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Subject: {Mat Twassel} Bed and Breakfast
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Bed and Breakfast
by Mat Twassel
(for Diana)
=============
I was about to leave for work when the phone rang. Laura
answered. "Who was that?" I asked when it was over.
"Karen," Laura said. "She won't be able to make it for
breakfast." Every month or so Karen and Laura went out for
breakfast. I knew Laura looked forward to these meetings.
Karen is intelligent and fun, and surely it's a nice change
from Laura's usual morning routine of coffee and newspaper,
piano practice, exercise, and more piano practice.
"Is Karen okay?" I asked.
"Jeff has a fever and isn't going to school. He threw up
six times."
"Great," I said. "I'd go to breakfast with you, but
Rollie's got another one of those 'must attend' Y2K
meetings."
"That's okay," Laura said. She hugged me. Her breasts
through her nightshirt felt sleepy-soft and nice. "Thanks
for thinking of me," she whispered. For a moment I thought
maybe I could miss Rollie's meeting. Phone in sick, or
something. As if reading my mind, Laura told me I'd better
get my butt moving. "You know how Rollie is," she said.
"But when are these Y2K things going to end?"
"2001 if we're lucky," I answered.
Laura smiled.
I couldn't resist giving her one more kiss. Oh, such
sweetness. Finally she pushed me away. "Now go!"
"What are you going to do?"
"The usual, I guess. Make some coffee. Make sure the kids
get off to school."
"You could write me a letter," I suggested. I don't know
what made me think of it.
"A letter?"
"Something, you know, sexy. And mail it to my office?"
She chuckled as she pushed me out the door.
Half way to work I forgot all about the letter. Three days
later it arrived.
Dear Mat,
You're so sweet. You're my sweet curly-headed
honey bunny. I wish I could tickle you. Thanks
for thinking of me this morning. Are you thinking
of me this morning? What are you thinking? I wish
I could sneak up on your thoughts. See them and
hold them and feel them. Do you think of me? Do
you think good things? I'm babbling aren't I? I'm
not used to letters, to writing. I keep thinking I
should be writing a grocery list. Lettuce.
Cheese. Carrots.
I'll try to be sexy for you. Be patient. First
I'd better call Karen. Find out if she needs
anything for Jeff. Back in a sec.
Hi again. Busy. I left a message.
Where were we? Sexy stuff. My pen resists going
that way. I think of... oh, I don't know how to
say it. Shopping lists are easier. Lettuce,
carrots, cheese. That lettuce is going to be
wilted if we don't watch out.
Want me to tell you a secret? Okay. I said that
without knowing what secret I was going to tell. Do
you believe me? Here goes.
Ropes. What if I tied you up to the bed? The
trouble is I don't know the knots. I guess you
could teach me. You know knots. You know so many
things. Anyway, I'm thinking of you tied up on the
bed. We'll figure out the knots later. I image
big heavy rope, like the kind that holds ships to
harbors. Not laundry line. When I was a little
girl, I watched Grammy Busha hanging laundry. She
was really good at it. There was a sack full of
clothespins. Grammy was so short she could barely
reach the line. I liked the bedsheets best. Big
and white and freshly damp. I'd slide my face and
fingers along the fabric. I always assumed someday
I'd be hanging out laundry. And then Grammy died
and we always used the drier after that.
You're naked. Nude. Nothing on, lying on your
back, in bed, ropes on your hands and feet. You
can move, but not much. Your little tusk is so
sweet, all nestled in its nest. Then you see me
watching you, and you smile, and immediately your
tusker begins to grow. I like the way it does
that. From something almost shriveled it stretches
up, like flowers stretch towards the sun, but in
cute little intervals, like a little boy hopping up
the front steps. Hop hop hop. Oh, my tickle
bunny. My little boy. Penis. I wanted to write
that word. Penis and then cock. Penis becoming
cock. Tusk. Sweet and strong, the stem stretched
straight up, the hat so cute and hoping. One 'p' in
hoping. Penis. Penis in my mouth. No, we're not
there yet. Don't get ahead. Don't make me get
ahead.
Besides, you can't move. You're all tied up. It's
nice to have you this way.
Do you like what I've written so far? I'm going to
touch myself a little now. Just a little. For
flavor. I wish you could watch. Maybe you are
watching. Maybe I'm standing at the foot of the
bed, fully clothed, watching you, your eyes, and
your tusk straining straight up. You can't move.
I start with the nipple. Through the shirt. I'm
wearing that brash orange and navy tee, the bold
stripes across my breasts. Makes them look fatter,
don't you think? The nipples push. Mm, feels good
under my fingers. Finger and thumb. Pinching
lightly. Now a little harder. Just a little.
Makes me squint. Makes me feel good. Good and
hot. I think about taking my top up.
I think about taking my top up, but I don't. My
breasts feel fat and full. Nipples plump as
berries. Darker than they were before our babies.
Do you miss my pink nipples? The way they were?
Oh well. Can't be helped. My breasts are fatter,
though. I'm fatter. Not much fatter, though,
right? Not too fat?
You tell me I'm not fat, but still... but still.
It's hard not feeling that way sometimes. I'll
listen to what you say. You're so good to me. You
love me, don't you? I can't hear it enough. I
don't feel fat when you're filling me. I feel... I
don't know, like liquid, sometimes a warm pool,
fully fluid, like water touched by sun and
rushing down down down. Waterfalls.
All this is going through my head while I play with
my nipple under my shirt. The right nipple. The
left one feels neglected, but it's fattened up,
too. Twins. I've taken both hands and pulled my
shirt tight. I've rocked my shirt up and down.
Don't laugh.
One thing... gripping my shirt at the bottom has
brought my hands closer to my lap. Or it did until
I wrote that last sentence. I wanted to touch the
place. I can feel the beginning of wetness. I'm
wearing those cotton Calvin Klein workout shorts.
I'm thinking about putting my hand on my mound.
Just my palm. No fingers yet. Just pressure.
Pressing lightly.
My nipples are like little knots. Tight little
knots. You're good with knots, aren't you? My
mound wants. I move my hand down. Down my belly.
You watch from the bed. I need your eyes there.
Your tusk is straining up. Gleam seeps from the
tip. Just a touch of gleam. I'd like to touch it
with my tongue. Just the tip of my tongue. You'd
see the silver strand stretch up as I moved back,
stretch up and snap. Sticky, like a spider web in
the sun, a single strand, so sweet, I can almost
taste it.
But I'm not going to suck you just yet. First I'm
going to touch myself through my workout shorts.
Just enough to get my own gleam going.
I cheated. I rubbed a little. I made myself
squeak. Just one shy squeak and then I stopped. On
your back in the bed you can see my fingers sneaking
under the waistband. My middle finger carefully
eases into the crease, avoiding the clit at all
costs. Yes, I'm wet. Wetter than I would have
thought.
The sheets dried in the bright sun. One day I
asked Grammy what made them dry. Was it the sun?
"Yes, Laurie," she said. "The sun and the breeze."
"But how?" I asked. She explained. "The sun
fizzles the water up, and the breeze carries it
away." She used that word. "Fizzles." I thought
it was funny, like soda pop poured too quick
overflowing the glass. When you come it's like
that sometimes. When I milk you with my hands and
you bubble over, all white and creamy, it's like
soda pop exploding, but no breeze to carry it away,
so I have to suck quickly, or there'll be a mess,
and we'll have stains on the sheets. No, I'm not
going to suck you yet. I'm not going to touch you
either. Not yet. Be patient.
When you come, does it feel like a fizzle? Does it
ever feel like you're choking, like you drank too
fast and swallowed the wrong way? And you think
"now I'm done for" but it feels good all the same,
good in a deeply dangerous way?
By now your meeting with Rollie might be over. You
might be back at your desk, working working
working. You're so brave. So brave and so
handsome to work that way. I could never do it. I
will reward you. I will touch myself some more.
That's your reward. My fingers are working. Work
work working. On my nipples. On the top of my
mound. I'm standing at the foot of the bed doing
this for you.
I'm pretty ready now. Pretty ready to do what I'm
going to do. What I've been planning. You've been
patient, so now... if I can be brave... if I can
write it right.
First I scrape my finger along the underside of
your tusher. Your tusher tusk. I love to see that
little jerk. So sweet and strong he is, your
tusher tusk. He wants me.
And then I get up on the bed. And carefully, ever
so carefully, I ease aside the crotch of my CKs,
and lower myself. I lower myself until the tip of
your tusk just touches me. My gleam place. Your
tusk kisses me there. Oh sweetie, I can almost
feel it. Oh, god, I want to go down so much, to
sink swift and full and all the way, to be filled
in one gulping pushing rush.
But I won't let myself do that. Just a kiss is all
you get. For now. And I give you a pretend kiss
with my lips, through the air, like movie stars to
their hordes of admirers.
I see myself stepping onto a train car, an old-
fashioned one. The platform is crowded with
beautiful people. They've all come to see me off.
The wind ripples through my hair. There's a band
in the background. I purse my lips, blow them all
a single kiss. And then I slip into the train,
into the private compartment. Waiting for me is a
silver bowl of perfect strawberries, and a crystal
goblet brimming with Champagne. Both of these on a
smooth walnut writing desk along with perfectly
white pages and an elegant ballpoint pen. "Dear
Mat," I write.
Do you want me? Do you want me as much as I want
you? I can't wait. I meant to tease you with more
kisses. Your tip just touching my gleam. I meant
to do at least six more of these teasing kisses.
But I can't. I sink all the way down. Oh love!
You're so good in there. You always are. There is
nothing like it. Nothing like being filled that
way. You like it too. It is perfect. It is the
way we were meant to be. Don't move. Don't even
twitch. Just feel how perfect we are. How snug
and full. Just feel. Oh honey. Anything else is
extra.
Carefully, slowly, I move up and down six times,
once for each missing kiss. I come all the way up,
but not quite enough to let you come out, and I go
all the way down, and I wait at the bottom, and
then when we've adjusted to the pleasure, I give
you six squeezes, the kind that make us both
shiver, the kind that make you twitch, the kind
that could make you come if I did one more without
rising up.
I then I get off. No, not get off "come." I take
myself all the way off of you. As I slip out of my
pants and shirt, I admire your tusk, so gleaming
with my gleam, all slick and cunty. I suck it
then, your tusk, taking it immediately deep into my
mouth until I can't take any more. I taste me on
you, the strangeness of my sap. There's a buzz to
it, like summer air. I suck harder, giving in to
your want, but not all the way. Almost, but not
quite. You want me so bad, you boy. I hold the
stem and lick and tease. You squirm. I lick some
more. I turn myself so that my bottom faces you,
so you can see the openness, and how much I want
you, the wet gleam pooling there, and I lick and
suck, suck and lick, keeping you near the edge,
wetting you until all the flavor of me is off, is
in my mouth, swirling there like another kind of
cunt.
And then I turn and kiss your mouth. Kiss you so
you can taste my cunt on my tongue, taste my gleam
all over my lips, taste that tingling summer buzz
you've given me, and at the same time I catch your
tusk with my cunt, I capture it and hold it and
fuck it. I fuck you as we kiss, and in an instant
you can't breathe for coming, you explode inside
me. Fizzle doesn't come close to describing it.
You come and come and come. Yes, my honey, my
sweet big fucking boy. You come so hard and good.
Yes, honey. You do!
And here's why I tied you up. Do I dare do this?
After all this I'd better. Okay. Okay. After
you've come, after you've flooded me full and
happy, I slither up your body and put my cunt
against your mouth. And somehow you know what I
want. I want your tongue to taste me. To taste my
just-fucked cunt. To taste your seed swelling and
swirling in there, mixing with my juices. I fuck
your face and your tongue just as earlier I fucked
your cock. The hot flow flows out of me flooding
your mouth. My clit brushes your nose. I fuck my
clit against your nose. I fuck you until I flood
your face with me and you, with all our essence. I
fuck and fuck and fuck. I do it until I come, oh
waterfalls of coming until I can't come anymore.
And then I come again. I do. Oh god, I do.
You're not mad at me, are you? Do you still love
me? Oh, honey. Dare I mail this? Oh dear. I
wonder if Karen ever writes letters like this to
Joe. I wonder how Jeff is doing. I'd better call.
Oh, could you stop on the way home and pick up some
... yikes, it'll be days before you get this, if I
mail it at all. You make me crazy sometimes, you
know? I'm crazy for you. I love you.
Laura
I didn't get much work done in the next hour. Part of the
time I was thinking about our bed. It didn't have the right
kind of bedposts. I called The Towers. "Do you have any
rooms with old-fashioned beds in them?"
"Old-fashioned?" the reservation clerk asked.
"Like four-posters. Not necessarily a canopy. For today?
Now?"
They did.
Then I telephoned home. Laura didn't answer, but she seldom
answers when practicing. Working her way through
Rachmaninoff's "Etudes-Tableaux, Opus 33," I imagined, as
I spoke to the answering machine.
"The Towers, room eleven-thirteen, two o'clock. Under your
wrap wear the orange and blue tee shirt and the CKs, okay?
Leave a note for the kids to order pizza for supper."
I had to hurry. I phoned the hotel again and made sure a
silver tub of strawberries would be in the room along with
some champagne in a bucket of ice. I phoned Saks, the one
in the mall across from The Towers, and ordered a single
crystal goblet to be delivered to the hotel immediately. I
told Beverly I was feeling a bit strange and was taking the
rest of the day off just in case. I stopped at a hardware
store and bought the closest thing they had to hawser--
twenty-eight feet of it sliced into four seven foot lengths.
At one thirty I checked in, picked up the parcel from Saks,
and borrowed a corkscrew from the barman. "My wife will be
here at two or so," I told the desk clerk. I handed him a
twenty. "Just give her the key... she shouldn't need any
assistance."
The room was perfect. I undressed and opened the champagne.
I'd never opened wine while nude before. I adjusted the
curtains to let a large square of light fill the bed. I took
the ropes out of the hardware store sack and stored the sack
in the closet with my clothing. I rinsed the crystal goblet
and dried it thoroughly with one of the fluffy face towels
and set in on the table next to the champagne where the
afternoon light made it gleam. I took the bedspread and quilt
from the bed and bundled them into the cupboard. Now the
bed was bare except for the crisp white topsheet and two
plump pillows where my head would be.
Laura's right: I'm good with knots. I hitched each rope
length to a bedpost, and I fashioned a hangman's noose in
each free end. I sat in the bed and put a noose over each
foot, then tightened the knots. I slipped my hands through
the other openings and drew them taut simply by pulling.
Then I waited.
I tried not to think of anything. Images of Laura kept
coming to me. The way she looks when she's playing piano.
The way she looks when she's coming. The way she looks. I
took a deep breath and tried to will away my excitement. I
studied the paintings, the wallpaper, the slowly shifting
light.
Someone knocked on the door. I didn't answer. I closed my
eyes. I'll pretend to be asleep, I thought. I could hear
the card-key working the lock, the door swinging open then
clicking shut. I held my breath, and I'm sure I grinned,
for I could smell Laura's perfume.
She was looking at me, smiling, a mischievous smile of
friendly naughtiness. There was a long moment of
pulsing quiet.
"I think I'll have a sip of this champagne first," she said.
After that she didn't say anything, she just set about doing
all the things of her letter and more. It couldn't have
been more wonderful.
A long time later she untied me. "Could you have gotten
free?" she asked. "How did you tie yourself up. I don't
imagine you made the bellboy do it?" I grinned at her and
gathered her into my arms. We relaxed into each other, and
she fell asleep for awhile. I felt utterly content.
"What are you thinking?" she asked. I regretted missing the
moment of her awakening.
"Nothing much," I said. "Just glad that Jeff was sick the
other morning."
"Me too," Laura said.
I wondered how much of all this she'd tell Karen the next
time they had breakfast.
=====
Bed and Breakfast
by Mat Twassel
Note: This piece, dedicated to Diana,
follows (in so far as I am able) the
Malinov Formula #27A
Comments welcome:
mmtwassel@aol.com
Original Malinov stories at:
http://www.gslink.com/~dcain/xanadu/erotica/
More Mat Twassel stories at:
http://members.aol.com/Mmtwassel/index.html
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