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From: DrSpin  <DrSpin_member@newsguy.com>
Subject: {ASSM} 'Something To Tell' (MF oral cheat)
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Date: Mon, 20 Dec 1999 08:10:00 -0500
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'Something To Tell' (MF oral cheat)
by DrSpin
(drspin@newsguy.com)

* thanks to dw.

================================================================================
AUTHOR'S NOTE: I love dialogue and this is a dialogue story. Wet scenes are
absent and only referred to in conversation. Blow-by-blow action fans should
probably eject at this point.
================================================================================

"Listen," she said, interrupting. "There's something I have to 
tell you." 

It was a long drive home; more than two hours of it. But it had 
been a great party and worth the trip. I saw people I hadn't seen 
in a long time. Better, I became engrossed in a long and 
stimulating argument in the library about the democratic process 
which made me feel invigorated. Living out in the bush was good 
for the soul but not the intellect. Alison had been listening to 
my chatter in the car patiently. Or so I thought. Now, it came to 
me in a flash, she hadn't been listening at all. 

"There's something I have to tell you," she said. I felt a cool 
breeze. Those are often signal words, portending unpleasant news. 
Sorry but I have terminal cancer, for example. Or, sorry but I've 
decided to leave you. 

"Go on," I said warily, watching the road ahead. I forgot 
instantly what I had been talking about. 

"Back there at the party."

"Yes?"

"You got into some big debate. I was dancing."

"Sure." I knew that. Alison loved dancing.

"I went outside for some fresh air. With the guy I was dancing 
with. Mark, his name was." 

Uh oh. She had something to tell me. Here it was. I listened with 
growing dread. 

"He made a pass at me," she said.

"I see," I said. Was that all? "He put the word on you, eh?"

"Well, he kissed me."

"Ah. And you kissed him back?"

"Not at first."

"Not at first?"

"No."

"But then?"

"Well, he didn't stop."

"Did you ask him to stop?"

"Well, no. I just assumed he would."

"Did you give him any signals about stopping? I mean, did you 
struggle?" 

"Well, no."

"Alison, if he kissed you and you didn't tell him to stop by way 
of word or action, why would he stop kissing you?" 

"You make it sound like it was all my fault," she said truculently.

"Go on with the story. You were talking about kissing him back."

"Was I? Yes, I guess I did."

"Kissed him back?"

"Yes."

"For how long? I mean, how long did you both go on kissing?"

"I don't know. For some time, I guess."

I sighed in exasperation. "Alison," I said. "What the hell is 
going on here? You started by saying you wanted to tell me 
something. But you've told me almost nothing. I'm having to drag 
it out of you like a dentist pulling teeth. What actually is it 
that you wanted to tell me?" 

"Well," she said uncertainly, "I guess I wanted to tell you that 
I kissed this guy. To own up to it." 

"That's what you were going to tell me? That you kissed him?"

"Yes. I thought I should tell you."

"And I'm glad you did. It was the right thing to do. See? I'm not 
so unhappy about it. I can understand. You like to dance and you 
like to be kissed. He was probably an attractive guy. Was he?" 

"Well, yes. He was, actually."

"I can understand. As long as that's as far as it went."

Silence. An awkward silence. I glanced across at her. She was 
staring out the side window. "Right," I said softly. "There's 
more. You'd better tell me." 

"It's not easy," she said quietly.

"You didn't plan to tell me about more, did you? You were only 
going to tell me about dancing and kissing." Silence. I took it 
as assent. "If I ask questions, will you tell me truthful 
answers?" 

"Shit," she said, softly but distinctly and with feeling. This 
was unlike her. She didn't often swear. The whole thing was 
unlike her. She was not adventurous, flirtatious, immodest or 
careless. She barely drank alcohol, she didn't smoke, she didn't 
gamble and she certainly didn't play around. Unless, that is, I 
had misjudged her completely in all the eight years of our 
marriage. She was a cautious and conservative woman, a home-maker 
and responsible mother of two. 

I persisted. "Alison, will you tell the truth?"

"If you ask questions," she said, her voice tight.

"Okay. What happened next?"

Silence. Then: "I can't answer that. It's too hard for me."

Right. I understood. I had to ask specific questions. And the 
right specific questions. "Did he touch your breasts?" 

"Yes."

"You let him touch your breasts?"

"No. Yes. I don't know." She looked out the window again. "I 
didn't stop him." 

"So he put his hands on your breasts."

"Yes."

"Hang on a moment," I said, looking at her to check. "That dress. 
It buttons up the front. Did he undo any buttons?" 

"Yes."

"He put his hand inside your dress?"

"Yes."

"And you let him?"

She sighed deeply. "I didn't stop him."

"Maybe by then you didn't want to stop him." Silence. "Is that 
right?" 

"I don't know."

"But you didn't stop him."

"No."

"Did he put his hand under your bra?"

"Yes."

"Of course he did. Did he undo your bra?"

Hesitation. I felt it. "Did he undo your bra?" I repeated.

"No."

I was puzzled about her initial hesitation. I pursued it. "Was 
your bra undone?" 

She made a little protesting noise in her throat. "Yes," she said.

"So if he didn't do it, you did. Is that right?"

"Yes."

"Alison, I don't believe this. You took off your bra to allow him 
access to your breasts?" 

"Yes."

"Jesus. Was your dress undone? What, were you bare to the waist?"

Again the little noise. "Yes."

"Did he kiss your breasts?"

"Yes. God help me."

"Jesus, Alison. How much more is there? Jesus, did you fuck him?"

"No," she said very quickly.

It was true. She wouldn't lie to me. But clearly there was more. 
"Did he put his hand in your pants?" 

"Yes," she said. Her voice sounded like she was becoming resigned 
to it. 

"Did he put his fingers in you?"

"Yes."

"Did you...did you orgasm?"

Suddenly she turned angry. "Yes," she shouted. But then her anger 
died just as quickly. "Yes," she repeated quietly. "I did." 

I drove along the dark road, not even trying to assimilate this 
information. I had to know it all first. "Did you feel his cock?" 

"Yes."

"What, outside his pants?"

"Yes."

"And inside his pants?"

"Yes."

"You unzipped him and put your hand in and grabbed his cock? Is 
that right?" 

"Yes."

"Did you take it out?"

"Yes."

"Did you bring him off?"

"Yes."

"What, you jerked him off?"

"No."

"Then how did you do it?"

"That's not the right question."

"Bullshit, Alison. Tell me how you got him off."

"With my mouth."

"You sucked his cock?"

"Yes."

"You...you knelt on the ground, bare to the waist, took his dick 
in your hand and put it in your mouth." 

"Yes."

"And he put his hands in your hair and he loved it."

"Yes. Well, I assume he did."

"You assume it because he came?"

"Yes."

"Damn. He came in your mouth. You swallowed?"

"Yes."

"Jesus. Fucking Jesus. I was in the library catching up with old 
friends and you were giving some guy in the bushes out the back a 
blowjob. Is that what happened?" 

"If you must put it that way."

"And that's the full story?"

"Yes." She turned to me for the first time. I felt her eyes 
searching my face. "Isn't that enough?" 

"Considerably more than enough," I said. "What on earth got into 
you? This isn't like you at all." 

"No, it isn't," she said. "Honestly, I don't know how and why it 
happened. It just did. I can't explain it. What are you going to 
do?" 

"So tell me," I said sarcastically, "what do you think I should 
do? Stop the car and throw you out?" 

She was silent, staring again at the road ahead. We drove for a 
while without speaking. 

"Who was this guy?" I asked eventually.

"His name was Mark. He was a friend of Tim and Heather Watson, I 
think." 

"And he was good looking."

"Well, yes, more or less."

"More? Or less?"

"Well, more. He was a good looking guy."

"Are you going to see him again?"

"No."

"Swear?"

"I won't see him again."

We drove for another while. "Tell the truth," I said. "If you 
could have done so safely, would you have fucked him?" 

"I don't know."

"Alison, the truth."

"It's easy to say no now and mean it. But back there? I don't 
know. Maybe." She looked across at me again. "What are you going 
to do?" 

"Nothing."

"Nothing?" She was surprised.

"What the hell can I do? I love you. You're my wife. The mother 
of my children. My best friend and closest colleague. So what can 
I do? The only real answer is, nothing. You had an adventure. I 
guess I'll have to learn to live with it, because the 
alternatives are unacceptable." 

She was silent, thinking. We ate up more kilometres. "If we're 
going to get past this," I said eventually, "everything has to be 
clean. You have to tell me everything. If I think something has 
been left unsaid, it will nag at me. Is there anything more to 
tell?" 

"I don't think so," she said uncertainly. "I think I told it 
all." 

"So you came just the once."

Pause. "No," she said. "Twice."

"See? There's something you didn't tell me. Do I have to drag it 
out of you?" 

"I just remembered it now," she said. "When you asked."

"When did you come again?"

"When...ah, when he did."

"When you sucked him off?"

"Yes. It was, I don't know, so exciting, I guess. It just 
happened out of nowhere." 

"And you swallowed it."

"I told you that."

"All of it?"

"Not all of it. There was too much."

"It spilled from your mouth? Where?"

"On my body. On my dress."

"It's still there?"

"Uh, yes. I guess it is. More or less."

"Jesus, Alison. You're sitting in the car beside me with another 
man's sperm dried on your body and damp on your dress. Is that 
how it is?" 

"If you want to put it like that."

"What else do you have to tell me?"

"Nothing. I think that's all."

"And you've never done anything like it before?"

"You know I haven't."

"And you won't again?"

"I can't promise."

"What? Alison, what are you doing to me?"

"Being honest. I don't plan to do anything. But who's to say what 
will happen in the future? You might change, I might change, 
anything might change. I'm 33 years old and I've been a pretty 
good girl all my life. I'm getting older quickly, feeling less 
attractive by the minute, locked into a pattern of existence 
which stretches out for years ahead. Tonight a man found me 
desirable and, despite not having any plans or intentions, I 
responded. I feel young again. Sorry, darling, but that's how it 
is. I feel guilty but I also feel good. It's the most exciting 
thing to happen to me in years. So who's to say I won't respond 
if such a situation happens again? You? Not realistic. Me? I'm 
not that dishonest. It would be the easiest thing in the world to 
make a promise now, but I know in my heart I might not keep it. I 
don't love you less and I don't want to harm our marriage and I 
don't want to live with anyone but you. I'm just telling you the 
truth." 

"This means I can't trust you," I said sadly.

"Perhaps you never should have. Trust breeds complacency and 
boredom. I don't want to be bored and I don't want to be boring." 

Jealousy was sitting in the pit of my stomach like a cold hard 
lump of indigestible porridge. But the truth could not be 
avoided. For a long time now I'd been treating Alison like she 
was boring. And I'd become boring too. 

"There's something I have to tell you," I said to her.

"Go on," she said.

"I've booked myself into dancing classes next week."

She laughed and the tension fell away around us. "You have not," 
she said. 

"No, but I think I might."

ENDS
(drspin@newsguy.com)

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