WARNINGS: This story includes explicit descriptions of sexual acts. If reading this might involve you or another person in an illegal act, or you are offended by the exploration of adult themes in literature or on the Internet, do not read further.
Copyright 1999 by Jane Urquhart. The author is a member of the Net Authors and Creators Union (NACU), which defends the rights of Internet authors and creators. NACU intends to bring suit against any person or corporation infringing copyright.
Specific permission is granted for publication in the news groups Alt.Sex.Stories and Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated and for archiving by the Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated archive, Deja.com and RemarQ.com. All other rights are reserved. Do not repost or distribute by any other means without express permission from the author.
INTRODUCTION: I don't usually stick an introduction in front of my stories, but this one needs one. For one thing, it verges on blatant self-promotion. But what can I do? See, this guy who has read most of my stuff wrote me a nice letter the other day praising my latest, and then he asked me a question. His wife is, it seems, a great romance reader, but she doesn't even know about the sex stories on the Net. He thinks she'd like them, but he doesn't want to upset her with one of those 100-proof stroke stories he reads all the time. So would I please tell him which of my stories he should start with to ease her into the sex story world? So I recommended a couple. Then this happened. Well, I think this happened. Oh, nuts! MAYBE this happened.
"Hey, Michelle, I want to ask you something."
I was deep into one of those novels where a big hairy Scot was distressing a damsel no end when my husband produced this remark. Since talk of any sort is not one of his big things, I swam up to answer.
I'm always gracious when people interrupt my reading.
"I wanted to ask you," he said, "if those romance things you read all the time are sexy."
Now as far as I know--and I ought to know if anybody does, right?--sex is not one of my husband's big things, either. To be fair, his technique does seem to have improved a little in recent months, but he's still not one of those guys I hear about that's always wanting to make out on the kitchen floor. And not very romantic, either. So this question sounded mildly interesting.
"Well, sure," I said. "They're love stories. So they're kind of sexy, yes."
"No," he said, looking slightly embarrassed, as if he'd seen me sitting on the pot or something, "I mean, do they describe sex much, go into any detail?"
"Well, no," I said. "Not to any great extent. The men are always feeling up the heroine toward the end of the book, but the chapter always seems to finish when the really heavy breathing starts." Now I began seriously to wonder what this conversation was in aid of.
"See," he said, "I found this stuff on the Internet I thought you might be interested in. Sex stories."
"No kidding?" I said. "I knew there were some there, but I assumed they were just crap--you know some guy sticking his ten-inch tool into this pneumatic blonde chick or something. I like real stories."
"No, really," he said. "There's a lot of that, that's for sure, but there are some real stories, too, good ones."
"Fancy that," I said, having no faith whatsoever in his literary taste. But what the hell, we were actually having a conversation, right? I was getting downright mellow. "Why don't you print me up one, then? I wouldn't mind taking a look." He said, OK, he would, and shut up. I went back to hairy old Scotland in the 1440s and forgot all about it.
The next day he handed me this printout, maybe fifteen pages altogether. I read it that night. It's about this clunky babe with good legs getting laid under a palm tree on a desert island. She likes it. I would, too. It even turned me on a little.
I handed it back to him.
"Not bad," I said. "At least the grammar's good, but there's not much of a story, really. You got anything that's maybe a little more complex?"
"Actually, I do," he said. "By the same woman. This one's true, she told me."
"She told you?" I said, amazed. "You write to these people?"
"Sure," he said. "They like to hear from readers--they don't get paid. Anyhow, I asked her a few months ago when it first came out if it was true, and she said it was."
"OK," I said, "Make me a copy, please." He did, and he gave it to me when he got home from work the next evening. It was at least twice as thick as the first one. It looked long enough to be a story.
I read it at lunch the following day. More like it. Same woman, but this time it was a long, involved story about her seducing her best friend's husband. Again with details. Interesting details. The hero, I guess he was, reminded me of Mike, my husband. Clueless. But the story part wasn't bad--they act like real people, even go to some ditsy opera, and all her worrying is even kind of funny. And I find it turns me on good this time. I even found myself thinking of my best friend's husband, who is a hunk.
If hubby was reading this kind of stuff, I thought, then how come I'm getting eight hours sleep nearly every night?
So that night after supper I asked him that very question.
"Well," he said, "I try to save it up for Saturday nights. We both need to be awake at work, you know, so we need our sleep."
OK, maybe this is true. Not that I need to be all that awake at work, but OK. And I had noticed that Saturday nights were a tad more active than they used to be. But that's not all I wanted to know.
"I notice," I said judiciously, "that these people seem to engage in certain activities we don't."
"Yeah," he said, turning bright pink. "I've always been afraid you'd think it was dirty if I tried anything different."
"Dear Heart, you might ask," I said, exasperated. "You could say something like, 'Would you be upset if I practiced my cunnilingus on you?' I don't think I'd divorce you if you asked that."
He looked a little surprised and said, "Well? Would you?"
"Would I what?" I said. "Divorce you or be upset if you wanted to practice cunnilingus on me?"
"Either," he said, smiling at last.
"Well, I certainly wouldn't divorce you for that," I said, "and I guess I'd allow you to practice at least once to see if it was worth while." I'd allow him to practice until he got a gold medal. Hell, I'd give him a gold medal myself.
"Really?" he said. "Gee, I'm amazed! I thought you were just too straight for that. Actually, Janey says in one of her stories that women don't turn that down, but I didn't think it applied to you."
I got up out of my chair and headed for the bedroom. I took off all my clothes, took a shower, and looked back in the living room. He was still sitting there at the computer, reading something.
"Hey!" I said. "Come and practice. Now." Strike while the iron is hot is my motto. And I got into the bed.
He came in, looking sheepish again, and took off his clothes. I had a sheet over me, but there was plenty of bare flesh in view. Maybe not enough, I thought, and pulled the sheet down a foot or so. I have boobs that Janey woman would give anything for.
"How long since you read the story?" I asked while he was taking off his socks.
He blushes again. Good God. "I read it just after I made the printout," he said. "I wanted to make sure it wouldn't be too raw for you."
"It wasn't," I said. "Do you remember what she made the guy do?"
"Yeah," he said. "She told him to stroke her right ankle and he got the wrong one."
"Right," I said. "Now I want you to do just what he did, OK?"
"Like act out the story?"
"Exactly," I said. "You brought it home. What did you expect?"
"Can I kiss you first?"
"You may," I said. Dividends already. But my vagina was getting warm and just a little damp, and I wasn't sure just how much foreplay I was interested in.
So he climbed into bed, managed to get an arm around me and gave me a big kiss. More of a kiss than I'd had in quite a while. Tongues wrestling, arms squeezing. I guessed all that time he spent on his computer wasn't wasted after all.
Then he backed down to where my ankles were, pulling off the sheet as he went. It was a little chilly. If I had my druthers, I'd sleep in a hooded sweatshirt, but I couldn't expect action wearing that, could I? We have to sacrifice for our art. But so far it had been a hell of a lot of sacrifices and not near enough art. Anyhow, he pulled down the sheet and began to stroke the ankle gently. This writer babe at least gave good directions. No major complaints about that, but by that time I was getting eager for the main event. I restrained myself, but I did open my legs wide enough for a six-lane highway. He followed the directions, finally getting up to my tiny little quim, and I was liking this quite a bit. He kind of burrowed around. Her directions get a little vague at this point. I decided to put in a footnote.
"What you do now," I said helpfully, "is use your hand to open it up a little. I wouldn't mind a few little strokes with your finger, either."
Compliance followed. He really is a nice man. He finally got his tongue in and started trying to eat my clit. I about jumped out of my skin.
.... There is more of this story ...