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Copyright 1999 by E. Z. Riter.
E-mail address: ezriter@hotmail.com
Please! Give me your comments!
Dear Reader: In alt.sex.stories.d (for discussion), Mat Twassel has been
enlivening the group by asking a question each week in his Weekly Quiz.
One week the question was: "tell us what's in or on your night table." This
is our response. E.Z.
NIGHT TABLE
"Not much of an answer, was it?" she asked, swiveling to look at me. I
could see the ASSD news group on the monitor behind her.
"What are you talking about?"
"Your reply to Mat's quiz about what's on your night table. 'An alarm
radio, a scented candle in a crystal candle stick and a tube of KY.' Not up
to your standards, E.Z. What's this going to do to your reputation?"
"I didn't know I had a reputation to consider."
"You do with me. I'm not the woman of a pedestrian man."
"No one knows you're my woman. No one who reads the news group anyway."
"I know I'm your woman."
"But you know I'm not pedestrian. Am I?"
Her eyes, which had been twinkling at me since she started this little
tease, gleamed. A wild, devilish, grin broke out. She fought to control
it, making her lips twitch in mysterious ways. She stood sexily and walked
a pace to keep me from seeing her facial contortions. When she faced me
again, those lips were under control.
"If one was simply judging from a night table, one might reach the
conclusion that you . . . of course, it's not fair to judge a person from
their night table. What if someone saw mine? What would they think of
me?"
"With all those dirty magazines? That you're a pervert."
"I suspect Cosmo would object to being called a dirty magazine. Women
need the latest information on those subjects."
"Janey was right. Find a semi-literate woman . . . "
"Completely literate! And, sexy as hell!"
"That goes without saying."
"No, it doesn't. All women like to hear that. Really, E.Z., if a guy
who loves to write can't flow with good B.S., what's the average guy saying
to his woman?"
"You're sexy as hell," I replied, reaching for her.
"Brilliant! Now, that's original dialogue," she countered, squirming
away and backing toward the bedroom.
"Actions speak louder than words," I grinned, advancing menacingly.
"I can't hear you," she said, dancing away again.
It must have been the look in my eye. She stopped still. Her eyes
widened. Her mouth formed a little O.
"Now, E.Z.," she whispered in a guttural, sexy tone.
I lunged. She squealed and fled, somehow shedding her ever present
T-shirt and bra before she made it to the bedroom. She somersaulted across
the bed. Frozen in place, I watched as she wiggled out of her jeans. Her
panties were gone before I hurled myself toward her.
She dodged easily. I caromed off the wall into the night stand,
breaking the crystal candle stick. The alarm clock crashed to the floor. I
landed on the tube of KY. It exploded with a sound not unlike a whoopie
cushion, dispersing its contents on the wall as a work of abstract art.
There I was, on the night table, slightly dazed from both her and my
collision. She took advantage of my momentary dislocation to yank down my
boxers. With a shove, she pinned my shoulders against the wall and slipped
onto my lap, knees under my arms.
"Ever fuck on a night table?" she asked just before she kissed me.
God, what a woman!
Spent now, she curled against me, head buried in my chest, her hair soft
under my chin. When we recovered, she began to giggle as she helped me
stand. We collapsed on the bed in gales of laughter.
I glanced at the night table.
"Now, what are you going to tell Mat about what's on your table?" she
asked, her face bright as sunshine.
"I'll tell him what happened and let him figure it out," I replied
smugly.
The End
Please! Give me your comments!
E-mail address: ezriter@hotmail.com
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