★Memorable Author: [Jack Straw] Stories~collected

[DEA]

I think that deleting wouldn´t be good. Please don´t do it.
Only if he came here and asked for that...

[elgat]

OK I'll keep the thread on and post the last I have.

Glove man, part 3, by Jack Straw
Aftermath:  Life is good -- perhaps too full sometimes


Part 3A -- Aftermath

Linda had demanded before the game that Stan and she put the
stakes for the bet in a small bag.  The tallest of the girls then
fastened it at the top of the backstop in acrobatic fashion by
keeping her body perfectly rigid as Linda lifted her at her
ankles as high as Linda could reach.  It was the first of many
times that day that Linda's clothing was in danger of exploding
apart from the swelling of her outrageous chest and jutting
glutes.  Barring a pet monkey who might climb the backstop, the
bag was clearly safe from filching.  After the game these same
athletes retrieved it in the same fashion and counted out $150
for the entrance fee for the girls next tournament, amid
boisterous female cheering.

In lieu of her side bet, Linda accepted the keg from Stan that he
had brought in anticipation of finally having a victory to
celebrate over this mighty hoyden.  Linda, to her credit, did not
gloat, but clearly revelled in Stan's despondent demeanor.  His
surprising humility made any further humiliation superfluous.  He
was utterly defeated.

"Curly" helped Stan unload the heavy keg from his pickup and both
grunted with the effort.  As they backed away, breathing heavily,
Linda picked it up by herself and carried it away on one
shoulder, a parting demonstration of her utter superiority over
the strongest specimens our team had to offer.  Stan and his
friend looked at each other with resigned half-smiles and shook
their heads before getting into Stan's car and driving away.
Half of the men's team left at the same time, but the others,
including me, stayed to share the beer with the winners.

Returning to the victors' bench from Stan's car, Linda hoisted
the keg over her head and proceeded to hold it aloft with one
hand in a gesture of triumph and mountainous female strength.
Her teammates cheered, but onlooking males stared dumbly,
intimidated as much by the way her powerful outthrust breasts
broadcast her sex as by the fearsome bulging of the muscles that
rippled over every inch of her nearly nude body.

Linda spilled beer on herself as she took the first chug.  From a
distant vantage point, I smiled as she wiped beer from her chin
and the tops of her meaty breasts.  She could look foolish after
all.


As her teammates crowded around the keg, Linda sauntered
carelessly in my direction.  But as she approached, she was
distracted by a loud male voice on the edge of the parking lot.

"What a bunch of wimps!  Getting beat by girls!" a lothario was
loudly proclaiming to one of the girls.  He appeared to be
steering the girl toward a new, gleaming sports utility vehicle -
- status symbol of the suburban set -- to leave.  He was bare
chested, showing off his tanned, youthful, monstrously muscled
torso.  Obviously a jock or bodybuilder, he was very proud of his
physique.  I hadn't seen him during the game, but, then, I really
hadn't looked at anybody other than Linda most of the time.

Uh-oh, I thought, as Linda walked purposefully over to the
couple.  The girl was a typical cheerleader type, hour-glass
figure kept trim by dieting as much as by exercise, her
meticulous makeup still intact and her fashionably sexy hair
still neatly in place.  She was their right fielder and had been
a weak link that we hadn't exploited.  She was hanging onto the
substantial arm of this young Hercules, obviously proud to be his
girl and clearly defining her womanhood by having interested him
in her. 

She was the type of girl that is perennially elected cheerleader
by other girls because she had the lightweight curves women
generally want.  It's a myth that guys are responsible for this
mentality.  It's women.  Just as dressing up for formal dances
and the other ritual promenades in high school is to impress
other girls, not the guys. 

"Yeah, they weren't much," she agreed deprecatingly. "They could
have used some of your home runs, like the ones you hit your last
game."

"Uh-huh, I was in a zone, wasn't I?  But it would have been
embarrassing to be on the same field with these wimps you chicks
played.  What did you say the score was?"

"I'm not sure, 20 to 3, or something like that.  We didn't even
need to finish our last two innings!" she exulted proudly, and,
then glancing at his face, she looked down in embarrassment, as
if she were a Japanese geisha caught walking ahead of her man.

"Are any of their team still here?  You said they were older --
were these guys from a nursing home?  They had to be wimps and
wusses.  I can't believe it; your team looks more like
cheerleaders than ball players."

"Well, I wouldn't --" Sharon started to say.

"Sharon, please introduce your friend," Linda called out from
behind them.

Turning around, Sharon frowned at Linda's almost completely bared
breasts and her escort's stupefied gaze at Linda's awesome chest.
Linda kept trying to repair her bikini, but mere cloth was no
match for the expanse of her bosom.  The big jock grinned
boorishly as he reluctantly lifted his eyes to her face.
Nonsexual thoughts just were not possible that close to Linda,
dressed (undressed) as she was.

"Tim, Linda,"  Sharon muttered in irritation.  "I'm sorry but we
were just leaving," she continued as she yanked on big guy's left
bicep to keep him moving toward the car.

Linda fixed her eyes on his, which because of her high heels were
only a couple of inches above hers, and said calmly, "Glad to
meet you, Tim," and stuck out her hand.  As Tim instinctively
clasped it, Linda squeezed and Tim's eyes bulged as if his hand
were in a wringer.  His movement toward the car was instantly
halted and Sharon nearly fell down, as her feet kept moving but
her arm lodged in the crook of her escort's beefy arm stretched
her out as if she were a flag in a stiff breeze.  The rippled

(sexy!) flexing of Linda's planted legs and the bulging of her
right arm muscles indicated what had stopped the couple, but
otherwise, with one hand on her bare iron-sculpted hip, she
seemed utterly relaxed and clearly amused.

"Tim, what's the hurry?  Stay and have a beer.  The party's just
getting started," letting her eyes fix with obvious intent on his
massive pectorals and tight shorts.

"Uh, well -- " he faltered, once again distracted by Linda's
spectacular, near naked torso, the unmistakable body language,
and the look in her eyes.


"Come on, Tim, you said you wanted to leave," Sharon said
anxiously.

"Well, I -- we probably have time for -- a -- a little fun before
we go," Tim replied, groping for words, his own eyes nearly
popping from their sockets as they roamed up and down Linda's
breathtaking flesh and settled on her majestic bosom.  "Did I see
you at a bachelor party not too long ago?" he queried
transparently.

Sharon glowered.  Attention to any other woman was rude and
demeaning, but for Tim to favor Linda was a special affront to
Sharon and to her view of the world.  The face of this amazonian
rival was hardly beautiful in the way Sharon judged beauty, and,
whereas Sharon assiduously worked on keeping herself slender,
Linda's style had been to allow physical activity to build up
curvaceous muscular flesh into a monument of female power and
sexuality.

Ignoring Sharon's irritation and Tim's inane question, Linda
continued in a seductive tone, "Were you here during the game,
Tim?  Surely I would have noticed."  She grazed her bare thigh
against his obviously tented shorts.

"Uh, no. I missed it completely I guess.  But I -- we're here,
um, now -- for the, uh, party," he murmured vacantly, speaking to
the breast that poked through the taut string of her bikini and
almost moaning as Linda surreptitiously stroked his crotch with
her thigh, just out of Sharon's view.

"For the last time, let's go, Tim!" Sharon nearly shrieked and
once again pulled on his arm.  But Tim paid no attention.

"In fact, you've never seen us play, have you, Tim?" Linda
continued, also ignoring Sharon, whom she clearly despised.  "Yet
you think the other team must be wimps because a bunch of girls
beat the stuffing out of them, huh, Tim?"

"Well," Tim began to reply doubtfully, suddenly remembering his
reddening hand and trying unsuccessfully to extract it from her
crunching grip.  I thought I heard little grinding noises.

"I can see that you're a jock, Tim.  Do you think a girl could be
a better athlete or even stronger than you?" Linda asked
breathily.

"Feeling your oats are you, big girl?  Beating a bunch of old
wimps makes you think you could take on the real thing?" he
chuckled deprecatingly as she seemed to have relaxed her grip.
"What did you have in mind?"

"Well, instead of letting me make hamburger out of your hand, how
about squeezing my hand before I crush yours, stud.   Or if you
can't, try to remove that big manly hand from my little womanly
grip," she said tauntingly.  Although her words were fierce, they
were spoken seductively in a breathy tone that would have aroused
a dead man, and the impressive bulge that tented Tim's shorts
against her muscle-ribbed inner thigh gave proof that he was
highly alive.

"Here, I'll let up so that you can adjust your grip however you
like, and we'll see who the big wimp is.  Show me that manly
strength, Tim!" she challenged, licking her lips and thrusting
out her breasts, such that the hugely engorged nipples pressed
into his pecs through the thin cloth of her almost nonexistent
bikini top.

Tim was so aroused that he had forgotten Sharon completely.
Apparently he saw this situation as one of imminent conquest over
this sexy amazon.  His lust for self-indulgence and pride in his
macho physique, and pure unadulterated sexual lust, had overcome
all inhibitions and awareness of his surroundings.  He seemed
mesmerized by the seductive curve of her lips and her bounteous
mammaries, riding impossibly high on her deep chest, as he
energetically gripped Linda's hand.  "You really think you're
something don't you, honey?"  He flexed his big left arm and the
biceps exploded into a monstrous alp of striated flesh.  "Hate to
burst your bubble, muscle girl, but that's what a real muscle
looks like."  In its unflexed state, her left biceps seemed no
match, but Linda merely smiled and licked her lips even more
lustily.

Sharon saw a chance to grab her beau's attention and wrapped her
hands possessively around his big biceps.  "Tim's a starting
linebacker at Tucker State and he wrestles on the varsity, too,"
she said proudly.

Tim acknowledged Sharon's adulation smugly, but could not remove
his eyes from Linda's spectacular form and seductive gaze.
"Look, I don't know what your game is here, but I'm not in the
business of pushing girls around.  There's no need to get
yourself hurt. You've got a strong grip for a girl, but babes
like you just don't realize what it's like to lift the weights
that guys have to lift every day for the football and wrestling
teams."

"A linebacker, huh?  Good, then, it won't destroy your career to
get your hand broken.  Come on, Tim, are you man or wimp?  You're
not afraid, are you?" Again Linda's fierce words contrasted with
her seductive tone.

"Oh, give it a rest, Linda.  Quit messing around, Tim, we have to
go," Sharon whined.

But Tim's blood was up.  Sharon was forgotten; Linda's words had
impugned his manhood, her tone had challenged his sexual
virility, and the big jock was incapable of ignoring it.  "So the
tomboy's dying to feel a real man's strength.  Okay, I'll give
you a thrill, and then maybe we'll stay, as long as you girls
promise to stay dressed like that," he said pressing his tented
crotch against Linda's and licking his lips, replying in body
language to what he felt her true motivations were for this
"party game."

"Tim, what ARE you doing?  This is silly.  Come on!" Sharon
shrieked as she tugged fiercely on his still flexed left arm once
again -- to no avail.

"Let me know when it starts to hurt," Tim said patronizingly as
he applied pressure to his grip.  Clearly Tim had not seen any of
the game or Linda's stupefying hoisting of the beer keg.  If he
had, even a musclehead like he would have acted more cautiously.
I marveled at Linda's unerring ability to pick out types like Tim
and then provoke them into these humiliating contests.

Linda merely smiled cryptically, but the sudden rippling of her
forearm and the renewed surprise and bulging of Tim's eyes
revealed that she had renewed what I knew must be a crushing vise
on his overmatched hand.  I was sure I heard crackling sounds and
Tim's knees buckled from the pressure and pain.  Ripping out of
Sharon's petulant hold on his left elbow, he brought his left
hand over in an attempt to try to pry his right hand out from
Linda's bone-mashing grip, but, despite grunting effort, he could
not. "Dammit, let go!" the young Hercules croaked out in a pained
whisper followed by a desperate snarl,  "Let go, or you'll be
sorry!"

"Ooo, so masterful.  No wonder Sharon hangs on your arm," Linda
said with mock concern.  "But I like to live on the edge, big
guy.  Do your worst -- make me sorry," she said ratcheting her
grip up another notch, amid louder crunching sounds accompanied
by a whimpering moan from the overmatched male.

Now on one knee, Tim responded with a vicious punch to her solar
plexus.  There was no effect except that she laughed.  He wound
up to deliver the best punch to her corded abdomen that he could,
confined as he was by her grip, but I noticed her tense her
muscles in granite-like relief as his fist approached its target.
The angry punch landed with a loud thud, but Linda merely laughed
more loudly, whereas new yelps of pain from Tim indicated that
now his left hand or wrist was as injured as the right one, from
being propelled so forcefully into the brick wall that was her
abdomen.  As he jerked this hand and his body upward reflexively
from the sharp pain, he accidentally ripped her tattered bikini
top the rest of the way off.

"My, he's a feisty puppy -- isn't he?  No wonder you like him,
Sharon," Linda giggled teasingly.

"Come on, Tim, now you're HITTING her?  I can't believe you.
Let's go, now, or I'm getting a ride with someone else," Sharon
declared angrily, focusing her disgust on her fallen hero.  He
had been unfaithful and now was disgracing her.

But Tim was maddened beyond reason at Linda's taunts and
laughter.  Linda had instinctively released his hand when her top
came off, and Tim exploded from his kneeling position, probably
intending to grab her with both hands.  Unfortunately for him,
Linda was quicker.  Grabbing each of his wrists as they flew
toward her, she gripped so tightly that his fists opened almost
limply.  Then she rubbed his open hands over her voluptuous
torso, including a vigorous kneading of her breasts.

[continue...]

[elgat]

Glove man, part 3, by Jack Straw
Aftermath:  Life is good -- perhaps too full sometimes


Part B

[...continued]
"My, Tim," she gasped in mock astonishment, "you have no couth at
all.  Can't keep your hands off me, can you?  Is this what you
meant by making me sorry?"

Sharon slapped at him from behind and reached out to pry Tim's
nearest arm away from what she supposed was his unseemly groping.
"That's it!  Let her go and get out of here.  I'm leaving with
someone else."

"But I'm not --" Tim rasped out.  The rest of his sentence was
lost in the jolt of Linda's next move.

Linda had been pushing the overmatched muscleman backward toward
the side of the big jeep that had been Sharon's and Tim's
original destination.  Unfortunately for Sharon, she had decided
too late to pull away from Tim and leave.  Her hand was trapped
against Tim's body as Linda pulled his arms behind her and
crashed all three of them roughly against the side of the jeep.

"Wow, Tim, is this your way of proving that you're stronger than
little ole me?" Linda taunted.  Sharon, meanwhile, slid down the
contour of one door, dazed by slamming unexpectedly against the
vehicle and with her hand still trapped between them.

As Tim was rammed backward against his 4 x 4, he dipped slightly
so that his face plunged into Linda's cavernous cleavage and her
breasts sealed themselves tightly around his face.  Linda hands
clamped his wrists so that his hands massaged her perfectly
formed iron-hard glutes, swelled out deliciously by the awesome
flexing of her legs that easily held the big muscleman immobile
against the car.

"Ooo, Tim, you simply have no self control at all, putting your
hands down there and your head up here!  But aren't you afraid
you'll smother in there, you eager beaver?" Linda huskily
intoned. 

Tim's frantic rantings were muffled by her breasts.  "Ooo, my
that feels good! You're some kind of expert at this!  And what is
that poking into me down there?"  Linda moved his hands so that
she forced them to pull his shorts down enough that his erect
member poked excitedly above the waistband and against the smooth
skin of her brawny thigh.

Linda swiftly clamped her thighs against Tim's crotch, front and
back, and flexed them so that her velvety flesh rippled against
him in a sensuous massaging vise.  At the same time her legs had
his tied up and her arms so overmatched his that, despite
strenuous flexing of his large muscles he was nearly immobile.
Her prodigious breasts were pressed firmly against the window of
one car door, hiding his face completely from view.  Sensing I
suppose that his strength was fading, she soon let go of his
hands and placed her own hands on her delectable hips, a mute
statement of how superior she was.  He pushed weakly at her
boobs, trying without success to push them away from his face.
Her only action was to take a deep breath, cinching in her
spectacular abdomen further and inflating the even more
stupendous chest that jutted out in frightening dimensions above
it.  "Such lung capacity she must have!" I thought irrelevantly.

"Gee, Tim, I guess you took on more than you could handle.  All
I'm using is my little boobies to keep big, masterful you
completely pinned.  Come on!  Can't you even move the softest
part of my body with those big muscles of yours?  But golly,
you're still so excited!" she rubbed her thighs sensuously
against his erection.  "Is it the lack of air, big guy, that
turns you on?  Or maybe you like the feel of a strong woman's
body, one who makes you look like a little boy?"

Try as he might, Tim could not move Linda, though she continued
merely contemptuously resting her hands on her hips.  But the
kneading of his flesh with her rippling thighs led to the
inevitable.  Robbed of air in the steamy confines of her wet
cleavage and simultaneously getting the most unique sexual
massage of his life, Tim neared explosion below even as his brain
drifted into a hot blackness above.  I felt near orgasm myself as
I watched this amazing demonstration of female physical
superiority.  As Tim's legs jerked spasmodically, Linda suddenly
stepped away and let him drop unconscious just as a geyser of
thick semen spurted disgracefully over the hairs of his twitching
abdomen and thick, manly chest.  Another doubting male had been
utterly debased.

The jeep window on which they had been pressing showed two large
wet circles where her steamy breasts had been, on either side of
a smaller greasy smudge left by the back of his head.  Sharon,
having regained her moorings slapped Tim, partially reviving him.
"You worthless, jerk!  How disgusting!"  She snarled at the mess
on his shorts and belly button, and stomped on it, before
stepping away in disgust.  Linda leaned down near Tim's face and
laughed.  "I'm afraid that wasn't nearly as good for me as it was
for you.  Quite a performance, though, Tim."


"You ugly cow!" Sharon steamed at Linda.

"Well, if that's the way you see it, better keep your big stud
away from the cow barn, Sharon.  By the looks of things I think
he likes me, or maybe he likes a woman who takes charge.  Does he
lose control like that with you?  Must be kind of frustrating."

"Don't think I don't know this was your fault," Sharon shot back.

"You don't want to believe that, Sharon.  That would mean that
your hero is weaker than a girl, and that he loves it.  Loves a
dominant, strong woman; in fact can't control himself he's so
turned on."

As Sharon turned away, Linda continued in a softer tone, "It
means that all that dieting is for nothing.  Pretending to be
stupid and putting up with offensive comments -- all for nothing.
Pretending to be weak -- for nothing.  He's not worth it, Sharon.
No man bought at that price is worth it."

"Oh, stuff it!" Sharon yelled as she marched away.

Linda looked up and flinched in surprise to see that a small
group of her teammates had been looking on.  This scene had been
hidden by the large jeep from the view of the main group
boisterously celebrating around the keg.  Perhaps Linda thought
that I was the only one who might be watching.

"Was that really necessary?" one of the girls asked.

"Yes, give it a rest, Linda.  Haven't you shown off enough?"
another chimed in.

"Oh, I didn't break anything except his delusions about male
superiority.  Macho jerks like that just don't get it.  Why
couldn't he congratulate us instead of putting down the guys we
beat?  And why did Sharon have to go along with his tripe?"  But
she walked away without waiting for a reply. 

Linda was as much a victim of her nature as Tim was, after her
years of squelching male braggarts and proving her physical
superiority.  Some would say she had some growing up to do.  And,
yes, she was far from perfect.  I glanced at the male jock,
gasping in pain and, still fuzzy-headed, shakily pull up his
shorts with one hand, while gingerly cradling the hand she had
crushed, and then I raised my eyes toward a scarlet-faced Sharon
muttering to a couple of teammates beside another car in the
parking lot.  Yes, even I, perhaps, could have wished not to have
witnessed this latest altercation.  But the aching, leaking bulge
in my shorts was proof that I enjoyed it none the less.  Linda
wasn't perfect, I guess, but she was still magnificent.  I
glanced at the few girls who had witnessed this scene, and, amid
the mainly disapproving or ambivalent looks, I noticed for the
first time a shy worshipper, her eyes shining with admiration --
and lust.  Ah, I thought, another unabashed admirer.

Humbled for the first time in the short time I had known her, not
by men -- clearly the inferior male sex was not up to THAT task -
- but by the disapproval of her teammates, Linda walked over to
her large gym bag. Somberly, she fastened her straining halter
top in place and pulled her skimpy shorts up over her sexy high
heels.  Quietly, she walked over to draw a beer and sat down
alone at the bench nearby.  I was still lounging against a post
some distance away, considering what I should do.  She looked
over at me with a questioning mien that spoke of many
possibilities, when a consoling teammate clasped her on the back
and began to congratulate her on her game.  She smiled wanly but
clearly wasn't paying full attention, her mind engaged elsewhere.
Feeling out of place, I slipped away.


The rest of my teammates were now leaving also.  The animated
celebration of the main group around the keg, with most of the
girls and their guests, was still in full swing.

I wandered out to the grove of trees beyond left field, where her
longest home run had landed.  Looking back at home plate, I tried
to reconstruct the trajectory.  Then, I looked through the trees
to the side opposite the softball diamond.  There, a hundred or
so feet beyond the trees I saw the ball in a patch of broad
dandelion shoots that had long since flowered and scattered their
abundant seed.  I estimated the total distance and shook my head.
It would have been a legendary drive with a baseball or even a
golf ball, let alone a softball.  I walked out to retrieve it,
and, as I picked it up, I couldn't help chuckling at how
misshapen it was.  The force of her bat had flattened one side of
the abused ball, and one of the seams had ripped open.

As I turned back toward the diamond, my heart skipped a beat.
There she was, leaning on the trunk of one of the old oaks in the
grove.

She spoke first as I approached her.  "Are you the team
treasurer, Glove Man?  Can't afford any new balls?"

I grinned faintly but said nothing until we were face to face.
"A souvenir for you," I said handing it to her.  "A trophy to
mark another conquest of the weaker sex."

Her eyes glinted and regarded me steadily.  "Are you complaining,
Glove Man?"

"No, you know I've enjoyed today very much.  You're quite an
athlete, not to mention some other prominent qualities I can't
keep my eyes off of." She blushed.  Again, I surprised myself
with my candor; I was playing with fire and I knew it.

"Then I'd like for you to keep it please."  As she handed back it
to me, she pressed one of her breasts against my chest and
lightly pressed her other hand onto the crotch of my loose shorts
and felt the bulge from my erection.  My knees almost gave out.
Being this close to this physical fulfillment of my every sexual
fantasy, was sending my physiological equilibrium into a state of
chaos.  I could not breath.

"I -- I have a wife and two kids," I gasped.

"They're not here and I'll never bother them.  Or you -- after
today."

I was struggling.  "I have to go," I said unconvincingly.  I
really didn't, for my family was gone for the day, visiting my
father-in-law.

She looked at me searchingly and I flinched.  Slowly and
deliberately, she pulled my car keys from my pocket.  "Don't
leave just yet.  Give me a chance to see that someone takes care
of the keg and meet me in the parking lot by your car."  She was
not going to save me.  Most women at this point would waver and
force you to pursue them.  Hence, the indecisive male, the man
with a conscience, even a weak conscience, is let off the hook.
This strategy, this social convention inevitably drives
nonaggressive women into the hands of rogues.  Most women never
want any doubt about who is the culpable aggressor, whether they
may have led you on or not.  But not Linda; she needed no
reassurance.  Insecurity was not in her psyche.

I knew she would give the keys back to me if I demanded them, but
I didn't.  I looked toward the beer keg.  The last of the men
from my team had left and most of the girls and their friends
were leaving or picking up.  We were hidden in the trees.  I'm
sure that many eyes had followed Linda wherever she moved, but I
was probably already hidden before she had followed me. 

I rationalized that I had not yet done anything I would regret,
but an objective observer would have seen that I was already
lost.  "I'm leaving in ten minutes," I said, not attempting to
retrieve the keys from her hand. 

I walked back the long way to the parking lot, weaving through
trees and prairie.  I couldn't believe that at this point in my
life I had interested a girl, any girl really, but especially the
embodiment of my fantasies (at least most of them anyway).  Did
she want me to take her somewhere?  Why?  How far would I take
this?  I was on dangerous ground.  I don't believe Janet, my
wife, had ever broken our vows, and I had been completely
faithful to her -- in the conventional societal sense -- if one
omitted that semi-rape about a month earlier by this same Linda.

I realized I had left my gear behind and went to retrieve it.  As
I approached my car, I saw her and once again my mental faculties
disintegrated in a surge of adolescent lust.  She was holding up
a mountain bicycle by straddling it, her legs exotically
emphasized by the arching of her feet in her bright high heels.
She dropped my keys in my hand and then gently turned my face
directly towards her and fixed me with a look that melted me into
a puddle of lost willpower.  "My place is not far from here.  I'd
like to finish this afternoon with you; that's the only thing
that could make it better."  The words sounded rehearsed, a
little artificial, but the look was real and the tone was honest,
matter of fact. [continue...]

[elgat]

Glove man, part 3, by Jack Straw
Aftermath:  Life is good -- perhaps too full sometimes

Part C

[...continued]
"Why me, Linda?  I'm technically old enough to be your father.
Surely there is someone else to spend the day with."

She pressed her fingers lightly on my lips in the age-old sign to
stop talking.  "Don't ask foolish questions like that.  I have a
life, you have a life; I don't want us to change our lives.  I
just want you to come over to my place for a while.  Let's just
talk for a while.  I can't help being curious about you.  Aren't
you just a little curious about me?" 

"It's just a few miles from here," she continued.  "For once in
your life, Glove Man, let yourself go -- just for one day, one
hour."

I could have been angry with her for her naive conceit that I had
never done so before.  Well, maybe I had never cheated on my wife
with another living, breathing, female, but I had let emotions
lead me into many other foolish escapades. "What made her so
special?" I could have said.  But I didn't.  I looked at her and
listened to the youthful racing of my heart.  I nodded my head
slightly, and breathed, "Okay, but I really can't stay long."
Yet I knew I shouldn't go at all, because I wouldn't want to
leave, I wouldn't want to stop looking at her, and, if we
touched, I wouldn't want to stop touching her.


"Follow me in your car," she said, resting her sports bag and her
large bat across the handlebars of her bike.  She snatched my
ball glove from my trembling hands and put it through the
handlebars.  "For insurance," she grinned.  "You get it back at
my place."

"Some trust you have in your elders," I shot back mildly, and,
smiling, she stuck out her tongue at me.  She knew that was the
one thing I would not part with.  That glove was broken in just
the way I wanted it.

She sped out of the parking lot and onto the road.  Following
her, I thought I would have to drive slowly, but of course not
with this Amazon.  I often had to drive above the speed limit to
keep up with her.  The game had really not been much exercise for
a vitality such as hers.  This gave her a chance to work her
magnificent body.

She still was wearing those more and more abused spike heels.
Why?  For me?  Perhaps, but probably just for the pure hell of
it.  Regardless, it took even more athleticism to sprint as she
was doing in such shoes.  I chuckled when the few cars we met on
this lazy country road almost ran off the road, with the males
craning their heads around to get a last look.  Even having
covered her bikini with halter and shorts, her spectacular curves
were displayed for all the world, and her luxurious hair
carelessly, seductively streamed in the wind she was creating
with her vigorous pace.

On a long, flat stretch she caught up to one of those serious
bike racers -- clad in the skin-tight shorts, racing bike, water
bottles, gloves, and cute little cap.  As her exuberant pace took
her around him, he looked up in surprise to find that a veritable
sex bomb had passed him.  He stood up on his pedals and burst out
in pursuit of her, and cockily overtook and passed her.  Taking
this as a challenge, she in turn increased her pace.  She yelled
out something to the shocked bicycle jock as she overtook him and
sped in front of him.  The race was on!  For a while it was
fairly even, although to my amazement and no doubt his, he was
not able to gain ground on her.  Little by little, she lengthened
her lead until he was no longer close enough to draft on her
wake.

I stayed back in my car to watch still another demonstration of
female superiority and another bashing of male ego.  He was
giving it all he could, standing up occasionally to get more
power, but mainly leaning down as far as he could to reduce the
wind resistance.  He had toe clips and a racing bike; she was
still in high heels, no toe clips, and riding a mountain bike,
still with the sports bag balanced across the handle bars acting
as a serious wind drag.  It was simply muscle over matter.  He,
with the classic wiry racing physique, could not gain on this
amazon despite all her disadvantages.  It must have been very
demoralizing and as they started up a long hill, he dropped ever
further back, clearly not up to her incredible conditioning.  She
slowed down hardly at all in scaling the taxing incline and the
flexing of her thighs and calves was scary -- emasculating in its
awesome superiority. 

I was hard as a rock.  The poor biker gave out completely before
he had managed even half the hill, and, letting his bike fall, he
pulled off his cap and put his hands on his knees to recuperate.
Turning back, Linda noticed that he had stopped. Still pumping
her pedals, she turned her spectacular torso so that her
magnificent left breast sprang into sight and waved to the
defeated racer.  The undulation of the breast within the
straining halter thrust out by prodigious pectoral muscles and
the flexing of her biceps and triceps, as she waved and then
pumped her arm in triumph, caused me nearly to loose the flood of
semen that was welling up in my loins.  As I passed her latest
male conquest, his white face signalled how hard he had tried,
how overmatched he was.  He was a physical wreck; sweat flooded
over his grimacing face from his wet mop of hair as he removed
his sweat-drenched cap.  He removed his sopping-wet shirt to wipe
his face and wretched ignominiously in the tall grass off the
road.  Shaking my head, I pressed the accelerator to catch up as
she disappeared over the hill.

At the apartment she swept me up into her arms to carry me into
her place, but, for once, I protested.  "Stop," I said.  This was
not the way to start out if we were just going to talk.  Perhaps
I could make her pity me.  "Let me carry you.  I've never done
this." 

"Careful," she giggled.  "I'm heavy.  Muscles weigh more than
fat, you know."  My wife had never wanted me to do it, either.
Janet is a tall woman with big bones, not overweight, indeed she
has always been in good shape, but certainly not light.  I think
she was opposed it mainly because she saw it as the type of
caveman mentality she detested.  But, I sensed also that she was
worried that I might injure myself by lifting her substantial
body and that would have injured her psychologically.  So, even
on our wedding night, I decided that I had nothing to prove and
let it go.

But I had been wrong.  Maybe I did have something to prove to
myself.

Squatting a little, I found the correct leverage to do it, but
Linda was right.  I was amazed at how heavy she was for her size.
For days afterward my back and knees complained of sharp pains
and I smiled ruefully at my ego.  It would have been worse if she
hadn't more or less lifted herself onto me, in just the best
position, with all her delectable parts pressing warmly and very
moistly against me.  If I was trying to put sex out of our minds,
this was definitely a bad beginning.  As I carefully advanced us
across the threshold of her apartment, I felt the velvety skin of
her arms as they encircled my neck and drew my lips toward hers.
She pressed her lips on mine softly and then more ardently until
I began to get dizzy from lack of air.  Instinctively, I
struggled to draw back my head, but it seemed she wasn't even
aware of my predicament.  My knees buckled and I tumbled to the
carpet as she managed to disengage gracefully and land on her
feet.

We were both laughing -- she in true amusement, I in
embarrassment and confusion, mixed with trepidation at how close
I was to sexual capitulation.  She bent down and lifted me up in
her arms.  "This is how it's done properly, Glove Man," she
teased as she let go with one hand and held me steady as a rock
with only one prodigious outstretched arm.  Impulsively, I
reached out to feel the amazing girth and steely hardness of her
mountainous bicep.  My member engorged and hardened in concert
with her muscles, and with the devilish explorations of her free
hand, she discovered my condition.  "For an old man, your
equipment still seems to function quite well," she giggled.

I had completely lost control of the situation and myself.  At
that moment she could have done anything she wanted with me, but
she broke the spell.  Perhaps my misgivings were misplaced.  "How
about a beer?" she asked, setting me deftly on a stool. I nodded
and she brought out two bottles packaged at a local brew pub.
Good stuff, I thought.  She had kicked off her high heels, so
that at least I stood taller now.  Taller and older.  I began to
feel more confident, almost condescending.

She put on a couple of CDs and led me out onto her balcony where
there were two lounge chairs and a table for our beer.  It was an
unusual apartment complex in that the balconies were completely
private.  Walls separated us from the adjacent apartments and all
we could see was a meadow that stretched out behind the
apartments, full of brush and prairie grass.  I could see how
this might be the spot where she got that amazing tan that showed
no bikini lines.

I sat so as to be in the shade, while she let the sun beat on her
broad back and let me gaze at the body that, of any flesh I would
be able to touch in my conscious life, was the closest to the
fantastic ideal of my imagination.  And she silently dared me to
gaze into her intelligent, seductive face -- but I could not
trust myself to do that for more than a few instants at a time.

"So, tell me about the man behind those eyes," she said, flashing
her own dazzlers at me. 

I blushed and suddenly felt very hot in the shade I had sought.
I took off my glasses so that she could see what they hid: the
dark bags and crow's feet of middle age.  Now that my hair was
dry from the sweat of the game, I knew she could see the abundant
strands of gray.

So we talked a little about myself, my work -- I did not bring up
my family.  I was perfunctory at first, as I usually find the
esotery of what I do to be a conversation stopper, but to my
surprise Linda not only understood it sufficiently to keep me
talking, but seemed to have a genuine interest in it.

Gradually, I brought the conversation around to how she had built
such a body.

"I've been lifting and working out since before I became a
teenager.  I was always a tomboy and I wanted to be the best.
Later I introduced a friend named Mary to it and we kind of
supported each other.  Every sport that was considered off limits
to a girl, that's what I went after."

"Has a male ever bested you at any contest?"

"Not for long," she said simply, and fastened her eyes on mine.
"I know what you're thinking.  Yes, it is a great kick to show
you males how inferior you are, and the cockier, the stronger,
the bigger, the better.  But, honestly, I train myself mainly to
reach my potential," she asserted, suddenly straightening her
awesome legs and flexing them along with a sudden twisting of her
forearm that made her bicep leap into jagged relief and her
pectoral muscle to thrust out her breast so that the nipple and
its melon-like density threatened to burst through the fabric of
her overstretched halter top.  My cock, which never really
relaxed in her presence, lurched against my jock and made me
shift my position. 

Looking absently at the play of her muscles, she continued, "So
few women do that.  They have no idea how great life can be when
you do.  And I try to do it mentally and physically."

As we slowly sipped our beers, I lost track of myself and the
difference in our ages.  In the seductive rays emanating from her
vibrant eyes, I felt like a young man.  I found I could talk to
her about things that mattered to me and on a level that people
seldom enjoyed talking. 

I learned that she had been a Physics major and had gone to the
first year of grad school.  She had been doing fine and liked it
but had felt restless.  So they had granted her a leave of
absence.  She had wanted to get out and experience life from all
the angles she could, she claimed.  Now she thought she was ready
to go back.  Her special interest was in solid state physics and
she told me why and about the ideas she wanted to work into some
"theory" that she kept having to explain to me and some
experiments she had thought up to prove the theory.  No, she kept
correcting me -- you don't "prove" things in science, you "test,"
and she was testing a hypothesis of hers not a theory.  I think
that's the way she said it.  Well, anyway, I already knew that.
After all, I watch public television and the basic business of
science was already under some moldy rocks in my head basically
undisturbed from high school.  With her explaining it, though, I
thought I was understanding more than that -- specifically what
she wanted to know.  But when I tried to sort it out later, it
was a complete muddle.

"What about sports," I asked.  "You  could be a professional.
What you have is unique, a talent, a drive ...."

"No, I like so many sports that I never wanted to focus on just
one.  No, it's taken me a while, but I see now that physics is
where I want to make my mark on the world.  The sports, the
physical challenges, that's a private pleasure."

In the silence that followed, the music from the CD wafted toward
us:  "... Let the world spin outside our door, ... it's you I
adore.  I'm gonna give you some more."  She looked at me almost
shyly and her eyes glittered with naked passion as she smiled.
It was the intensity of her manner that bothered me the most; it
didn't make sense.  It was as if I were an embodiment of some
fantasy of hers (as she undoubtedly was of mine) -- a fallacious
embodiment I was sure.  But my nervous thoughts flitted back to
the music.

The singer was one my daughter had introduced me to and I liked
her honesty and her exuberant, sometimes unpolished youth on this
first CD.  It is exhilarating to hear thoughts you can relate to
from the fresh mind and eyes of youth.  And you can't help but
smile at the extremes in what they say; for them it's all new --
these problems and vexatious people you've lived with all your
life -- but none the less real and vital.  And maybe what you see
as overreaction is just that they see clearly, with sharp edges,
while your eyes are blurring more and more, softening those sharp
edges.  The fact that you've seen it all doesn't seem to make you
any wiser.  You still make the same mistakes -- or new ones you
shouldn't.

Several minutes later, at another lull in the conversation, my
favorite of her songs broke again into the silence: "... I'm
sensitive and I'd like to stay that way!"  Again Linda smiled,
but this time sadly I thought, and said "That's you, Glove Man --
sensitive."  I blushed like a teenager, cast my eyes aside, and
said nothing.  She seemed to be waiting for a move from me, but I
wasn't going to make it easy for her.

Our beer bottles were empty.  We both knew that this was the
moment of truth.  I said nothing, letting the breeze cool me a
little while longer, prolonging the physical exhilaration of
being alone with her but knowing that I should leave. [continue...]

[elgat]

Glove man, part 3, by Jack Straw
Aftermath:  Life is good -- perhaps too full sometimes

Part D

[...continued]

She looked at me searchingly and put down her feet.  Reaching
back to unclasp her top, she ended our revery, "Well, I've got to
take a shower."  And then, standing up, "Want to join me?"  As
her unfettered breasts literally sprang outward into view, I was
momentarily paralyzed.

It was a defining moment, perhaps not of my life, but certainly
of my sex life.  I looked up at her and, dry of throat, I
replied, "There's nothing I'd rather do," and in my mind's eye I
saw the water splashing off and trailing along that perfect naked
body, and I imagined her holding me off the wet tiled floor by
the buttocks and plunging me in and out of her -- wet, hot,
clinging, blissful ecstasy ....

But as she stretched her hand out to lift me up, I managed to
croak out, "But --"   Her hand stopped and emotions fought each
other for control of her face.  Obviously, she was not surprised,
but even the toughest hide suffers from the barb of rejection
after such a naked offer.  And, despite the awesome power of her
feminine musculature, her skin was soft.

"Look," I blurted out like a man coming out of the sea for his
last breath before drowning, "you are the most, the best ...."  I
took a breath and tried to start again, but she placed her finger
over my mouth to quiet me.  Then as she moved her hand to caress
my face sadly, I thought I had to be clear.

"I have to go, Linda," I trailed off barely able to look at her.

"Are they expecting you at home?" she asked vacantly, her eyes
moist.

"Well, no, they're not even home today."  Why did I tell her this
truth?  If I had lied -- but for some reason, I could not be
dishonest with Linda, whereas with my wife, half of what I say is
half truth, half lie.  Linda saw this admission as an opening
that made what I said next meaningless as far as she was
concerned.  "No, I have to go because this is not right.  I'm
married, you're half my age.  I'm sorry," I trailed off again.

"Don't be sorry, Glove Man.  It's been a lovely day," she smiled
at me, no longer sadly, indeed almost teasingly as she stepped
out of her tight shorts and now was clad only in her thong bikini
bottom.  "It's still a rejection, though."

"Well that's that!" I thought, wanting to congratulate myself for
doing the right thing but, unconvinced at my motives, I lapsed
momentarily into a reverie of introspection.  Passivity or
nobility, take your pick, had triumphed.  Once it had become a
psychological contest, even her powerful allure was no match for
my lifelong passivity and submission to societal norms.  And I
owed it to Janet; she deserved my faithfulness.  But it wasn't
all passivity and nobility.   Resentment kicked at the edges of
these thoughts and forced me to view it less as triumph than as
weakness.  I resented Linda's freedom -- and I admired it.

This brief reverie dropped my defenses and allowed her offenses a
complete and swift reversal.  Deluded that I was in control of
the situation, I never knew what hit me.  It turned out that I
had merely selected the method of my capitulation.  I had spurned
the "easy" way, now I would get it the "hard" way, or perhaps the
"hard" sell is more like it.  She threw all her weapons into play
and under this blitzkrieg I was as impotent as the Maginot Line.

I had shifted my eyes away during my introspection and was
startled to find her awesome, delectable form looming over me as
she straddled my prone body in the lounge chair.  Before I could
move, she had lowered her almost bare derriere firmly onto my
middle and pressed my head toward hers in a cloying kiss.
Instantly, I felt my penis engorge.  Her naked breasts pressed
into my chest and her hardening nipples gouged painfully into my
yielding flesh.  Breaking off her kiss just before I passed out
from oxygen starvation, she moaned as she forced my head into the
huge cleft between her breasts and grazed my stubbly cheeks along
the inside of her moist, firm orbs.  I was instinctively
contracting my neck muscles and pushing with my hands to extract
my head in an attempt to regain some dignity, but I might as well
have tried to move a truck.  She giggled delightedly as she
shifted backward and could feel my rigid cock beneath her
massaging derriere.

As I gasped for breath, I became dimly aware that she was
whispering -- in seductive tones that softened her menacing
words.

"I'm afraid, Glove Man, that I will have to punish you," she
smiled smugly as she continued delicious ministrations that had
me writhing in mind-numbing arousal.  "You pretend to reject me
and you force a shy girl like me to take the initiative.  How
silly of you.  So many sins against your nature -- that's going
to cost you triple.  There'll be nothing left for your spindly
wife tonight!"

And as she continued this sensuous onslaught, kissing my neck,
breathing hotly and nibbling on my ear, simultaneously caressing
with her hands in the most devilish of places -- as she was
rendering me into a lump of vacuous steamy arousal bereft of all
thought except SEX!, she was whispering in my ear in oh so
enticing tones the case for her seduction.

"You haven't proven to me that you don't want this; you've
already failed to convince me that it will cause a problem for
your marriage.  You simply have to be strong enough not to let
it."

"Now it's off to the showers with you," she continued firmly.
"And we have to release that little poker of yours before it
hurts itself from too much stress."  SPROING! SPLAT!  My pants
and jock were ripped down to my ankles before I knew what was
happening.  As she pressed her clenching glutes back onto my
rigid member, I was dangerously close to exploding in most
unmasterful fashion.

"You said we'd talk," I managed desperately.  Perhaps I could
divert her. 

"We did talk."

"Why am I here?  What are we doing?  Why me?  I read once that
young women going after older men have unresolved feelings about
their fathers. Is that what's going on here?" I rasped out,
finding it difficult to maintain a train of thought.

"Look, you're the one who's ignoring some latent feelings," she
smiled, unruffled, and her smile broadened as she felt my penis
lurch as she devilishly rotated her hips.  "You know you can't
keep your eyes off me.  You're starved for something and maybe I
have it."   She fixed her brilliant eyes on my lust-fogged but
frantic visage.   "And yes, something attracts me to you.
Perhaps it's that you're attracted to me."


"Oh, come on," I gasped weakly.  "Half the men in this town would
gladly exchange positions with me."

"Don't be so sure.  They might want to do it on their terms,
perhaps, but not on mine.  Most men, young and old, are
intimidated by me.  Some are plain scared and stay a safe
distance away.  Others are threatened and feel they must prove
themselves by besting me.  Once they lose, I can still have fun
with them but they usually can't.  Some -- and these I still
don't understand -- want me to walk on them and hurt them, whip
them, punish them; that may be fun for them somehow but not for
me.   YOU were never threatened, YOU were never frightened, and I
don't think YOU want to be beaten.  We're two parts of a puzzle
and this is our only chance.  If your wife is missing something,
and I'm sure she is, would you deny her the chance to experience
it one afternoon of her life?"  Casanova could have taken lessons
from this girl.  I would have been overmatched, even had I been
truly motivated to resist.

"ENOUGH TALK!" she said emphatically in mock fierceness.  She
snatched me out of my seat and lifted me into her arms in the
reverse of the traditional threshold scene of the macho stud
about to ravish his woman.  My indignity was magnified by the
bobbing of my penis, which had been brought to the edge of
eruption by the abrading of her moist velvety skin.  Saved from
explosion by mere seconds, it cooled in the late afternoon
breeze.

The dancing of my member amused her.  And her smile broadened as
I struggled against her, not really hoping to escape but more to
test her strength -- and to quell the urgency of my ridiculous
erection.  I concentrated all my effort, strained my back, leg,
and arm muscles against her two mighty arms.  Nothing.  I could
feel her muscles flex but she was hardly exerting herself. 

Giggling, she grabbed me securely with one arm so that with the
other one she could pull off my shoes and finish stripping off my
pants and then my shorts.  Next my sweaty shirt was peeled off.
The soft touch of her hand, the rubbing of my bare skin against
her stupendous contours, and the psychology of my position had me
hard as a rock.  Like a little girl, fascinated with a toy, she
trailed one finger across my member and devilishly watched it
lurch excitedly.  Then she dropped that hand and let me renew my
exertions, this time directed against just one mighty arm that
had me wadded up with my back against her granite-like abdomen
and the back of my head nestled between her breasts as her
forearm and hand pulled my bared thighs and urgently erect penis
toward my nose.

I am not a big man by any means, but I am not small either.  I am
taller than she and I suspect that, her dense muscles not
withstanding, I outweighed her too.  But despite my best efforts,
I could do nothing to move that mighty arm one iota.  I put all
my energy into straightening myself and grabbed through my legs
with both hands to twist her hand out of its secure grip on one
of my thighs.  The only effect of my efforts was to cause her
biceps and forearms to bulge in rigid striations, but her
sexually-aroused laughter betrayed no effort at all in wadding me
further.

Finally, in resignation I relaxed my effort and looked up at her
merry visage.  I silently communicated simultaneous confused
feelings of awe, sexual arousal, inadequacy, and embarrassment.
Something in my look induced her to spin me around and kiss me.
A long, breath-robbing, passionate kiss.  When at last she let me
go, on the verge of my passing out, I was dizzy and so aroused
that my member was seeping with pre-cum.  Her eyes glittered with
lust.

At that moment, even if she had pushed me toward the door, I
could no more have walked out than I could have stopped my heart
from beating.  If Janet had burst in that moment and asked me to
choose between a fleeting afternoon with Linda and the rest of my
life with her, with my children and my career thrown in -- the
passions that drove my conscious life -- I wouldn't even have
listened.  Such is the frailty of men, certain men anyway,
whatever that makes me.

But I wasn't forced to make such choice, and Linda swept me up
again before any such thoughts could creep in.  She had been
right; the moment to escape was before we had arrived at her
apartment, before we had talked in the grove on the ball field.
I had already chosen and we both knew it; any protest at this
point was pretense.

The rest of the afternoon is understandably not as vivid in my
memory.  Our first release was in the in the shower, much as I
had imagined it.  She had the consideration to use a condom:
"For you and your wife -- one should never worry."  She took  me
forcefully, dominantly, mercilessly; I had no choice but didn't
care.

True to her word, my punishment was to be so wrung out that I
could not possibly have sex with anyone else that day.  Three
bouts in all, with periods of recovery and then lascivious
reinflation of desire, two climaxes for me and then an eternity
of trying to survive as she endeavored to extract the last ounce
of satisfaction from an utterly defeated rubbery shaft and an
exhausted tongue and mouth.
During the second round she thrust me on top and I foolishly
endeavored to match her vitality, putting all my energy into
pumping away while she concentrated her strength on just the
nether region; the rest of her glorious physique including her
arms behind her head was so relaxed it was an insult to my
exertion.  Before I could bring either of us to climax, I
collapsed ignoblely in exhaustion as she tirelessly took over.
It was so painful and pleasurable that I lost a few minutes of
consciousness after spewing my seed -- much more weakly to be
sure than the first time.

For me it was an afternoon of sublime delirium mixed, I admit,
with some frustration because I couldn't be a force to rival
hers, not even close really.  Another thing that was missing was
the mutuality of arousing each other that my wife and I have
worked out by practice over the years.  But Linda certainly knew
what she wanted and showed no reticence in forcing me to do her
bidding.  And from my side, the novelty was her energy and her
body, so solid, so surprisingly large when flexed, so strong --
everywhere! 

At last during the third bout in which the differences in our
potencies were so woefully exposed, she relented and let me slump
in total exhaustion against her glorious breasts and corrugated
abdomen, both streaming with sensusous perspiration.  I drifted
in and out of a sated consciousness as she absently stroked my
graying sweat-soaked hair.  Finally I mustered the energy to roll
out of bed.  I had to leave while some skin still remained on my
pulverized, swollen, limp, utterly useless penis.  [continue...]

[elgat]

Glove man, part 3, by Jack Straw
Aftermath:  Life is good -- perhaps too full sometimes

Part D

[...continued]
Honesty compels me to admit my final humiliation.  I emerged from
a bit of cleaning up in her bathroom and pulled on my scatted
clothes, acutely aware of the scraping on my sensitive piece of
jelly by my jock and shorts, starched as they were from copious
seepages during my almost continuous aroused state earlier in the
day. 

"So, that's it, I guess.  This is a final goodbye," I said,
hoping she would say no. 

But she was clear:  "Yes, we both know our lives are on different
tracks.  It's nice to be sure that we weren't meant for each
other, anyway, when it can't be."

I didn't see that at all.  It seemed I hadn't measured up to what
she might have expected, but what had she expected and what was
nice about it?  How soon I had forgotten about Janet, my kids, my
life.

She had said it simply, without regret as if it were obvious and
something for which to be thankful.  Parting didn't seem at all
difficult for her; I was the one who now felt rejected.  But as I
look back on it now, I am flattered that she even considered such
a thought.

More than a little agitated, I headed for the door to leave.
"Glove Man, aren't you forgetting something?" she called out
softly. 

Foolish old man that I was, I turned around expectantly, hoping
to see her lips press on to mine in a lingering kiss, but
instead, she was holding out my ball glove.  I was embarrassed.

It was so inconceivable that I would forget such a focus of my
existence, that she must have thought I was leaving it on
purpose, as an excuse to see her again.  She, on the other hand,
was making a clear statement.  There would be no other time.  I
did not have to worry about her intruding on my life, and she
expected me to act the same.

"Thanks," I said almost ungratefully, feeling the heat on my
checks.  But then, looking at her in that short bathrobe, open
sexily in just the right places, and in my mind's eye seeing
through it at the rest of the perfection it hid underneath, and
then lifting my eyes to her lustrous face and those brilliant
eyes, I softened.  "And thanks for --" being you, I completed the
thought silently even as she once again put her fingers on my
lips to cut me off.

"Sometimes you talk too much, Glove Man," she smiled.  I
chuckled.  No one had ever accused me of that.  Janet is always
chastising me for being too taciturn.  I reached for the door
knob and found myself being lifted in the air.  She was cradling
me in her arms and giving me a final kiss.  One-handed, she
lifted me and then set me down as her robe popped open.  I
playfully yanked it farther open, drinking in her glorious flesh
fully revealed one more time.  She held her head up almost self-
consciously.

Fumbling at the lock, I looked at her one last time, swallowed
loudly, and said nothing.  Nor did she.  Breathing deeply, I
walked slowly toward my car.  I looked up at her window, where
she was discreetly holding most of that incredibly sexy and
powerful physique hidden and gazing down at me.  Neither of us
waved but our eyes met.

As I drove off, the spell gradually wore off and I suddenly felt
my age -- sore from the game and tender in the back from lifting
her, and completely exhausted from our afternoon together.  I was
going to be a physical wreck for maybe a couple of days, and a
mental wreck for a good deal longer.

I never saw her again, although I admit I did return a month
later to her apartment complex.  To my shame, I had thought
feverishly about her for days.  Over the course of a couple of
clumsy stakeouts, I realized that she no longer lived there.  In
an attempt to exorcise Linda's ghost -- which still haunted
intimate moments with my wife, to the point that she was becoming
hurt and suspicious through that cursed women's intuition -- I
drove to the park where the game had been played.  I pulled from
the trunk of my car the treasured softball Linda had given back
to me and carried it out into left field, bringing the grove of
trees within my throwing range.  I flung it so that it hit the
base of a tree, bounded around and disappeared.  I walked back to
my car, drove off without looking backward and never returned. 

But this attempt at exorcising her didn't work.  Even as I drove
off, my thoughts drifted back to that day.  Looking back on it
from an expanse of time, I was even more grateful to her.  If one
removed the element of infidelity, and clearly Linda disregarded
that entirely, she had given me the greatest gift I could have
imagined.  But I still didn't know why.

As I drove on, my thoughts turned to the night that followed that
day, and I sighed.  When I got home from Linda's place, they were
eating pizza.  Uh-oh, I thought.

"We waited for you.  Where have you been, Dad?" Amy called out,
immediately on my case.

"Why are you eating now? I thought you'd eat with your father," I
asked Janet as I kissed her. 

"No, I told you yesterday.  I swear you never listen to anything
I say," Janet replied darkly.

"Wow, Dad, you really look dragged out.  Just from a softball
game?" Amy was on my case again.

"I got talked into another game," I said vaguely, more to Janet
than Amy.

"Hey! That's my piece," Amy shrieked, grabbing Joe's wrist in
mock anger.  Janet noticed my surprised fixation on the bulging
of Amy's forearm and biceps.

"Ow!"  Joe screamed and dropped the piece as if shot.  "Mom!" he
yelled for her support, as he winced in pain.

"Don't look at me.  You know you've had your share," Janet opted
for the judicial-ruling approach, which failed as usual to win
her any points.

"Oh, you always take her side," he muttered as he jumped up and
left the room. 
Janet looked at me and nodded her head toward him, silently
entreating me to talk to him while she talked to our daughter.  I
saw no reason to get involved. It seemed like normal family fare.
Then as I proceeded toward our bedroom, I noticed him in the
darkness of a hallway holding his wrist in obvious pain.  His
fifteen-year-old male pride hadn't allowed him to massage it in
our presence.  He was bravely holding back a tear at the
humiliation, an old humiliation that he thought by now he
wouldn't have to suffer any longer as he was passing his sister
in height and weight.  Amy was a year older, so we had always
been able to assuage his pride by pointing that out. 

I remembered a recent conversation.  "She's stronger than most of
the guys on the football team and, Dad, she wants to go out for
the wrestling team.  I'll quit if she does.  The coach will
always be comparing us.  And, Dad, the things she does to guys
sometimes, you --" and then he had stopped, knowing that he'd
gone too far, betrayed a trust.  I had pretended I hadn't heard
exactly what he'd said, made it seem I thought he'd said
something else.  However, in my mind's eye I had seen the flexing
of her arm and the stretching of her chest.  She was definitely
developing in ways I had not been completely aware of.  I had
felt a stirring in my loins and kept saying silently to myself
"Oh, boy, Oh, boy , this is not good.  Not good."

"What about going out for the baseball team?" I had asked Joe
hopefully.

"Oh, Dad, you know I was never any good at that," he had replied
softly not wanting to hurt me, and knowing my love for the sport,
he didn't say what I knew was unsaid, that he hated baseball and
probably hated himself for not being good at it, when it was so
much a part of my life.

I decided to leave Joe alone with his thoughts for a while and
after changing my clothes, I returned to the kitchen, hoping to
find some ready food to feed my suddenly ravenous hunger.  Amy
was drinking water by the sink.  When she saw me she became
suddenly coquettish.

"Dad, you should have seen me driving tonight.  Smooth as silk.
That lesson we had about the clutch last night really helped.
Why don't we take a spin tonight and I'll show you how much I've
improved," she seemed to swell her breasts and even flex her
shoulders and arms for my benefit.  I looked at Janet to see if
she thought the same, and I could tell that she was troubled.  So
was I.  I thought about Linda.  I had accused her of having
unresolved feelings about her father, but could it be that Linda
was a surrogate for Amy?  That was a scary thought, and my
shoulders shivered in an involuntary spasm.

"Amy, I think you still have some homework to finish for
tomorrow.  Let your Dad rest for a while," Janet said, coming to
my rescue.

As Amy swept out of the room, Janet and I looked at each other
with raised eyebrows.  "She doesn't know her strength," Janet
whispered, diverting our thoughts back to Joe and his plight.
"Since you let her get that big set of weights, she gets stronger
every day.  And it shows.  And I know you've noticed.  It's not
healthy for a girl to be that strong."  I looked away to compose
myself from a possible you've-found-me-out look and then returned
my eyes impassively to her.  "She's a natural athlete, Jan.  It's
a new world.  Let her do what she's capable of."  But I could see
that Jan was not convinced. 

"She's getting to be such a tease with the boys.  I see it when
she thinks I'm not around.  Let's just say I wouldn't challenge
her to arm-wrestling any more if I were you," Janet said
meaningfully, and I had to look away quickly to hide whatever my
face might show of the sudden surge in my heartbeat.  That
tingling in my spine was back, but I resisted the shivering of my
shoulders this time.

Well, I was hardly surprised.  It fit the profile of her father's
pride and joy.  The girl who was always too squeamish to put the
worm on the hook but always insisted on landing her own fish.  In
a word, she was spoiled -- a spoiled brat.  And I was to blame.
I had always thought that with Janet as a role model, she
couldn't go wrong, but I should have known that doesn't work
during the teen years.  Oh, well. 

"Looks like you'll have to have a heart-to-heart talk with her,"
I said hoping to sound concerned and sympathetic at the same time
and to wash my hands of it.  But that didn't work, as usual.
"Well, you'll have to help, too.  You know she's testing you out
as a model male to interact with," Janet said as she busied
herself with fixing my plate of food.  I said nothing, but again
that tingling led to a shiver I couldn't control.

Later that night as I waited in bed for my wife to come out of
the bathroom, Linda flashed into my mind, crowding out thoughts
about our children.  I silently examined the depths of my guilt.
It was the first time in twenty years of marriage that I had been
intimate with another woman.  I knew that I would be affected
much more by that day's events than the earlier encounter with
Linda -- which I could dismiss, by the marvelous convolutions of
human logic, as not having been under my control.


As I thought about it, I knew that my unblemished faithfulness to
that point was due, not to admirable integrity, but to not having
ever been seriously tempted.  I was weak, might as well admit it.
Once Linda had decided to seduce me, I caved in without much of a
struggle.  And MENTALLY I had strayed for years. 

As I looked at Janet, my wife, undressing and moving her body, I
was reminded that she was an amazon in the flesh as well as in
the spirit -- tall, strong, with a lean big-boned muscular figure
that was ripening well with age.  BUT, it wasn't enough for my
libido, my fantasies ran to women like Linda, the extreme epitome
of the superior female physique.  For years, after my wife would
make it clear that she was not in the mood on that particular
night, lovingly but firmly repulsing me, I would slip away after
she was asleep and indulge my fantasies, eventually climaxing in
autosexual relief.  So, I was not completely faithful, by any
means, despite my respect, my love for her.  I knew Janet was
more than I deserved, sexually and in every other way.  When
would I grow up?


Although she may have suspected something of the sort, Janet
would have been shocked to find out that I had an orgasm almost
every night, with her or without her, on rare occasions even two,
one with her and then one without her.  It was hard to say which
I enjoyed more; I would have to say that when she was truly in
the mood and really got into it and climaxed ecstatically, THAT
was the best.  But it didn't happen often.  Sexual addiction had
limited my career, even interfered in my family life, but not
much.  There are worse addictions than sexual addiction.  I was
reminded of the autobiographical joke of the poet whose therapist
told him, "She's wrong that you're addicted to sex; you don't get
enough to be addicted."  Well, maybe the therapist didn't know
the whole story.

As Janet got into bed, I cleared my throat.  "How was the day
with your father?"

"Oh, he was in a good mood."  Yeah, I wasn't there.  "The kids
love him."  Someday they'd see that they were being bought, I
thought spitefully.  "He asked about you.  I think he was
disappointed you weren't there."  Yeah no one to criticize and
show up.

She turned to me.  "I missed you, too.  You know Sundays are
usually our day together."  She fiddled with the loose collar of
my thin T-shirt "pajamas."

To my chagrin this was one of the nights Janet was very much in
the mood. When she started gently caressing me in places that
always arouse me, I feigned exhaustion from the game as the
reason I could not make love, and I really did wince from a sharp
twinge in the lower back when I turned to her.  I should never
have carried Linda into her apartment, I mused ruefully.  I felt
guilty for not accommodating Janet; she deserved at least that.
But Linda had made certain that for one day I would be "faithful"
only to her.

Janet smiled sweetly, "Perhaps tomorrow," but she made a final
pass with her trained fingers, doing what invariably set my
member at attention and always sent my breathing into involuntary
gasps that signalled my capitulation to pleasure.  But this
time -- nothing.  She tried massaging my limp member.  She was
really in the mood and not giving up easily!  But I winced in
pain.  Concerned, she drew down my short pants and turned on the
light by the bed before I realized what she was doing.  "It's red
and puffy.  What happened?"

"Uh, I --  Well, it's embarrassing.  I was hit there with a
vicious bad hop during the game."

"Oh you poor dear.  And I bet you insisted on continuing to
play."  She thought I had incredible thresholds against pain.

"Well, you know we are little shorthanded.  Everybody has to
play."

She put her head lightly on my shoulder and snuggled against me.
"Well, I'll give you a couple of days or so.  But look out after
that!"  How could I not love this woman?

She kissed me sympathetically.  "Maybe you should give up that
game.  It's making a wreck out of you."

"Yeah, maybe I will  just as soon as this season's over." THE END

Last story will follow.

[Jaguar]

As we've seen from GeoCities, large websites can disappear.  And disk space costs almost nothing these days.

[elgat]

I can hardly believe this post has been revived after all these years...

He did post some slightly updated stories on some french website later on (also closed down now).

[Bert1976]

Some of his stories have been illustrated and can be obtained at amysconquest.com. Not the Glove man triology though, which I'd love to see illustrated