How It Ended - Laurence & Ma Duck Ch. 03

Author's Note: Before reading this Part 03 in the series, first please read Parts 01 and 02 [How It Ended - Laurence & Ma Duck Ch. 01 (link: //rosa-blanca.ru/desixxxphoto/s/how-it-ended-laurence-and-ma-duck-ch-01); and, How It Ended - Laurence & Ma Duck Ch. 02 (link: //rosa-blanca.ru/desixxxphoto/s/how-it-ended-laurence-and-ma-duck-ch-02)], without which predicate many of the references herein would make little sense. One other point: occasionally I get e-Mail complaining that my contributions to Literotica are lacking in true erotica. These critiques are fair enough. But be patient; it will come. Think of this Installment mostly as foreplay.

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They were the perfect couple. Thoroughly smitten with each other at first exposure, their platonic friendship took three years to gel into a romantic union. When it did, they were truly soul-mates. Yet they broke up.

The disintegration can best be ascribed to "sexual politics." That term, coined in the late sixties as a by-product of the feminist movement that started on college campuses, is defined as:

The principles determining the relationship of the sexes; relations between the sexes regarded in terms of power.

In other words, power in the bedroom.

This is the continuation of their story.

================================

Laurence:

I put on a tie and donned a white coat kept in my car. It was a Friday night, reasonably late, and the staff parking lot was three-quarters empty. I was able to park quite near one of the staff entrances and went inside, Ma Duck in hand.

"Now, look," I cautioned her, in a low voice. "You may find me engaging in repartee with the phlebotomist on duty. Do not grow upset. It is nothing more than a means to an end."

Ma Duck:

"What is a phlebotomist?" I asked.

"Someone, usually a nurse, trained to draw and analyze blood using lab equipment," Quack responded. "Every one of them in this hospital is female. During the day there is a staff of six or eight; on the overnight shift there is only one. It may be an older woman who prefers the shift differential, or it may be a younger woman who was forced to this duty based on rotation and lack of seniority. If the latter, she won't be a happy camper. Either way, I shall have to use all my charm and then some because what I will be requesting of them is not exactly kulturniy [pronunciation: k(ʊ)lˈtʊəni]."

"And what does 'kulturniy' mean?"

Laurence:

"The first use of 'kulturniy' in English literature is found in Ian Fleming's James Bond novel From Russia With Love. The term is used by Tatiana Romanavo, 007's love interest; a spy dispatched by Smersh to seduce Bond. She uses this word when explaining her hope that James would turn out to be a man of culture and class -- this would help her feel good about engaging in the intimacy required to trap him.

"So while the Russian adjective originally meant 'cultured,' over the years it has acquired a meaning more like 'proper' or the non-religious usage of 'Kosher,'" Quack explained.

Ma Duck:

"And what will you be requesting that is not appropriate?" I inquired.

"I will be asking her to draw blood from a non-patient, and run a battery of blood tests out of order, while I wait."

"Oh," I said.

"I will be asking for a CBC, that is a wide variety of blood values, so that it will not be particularly noticeable that I'm seeking to determine if you have become infected with the clap. So I'll also be able to tell you your cholesterol, albumin, AST, triglycerides, thyroid activity, phosphorous, and so forth. As well as if you've gotten a dose."

Laurence:

"If it is an older nurse on duty," I told Ma Duck, "I will employ my boyish charm to wheedle out of her what I need."

"And if it is a younger woman?" she asked.

"In that event I will have to go full throttle with my considerable sex appeal."

"You have a very high opinion of yourself in that regard," Ma Duck noted.

"Tell me that opinion is not accurate," I retorted.

Ma Duck:

I couldn't.

"Now, look," Quack admonished, "if I have to resort to Plan B, exuding my massive charm combined with some implied heat, I do not want you looking daggers the phlebotomist."

"Huh?" I asked.

"Like you did with the concierge," Quack stated. "That woman was just doing her job."

"Was slipping you her home phone number part of her job?" I asked.

"And what did I do with it?" he asked.

"I think you put it in your shirt pocket."

"And do you think I will call her and be unfaithful to you as soon as you get on your return flight?" he continued. "You'll have to believe me, Ms. Duck. I am a man of integrity. I have never cheated on anyone, and I'm surely not going to start with you. How I interact with other women is something you'll have to get used to."

"And if I flirt with other men?" I asked.

"Do you want to flirt with other men?"

"No," I admitted.

"Then we have no problem," Quack stated. "And if you change your mind, then that's up to you. As long as you are content with me, I very much doubt you would be able to do so. Right?"

"Well, yes," I admitted.

"So, look, in all modesty, I will take such great care of you that you won't be able to even conceive of being discontented."

Quack was so arrogant he was truly insufferable. And thoroughly delightful.

It was not until the next morning that I realized Quack had never responded to what would happen if I did flirt with another man.

================================

They proceeded to a door marked 'Blood Lab' and entered. Ma Duck sat in the waiting area, where Laurence indicated, and he proceeded to the sole occupied desk where an attractive young nurse in light green scrubs and a name tag Ma Duck couldn't read from 15 feet away was doing paperwork. Laurence stood in silence until she looked up.

She seemed to recognize him, smiling and addressing him as 'Dr. Godard' though he wasn't wearing a name tag.

Laurence spoke quietly, and she followed suit. Ma Duck saw the nurse frown and explain something, and Quack nodded in agreement. He leaned over, nearly closing the gap between them, and whispered something further. She was tense. He whispered something else. Her body language palpably eased and she smiled. Quack smiled. She whispered something to him. To Ma Duck it sounded like 'Station A' and also the phrase 'ten minutes.'

Laurence whispered something else to the nurse, she hesitated and then she nodded yes eagerly. He whispered something further. Ma Duck thought she heard the name 'Baltimore.'

Laurence:

I returned to Ma Duck and told her that we were going to another room and that Ms. Criscione, the phlebotomist, would take her blood sample in a few minutes. Together we went to a location a few doors down the hall, where Ma Duck sat in a chair in a paneled-off cubicle marked 'Station A' while I stood. I explained that the nurse would then run the blood through their equipment ahead of samples previously drawn and we could wait for the results. I shouldn't be too long, I told her, less than a half hour for the print-out.

I explained that at first Ms. Criscione was resistant to breaking the rules, but had eventually come around. "She didn't exact any promises from me," I explained. "So I probably won't have to sleep with her."

Ma Duck frowned, then smiled.

"Don't volunteer any information," I concluded. "Just let me do the bulk of the talking."

Ma Duck:

"Why?" I asked.

"Because you're not a very good liar," Quack responded.

"Oh," was all I could say.

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Soon the nurse, young and as she drew nearer increasingly attractive, came up to them. Laurence told her, "Ellen, this is my cousin Michelle Duczynski, who is visiting from Detroit."

The phlebotomist found a vein in Ma Duck's left forearm, swabbed it with an alcohol wipe, and drew blood with a single needle, deftly depositing the contents into three vials with different-colored caps. She put a small cotton ball on the draw site and held it in place with Coban self-adherent tape.

Laurence and Ma Duck went back to the Blood Lab and sat together in the waiting area. About a half hour later, Nurse Criscione returned with a two-page print-out.

Laurence:

I thanked the phlebotomist, then asked her the name of her boyfriend.

"Tony," she responded. "Tony Palermo. Like the city."

"I've been to Palermo," I lied to her. "I'll bet your boyfriend smells a lot better than that city does."

The nurse blushed.

"Tell him to go to the Will Call window 20 minutes before the start of the game, and the tickets will be waiting there for him," I concluded.

Ma Duck:

The nurse nodded, then left. Quack studied the print-out.

After an intense 90 seconds, he told me that I was disease-free and every one of my blood values was within normal parameters.

"However," Quack concluded, "you may be at risk for diabetes."

"Huh?" I gasped.

"Well, yes," he explained. "You will be coming into very close contact with me on a prolonged basis and I am sickeningly sweet."

"Are you sure you don't mean sweetly sickening?" I retorted.

"Ms. Duck," he responded, "I am continually impressed by your facility with the English language."

Laurence:

"What was that business with tickets?" she asked.

"Ah," I replied, "your many skills include eavesdropping, I see." She nodded. "Well," I continued, "after the winsome Ms. Criscione agreed to do me this favor, I lied and told her I was stuck with two tickets to tomorrow night's baseball game -- the Baltimore Orioles are in town at Fenway Park -- and asked her if her boyfriend was a Red Sox fan. She said yes, and the deal was done. When we get back to the hotel I'll call Siobhan, the concierge whom you illogically hate, and have her arrange for the tickets to be waiting for Mr. Palermo tomorrow night."

"Quack," I asked, "How did you know she had a boyfriend?"

Ma Duck:

"It was obvious from the way she looked to me: mighty fine, clearly too fine not to be involved with someone. It was also obvious from the way she looked at me: interested but wistful."

Quack truly was conceited. Yet I credited him that he was probably right in his analysis. I had seen the way she looked at him. Of course I did not tell him that.

"So," I asked Quack. "With my clean bill of health, does that mean you now find me acceptable to associate with?"

"No," he said. "I already felt you were quite a bit more than acceptable to associate with. The purpose of the test was merely to see whether we could engage in sex safely. We are both clean, and the incubation period for either of us to have contracted anything by virtue of our carryings-on has passed."

Here my marvelous Quack stopped himself short, and in an unexpected contralto voice that was a fair approximation of the legendary Mae West, he intoned: "Actually, virtue had nothing to do with it."

Laurence:

I concluded, in my normal baritone: "Since we are committed to one another, and because you are on the pill, there should be no need for me to use condoms."

"We are committed to one another?" She repeated what I had said.

"Duh," I answered. "Ms. Quack, you should think of me as Mr. Sandman."

"Mr. Sandman?" she asked.

And I answered her by reciting a lyric from the Golden Age of Rock and Roll:

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream

Make him the cutest that I've ever seen

Give him the word that I'm not a rover

Then tell him that his lonesome nights are over

Sandman, I'm so alone

Don't have nobody to call my own

Please turn on your magic beam

Mr. Sandman, bring me a dream

"Honey," I told her, "you're no longer a rover. And our lonesome nights are over."

Ma Duck:

I tingled. I flushed with delight. I felt an intrusive yet delicious quiver between my legs. For a moment I thought I might cum, except that I knew I wouldn't because I never had. And I had long ago concluded, after years of trying, that that probably meant I couldn't. At this point, though, encouraged by that welcome tingle in the environs of my delta, I decided that with Quack's likely confidence and expertise in such matters -- he had studied anatomy, right? -- there was a good chance my hoped-for deliverance might well yet arrive.

I put my hand on Quack's, as it rested on the gear shift. It stayed there as he tooled his brand-new deep-blue phallic symbol through the late-night streets of Boston, while we expectantly made our way back to the hotel.

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After they had driven for about ten minutes, with about ten more to go until the Ritz, Ma Duck was suddenly gripped with a mild but very real panic. All of a sudden she felt like a lamb being led to the slaughter. Not that she was afraid of having sex with Laurence -- far from it, considering how sexually active, no, more accurately wanton, she had been in the past year.

Ma Duck:

Rather, I was afraid that because Quack meant so much to me -- and he was about to become the very first sexual partner for whom I had feelings of affection, let alone a deep love -- there would be a shift in our dynamic. Previously, we had been pretty much equal on the only plane we shared, which was about 95% intellectual and 5% caring, and precisely zero percent carnal. (Perfunctory tongue-less kisses on the lips don't count as licentiousness in my book.)

Quack had, in effect, ordered me to come to Boston for the weekend. On its face it was an invitation, of course, but one that he knew I would be powerless to refuse given my feelings for him. Next he had compelled me to provide him with chapter and verse -- every jot and tittle -- of my sexual history. Then he subjected me to that blood test. And now, of course, the coupling itself was about to occur. It was expected, pre-ordained. There would be no pretense of seduction. In Quack's expectation it was foregone. (In mine, too.)

But I just didn't want Quack to believe he was the superior partner, that he could direct our sex life, basically order me to bed any time he wished; and, worse yet, then direct me as he might a trained seal.

So what did I want? Well, not romance. Quack and I had had years of romance, or at least quasi-romance. He felt for me, always had; and I felt close to him -- we had longed for one another for a very long time, and were comfortable with those urges.

Then it came to me: equality. If I were to go to bed with him now -- just like that, after he had deemed me sufficiently "clean" -- it would signal that he had the upper hand, the whip hand (in a general sense, not implying BDSM), the controlling interest -- call it whatever you want -- in terms of our sensual life. We had been equals intellectually, and so far as I could tell equals in terms of having deep feelings of affection for one another. But for whatever reason -- his having taken the initiative for the weekend and having acted so cocksure of himself (pun very much intended) -- I was afraid that if I just followed his expected lead I would be surrendering to him: no, worse, that I would be subsumed by him. That would mean that in bed we would not be equal partners. And that, probably, would set the stage for our dealings in all other spheres.

To further complicate matters, while part of me was aghast that that might happen, another part of me wanted to be enthralled, indeed controlled, by him physically. I did not want to become a quivering, helpless maiden, of course, and yet . . .

The bottom line: I would not be involved in a sexual relation wherein Quack was the ringmaster and I the performing pony. I wanted real give and take. Sure, he would take the lead at times, but at other times, I had to control things. Otherwise I would become his carbon copy or, worse yet, his slave. For I did not, could not, doubt that Quack's sexual powers were formidable. (Even if only in my mind: but that's 90% of the ballgame, right?)

And to advance this desired dynamic in no uncertain terms, I needed to take the reins immediately, from the very first moment. After I had done this, and after Quack had seen my own strength in the bedroom, then I figured I could let up and ease into a comfortable give-and-take physical relationship.

I decided to make these feelings known to Quack before we hit our hotel room, so I raised the point immediately and pointedly.

Laurence:

All of a sudden, Ma Duck hit me from out of left field with a broadside: "Quack, just so you know, I am not some wispy little thing you can control because of my feelings for you, deep though they are."

I turned my head to the right and looked at her silently, but probably with a look of surprise. Saying nothing, I arched my eyebrow and then turned back to the road.

Ma Duck:

"What I am getting at is this," I told him. "We have to be equals."

"I always thought we were," Quack responded. "Haven't I always treated you with respect and affection and as someone on the same plane?"

"Well, yes, and that's one of the reasons I love you," I admitted. "But in the bedroom I have to be your equal. Too many men think they can control women with their God-Almighty cocks!"

Laurence:

I was not taken aback for long. Ah, I thought to myself, fucking feminism. Really; and I suppose the women's rights harridans believe that the penis is a cultural construct. . . But I maintained my composure. This was not a problem. "Well," I said, without missing a beat and deciding to go with humor (and maybe even good humor), "my cock is mighty to be sure, but far from 'God-Almighty.' I've never known it to expel thunderbolts, although there are other excretions that shoot forth frequently enough."

"This is not a joke!" she blurted.

"Nor do I treat it as a joke. You're the one who compared my proud manhood with the powers of Zeus.

"Look," I continued. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves here. I don't appreciate your likening me to 'too many men.' I am not one of your drunken, brutish companions from the fire station. With all modesty, I like to think of myself as a civilized man. Think of how Rex Harrison put it:

'I'm a very gentle man,

even tempered and good natured who you never hear complain;

who has the milk of human kindness by the quart in every vein.

A patient man am I, down to my fingertips;

the sort who never could, ever would,

let an insulting remark escape his lips.

A very gentle man . . .'

"If our love-making doesn't meet with your approval, you need only tell me or show me -- contemporaneously or after the fact -- and I'll react to your concerns with patience and respect. And we'll meet your apprehensions head-on, together.

"Surely this cannot be a question of sexual positions, can it? I assure you if you want to mount me, or tease me mercilessly, or have me go down on you, or engage in any other carnal activity or gymnastic display I will be more than willing to oblige. The only things off the table, as far as I am concerned, are anal penetration and actions involving the intentional infliction of pain. Those are non-starters with me.