File Size: 17K
Rating: NC-17 for language, and explicit sexual content
Category: R
Spoilers:None
Keywords: Skinner/Other Erotica
Summary: Skinner discovers inlaws can be outlaws in the bedroom

AUTHOR'S NOTE: In the universe as defined
by me, Sharon and Walter are still together at the time of this tale.
This takes place sometime before "Avatar," possibly about 2 years.
Email me with whatever you want--recipes are also welcome--at
margie@mtgpa.mt.lucent.com

There's also some kickass stuff at the Sisters In Smut site at:
http://dspace.dial.pipex.com/town/parade/hg83/skinner.htm
with other loverly squidge-filled stories by other
wonderful, and 'way more talented than me, writers.
Check it out, if you haven't already!

WARNING:!!!!!
There is a chance some of you may come away with the idea that
Skinner and his lover have no redeeming qualities in this piece.
It is true that this can be considered just sex for sex's sake--c'est
tout--written mostly out of NorthEastern cabin fever.....
So think of it as portraying, say,
like Porno!Skinner, or "The Skinner Who Wasn't" or something.
Or not, as you choose.

"Over On His Side Of The Bed"
by
Margie Maggiulli
Proud Member, Sisters In Smut, DDEB1

"I've been a bad, bad girl.
 I've been careless with a delicate man.
 And it's a sad, sad world
 When a girl will break a boy
 Just because she can."
Fiona Apple

	It is my 30th birthday. My family surrounds me on this
warm early evening in June, all of us attending a backyard picnic at
my father's remote cabin in the Virginia mountains. I am happy, and
content. And it is because of my sister's husband.
	I've been watching him all day, as discreetly as possible,
lifting my eyes when no one else was looking. Seeing him move,
feeling him breathe. I try to seem relaxed. I keep the conversation
around me flowing. But it is him: the tightness of his
thighs, the curves of his ass, the smoothness of his sweater as it hugs his
upper body. He is all I see.
	My breathing comes harder as I look at his hands, his long fingers
splayed over his knees, and I feel his hands on my body. I blink, and look away.
	I stand over my birthday cake, being urged to blow out the
candles. To make a wish. In my 30 years I have wished, and I have
desired. With the slight heat of the burning wax on my face,
this time, I do both: I wish for my desire.  And he is
standing silent, arms crossed, distant, next to his wife.
My older sister, Sharon.
	And I know my brother-in-law desires me, too.  I know because
earlier, he touched me. Why and when is inconsequential; reaching
for a roll, retrieving a dropped napkin. Or maybe it was when his
leg shifted and I felt it pressed along mine,
pulling my attentions away from the polite dinner conversations around me.
	There was nothing else. I was aware of nothing else.
	Later, in the semi-dark of twilight, I watch him as we
all sit around a makeshift campfire, the amber glow of the flames
warming his skin, reflecting off the lenses of his glasses. Sharon
sits, remotely, at his side. He balances his weight behind him on his
hands. He doesn't speak, and when he does, it is with perfunctory answers to
mundane questions from those around him: "How's work?" "Did you catch the
game on Sunday?" "Who do you like in the series this year?"
	I don't know if I've fallen in love with him. I know
that I've been watching, and waiting, as my attraction for him
turned unmistakably from a platonic crush to a sexual need.
	I've never shared my feelings with anyone. Anyone. At all turns,
I've avoided him, keeping my distance at family functions,
declining my sister's invitations to spend time in Washington, allowing my
imagination to fill in where my spirit was unwilling to go.
	Until now.
	I've sensed something different between my sister and her husband
this weekend. Not a turmoil, no, they've probably never had enough passion
for it to be tumultuous, but a sense of passage, of sadness. Of finality.
The two of them barely speak to each other.  Barely touch.
	What a complete waste of time. I know if he were mine, he'd be
allowed to surface for air momentarily before I draw him down
to me again. And again.
	Sharon leans over to my brother-in-law and whispers
something, to which he nods. Then they both stand. I remain
seated, enjoying how my head is level with his crotch. I giggle
to myself at the crude thoughts that begin; in them, I reach for his
zipperpull, snaking my tongue between the fabric of his fly, allowing
my moist mouth and eager hands to claim a most sought-after prize.
	I realize as I sit there that I am a bitch. And that I don't care.
	 Sharon says her goodbyes. She is leaving for an impromptu
meeting she must attend at the adjunct office for the real estate
company she works for. It's close by my father's home. She plans
on returning very late this evening.
	I don't have much time.
	My sister's husband walks away with her, escorting her to her car,
begging off the company of his in-laws in favor of retiring early. And as
is his way, he will probably read, or work, behind the barrier of the closed
bedroom door.
	That door. I recall the past times I've stood just beyond it
in the early dawn hours while everyone slept, listening, half-hoping
I'd catch him and my sister making love, making noise, desperate
to experience his sexuality, albeit vicariously. But my ears have been
met with absolute silence. Nothing. Not the sound of rustling sheets, or
of shifting bodies. Which has only served to fuel my imagination as I
wonder what it would be like to be over on his side of the bed.
	I wait a discreet amount of time, and offer my family an
affectionate goodnight.  I know they suspect nothing. I have given
them no cause for suspicion. My father and brothers wish me a happy
birthday, and turn back to the fire, their beers, and their
discussions of sports and banalities. It's their intention to drink until
they are drunk and sleep out in the open air. Normally, I would join them,
but tonight, I have other plans.
	Nearing the porch, I hear voices. Not loud, but firm. Sharon
and her husband.  I move closer, hidden by the shadows of the house. I slip
off my shoes, my toes wriggling in the moist, warm summer night grass.
	"Walter, whatever it is, I wish you would tell me," she
sighs. I can see them clearly in the moonlight. She runs her hand through
her hair. "I wish you would--"
	"There's nothing to tell," he responds, his voice weary, his
arms crossed in that familiar, defensive posture he seems to take great
comfort in. "It's work, that's all. And that's where I like to leave
it. In the office."
	"I know, Walter, after all these years, I know." Again, she
sighs, and puts more distance between them as she heads for the car. "Look,
what we talked about earlier...it was just a suggestion, I--"
	"Sharon," it sounds like he's gritting his teeth, "I just don't
feel comfortable talking to a therapist about...about our--"
	"Problems?" she finishes for him.
	This time it's his turn to sigh noisily.
	Sharon opens the car door, then turns to stare at her husband. She
says something softly, so softly, I can't hear it, though I strain
to. She gets into the car, leaving him no chance to respond, and
takes off down the driveway. He stands and watches her car's tail lights
until they disappear onto the main road, then he looks up at the
stars. I step closer, my footfalls silent, trying to still the thousands
of thoughts in my head.
	Suddenly, he turns towards me. I shrink back into the bushes near
the cabin, sure he couldn't have heard me approach. He stands, legs slightly
apart, staring. I swear he sees my eyes, my confusion. The open lust on
my face. I feel a flush in my bare legs and feet, my nipples hardening
against the thin cotton of my tee shirt. My choice to wear no underwear,
such a wanton, free decision, is my undoing as the wetness from my arousal
at being under his unwavering gaze begins to dampen the fabric of my shorts.
	He takes a step forward. I hear the gravel yield with a crunch
to the weight of his foot. Then, just as quickly, he turns away and walks up
the creaky front porch to the house door.
	I watch his back, and realize I haven't breathed once through
that whole encounter. My heart hammers in my chest and my resolve
gets stronger.
	I'm going to have him tonight.
	I wait until I see the light go on in the guest bedroom at the
side of the house, then I, too, cross the front porch and enter the living
room, tip-toeing across the floor, making my movements stealthy, and cat-like.
	At the top of the stairs I turn right.
	His door is slightly open. To my surprise he is neither
reading nor working. He is undressing.
	I stand, transfixed at the sight of him. His back is to me as he
slips off his brown cotton sweater, letting it fall to the floor. He pulls
his tee shirt out of his khaki pants, then yanks it up, over his
head. I shiver as I see his biceps flex and relax with the motion,
see the muscles ripple across his shoulder blades, the dim light of the
bedside lamp not enough to truly take in the details of his
body. He reaches for his belt, and I hear the metallic clink as the
clasp is undone, followed by the small blurt of his zipper
coming down, almost impossible to hear over the pounding of blood in my
ears. Then the pants sliding off, the simple action of stepping out of
them again causing his musculature to respond.
	I realize without feeling myself walking that I am in the
doorway. As he reaches for the elastic waistband of his so-very-white
briefs I find my trembling hand on the light switch.
	"Allow me," I whisper as I flick the switch and we are both bathed
in the blackness of the Virginia mountain night.
	In the few seconds it takes for both our eyes to become accustomed
to the lack of light, I pause. I know I am waiting for his permission to
move. For his permission to come closer.
	I hold my breath as he begins to take shape before me, the
moonlight through the lightly curtained windows frames his form. He appears
not to have moved, and suddenly, the seed of doubt, of shame begins to grow
in the corner of my heart. I am a fool to think that my sister's husband
would desire me. I am a fool to have had faith in all those daydreams. I
am a fool to believe that a desirable, available, willing woman is enough
of a temptation to transcend whatever or whomever else his life has in it.
	With great effort, I put my head down, and pull backward to retreat
through the door. I open my mouth to stammer an apology, a half-assed
explanation, when I feel the air change, and he is there.
	"No," he whispers into the space in front of me, "allow me."
He flips the light back on. He has taken off his briefs.
	I raise my eyes to his, my whole body trembling, knowing just how
close I am to Eden. He lowers his face to mine, but I refuse his offer of
a kiss, a too-simple, almost trite prelude that I'd just as soon
dispense with. For now. Instead, I put my fingertips lightly on his
chest, allowing my nails to rake through the hairs I find there, using
a slight pressure to urge him backwards towards the bed. "Lie down," I command
him gently.
	He does. I feel his eyes watching me as I move around the room,
drawing the shades down over the windows. That done I stand
at the edge of the bed. Now it's my turn to raise my tee-shirt over my
head, to unzip and slip off my shorts. His eyes darken and deepen as he
watches me undress. I don't wonder if he appreciates my lack of underwear,
gratified instead that what he lacks in verbiage, he makes
up for in other ways, as his erection begins to twitch and grow.
I am hungry for it suddenly, for the taste of him. I crawl onto the
bed straddling him, nipping the flesh of his legs,
breathing deeply of his body, the perfumes of his sweat,
and his sex. Before my lips can close over his glans, he
reaches for me, rolls me onto my side, drawing me towards him,
towards his side of the bed. He caresses my jaw, appraising my body with his
eyes and his hands, rolling the pads of his thumbs around my
areola, creating a sweet friction, my body responding by arching
into his touch. His mouth is on my neck, his lips moving
over my lips, forcing me to take the kiss I had declined before. His
tongue invades my mouth, explores my teeth. I return the favor, closing
my eyes. His kisses are as I imagined, his long, lean, nude body against
mine, delicious.
	I feel his hands begin to skate over my body, and
my heart hammers again in my chest as his fingertips move over my labia,
and slick over my clit. I sense danger. I am dangerous.
	I am an adulterer.
	I lift my leg up over his hip to allow him
better access. He moans against my cheek. Just this much,
just this beginning, is enough to make me come, and I do.
He holds me while I tremble through it, parts from me and
looks into my eyes.
	"Again," I whisper.
	His lips brush mine, his tongue moving over my
face, looping over my ear, his teeth on my earlobe as his fingers find me
again. I rock my hips, put my hand over his to show him how
to touch, where to touch. He finds his own rhythm. And I climax again.
	My lower body is on fire, I can not stop
quivering.  I am trying to memorize all the parts of his body, the curves
of his back, the place where his legs join his hips.
When I try to hold and caress his erection, he stills my hand,
and shakes his head.
	He shifts his weight, and trails kisses down my body.
I don't want this, I am already sore, but I can't deny him.
He takes me with his mouth, with his tongue, and I feel
myself cresting again, teetering somewhere between
pain and pleasure as he uses his teeth, then soothes
with his fingers.
	I want to cry out and call his name, but I grip
the sheets, and set my jaw. I come.
	He slips back up my body and I claim his mouth. It tastes
of me, smells of me, and I don't care. I don't care. I use
my fingers and my tongue to clean my scent off his skin as he
settles between my legs. I tighten my knees and push him away.
	"Kneel here." I point to a space next to my head on
his side of the bed.
	He obliges, and it is then that I notice his breath
coming quickly, his cock straining, deeply colored, the veins
pulsing along his member from his scrotum.
	Lying on my side, I take him in my mouth, the angle
allowing me to take his erection fully once, twice, before I move
back my head, and tease his length with my tongue, skimming
over the skin as my fingertips caress the ridge
of taut flesh just behind his balls. He murmurs an epithet,
and wills me to take him fully again. I let
him set the pace as he slips in and out between my lips.
I know he is close to his climax, but I don't want it
to end like this.  I move my head away and pull him by the shoulders to
me, kissing him, the fire of passion making me flush, making my head spin.
I am afraid and exhilarated at the same time.
I'd give anything, I'd do anything to have this night
last forever. He moves again between my legs and I let him.
He slides hard and high into me and I let him. I wrap
my legs around his hips and throw my head back as his
teeth find my nipple.
	But I want more, and I take his face in my hands.
	"Stop," I whisper. He looks at me, and with
what appears to be herculian effort, does just that.
He falls back on his side of the bed on his back, one arm over his eyes.
	"What?" he pleads.
	I draw him to me, with a soft giggle.
	"I fail to see the humor in this," he whispers hoarsely.
	I kiss him deeply, sucking his tongue until
I feel it from the bottoms of my feet to the roots of my hair.
	"Don't pull that boss shit," I say into his neck. Then
I turn on my side, my back to him. Taking his hand, I show him how to
take moisture from my core and spread it to my
buttocks. A fast learner, he knows what I want, and I feel
his fingers slide in, stretching me, preparing me. My hips
press back into his. I lick my fingers and wet his cock, already
slick with my cum. I want him, God, how I want him.
	He is there, poised at the entrance to my ass. Then the pressure
grows, there is a momentary slice of pain, and I breathe
out to relax. Exquisite.  His fingers make a fan over my hip,
then move between my legs. I push back as he moves forward.
I take him in fully, he fills me completely, and I begin
to slip over into some place else, some sweet, torrid
sea as he whispers in my ear, "Does it hurt?"
	"No, oh my God, no," I murmur back, and I lose myself
>in the sensation of his cock sliding in and out of my ass.
	My body begins to crest as his pace quickens.
Soon he is convulsing inside me as I tremble.
I think my heart will burst from my chest.
He wraps his arms around my waist and holds me tightly to him,
burying his face in my hair. Not sure what I expected, this
resolute posture is not what I planned on. Is everything I wanted.
He sighs and holds me tighter still.
	"Turn off the light," he says softly. I untangle us
to do that, and then fall back onto the bed. His arms
reach out for me, and pull me against his chest, and over to
his side of the bed.
	"What did she say?" I say, content that our new-found intimacy
gives me the right to ask.
	"Who?"
	"What did my sister tell you before she left for her meeting?"
	There is a brief, thick silence. Then his body stiffens against mine.
"That she's pregnant."

THE END