michigan and
having problems fitting through doors.
He finally had mercy on me, though. He was kissing my
stomach when it rumbled loudly.
"Hungry?" he asked.
"Very."
"You know, wouldn't mind your feeding The Kitten while
you ate."
"The Kitten would mind my feeding myself while she ate."
And so she would. She even objected to my giving attention to
Bob for that conversation, although I gave her plenty of
reassurance in our pauses. She is learning a little independence
from Maman, but any independence on the part of Maman is a
of a different color.
The Kitten, however, finally finished her play and was ready
to be burped. She's the opposite of her in that way; she
starts off on the nipples and ends up just playing with
the breasts. Bob started chanting "Just for a handful of silver
he left us," and I escaped to take a shower.
Bob's was at work. Katherine, Catherine, and Bob
were in the kitchen when I got there. I had decided to wait for
lunch since everybody else would be eating soon, but Katherine
asked, "Would you like to finish up the waffle batter?" I
couldn't say no to that. She handed The Kitten to Bob, and gave
me a hug first. "Welcome home," she said. I hugged her. The
Kitten hadn't allowed me to touch anybody else when we had come
off the train.
"It feels like home," I said. I didn't mean like the home I
was raised in; I meant like a real home. Katherine got busy with
the waffle iron and the batter. "Waffles are a treat," I said.
"We don't have a waffle iron, and the frozen ones don't taste the
same."
"Yes," she said. "Bob was telling me that." Suddenly, I
suspected that this was the reason why she hadn't given me a
choice between breakfast and lunch. I looked over at Bob. He
gave me his innocent look, not one of his more convincing looks.
"Are you really off coffee?" she asked. I'm really off coffee.
Nine months without caffeine taught me what an addict I had been.
Not that I would start on Brennan coffee, anyway. What's the
point?
Instead, I drank orange juice with my waffles. Bob took The
Kitten into the living room to play on the quilt. "Are you sure
she can't get into trouble?" I asked when he got back.
"Is she crawling already?" Katherine asked. "She can't be!"
She isn't.
"She can turn over," I explained. "and over, and over. She
travels sideways." Bob and I spent some time listing her recent
exploits. It's not as if Katherine hadn't heard them before, but
she was eager to hear them all again. There was batter for one
more waffle than I could eat, so Bob helped out.
Normally, we would have talked around the table another
hour, but Katherine was antsy to see The Kitten again. "Wash up,
would you dear?" she said. "Let's go watch my namesake, dear."
The first "dear" meant Bob, and the second meant me.
The Kitten had managed to roll onto the rug, though not in
any dangerous position. I took her favorite rattle out of the
diaper bag and shook it on the far side of the quilt. She
demonstrated her rolling technique for her grandmother. As soon
as she got to the center of the quilt, she got the rattle and
verbal praise from two of us. I think that Katherine's was quite
genuine.
"You know, dear," she said, "so many of my contemporaries
see their lives as getting worse and worse. Physically, of
course, that's true. But The Kitten is the crowning pleasure of
a great period of my life. And Russ feels the same way. Vi is a
pleasure, too, of course." Vi is Kathleen Violet Brennan -- M.D.
as of this spring, and we are all *so* proud of her.
"It must help as well that you no longer have tuition to
pay."
"We're still helping with Vi's analysis," (Vi isn't crazy.
She is in process of becoming a psychoanalyst.) "but yes. And
you aren't going to escape that easily. Your degree is next."
"Sometime soon," I said. "Not while my baby needs me." Bob
and I had specifically decided on our trying for a child before I
tried for a degree. "But you must have worried
continually about money these past dozen years. I felt
incredibly guilty about the first trip to Paris. We didn't have
the time to warn you, but putting the air fare on our credit card
was a little much. We couldn't have paid it off without you, we
shouldn't have spent it without one of those Brennan
family meetings."
"Russ was so proud of Bob for that. 'Anybody can see,' he
said, 'when money is well spent; Bob has learned to see when it
is well risked.' Although I'm not sure that everybody can see
when money is well spent, dear. Russ's standards for 'anybody'
are a little high sometimes. Of course, Bob got a dissertation
out of the risk, but Russ wouldn't have blinked if the risk had
failed. It was a good bet.
"No. My worst worries were before that. And money was the
center of it, but not the harshest worry. Let's see, you met Bob
early in my first year of teaching. That was when he was in the
tenth grade, and Vi was in the fifth. I was in the third grade,
of course. They went on, but I didn't. The year before was the
nadir. I was finishing up my teaching certificate."
"I'd already taught art in New York, but there were two art
teachers in this county laid off or teaching other subjects for
each one still employed. The first year we were here, we paid
down our debt by six thousand dollars. That was nowhere near ten
percent. I needed to have a salary, but Russ's position kept me
out of most of the labor market. The of the president of
Brewster Office Equipment could no more work as a secretary than
she could work as a cleaning woman.
"So I needed to teach, so I needed some more courses to
allow me to teach grade school in this state. That meant more
money going out. And when I needed a car for my student
teaching, that was the last straw. I finally financed it on *my*
credit record, since Russ owed everything in his name. We were
almost as deeply in debt as we had been when we moved here. And
the tuition problem was looming on the horizon even back then.
We didn't get into that mess through lack of foresight, dear.
"Once Russ came in shaking because of a near miss in the
car. That night, he laughed at himself. 'Why was I worrying?'
he asked. 'That car crash would have settled all our problems.'
That scared me. Going broke worried me, but the idea of Russ
driving the car into an embankment so his life insurance could
keep us from going broke scared me to death. I lay beside him
shaking for hours.
"Anyway, the next year, we finally sold the condo. (That
was a little after Bob met you, dear.) That cut nearly thirty
thousand off our debt, besides the condo mortgage. I was earning
money. Russ finally went in to the bank which the company used
and laid the whole record on the table. They refinanced the
mortgage on this place, giving us a variable rate; and we used
the extra money to cut down the debt. We paid about two
thousand less in interest, and all that we paid was deductible.
Of course, the principal payments took most of that, but still.
The year after that, he got a raise, I got a raise, and the car
payments ended. The last little bit of that debt was paid off by
the money that Bob brought back from his second year of road
construction.
"We had checked out the tuition and room costs at the
University already. We put that amount into loan repayments and
interest every year since my second year teaching. Into savings
at the very end, of course. We knew that we could hack it.
"You were rather a problem for us, dear. But when we
offered to pay for another year of your education, we knew where
that money was coming from. We never offered to pay for two
years more. You and Vi talk about the carpets which we sold;
leave me a bed and a table in the house if I can keep my husband
to share them with."
I hadn't heard all of this before, although I had heard
parts of it. "I didn't mean to be a problem," I said. I
couldn't see how I had been.
"You weren't a drain of resources, dear. The problem was
that we couldn't fit your tuition in with the other two. That
was the problem. Indeed, we stopped paying Bob's room and board
after the marriage. I should have put the carpet into
your room; that and my grandmother's dishes were what would have
gone on the block were it not for you. It just wasn't fair."
Now, I lived my whole life with "It just wasn't fair." This
was a woman who once had every reason to expect that her husband
was destined for higher income and higher responsibility, but he
had a heart attack leading to his income being cut in half. They
had put everything that they had saved and could borrow into a
risky high-potential investment; that went sour while her husband
was lying in the hospital. She had trained for a profession, but
the demand for that profession had disappeared. She was willing
to pay for the education of her children, and each of them had
chosen a career that required years of graduate study.
Any of that could be covered with "It just wasn't fair."
Any of that was less fair than most of the situations people
describe with those words. (Bob just finished teaching a course
in which he required a short paper every week but one. The
students could pick the week to miss. Many students, against his
oft-repeated advice, skipped an early paper. Several of these
got into assignment crushes after taking that skip. Most of them
said that it wasn't fair of Bob to lower their grades since the
second week they skipped was really necessary.)
Katherine meant that it wasn't fair to pay tuition for "the
other two," her children, but not pay tuition for her daughter-
in-law. She meant that it wasn't fair to me.
I didn't know what to say. The Kitten saved me from having
to say anything by spitting up on the quilt. "I hope that the
quilt isn't valuable," I said as I rushed up with some Kleenex.
"Priceless," she said. "My learned to crawl on
that quilt. She already knew how to spit up. Dear, babyproofing
is our responsibility." I gave her a hug, awkward on the couch.
"Don't worry about college," I said. "I did what I wanted
to do. And I'm glad that I did. Besides, there is the French."
They had provided the means for my studying that, mostly out of
school.
"You've been happy then?" I had been, not continuously or
deliriously happy, but mostly happy. I was about to say so when
Bob walked in.
"She's to me," he said. "What was there for her to
be unhappy about?"
"Being to you!" Katherine and I said in almost
perfect unison.
Bob, willing to be a straight but not an audience,
ignored us. "The Kitten's next meal is from a jar, no?"
"Not for a while, Bob," I said. "But there is an open jar
of beets in the 'fridge."
"Well, the first baby I fed developed brain damage," said
Katherine, "but the second went on to become a doctor. If you
two would trust me with this one, you could take a little time
without the responsibility. Would you want to borrow the car as
well?"
"That's the of this trip," Bob said. "You want to see
The Kitten, Jeanette's an essential source of nutrients, I'm
entirely superfluous."
"Now dear, not superfluous. I'm sure that you washed the
dishes quite well. I'd like to thank you for that, dear. Vi
washed the dishes before you Bob and educated him. He
did the laundry." I should thank her for Bob's skill with the
laundry. For that matter, I didn't teach Bob how to load a
dishwasher. At home, he washes dishes by hand.
"I don't think we'll need the car," Bob said. "We'll be
upstairs if you need us desperately." I knew what he wanted;
surely Katherine knew what he wanted.
"What's with this 'us'?" Katherine said. "You're
superfluous, remember. I'll try very hard not to need Jeanette.
Oh my! She's blushing. Dear, after a decade to Bob how
can you still blush?" Which made me blush worse.
How could I be to Bob and not blush? I was terribly
embarrassed by the transparency of Bob's actions. On the other
hand, while The Kitten is a darling, she does tend to interrupt
at the most inconvenient times. A little quality time between
maman and papa without worry about her seemed like a great idea.
"Maybe I wanted to go for a drive," I told Bob after we were
safely in our room with the door bolted. It was a fairly
specious suggestion. Anybody whom I would want to see would want
to see The Kitten.
"You said that I could run things today." He kissed me
deeply. I sank into the kiss, and chased his tongue with mine.
Bob's hands were all over me, but I couldn't respond. After a
minute, he stepped back. "You're tense," he said.
"It's having her down there knowing what we're doing."
"Would you like to go for a walk?" he said.
"You mean that?"
"Once, when I lived in this room for example, I would have
given my eyeteeth to have your consent to sex. I'm spoiled now.
I want your enthusiasm."
At that, I kissed him with real enthusiasm. "Bob Brennan, I
love you!" I said. We got dressed in warmer clothes, pausing
only for him to kiss my belly, and went back downstairs.
"You don't trust me?" asked Katherine.
"We trust you utterly," said Bob. "We're going for a walk."
I suppose the outside was miserable from any objective
perspective. It was wet and cold, although we were dressed for
Michigan and didn't mind it. Bob always insists that cold rain
is worse than snow.
To me, at least, it was freedom. I love The Kitten, I
really do. She's a particularly happy baby, partly -- we are
convinced -- because we are there when she wants us. But....
Even when Bob's home and actually responsible, I listen for
her cry. Even when she is sleeping, she might wake up and need
something -- comforting if nothing else. "Whee!" I said. "I feel
like I'm playing hooky."
"If I feeled like that, I'd be playing feeled hooky." That
this pun sounded funny to me at the time demonstrates just how
manic my mood was.
I hugged him and we kissed for a moment, then we rubbed
noses. This is a nice cold-weather hug Bob an I have stolen from
the Eskimos. "If you wanted to hug," Bob whispered into my ear,
"there was no reason to leave the house. We could have stayed in
the room where I dreamed of you so many years. I could have
removed each piece of clothing and kissed each new piece of skin
thus revealed. You could have lain on the bed while I knelt at
your feet and kissed up your thighs to your most secret, most
feminine, place. Then I could have kissed you there, and licked
you there, and smelt" (I don't think that's a past tense, but Bob
does.) "your femininity turn to desire, and tasted your desire
turn to lust, and then to passion. And I could have been right
where your passion is centered until it turned into satisfaction.
And I would have enjoyed it, and you would have enjoyed it. But,
no, you needed to come out into the cold and rain."
We were standing on the sidewalk alone in the entire world
when someone said "Kids today!" quite loudly. This man, who
looked not a decade than us, was less than a yard away. We
jumped apart, blocking his way even worse.
When he had managed to get by us, and we were heading back
towards the house, Bob asked, "Did he hear me?"
"I don't think so. Your mouth was an inch from my ear, and
I had to strain to hear you." We walked past the house; we had
only chosen that direction because the was going in the
other. Suddenly it was hilarious. We walked along laughing and
saying "Kids today."
"Anyway," I said, "you can still do that tonight. The
Kitten would sleep through it." Not that The Kitten is
enough to be shocked at where Papa kisses Maman.
"But that would interfere with what I had planned for
tonight."
"What is it with you on these trips home?" Bob is a sex
maniac, but less of one than he was ten years ago. We seldom
have matinees in our own home.
"Ah love. Once upon a time, I lay in that room night after
night. Afternoon after afternoon, for that matter. I lusted
after you, totally unrequited."
"Not totally," I said.
"Not proportionately requited, in any case. I lay there and
dreamed of Jeanette Jacobs. I lusted after her slender form and
small breasts.... And, as the grew, so did the lust.
All those unrequited hormones flew out and hit the wall, as did
something more palpable on one memorable occasion. They stayed
there plotting what they would do when they had the opportunity.
And then, years later, you arrived within their ambit. Time
froze for them. Every time we visit, they thaw out and turn me
into an adolescent again. They fly out of the walls and back
into my bloodstream, leaving me helpless to do anything save
fulfill the lust that has waited decades."
"How did you manage," I asked "to kiss the Blarney stone
without ever visiting Ireland?"
"It is sober truth." However, he did follow up with a more
prosaic description of his desire for me when we were going
together and feeling out our relationship -- if you'll excuse the
double entendre.
This is a he's told before, but I remain fascinated.
I don't know if it is a matter of versus or merely of
Bob versus Jeanette. I was interested in Bob, and interested in
my body. But those interests remained distinct for much longer
than Bob says his did. (Somehow, also, Bob's reminiscences omit
those magazines that still live in three boxes, one in
our apartment, and two in his parents' garage.)
I'm glad we have a daughter. Fifteen years from now, I'll
know what she is thinking; that would never be true of a son.
But I'm not even sure about our daughter. I would *never*
inflict my upbringing on her, but is the greater openness that we
already show around her going to continue? Will it make her into
a little Bob instead of a little Jeanette? And the next baby,
will it be a boy? Will we ever have one?
"Why so pensive?" Bob asked.
"Oh Bob, hug me. Bystanders be damned." He did. His puns
are execrable, his vocabulary can make me blush, he thinks that
passing gas is funny, his version of vacuuming a carpet doesn't
make it worthwhile to plug in the machine, he can out-stubborn a
cat without even trying. He will, however, hug me when I need it
without my telling him why I need it. And no, you can't have
him.
"Everything will be fine," he said. But I was chilled, and
we turned back. "You know," he said, "not here, but back home,
we could arrange a time for me to watch The Kitten while you went
out. Saturdays, maybe."
"I'll think about it," I said. But what I really thought
about was the hostage that we had given to fortune.
She was in Katherine's lap when we got back. Katherine was
playing patty-cake with The Kitten's *feet*. Neither of them
needed us at all, and we slunk off into the kitchen to start
lunch. "I should do it," said Katherine, not terribly
convincingly. It was nearly three. Katherine, an organized soul
if there ever was one, had the week's menu on the refrigerator.
Bob stirred up cream of tomato soup, while I made the toasted
cheese sandwiches.
When lunch was on the kitchen table, my finally
deigned to notice me. She wouldn't be anywhere but in my lap.
Bob finally had mercy on me and held a sandwich up to my mouth so
I could eat.
Brennans talk. Bob is the champion, but not by much. Over
lunch, we talked about The Kitten's development, minor illnesses,
and major charms. Bob and Katherine talked about the recent
weather patterns and whether these cast doubt on (Katherine) or
supported (Bob) the idea of global warming.
While Katherine cooked dinner, Bob and I sat in the kitchen
with her and listened. She reported every deed of The Kitten's
time with her. She told of Vi's babyhood, which I had
heard before, and Bob's, which I hadn't. "Oh, Mom," said Bob.
"Hush," I said. "This is fascinating." Encouraged,
although a little put off her cooking stride by the interruption,
Katherine filled me in on Bob-before-I-met-him, including parts
of grade school.
When Bob's got home, he was disappointed to find The
Kitten in her late-afternoon fussy time. After I had fed her,
however, he did the burping. "Christopher Robin goes hoppity.... "
he recited, patting her back as he spoke and striding around. It
was so much like Bob that I could hardly keep from laughing.
Dinner was more talk. I dropped out and sat there like a
spectator at a tennis match. (Tennis matches are easier on
spectators, though. Only one person hits the ball at a time.)
The Kitten deigned to visit Grandpa for an hour, but then
wanted the familiarity of Maman. As the time approached for The
Kitten's last feeding, Bob and I said our goodnights and took her
upstairs. I changed into a robe while Bob changed The Kitten's
messy diaper. For the second time since getting home from the
hospital, I had gone a full day without changing a diaper; there
is something to be said for mothers-in-law.
"Sit on the foot of the bed and lie back, will you?" Bob
said. I complied. Once he was ready for bed and The Kitten had
settled down for her feeding, he knelt beside the bed to share a
nice long kiss with me. Then he kissed my forehead. "Talk to
your child," he said. I have the habit of talking to The Kitten
while she is nursing. I use French, so she'll have some
experience of that language.
"Ton papa fait le plan," I told her. She took a few
swallows, and cocked her head toward me. "Je ne sais rien."
Actually, I could make a good guess as to what he had planned.
My guess was confirmed when he went to kneel between my legs.
His kisses began just above my right knee. He kissed me
while I murmured to The Kitten and stopped when I stopped. By
the time her first hunger was appeased, he had reached to the top
of my right thigh. Then he started again just above my left
knee. By the time he reached the top of that thigh, I was
squirming in need. The Kitten, not much appreciating the ride,
clamped on. I controlled myself and murmured to her until she
resumed playing with the nipple; she wasn't really taking much in
by that time. Bob waited through this period, and then kissed my
lower lips. While it was what I had wanted, that kiss did
nothing to decrease my need.
Stopping licking every time I stopped talking, Bob took
forever to tease my inner lips open with his tongue. I had
enough forethought to move my hands on Kitten down to her diaper.
I didn't want to let go of her because the sides of the bed were
too close, but neither did I want to risk my fingers clawing at
her skin. Then I babbled on, losing coherence as Bob worked
magic with his tongue. I think my last words to her went
something like: "Ton papa me baise... Ton papa me ... Ton Pa!
Pa!"
At that point, Bob stopped completely, raised his head, and
said, "Are you calling me?"
"Please Bob. Oh please." His chuckle was positively
demonic, but he relented. He returned to his licks and kisses.
I just moaned rather than speeking. Soon all the tension
concentrated in a point. Then it shattered, and so did I.
I slowly came back together into a blissful repletion. Then
a nagging worry intruded. "The Kitten," I asked.
"I took her out of your arms," Bob said. "I'll get a bubble
in a minute." I slid back into the bliss. "There," Bob said
some unknown time later. "She's in her own bed asleep. The
Kitten is done for the night, but you aren't!" He knelt back
down between my legs.
This time, he proceeded more directly. He kissed my legs
briefly, my mound only once, although that was a long kiss. Then
he was licking my labia once again. So soon after the last time,
they were exquisitely sensitive.
"Grab a pillow," he said. Good idea. He wasn't going to be
able to muffle my cries with a kiss in that position. One hand
held the pillow to my lips and the other felt down to his head.
He resumed kissing where he had left off. When I tensed, he
slipped two fingers into me. Then I pulled him against the
center of all those lovely sensations while I gasped into the
pillow.
"You are wonderful," he said. "Darling, darling, girl.
Luscious and lovely."
"And lonely," I managed to add. When I go off into one of
those climaxes, I usually recover in his arms. This time he was
way down there. It was intimate, there is no denying that. He
even still had his fingers in me. It was intimate, but it wasn't
particularly comforting.
He gave me another long kiss on my mound. "Sorry, darling,"
he said, "but we are going to do it this way tonight." He kissed
upward across my stomach but didn't even reach to my breasts.
Then he trailed downward again.
Soon, he returned to my center. His fingers moved within
me; his tongue moved over me; my hips moved in response. As I
felt the gathering tension, I grabbed the pillow. Then the
climax seared through me. I don't know what I shouted; I don't
know how long it lasted. I do know that I quaked and quivered
and was filled with joy. Moments afterwards, I was filled with
Bob.
He pulled me a little more off the bed and pressed into me
before I knew what was happening. He lifted my legs until my
knees were on his shoulders. Then he was moving deep within me.
The strokes felt long and slow, but they didn't take him out of
me at all. The motion of his hips pushed me back and forth on
the end of the bed while they slid him in and out of me. His
hands were all over me, stroking, tickling, pinching my earlobe
while he teased a nipple.
I soared away again, throbbing and throbbing, seeming unable
to stop. "Jeanette," he said sharply, once. Then I kept
throbbing until the support of his hips collapsed under me.
When I became aware of my position, I was sitting on Bob's
thighs and knees. My shoulders were the only part supported by
the end of the bed. We were entangled in the covers. The inside
of my knees were against Bob's elbows. "Are you okay?" he asked
me. Good question. Nothing particularly hurt, but I felt weak
and out of breath. "Can you get up?"
"I don't think so," I whispered. "Can you?" He shook his
head. We both broke out in giggles. "Your will find us
when The Kitten gets really hungry." The Kitten can wake the
dead if her needs aren't met.
"I shot the bolt," Bob said. "If you move *only* your left
leg, I'll try to free my arm." The second time we tried that it
worked. With one foot on the floor, I could move more weight
onto the bed. Bob extricated himself, and I managed to stand up.
What hadn't spilled yet of Bob's seed drained out, mostly onto my
thigh. I grabbed a tissue and cleaned myself off.
Bob was still on the floor. "I think my leg went to sleep,"
he said. I helped him up.
"You are the most adorable idiot in the whole world," I told
him.
He shrugged into a robe, and went across to the bath room.
He came back with TP, some of it damp. We cleaned up the mess on
the floor and on ourselves. With all the time we'd taken, I was
surprised that The Kitten hadn't awakened for her middle-of-the-
night feeding. I glanced at the clock to see whether it was
worth sleeping before then. It was a little after eleven. Bob
got under the covers, and I snuggled into his arms.
"I love you," he said.
"Love you, too." And I did.
Part Three:
Once again, The Kitten had her breakfast before I had mine.
This time, however, we managed to arrive in the kitchen at the
relatively respectable hour of nine-thirty. Bob's got up
as we entered the room and reached for The Kitten. She reached
out her arms and was transferred. As soon as he had her, she
started exploring his pockets, which were filled with stick-pens.
"Don't worry, dear," Katherine said, "they've all been washed,
and the caps won't come off."
After breakfast, we actually got The Kitten out of her
grandfather's arms and onto the quilt. She promptly rolled off.
"I think," said Bob's father, "that we'll have a bare tree this
year." We filled him in on some of her latest feats. That led
to what Bob calls her "fan club," who come to his office
while she is there and I'm in class. Which, in turn, led to my
experience in the class.
"I haven't got the last paper or the final exam back yet, of
course," I said. "I got 'A's on the mid-term and on the first
two papers, sort of."
"There was nothing 'sort of' about it," said Bob. "I saw
the grades."
"Well the exam was only a number grade. And there was the
first paper."
"The exam was a 93," said Bob. "That's an 'A' in anyone's
book. He told you that the first paper was an 'A' as far as the
course went." Then he explained to his parents: "They read the
books in French, not translations, and discuss them in English in
class. Jeanette assumed that the papers were to be written in
French. She handed in her first paper in French. The other
students wrote in English, as the teacher expected. He marked
the paper with a *prominent* A."
He was only telling half of it. "He also wrote extensive
criticisms of my French. It isn't up to academic standards."
"French academic standards," said Bob.
"Well, yes. He said that almost everything that I wrote was
acceptable in some kind of French writing, but that I jumped
between obsolete usage and journalistic vulgarism."
"I ask you," Bob said to his parents. "Does that sound like
a reason to reduce the grade of an American?" They agreed with
him.
"Anyway," Bob said, "he *gave* it an 'A.' She did her work
on time, which many did not. She was graded on class
participation, which we don't know. Every piece of work that she
got back was graded 'A.' Anybody can goof on one piece of work,
and any teacher will cut your grade if you do. But I'm betting
on an 'A' for the quarter. And she won't bet."
"With you?" I asked. His laughed. Bob's bets are
notorious. "I never said that I wouldn't get an 'A.' I just
said that the grades that I had received so far were sort-of
'A's."
I took a deep breath. "And I'm not going on with the
course," I finished.
Bob's expressed dismay. Bob and I had discussed
this thoroughly, and he agreed with me. He let me carry the
ball, however.
"Another thing the professor told me was that I fitted in
the group rather badly. My French is the best in the class. He
thought that my experience gave me insights that the students
eight years younger don't have. They *do* have, however, much
more grounding in literature study than I have. I really skipped
a level. He suggested that I go back and take some courses at
that level, and also some English literature courses."
"It seems like such a long time, dear."
"It really isn't a *longer* time," Bob said. "She needs so
many hours to graduate, so many hours for a major, some of those
have to be upper-division. As long as she has enough upper-
division courses, taking the lower division courses moves her
toward a degree just as rapidly. She didn't convince me,
however, until she reminded me of how this whole affair started."
"I began to study French," I reminded them, "because I
wanted to study something, but also because I thought that my
grounding in French had been weak. I started as near the
beginning as I could. Then you gave me the wonderful course, and
I started over. That's one thing that I have over the other
students, I took the time to get really grounded in the language.
I wasn't aiming at French literature when I started. If I want
to spend a lot of effort and time studying that, then I would be
foolish to resist getting the firmest grounding possible.
"Besides, any slowing down on reading literature, (and that
is really what would be easier in these courses, they don't
expect as much command of the language, so they assign less
reading). Any slowing down in the reading would only mean more
time to work on the translation."
"Don't you think," Bob's was speaking to me, but he
was looking daggers at Bob, "that you've given up enough for his
career?"
"Not necessarily. It's his paycheck, but it's my income.
My prestige, too. But I'm not giving up anything, this time.
First, I *want* the grounding in literature. All I said was that
there is always as much French to read as I can find time for.
Second, it is *our* work. When those books are published, my
name will be on them too." Bob had fought for that. The books
are two translations of French government documents from a
century ago. Bob is the editor, and is writing a commentary
putting the documents in historical perspective; I'm the
translator. The one on the foreign-office documents is nearing
completion. The one on the colonial-office documents has a long
way to go. When he got the agreement to put my name on the title
page, I hadn't cared. Now I think that I might like to translate
something else one day, and a byline can't hurt.
"But" said Bob, "is she grateful for all the benefits that
the collaboration gives her? No!" Actually, I am grateful. Bob
was just pointing out that the collaboration is critical to his
career. I hugged him to demonstrate that I was grateful. "Not
good enough," said Bob, "I want a kiss." So we had a medium-hot
kiss; his were watching, after all.
"As long as you're happy, dear," Katherine said.
"A practical point," Bob said, "is that general courses in
French literature will probably transfer. Specialized courses
might not. We don't know that I'm staying at Grand Valley
forever. Jeanette might want to graduate from another school."
"Not transfer?" asked Bob's father. He is a widely-read
man, knowledgeable in several fields beyond management. It's
easy to forget that people not immersed in academia don't know
these rules.
"A won't give you credit for a course if *they*
don't teach it. It doesn't matter how good that course is, how
well taught, or how advanced. They wouldn't give her credit for
a course in Balzac unless they teach a course in Balzac. Most
schools try to be reasonable, but.... Didn't you" (speaking to
his mother) "run into that?"
"Not really. Education departments teach the courses
required for a state certificate. I certainly wasn't interested
in another BA. So if I had the course that North Carolina would
accept for the certificate, I didn't take it again. Otherwise, I
took that course." That led to a long three-way discussion of
the strengths and (mostly) weaknesses of the teacher-
certification and teacher-education processes.
I mostly stayed out of it and, as it went on, lay down with
my head in Bob's lap. I must have dropped off. Bob shook me.
"You're going to have a hungry in a second," he said. I
sat up and unbuttoned my blouse. I had to think before I
remembered which was next, I was so logy. I opened the
nursing bra as Katherine brought The Kitten over. Bob looked at
me for a moment and asked, "Would you rather be in the rocker?"
"I'll stay down here," I said. Climbing the stairs with The
Kitten on my seemed beyond me at that moment.
"I'll go into the other room," said Bob's father.
"Am I disturbing you?" I asked. "I could go upstairs."
They had given us such a nice place for baby care, and I had
ignored it.
"Mom," said Bob, "please sort it out. I'll get the rocker."
"Russ was offering because he was afraid that he was
disturbing you, dear," Katherine said. "Was he?"
"No. I thought I was disturbing him." The only person
whose presence while I was breast-feeding counted as disturbing
was Bob. He keeps leering. I just hoped he wouldn't in front of
his family.
"Was she, Russ?"
"Not in the least." At that statement, there came a loud
slap at the bottom of the stairs. We all listened for more
sounds but only heard Bob's heavy tread on the stairs.
"Dear," said Katherine when he appeared carrying the rocking
chair.
"Well, they call them throw rugs," Bob said.
"Why did you mention the rocker, dear?"
"Because she didn't look comfortable on the sofa. We have a
rocker at home, and she prefers that for nursing." (When I don't
use the bed, which I do in the middle of the night or when Bob is
playing his games with me.)
Bob put down the throw rug, softly this time, and put the
rocking chair on top of it. The Kitten objected to moving from
the couch, but she was happy as a lark once we got rocking. She
and I began our usual conversation. The others watched us for a
minute before Katherine led them into another discussion.
Given the choice between The Kitten's meaningful glances and
the politics of global warming, I paid the adults no attention at
all. They had gone into the kitchen before The Kitten was done.
"Bob!" I called. His appeared with a dishtowel draped
over his shoulder.
"Did you want burping service?" he asked. I redid my
clothes while he politely fastened his attention on The Kitten.
Perhaps it wasn't politeness; he seldom looks at anything else
when he has her to hold.
"'The KING of PERu, WHO was EMPeror too ...'" he recited.
The Kitten seemed quite content. It must have sounded like Papa
to her, it certainly did to me.
"You two are so much alike," I said.
"Two?"
"You and Bob." It made sense. Bob had been five when Vi
was born; he hadn't invented how a deals with his
daughter, he had learned it.
"That would be a compliment from anyone," he said, "but from
*you*." It sounded like his voice was cracking, and his eyes
looked misty. I'm not sure that I had meant it as a compliment,
but it would have been disloyal to say so.
"I think The Kitten believes so, too," I said. "She is
certainly comfortable with you."
He tried to keep her on his lap through lunch, with
predictable results. He ended up with his plate, glass, and
silverware a foot back from the end of the table. The Kitten
tried for the tablecloth, but her grandmother grabbed the other
end. "Aren't you glad we decided to eat in the dining room,
dear?" she asked. Katherine has had years of experience in a
third-grade classroom, and that was after raising Bob. I have
yet to see her fazed.
Bob and I went for a walk after lunch (and after he loaded
the dishwasher). This one was longer than the day before, and we
didn't disgrace ourselves by anything worse than holding hands.
We got back while his was feeding The Kitten her
vegetables. "All we are saying," Bob's sang, "is give
peas a chance." The Kitten was entranced. Not open-mouthed, but
entranced. It's remarkable that a who tries to put
everything else in her mouth can get so resistant to putting a
spoon in there.
He played with her until she was cranky. Then she came to
Maman until she fell asleep. Dinner was much quieter. I nursed
The Kitten first, and she stayed in her car seat and amused
herself most of the time. We returned her to the quilt for a
while. Then she shared the couch with us, wanting to be handled
only by maman and papa at that time of night.
"Oooh," she said.
"No, Kitten," Bob said. "It's not August. It's December.
Say day-som-brrrr."
"Oooh."
"No, Kitten. It's not August. It's December. Say
day-som-brrrr."
By the fifth time, his were shaking in laughter.
"How long does this go on?" Katherine asked me.
"Until she gets tired of it. She has a toy that squeaks
when she squeezes it. She plays with either one for up to twenty
repetitions, then her attention wanders." Hearing me, The Kitten
decided that she needed comforting. She reached over and I
hugged her. "Move over," I told Bob. He scooted to the end of
the couch. He picked up The Kitten for a moment while I arranged
myself. Then my head was on his lap and The Kitten was lying on
my tummy. She made a half-hearted attempt to reach my
through my blouse, but she wasn't hungry at all. Then we quieted
down.
"Did we bore you with our talk this afternoon?" Katherine
asked.
I shook my head. "Comforted," I said.
"She doesn't want to say much," Bob explained. "It shakes
The Kitten." The elder Brennans were almost convinced by my ten
years of telling them that I regarded their discussions as
spectator sports, but they keep worrying that I feel bored or
afraid to participate.
The talk went on until The Kitten started to root for my
breasts more seriously. I went upstairs.
When Bob brought the rug upstairs on his third trip, I was
lying on my side in the bed nursing. "They're very nice people,"
I said.
"They are that. Do you want me to pull off your jeans."
"Please." He left the on (for a wonder) and left
for his evening time in the bathroom. He sat in the rocker while
The Kitten nursed and played. I murmured to her about the day.
He roused himself to change her and tuck her in while I had my
bathroom time.
Neither of us was wide awake. Something about the season
and the talk and the comfort had relaxed us to somnolence
although I, for one, had enjoyed a sinful amount of sleep over
the last day. Facing each other, we shared a sleepy kiss that
seemed to go on forever. Bob scratched my back. That felt so
good that I turned over to give him real access.
Soon my seat was pressed back into his lap with predictable
consequences. "Junior, at least, is awake," I said when I felt
the warm firmness against my seat. "The lone one surrounded by
three sleepyheads."
"He only wants to be surrounded by one of them," Bob said.
When I leaned back against him, Bob moved his hand from my back
to my front. He kissed my shoulder blade every once in a while.
He stroked all over my stomach, a habit he developed during my
pregnancy. Then he started to play with my pubic hair. He kept
his hand warm against my lower stomach while two fingers just
reached the beginning of my lips down there. He pressed one into
one lip, and then released it and pressed the other finger into
the other lip. Junior, firm against my hip, seemed disassociated
from the rest of Bob's gentle, comfortable, laziness.
I raised my right knee, hardly knowing that I was doing it.
Bob, taking the hint, moved his hand lower. When he had a finger
well between my lips I could relax and lower my leg again. He
stroked between those lips and kissed my shoulder blade. Neither
of us was in any hurry.
And then I was. I stiffened a little. "Bob, please," I
said.
"Like this?" He meant by his hand alone. I didn't want
that this night.
"Like the forest." He shifted, I shifted. I used the
opportunity to grab three tissues from the box by the bed. I put
them in my left hand. This position works best if I lie in a
fairly bent posture, which deprives my back of all Bob's warmth.
Junior had wilted a little in the long wait. I reached between
my legs to help him in. I gave him a few strokes along my
valley to get him nice and slippery (and fully hard) . I placed
him very carefully and pressed back. Bob moved forward and up in
the bed. We were joined.
After a few strokes, Bob stopped to scratch my back again.
I arched my back in appreciation, which further impaled me. Bob
would stroke in and out with exquisite slowness, and then pause,
and then start up again. It felt lovely, not particularly
urgent, but quite voluptuous. I don't know how long we drifted
like that, but the time came that Bob didn't pause after a few
strokes.
His hand found my mound again. He did pause while he was
all the way within. I pressed back against him and opened my
legs. One of his fingers touched my center. Almost immediately
I tensed. He was grunting, I think I was silent. He stroked
faster and faster within me all through my climax. Then I felt
him pulse and inside me. I clasped his hand to me,
everything else being out of reach.
When I felt him start to slip out, I passed him one of the
Kleenexes. We dabbed ourselves off. I pressed back against his
chest. He reached his arm around me and held me between my
breasts. I hugged this arm until I fell asleep.
I responded to The Kitten's first soft cry. Quite awake, I
nursed her in the rocker instead of the bed, telling her all
about Christmas. I must get a book on French Christmas, my
vocabulary is weak on all sorts of domestic subjects like that.
When she was finally done, I pushed Bob until he turned over. I
hugged him for a long time, neither awake nor quite asleep.
Continued in Part Four.
FORGET ALL THAT
Uther Pendragon
anon584c@nyx.net
1997/12/24
1999/12/30
2000/09/10
This is the first segment of the last (so far) in a
series of about the Brennans.
The next segment is:
fat_b.txt
Parts 4-6
The first in the series is:
forever.txt
"Forever"
The directory to the entire series is:
brennan.txt
Brennan Directory
The directory to all my can be found at:
index.txt
End of File
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