This Little Piggy Stayed Home
by Suze

 

Running quickly through the necessaries -- No money changed hands, no ownership is claimed. No nudity, no real swearing. No romance either. Hardly sounds like me, does it? Don't worry, it's really me -- it's a comedy, and there's sex. <g>

I do have one warning though. If you were paying attention, you might have noticed something missing from the subject line. Think hard. No, I don't do death, but this may be even worse. It's...I can't say it.

Deep breath, Suze. It's...I can do this, I can. If I can write it, I can admit it. It's...het. But it's short het! And it's Methos/Amanda het. You knew it was going to happen sooner or later, didn't you? I'm not deserting the slash ranks, I just had to get this one out of my system so Amanda would shut up. <g>

Thanks, Lum, I couldn't do it without you. Well, I could, but not as well. And I wouldn't have nearly as much fun. And you're right. We need those matching t-shirts: 'mea culpa, mea culpa, slapslapslap.'

Y'all take that as your Really Bad Jokes Ahead warning.

Oh. I can't remember -- do we have to warn about toe-sex? <weg>  


"A-hem." One green-gold eye opened and Methos looked up at Amanda. The eye blinked once, then closed. Undaunted, she tried again.

"Methos, be nice." No reaction. Amanda sighed and switched tactics.

"Methos, honey..." An eternal optimist, Amanda took the bad tempered grunt that floated up at her as a sign that she was making progress.

"Sweetie, move your feet, please." Methos ignored her, turned slightly, stretched, then adjusted his blanket and resettled in his new position. His already impossibly long body lengthened before her eyes and covered even more of the couch.

"Methos, you're taking up enough space for three people. You can spare a few inches for little ol' me." Amanda's Latin was rusty, but even so, she was sure that the sounds that emerged from the blanket next weren't even close to a compliment.

"Methos..."

"I was here first, Amanda. Find your own seat."

"But the couch has the best view of the TV, Methos." No further movement, just another grunt. Definitely not progress.

Amanda sighed again and shuffled through her tactics file until she finally got out of the Duncan section and reached the card marked 'Incredibly Arrogant Old Men, category: Methos; sub- section 3b: wheedling.' It took her less than two minutes to review her carefully collected data, pad softly to the kitchen for the required equipment, and return.

"Meeeethoooos..."

"Go away, Amanda. You're starting to bother me."

"Is that any way to talk to someone who's walked all the way to the kitchen to bring you one of Duncan's expensive imported  beers? Fine, I'll take it back."

Both eyes opened this time. His gaze moved blearily up her body, then brightened as he zeroed in on the bottle in her hand. She told herself she wasn't insulted. Much.

One long arm snaked out from under the blanket, reaching for the condensation covered bottle. Amanda backed up, moving the prize  out of his reach.

"Unh-unh. Give."

Another grunt. A whine. A grumble. The blanket shrouded lump shifted slightly, and a parsimonious space appeared at one end of the couch.

Amanda knew a victory when she saw one, but just in case, she claimed her seat before handing over the promised bribe.

A silent battle ensued. Methos was forced to shift position in order to drink his beer, and Amanda took advantage of the offered opportunity to enlarge her domain. They finally achieved a grudging accord that allowed each of them an end of the couch, with her legs stretched out alongside his across the middle cushions. Getting her half of the blanket was tougher, but with a shift of weight here and a wiggle there, she eventually forced Methos to choose between total blanket possession and control of the remote. She wasn't surprised when he opted for the remote; some traits are so close to being universal among men that she didn't even bother to note them separately in her tactics file. No problem. She didn't need control of the remote to control the television.

The set clicked on and Methos began running through the channels.

"So, what's on that you're so anxious to see that you interrupted my nap?" Checking her Methos cards quickly, she declined the gauntlet. She was going to see this movie if it killed her, or better yet, Methos, but letting him know that was the surest way she knew to end up watching some boring sports show. She'd allowed herself plenty of time, and if she was careful, she could manipulate Methos into watching her movie without him ever knowing she was doing it. She assured herself that reluctance to get bloodstains on Duncan's couch had nothing to do with her choice of tactics.

"Nothing in particular. I'm just bored."

"Bored. Right. You should have gone to the antique show with Duncan. Oh, look. Golf."

She couldn't help herself, she giggled. Methos glanced at her and she smiled at him.

"Why does he bother with antique shows when you're camping on his couch? A little refinishing here, a touch of polish there, fix a few worm holes and you'd be good as new." It earned her a number four glare with sneer, but it was worth it. Distracted by his search for a withering comeback, he changed the channel.

News. Weather. A bad situation comedy that made them both groan. She whined once just for form when he skipped over the shopping channel, yawned at C-span, then made a note that tapping her foot against his thigh a few times made him rush to get away from MTV. Interesting. Did Methos actually have scruples about poaching from Duncan? She never would have guessed it, but she wasn't above using it.

Aware that a powerful weapon should never be abused lest it lose its effectiveness, she reserved it through the minutes he spent on the documentary about hurricane prediction, the swim meet, the infomercial, and even the all-female roller derby. But after suffering through ten minutes of a western on TNT while he gave a running commentary on the good points of the various horses, she gave in and used it.

She began with a stretch. One thin, bare foot moved up his leg, brushing oh-so-innocently against his thigh. The commentary stopped. He shifted. She shifted. He retreated. She advanced. They ignored each other and stared at the screen as the cowboy in the white hat dismounted and strutted into the saloon. The slender foot moved again. The saloon dissolved into a kitchen where an overly enthusiastic chef was doing something unspeakable to a perfectly good squid. Victory. Amanda managed not to laugh. Not out loud, anyway.

The chef disappeared, replaced by an 'I Love Lucy' rerun which was replaced in turn by a country-western music video, and then by an even quicker to disappear Michelle Lee movie on Lifetime. Any minute now he'd get to....

Oh, no.

"Look, football!"

She could almost feel him snicker. But the lethal foot was up to the task, and his loose sweatpants would offer very little in the way of defense. She gathered her forces and unleashed the blitzkrieg. Sneaking over the top of his leg, her foot worked its way delicately up his vulnerable inner thigh. Methos stiffened. Smothering any thoughts of mercy, the Geneva Convention, or how soon Duncan would be home, she located her target and began to explore. Yep. Stiff all over.

Methos lifted the remote. Amanda concealed a smile. She was in control. She was winning the game. And then temptation reared its ugly head, and she just had to gloat.

"Who's winning?"

"Huh? What are you talking about?"

"The football game, Methos. What did you think I was talking about?" Amanda could make pseudo-innocent eyes with the best of them.

"How the hell do I know, Amanda? We'll know in a minute."

"Uh-huh. It doesn't really matter. American football bores me. But I do like those tight pants they wear." One quick stroke with her big toe, just to remind him what the game was and who was really winning.

Methos looked at her. He looked back at the screen. His eyes narrowed for a moment, then he looked back at her and smiled.

"It only bores you because you don't understand the game, Amanda. I'll explain it to you." He turned his attention back to the television, seemingly absorbed in explaining the game.

"The red team has the ball, Amanda. They have four chances to move it ten yards forward or lose it to the blue team." Uh-oh. What was he doing? Where was his foot going? Oh. Nice toes.

Loose sweatpants were no defense against a blitzkrieg, but her short skirt wasn't either. Methos' foot moved up her leg, and lingered beside her knee, stroking gently.

"If they make it that far in four plays, they get to try again." His foot moved forward again, advancing up the soft skin of her inner thigh. Really nice toes. Long, gentle, and surprisingly dexterous. They brushed over the silk covering her end zone and stopped. A gentle pressure, release. Pressure again. And again. The thin silk was becoming damp. Those little piggies were really going to market.

"Look. Now they're going to try to run the ball." The figures on the screen were certainly doing something, but Amanda couldn't have cared less what it was. Her attention was concentrated on the toes working their way under the narrow elastic on the leg of of her panties to probe gently at her body. Too gently. As the figures on the TV ran around in circles before falling down in a pile, Amanda shifted and pressed down against the wandering foot. The foot pressed back. The toes moved, shifted, burrowed, explored, and finally settled on the small nub of flesh hidden between the folds of her sex. Amanda swallowed a squeak. Methos' eyes never moved from the television while his dangerous little piggies skipped right over the roast beef and went straight for the steak. And not just any steak, but Prime, Grade A sirloin. Well aged, too. Amanda closed her eyes and lost track of the yardage or footage, or whatever it was, but was eventually pulled back by Methos' voice. The end zone had gone from damp to dripping.

"The blue team tries to stop them." The blue team was apparently stupid. Why would it want to stop them? The toes rubbed over her  swollen clit with a slow, circular motion. A few hard strokes, then soft, then hard again. The toes moved away from her clit and she managed not to groan. Then Methos pushed his big toe against her opening, and a tiny moan escaped. They both ignored it. Stroking, pressing, barely entering. She spread her legs the tiniest bit and he began a sensuous, tempting rhythm. Rising, building -- then the toes retreated back to her clitoris.

"Oh, nice play. I'll bet they try to pass now." If he passed now, she'd kill him.

"See, the receiver's going deep." Deep. Deep was definitely a good idea at this point.

"Methos..."

"Shhh. Hold that thought, Amanda. This is the good part. The red team is about to score." They certainly were.

Methos watched the game while his foot alternated its attention between her opening and her clit. Pressing, probing, pressing. The exquisite sensations washed over her in waves -- rising, building, torturing. Pressing. Almost. Probing. Almost. Oh God, yes. Almoooooost....

And then a new sensation. A shiver along her nerves that wasn't caused by Methos' foot.

Duncan. The lift. Oh, my God, not now!

Methos' foot shifted again. His toes pressed against her tortured clit and rubbed hard. Once, twice. Amanda fought to keep her hips still and her mouth closed as her orgasm peaked and swept over her. The toes gentled and slowed, calming, caressing, then finally abandoning her as Methos moved out from under the  blanket, curling up at his end of the couch with the guilty foot beneath him.

Duncan walked in, raised his eyebrows at the TV, and smirked.

"Football? Is that what you two do while I'm gone?" He sighed, then placed the back of one hand on his forehead and struck a melodramatic pose. "Amanda, I'm crushed, devastated, wounded even. You won't watch football with me."

Methos rose, stretched, and dropped the remote on Amanda's stomach. Wandering toward the kitchen he grinned at Duncan and shrugged.

"That's because you don't explain it to her properly. I've been  teaching Amanda the finer points of football strategy while we waited for the movie to start."

"Which movie? If it's not one of your hop-and-chops, I'll even make popcorn."

"'Footloose'. Apparently it's one of Amanda's favorites."

Amanda glared at his retreating back. See if she worried about a little thing like getting bloodstains on the couch next time.


 The End