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 newsgroups Alt.Sex.Stories and Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated and for archiving by the Alt.Sex.Stories.Moderated archive and DejaNews. All other rights are reserved. Do not repost or distribute by any other means without express permission from the author.
NOTE: In olden times, a little story like this was called a "fancy," which meant a tale not subject to all the strictures of reality. I am aware of the controversy over the starting date of the new millennium, and I know that it will begin somewhere in the Pacific and not in Times Square. But this is a fancy.
"Martha, what's bugging you?"
Should I tell him? I thought not, but I knew I would. I've never liked New Year's Eve much. It's like a birthday. What's to celebrate? You're glad you're getting older? That's when you're a kid, not when you can feel the bad back and the sore knees and have to wear reading glasses. But even when I was a kid I thought New Year's was scary. All these people partying, drinking, having fun. What are they celebrating? That they've survived another year? They certainly can't be celebrating what's coming, because they don't know.
"I'm scared, that's all," I said. "Haven't you noticed? I'm always that way on New Year's Eve. And Y2K is worse. I don't know why, but it's worse this year."
I smiled at him. He certainly wasn't one of my problems. Well, maybe he was, because he's getting older, too,and he's older than I am. I'm forty-two. He's fifty. Or will be next month. So, yes, he was a problem. Works too hard, plays too little, getting around to heart attack time. But he's cheerful, and fun, and he still says I'm beautiful. I love him.
"Dear old Martha," he said, smiling that "I care about you" smile he has. I know that one, just as I know all the others. That one is the best, I think. "I wish I could kiss it and make it better."
"You could," I said. I smiled again.
So he did. It wasn't time, yet, for the regulation New Year's kiss, but he set his champagne glass down on a lamp table, took mine out of my hand and put it down, too, and put his arms around me.
"It's early," he said, looking into my eyes, still smiling."Fifteen minutes to go. But I believe in starting early."
He pulled me hard up against him. My breasts pushed against his chest. I could feel his thighs against mine. He leaned down and put his lips on mine, gently, at first, then harder. I could feel his heartbeat. He tasted sweet, of champagne. I opened my mouth and took his tongue inside, and he squeezed me harder. I didn't know it would be like that, there at our own party, with all those people around. But he was in charge, not me, and I was more than willing to go along.
He didn't pull away, he kept on fondling me with his tongue. I was smiling to myself. "Hoo-Ha!" I thought. "This is getting interesting!" And the kiss went on and on. He pulled back just a little and brought a hand around to put it between us on my breast. Right there in front of all those people! It did feel good! And the kiss went on and on. And then he pulled away, bowed, and kissed my hand. My goodness! I was smiling, then, I'll tell you! People were looking at us and they smiled, too. Floor show!
"We could just leave and go to the bedroom," he said, quietly.
"And miss seeing the ball come down and all the people yelling?" I was still smiling, and my pulse was getting stronger and faster. "And leave them all to wonder why the hostess wasn't there?"
.... There is more of this story ...