"Holiday" {Uther} (MF wl)

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to read electronically transmitted erotic material, please go do 
something else. 

This material is Copyright, 2003, 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 
permission. 

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 
coincidental. 
 
                             #  #  #  

                             Holiday 
                       by Uther Pendragon 
                    nogardneprethu@gmail.com 


George Powell loved his daughter, Shannon, truly he did.  
He enjoyed her chatter at dinner, and -- after he'd shut himself 
away at his computer to type up the sermon for Sunday -- was very 
glad to take a break from his struggle in finding something new 
to say about "Who do you say that I am?" to help put her to 
bed. 

Shannon was all sweet smelling from her bath and brushing her 
teeth.  She gave him an enthusiastic hug and kiss.  He read her 
one book.  Then Barb and he heard her prayers and kissed her good 
night.  All of this was a pleasant break from work. 

Still, he breathed a sigh of relief when Barb and he were 
safely distant from her room.  Shannon was a delight, but she was 
a responsibility as well.  When she was around and awake, you had 
to pay attention to Shannon.  Barbara, now, paying attention to 
Barbara was a delight -- especially when he kissed her and held 
her against him as he did now.  But he could leave her to her own 
tasks when he had to get back to struggle with what Paul told the 
Galatians about law and faith. 

When he'd got it down, he put it away.  As always, he wouldd 
run through it for Barb. That would be tomorrow night, Saturday 
being a holiday.  Tonight, they looked in on their daughter and 
blew kisses from the doorway towards her sleeping form.  They 
made their separate preparations for bed; the parsonage, which 
had four bedrooms, had only one bathroom.  In bed, though, they 
came together. 

He kissed Barb closed-mouth before kissing all over her face. 
When his tongue invaded her mouth, hers welcomed it, then dueled 
with it.  Always on call for mothering, she wore a warm flannel 
nightie.  But it was a large one, with plenty of space for his 
hands.  Later, when he'd pushed it up around her armpits, he had 
free access to kiss and lick her breasts.  And, still later, when 
he kissed lower on her body, she could pull it down a little way 
so that the wet nipples were covered against the chill of the air 
conditioning. 

Kissing there, he could appreciate her odor and her sweet 
taste. And she appreciated his kisses, too.  "Oh," she said, "oh, 
George.  Oh, darling.  Oh, George!"  She reached down to draw him 
upward and in. 

At that point, they heard the toilet flush in the bathroom 
next door.  They froze.  Had Shannon heard them?  They listened 
to her stomp down the hall to her room.  Whoever invented the 
phrase, 'the patter of little feet,' must have been deaf.  When 
Shannon's bed creaked, he went back to licking Barb's 
sweetness. 

But Barb shook her head.  She tugged on his arms, pulling him 
up her body.  She reached down to put him in, her hand warm and 
soft on his erection.  But what he touched next was warmer, and 
softer, and delightfully liquid.  After he drove in, he paused 
for an instant to appreciate that glorious feeling along his 
whole length. 

But Barb ran her hands down his back and tugged at his seat.  
He started moving in her, both of them keeping the absolute 
silence of concerned parents. 

The feel of her nipples brushing against his chest, the feel 
of her hands resting on his seat, these intensified his passion. 
But the feel of his stiffness sliding within her smoothness was 
the dominant sensation.  She felt so wonderful he wished he could 
tell her so.  But, with the walls so thin and Shannon down the 
hall, of course he couldn't. 

He kissed her instead, the next time he was fully inside.  Her 
tongue met his, and her arms and legs hugged him briefly.  Then 
he had to move, had to move faster and faster. The first time the 
springs squeaked, though, he slowed down a bit. 

Then he pressed into her as hard as he could and throbbed.  
And gushed.  And, then, collapsed. 

He moved off her after a second.  He lay next to her and was 
careful to cover her with the sheet.  She was so darling, so 
delightful.  She didn't really need the sheet, though.  She 
wasn't filmed with perspiration as she sometimes was.  He had 
come, come gloriously, come explosively if silently. 

She hadn't.  He moved his hand to her crotch; maybe she needed 
a little more attention just then.  She pushed his hand away and 
lowered the nightie to cover herself.  She didn't want any 
attention just then.  He couldn't ask why.  Probably Barb 
wouldn't tell him even if Shannon weren't around; but Shannon 
was, and you couldn't discuss sex where your eight-year-old might 
overhear. 

Friday, the occurrences of the night nagged at him.  So did 
the sermon, though not so much.  Saturday was the Fourth.  On the 
fifth of July, after the holiday, attendance would be sparse, and 
attention would be absent.  Still, he knew that the Epistle and 
the Gospel related, and he knew that he hadn't expressed the 
relationship. 

He printed out the sermon he had while Shannon was taking her 
bath.  After kissing her good night, reading her a story, and 
hearing her prayers, he and Barbara retired to the dining room. 
He gave Barb the sermon.  "Very good, dear," she said afterwards. 
Which meant that it wasn't.  Barb's responses were an accurate 
prediction of how the sermon would go over with the congregation, 
but not if you listened to the words. 

Still, there was no sense fretting over it.  They watched the 
news together and went to bed.  Their good night kiss was 
friendly.  He could tell she loved him, could also tell she 
didn't desire him.  Oh well, Monday night was coming.  There was 
no sense fretting over that, either.  'God grant me the patience 
to bear what I can't change, the strength to change what I can 
change, and ...' *sometime* some samples of the latter in things 
which really mattered. 

Saturday, they and the whole town went to the lake.  There was 
a picnic all day and fireworks in the evening.  Many of his 
parishioners could remember when politicians came out to address 
them; the real oldtimers could remember when people gave 
attention to those speeches.  The lake fed into Lake Michigan, 
not Lake Superior; it was the fourth of July, the height of 
summer.  Still, the water was a little chilly to tempt 
George. 

Barb went in, though.  She wore a one-piece suit, appropriate 
for a pastor's wife.  Appropriate, she thought for the mother of 
an eight-year-old.  Really, she had a great figure.  If she was 
carrying more than she had before Shannon, the gain was as much 
in the breasts as in the waist.  Over the suit she wore what was 
essentially a muu muu. 

"Look at Crystal Cameron," he said when they'd got to the lake 
and Shannon had scampered off to find her friends.  "You could 
dress more revealingly.  If Ryan lets his daughter wear that, he 
can't object to your wearing something more form-fitting." 
Crystal was currently in jeans, top, and sandals.  The jeans were 
tight enough, though, for anybody to see that her bathing suit 
was a bikini.  You could see the outline of the minimal bottoms 
quite clearly. 

"And who says that he lets her?" Barb retorted.  "She's 
eighteen, George.  When I was eighteen, my dad didn't approve of 
how I dressed.  Anyway, Ryan isn't the problem."  And Ryan wasn't 
the problem. 

"Can't see why.  When you were eighteen..., well, nineteen, 
*I* thought how you dressed was delightful."  He hadn't known her 
at eighteen. 

"And what changed when I was twenty?"  She was close to 
laughing. 

"Nothing.  Well, you bought new clothes, but your style was 
still delightful." 

"Didn't seem to me that you thought so then." 

"Didn't I say I liked them?"  Damn! had he been too sparse 
with his compliments even back then? 

"You wanted to take them off at every opportunity." 

He laughed.  He loved her in this mood.  She was a good mother 
and the sort of wife who supported her-husband-the-pastor, and he 
loved his wife and loved Shannon's mom.  He just wanted his 
raunchy girlfriend back sometimes. 

"Monday," he said.  Monday was his day off, and Monday night 
after Shannon was safely asleep, was their special night. 

"It's a date," she said. 

And then the Denver family invited them over "to nibble." 

And, one worry removed, he certainly wasn't going to fret over 
the other.  They socialized a bit, and he lay on a blanket with 
his mind totally blank while Barb and Shannon (Shannon had 
inherited her mother's polar-bear genes) went swimming. 

And, into that blankness, that welcome blankness, popped an 
idea. If the Gospel and Epistle had a dialogue together -- and he 
was convinced that they did, the Lectionary committee may well 
have been convinced they did, too; after all, they'd put them on 
the same Sunday -- then that dialogue didn't have to be expressed 
as one thing followed by another thing.  The logical progression 
was: "Who do people say that I am?"   What did Paul say Christ 
was?  "Who do you say that I am?" 

It would make a great sermon.  He would remember it in three 
years; he might even put it in a file on his computer to bring up 
in three years.  But this was Saturday, he wouldn't get back 
until after the fireworks.  There wasn't time to change the 
sermon he'd preach tomorrow. 

His women came back for lunch.  Barb donned her muu muu again; 
it stuck to her still-wet suit.  Shannon wrapped herself in a 
towel they'd brought.  After lunch, the family scattered to visit 
other families in their spots.  He returned to their spot minutes 
before Shannon.  "Is it all right to go in again?" she asked. 

It had been more than an hour, but....  "Wait here.  Mommy 
won't be long."  And, indeed, Barbara came back minutes 
later. 

"Let's go swimming again," Shannon greeted her. 

"No thanks.  You can go in by yourself, just stick close to 
people."  Not that Shannon was in any danger.  The girl could 
swim like a fish.  "And come back here when you come out." 

After they'd watched Shannon run towards the lake, Barb turned 
to him.  "George, what's wrong?"  Why they bothered talking to 
each other, he couldn't tell.  After more than a decade of 
marriage, they could read each others' minds.  Instead of 
preaching his sermon to Barb, he should just walk in front of her 
with it in his hands.  She'd look a his face; he'd look at hers; 
he would know how the sermon would go over with the 
congregation. 

"Nothing's very wrong. It's just that I put the sermon 
together in the wrong order.  And I figured that out when it's 
too late to change it.  And, while that's happened to me before, 
usually I'm putting on my robe when the light breaks -- teaching 
the adult class, at worst.  Now I've got plenty of time to brood 
over it. I just don't have any time to change it.  I'm tempted to 
think it out now and wing it tomorrow, but you know what's 
happened before when I wing it."  The congregation might not 
notice what the sermon was about, tomorrow.  They would sure-as-
hell notice if it took forty minutes. 

"And why can't we go back?" 

"You can't be serious.  The fireworks.  You know what Shannon 
would say if she missed the fireworks?  It's not *that* far. 
Maybe I could walk it and leave the two of you here." 

"You're going to drive back.  I'm going with you.  We'll leave 
Shannon here.  The church is full of people who think they have 
parental rights to Shannon, telling her how to behave.  Let one 
of them take the parental duties, for once." 

"You could stay here.  See the fireworks.  Hitch a ride." 

"You need an audience." 

"Well, I'm not sure I'd trust the people who take most of the 
parental authority with respect to Shannon.  How about the 
Camerons, Ryan and Laura?"  And Ryan, as chair of staff-parish, 
was the first man he should go to for help. 

"Sounds good to me.  They ought to be good substitute parents. 
After all, Crystal hasn't dropped out, gotten pregnant, or been 
arrested for drug use." 

When Shannon got back from swimming, they ran it by her.  "Dad 
and I have to go back to the house," Barbara said.  "Do you want 
to go back with us, or stay to see the fireworks?" 

"Do I have to go?" 

"Not if Mr. Cameron will watch you.  Will you be good and do 
what he says?" 

"Oh yes.  Please, please." 

"Let's ask him."  And they did.  Ryan and Laura looked happy. 
They were good people, and -- after all -- Shannon was a good kid 
and extremely popular.  They kissed her goodbye and drove back to 
the parsonage. 

"Thanks," he said when they were home.  He kissed her. 
Surprisingly, she responded to the kiss by thrusting her tongue 
into his mouth.  His hands roved all over the outside of the muu 
muu, feeling nothing but the casing of the swimsuit underneath 
it. 

She was laughing when she pushed his hands away, but push them 
away she did.  "You have a sermon to rewrite," she said.  "I'll 
set the table for our supper."  He went upstairs to the bedroom 
he used for an office.  Things went swimmingly.  He had most of 
the right ideas already; he just had them in the wrong order.  He 
saved what he already had as P05c98.old, and moved blocks around 
for the new sermon.  "How is it coming?" she asked from the 
doorway a little later. 

"Okay," he said.  "I've about got it arranged.  But I'll need 
to run all the way through it to smooth out the transitions." 

"Good," she said.  She came over behind him, and he leaned 
back for an upside-down kiss.  "I'll take a shower.  This suit 
dried on me." 

He heard the shower begin, and then he returned his attention 
to the screen in front of him.  He'd got through it all, and was 
staring at the screen when he heard the shower stop.  He printed 
the new one out, and saved it.  He was outside the bathroom door 
when she came out in the muu muu, but carrying the bathing suit. 
She cooperated in the kiss, accepting his tongue, relaxing 
against him.  He could feel her soft breasts press against his 
chest, her buttock flexing under his right hand.  The print-out 
in his left interfered with his hug. 

She pushed herself away, though.  "Got the sermon finished?" 
she asked. 

"Ready to go.  Dinner first?" 

"Sermon first.  It's early for dinner time.  We can eat after, 
whatever.  And I can be an audience again if you want to rewrite 
it." 

"Good enough.  Let me wash up."  And, after using the toilet, 
he did.  Down in the dining room, the table was a massive fixture 
of the parsonage, much larger than they would ever get for 
themselves.  It nearly filled the large room.  She'd set one end 
for the two of them.  She was sitting back from one side of the 
other end, the congregation in miniature.  He stood on the other 
side of that end, put the sermon down in front of him, and 
began. 

"'Who do people say that I am,' Jesus asked two thousand years 
ago.  And, back then people said he was...."  He recited the list 
from Luke, went on to the many things people today say Jesus had 
been and is.  Then he elaborated on Paul's saying that Jesus was 
the object of a faith that transcended the law.  He ended with 
the question, "and who do *you* say Jesus is?" 

"Much better, dear," Barb said.  "And a just under eighteen 
minutes, too.  Is there anything you want to add?" 

"No.  Let church get out two minutes early.  It's a holiday 
weekend; they'll be glad to go."  Neither of them mentioned that 
Barbara had said the previous version was very good.  This time, 
she meant it.  The kiss was sweet, sweeter for the job being 
done.  Her breasts were still soft against his chest; her seat 
was firm under his hands; her belly was warm against his 
erection. 

Finally, she stepped back.  "Dinner time.  Mind if I stay 
dressed like this?" 

Mind? He loved it. "Might as well; you don't want to spill 
anything on your breasts." 

"You!  You know what I mean." 

He knew she had meant further dressing, not further 
undressing. He just wanted the other option in her mind.  
"Monday." 

"It's a date."  And she sounded enthusiastic. 

Holding hands for the grace was something they'd instituted to 
include Shannon.  Tonight, on their holiday from parenting, it 
felt romantic. 

The food, intended for a picnic, looked a little odd on the 
massive, formal, table, although there were scars from many, 
many, families on the oak.  When he'd mentioned his worries about 
what a first-grader might do to such a formal piece of furniture, 
Ryan Cameron had responded, "Don't let her scratch her initials 
in the wood.  That or the date would be the only clues that the 
damage wasn't here when you came." 

"Good food," he told Barbara when they were finished.  They 
pushed their chairs back.  She came around the table for his 
kiss.  His tongue invaded her mouth while his hands caressed her 
body.  She broke the kiss, "Shannon," she said. 

"Is two miles away, with the Camerons." 

Her response was to return to his arms.  He tongue entered her 
mouth once more; his hands squeezed her seat.  When he withdrew a 
little do reach her breasts, the nipples pressed through the 
cloth to meet his hands. 

After a bit of that delight, she sagged against him.  He could 
feel all her warmth and softness against his full length.  He 
bent down and hugged her tight to him with one hand on each 
buttock.  When he straightened, he lifted her off the floor. 

"George!" she said, but she wrapped arms and legs around him.  
He carried her a few steps down the table and set her on a clear 
space.  Now he could resume the kiss and have both hands free. He 
stroked her breasts and then her thighs through the cloth. 

When he found this an impediment, he pushed her skirt up.  She 
held on to his shoulders while she lifted one buttock and then 
the other.  He pushed her skirt up until Barb was sitting on just 
the bottom hem.  He stroked her thighs, then reached under the 
dress to hold her breasts.  Soon, touching wasn't enough. 

He started to pull the dress higher.  "Monday," she said. 

"Monday is far away, and so is Shannon." 

Perhaps persuaded by that comment, she shifted her weight from 
side to side again while he pushed the dress from under her seat. 
She took it off, dropping it on the far end of the table.  His 
tongue tasted hers again, then he trailed kisses down her bared 
torso towards those lovely breasts.  When he sucked one nipple 
into his mouth, she leaned back on her arms.  She wasn't trying 
to escape; she was giving him access, free access. 

While he licked and sucked her nipple, he stroked the insides 
of her thighs.  Soon, his fingers were playing with her inner 
lips. He stroked the fluid upwards towards her button.  As he did 
so, there was more and more fluid to distribute.  He shifted to 
her other breast and pushed a finger into her and drew it 
out. 

"The table!" she said.  There was enough fluid that it might 
be dripping down onto the table.  She probably felt it dripping 
down. 

"Don't scratch your initials in it," he said.  Then he 
returned to her breast.  She laughed, then she gasped.  He sucked 
at her nipple again, stroking her button as he did.  She gasped 
again. 

Barb reached for the front of his trousers.  He moved back to 
evade her.  "Want you," she said. 

"And I want you.  Maybe too much."  He didn't want to come in 
her hand. 

"Bedroom is awfully far."  Too far for him, too. 

"Can you stand?" 

"Try," she said.  He stepped back and reached out his hand.  
She pulled herself up by it and dropped gingerly to the floor. 
Tentatively, she dropped his hand.  He bent over to kiss one 
breast again.  When she reached for his waist this time, she 
dealt with the belt. 

Then he turned her around by the shoulders.  "George," she 
said. But she bent forward over the table.  She stood with her 
feet nearly a yard apart.  He pushed his shorts down and shuffled 
forward with trousers and shorts around his ankles.  They hadn't 
done this in years, and he'd been barefoot at the time.  His 
shoes changed their relative height.  He found his erection 
coming into her too high.  "Move your feet together," he 
whispered. 

She did, and he was against that marvelous warmth.  "Barb," he 
whispered as he felt her liquid clasp around the head.  He 
pressed forward; she pushed back.  "Barbara," he said quite 
loudly as his entire shaft sank into her liquid warmth. 

No one else could hear.  To remind them of that, there came 
the muffled sounds of the fireworks beginning in the distance. 
"George," she said, clearly if not so loud.  He reached around 
her to cup her dangling breasts and feel their prominent nipples 
press into his palms. 

She bent forward, hammocking her back between her rigid arms 
and her legs.  That not only pressed the breasts into his hands, 
it drove him another bit into her.  He stood like that as long as 
he could, playing with her nipples with his fingers.  Then 
needing more motion, he withdrew nearly all the way. 

As he moved inward again, he pulled his right arm back against 
her thigh.  He drew her against him while his hand sought her 
center.  He stayed fully inside while his fingers explored her 
mound.  Then he pressed one finger against each outer lip while 
he resumed stroking in and out.  The most sensitive point at the 
bottom of his penis ran repeatedly over the most sensitive point 
in her vagina.  He could still heft her breast with his left 
hand.  "Barb," he said.  "Darling Barbara.  Oh, I love you." 

"Yes," she said, "Oh, yes, George."  She was using her hands 
on the table to push back when he pressed forward, to draw 
herself forward when he pulled out.  Then her motions stopped as 
she clutched around his penis. 

He pulled his hands back to her hipbones.  He pulled her back 
as he drove inward one more time.  Then he was gushing into her 
vaginal clutchings. 

She fell forward, face on her hands.  He dropped his hands to 
the table on each side of her and leaned on them. They both were 
breathing hard.  When he started to slip out, she grabbed the muu 
muu.  She held it between her legs as she straightened.  He 
reached for a paper napkin and wrapped it around his penis.  
"Whew," he said.  He wasn't as young as he'd been the last time 
they'd made standing love. 

"Whew, yourself.  Dibs on the bathroom." 

"Go ahead.  I can still hear the fireworks." 

She did, and came down dressed in jeans and blouse.  After his 
own shower, he put on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt.  They 
cleaned up the table, and cuddled in front of the TV.  They were 
watching coverage of fireworks displays from around the country 
when the doorbell rang.  Ryan Cameron carried Shannon in and 
handed her to George.  "We don't know how to thank you," Barb 
said. 

"The pleasure was mine," Ryan said.  You could tell from his 
tone of voice that he was sincere.  Now, Shannon had gotten as 
dirty as a grade school kid could on a picnic.  She had a little 
less jelly and mustard on her face now; George could tell by 
looking at where she'd left it on Ryan's shirt.  Still, the man 
had enjoyed caring for her. 

"Good people, the Camerons," he said after Barb had closed the 
door. 

"Good people.  The kitchen, I think."  In the kitchen, she 
hauled a chair over close to the back door.  As he held Shannon 
and moved her around to make it easier, Barb stripped her and 
draped the clothes on the back of the chair.  "I need to shake 
them out before they go in the washer," she said. 

"Bath tomorrow morning?" he asked.  Shannon was still only 
partly awake, and the part that was awake was beginning to 
fuss. 

"Soap tomorrow."  Barb answered.  "Give me two minutes and 
then bring her upstairs." 

When he did, Barb greeted him at the bathroom door as naked as 
Shannon.  She took Shannon from him and stepped under the 
already-running shower.  He guessed the next step and draped a 
towel across his front.  She handed Shannon to him and turned off 
the shower.  Out of the shower, she patted Shannon dry.  Then the 
two of them put her to bed.  No book tonight, no prayers, no 
nightgown, either. 

They stood together watching their daughter drop back to 
sleep. Barb was still bare, dripping from her third shower that 
evening. But the breasts and buttocks which had so attracted him 
earlier didn't suggest sex right then.  It was still the Fourth, 
but their holiday was over.  They were parents again. 


The end.  
Holiday
Uther Pendragon 
nogardneprethu@gmail.com 
2003/07/04


This story parallels one told from the point 
of view of Ryan Cameron.  That is to be found 
at:
dream.txt  "Perchance to Dream"  

A different story involving a different 
couple involved in a different stage of 
parenting is:
forays.txt  "Forays"  


This story is indexed in the subdirectory: 
wl.txt  Wedded Lust 

The index to almost all my stories:
http://www.asstr.org/~Uther_Pendragon/index.htm