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Statue

By: SunrockSin



At first the townspeople thought an odd, if immodest statue had been added above the old Sanctimony Saving and Loan Building, the oldest and tallest building along Main Street. The savings and loan company was long gone and the building had fallen into a state of disrepair as a number of tenants came and went over the years. Of course, even in its decline, the building remained the most noticeable in that area of town. If someone was going to erect a statue the old Sanctimony Savings and Loan Building was the place to do it.

Even from the ground this statue on the roof was beautiful, portraying a nude female with arms held out as if she was about to take a swan dive off the edge. While it intricate detail of the statue couldn't be seen from so far below, the delicate curves, nicely rounded breasts and long flowing hair attracted a lot of attention. Of course not all the attention was good and soon for every admirer who looked up at the statue, there were several others to berate the onlookers for lustfully gazing upon the unholy nakedness.

"But can't you see it's an incredible work of art?"

"No, the statue of General Wisemore in the square is art, this is just salacious nakedness. Why look at it, you can clearly see naked breasts and even down to the nether region. It's a sin I tell you."

I listened as discussion such as that soon became arguments and when several local churches entered the fray with the threat of hell and damnation word soon spread of a movement to get rid of the statue. Unfortunately, or fortunately depending upon someone's outlook, no one knew who owned the old building. A search of the tax rolls turned up the names of several companies but all were buried in a mass of partnerships and sister companies.

Finally when a group of people decided to simply go up on the rooftop and pull the statue down, I volunteered to lead the group. I had hoped I could either sabotage the effort, or at least make sure the statue came down intact. I figured if I could save the statue, perhaps it could be moved to another location, rather than simply be destroyed. 

We gathered some ropes, chains and sledgehammers and worked our way up the old stone stairway. Our voices and footsteps echoed as we climbed but once we reached the top we found the entrance to the roof locked and sealed shut.

"The door is locked," I hissed back at the group gathered on the stairs below me. I guess we will have to leave it on the roof.

"Just break it down," the reverend answered, handing me his sledgehammer.

Taking firm hold of the tool I said, "Okay you, back up now will ya? I can't get a good swing with you on top of me like this."

After a lot of rustling about, the group backed down the stairs some, I held the sledgehammer firmly and took a good swing at the lock. The heavy head slammed into the lock with an loud, echoing, "Thunk!" but the lock just bounced around against the door with no apparent damage. Gripping the sledgehammer harder, I took a mighty swing and crashed it into the door so hard, the sound of it rang in my ears, but once again, nothing happened.

"It's not working, the lock doesn't even seem damaged," I said.

"Hey, let me try," one of the other's shouted, so I handed him the sledgehammer and stepped back down the stairs a bit. After several others tried the door we gave up, deciding there must be a better way.

Several men rushed out on the top floor and opened widows to see if perhaps they could climb up to the roof, but there was simply nothing to grab onto from the window ledge. The reverend remembered the building had an outside fire escape, but the ladder up to the roof had either been removed or had fallen off in recent years. We were all milled together near the stairway when the police arrived and led us out of the building. Apparently some of the art lovers got the police to realize we were trespassing and had us removed.

Although we quietly left the building, the reverend did make a speech on the sidewalk just outside the building. Holding his bible high in the air he spoke of love for fellow man, the sacred beauty of God's creations and of the lustful abomination on the roof. Amid the scattered, "Boos," and other catcalls from some people in the street, our group split up and headed home.

Determined to find out more about the statue and perhaps figure out a way to stop it's destruction I returned the next day, but instead of trying to get onto the roof of the old savings and loan building I went into the building across the street. I carried my telescope as I climbed up the stairs of the three story building and I found one of the roof access doors unlocked. 

After moving out onto the roof I set up the tripod but before looking through the telescope I gazed up at the statue. Looking at it from this angle I could see more of the detail, the hair and face was especially intricate actually showing what looked like a look of curiosity. It actually seemed like the eyes were looking directly at me.

I moved behind my telescope and focused on the statue, actually zooming in on the breasts. The gentle curves looked so soft and inviting with firm, actually erect nipples with even what looked like tiny goose bumps in the areola. Moving the telescope lower, I saw more fine detailing where the pubic hair actually looked real and I could see the beginning of the slit between the woman's, ah... the statue's legs.

Moving my eye from the telescope, I looked back to the roof access door and saw I was still alone. Glancing back into the eyepiece, I found myself looking at the almost perfect carving work forming the pubis. If everything wasn't colored a gray tint I would swear I was looking at an actual woman. It all looked so real to me, so enticing, so damn sexy that I felt my cock throbbing in my pants.

Pulling away from the telescope, I walked back to the roof access door, opened it and made sure there was no one coming up the stairs. I quietly closed the door and quickly returned to the telescope. Zooming the view out a bit I took in the view of the entire statue from head, to beautiful breasts, to sensuous pubis and down almost to her feet. I stared intently while I reached down and unzipped my zipper.

Carefully working my cock out of my pants I began to stroke it as I kept focused on the beautiful nude body before me. Funny, it almost seemed the expression in its face changed from curiosity to shocked surprise as the eyes remained locked on me. I zoomed in closer but quickly moved the telescope downward to gaze at her breasts, the hard nipples. Cupping my hand into a fist I made my own special cunt that slid up and down the length of my cock again and again.

Letting the telescope move down the statue's body I looked at the patch of hair and the wonderfully detailed slit just below. I imagined running my tongue up and down that slit, feeling the soft folds of skin open to me. I'd push my tongue deeper and deeper... "Oh yes," I moaned out loud as I arched my back and let my cum spurt wildly onto the rough surface of the roof.

Just as I was milking the last droplets of cum onto the roof I heard the roof access door open behind me. I quickly shoved my cock back into my pants and then placed my foot over as much of the white cum as I could. Turning I said, "Oh, it's you reverend. What are you doing here?"

"Hello Michael, I was down below with another group of people that had formed. But what are you doing here? Have you found a better way to view that statue?" the reverend asked, looking disapprovingly at me.

"It's not what you think reverend, why not just leave the statue there?"

"But it's an abomination, pornography right in the middle of the town."

"It's a beautiful statue."

"It's a sin, a sin that needs punishment."

"What are you going to do, stone the artist?" 

"No," he answered and then he tilted his head, as if considering something. Smiling, he continued talking, "But just outside this building there are a couple of planters with some large stones. I think we might be able to dislodge the statue from its pedestal and it will fall down," he said as I ground my foot on the roof gravel.

"Why not just wait until we can get someone onto the roof?" I replied

He moved over to my telescope and peered at the statue, slowly moving it, taking in every inch. After a few moments he looked at me and breathlessly said, "The statue comes down today."

As he walked away, I noticed him tugging a bit at the front of his pants, obviously adjusting his erection. I remained on the roof as the reverend rushed to the street below and organized the stoning. Everyone agreed the statue had to come down now and since the door to the roof of the Savings and Loan was sealed tight, stoning was the perfect remedy. Remembering the stonings that took place in the bible, I guess the people felt justified and, after all, it was just a statue.

Fittingly, the reverend threw the first stone which clattered off the brick along the front of the building. Following that throw several more stones arched upward, these much closer to the target. I moved over to my telescope and watched the statue as the stones landed haphazardly about. Toward the back of the building I noticed some movement and focusing on the movement, I spotted two, no three people carefully creeping toward the statue. There were two women wrapped in robes about the same size as the statue and a taller man with a beard.

Oddly, when a stone whizzed close to the statue I thought I noticed a blur of movement and then suddenly, when a stone grazed one of the statue's arms, the other arm moved as if to grab it. Damn, it wasn't a statue, it was a woman!

I rushed to the edge of the building screaming, "Stop, stop throwing the rocks. It's not a statue, it's a real person."

There was a slight pause and then several of the people grabbed rocks and began throwing again, this time with increased intensity. The people on the roof rushed to help the "statue" down from the pedestal, but just as she began to climb down a rock crashed into her face and she tumbled onto the roof. The woman's friends rushed to the edge of the Savings and Loan, and between their shouting and mine, the stoning finally ended.

Almost immediately a voice on the loudspeaker directed the people on the Savings and Loan roof to unlock the door and come downstairs. I watched as the bearded man helped the "statue" to her feet as her two friends wrapped a robe around her body. They walked toward the roof access door and after a few minutes of work, the door creaked open.

By the time I got downstairs, the four trespassers were in the back of a police car amid a crowd of screaming people. When the group saw me, they rushed over, cheering me and then lifting me to their shoulders. Apparently the reverend told them the stoning was my idea and they were calling me a hero. While the crowd milled around me, the police car slipped away.

I never did get to see the people involved. After I talked to the police and the reverend's church got involved there was a rush to keep everything quiet. The church didn't want to be involved in the modern day stoning and did everything it could to suppress the news. What I eventually read in the paper was that the four people on the roof were a group of traveling performance artists, whose only performance in our town was a disappointing flop. The artists moved on to another show with a small donation from an unnamed benifactor and a signed agreement that no one would take any legal action.

I tried to play down the hero thing as much as I could. I also received a small stipend not to discuss the reverend's involvement with the stoning, so I couldn't tell the truth about the affair. After about a week or so, I decided I needed to get away for a while. I packed up a few things and headed out on the road, aimlessly wandering from town to town searching out and admiring the many statues that adorned the streets. I must admit, I will never look at a statue the same way again. 

Statue of a Crimsoned Succubus



In a large room of an artist's studio, somewhere lost within one of the many suburbs of Kyoto, a boy watched an older woman, red paint up to her elbows, in the act of crimsoning a succubus.

The studio looked out on the courtyard which the building itself was built around. The sun, at that moment overhead, blazed down upon the mossy wet vines that clung to the brick work, sending their red reflections glowing into all the sombre nooks of the work room.

The succubus, rudely cut from lecher's wood, rested at ease upon her tail, her curled-ram horns pressed against the wall, her legs obscenely sprawled open. The sculptress sat before her creation on a low stool, hard at work. The silent boy sat nearby, gazing fondly at both.

On the table in front of the open window stood a row of Oni, rough mountain demons, modeled from river-bed clay. Beside that project were piles of washi parchment covered with drawings in the woman's own hand, done in blues and reds. By the door a figure of Inari, the trickster fox god of rice, sake and prosperity, sat upon its haunches, a sacred minashigo key hanging from its mouth.

The woman was dressed in simple browns, she had a round, dark face and straight black hair. From the globs of scarlet-red paint spread out at her feet she carefully, with only her fingertips as tools, crimsoned the succubus into life. The effect was less of a statue being given a second skin with an ox-tail brush; rather, it was as if life was slowly seeping through the cold dark hues of the wood through the miraculous use of the succubus' own menstrual blood. From her thighs on down she appeared to have spurted and spouted sticky rivulets that coated her goat-legs; while, from her navel upwards, the artist's red-soaked fingerprints could be seen upon the naked wood, fondling each intrinsically carved breast, the thick neck, the bulbous lips.

Once in a while the woman would say the boy's name, "Shijo;" but it had less to do with starting a conversation and more in a childish, sing-song voice, as if his name were precious to her and she simply enjoyed saying it for the sake of hearing the syllables roll off her tongue. Whenever she did say it, though, the boy would look up from whatever he was doing and smile to himself. He was use to her moods, had seen all of them in the last two years. She was having a mood right at that moment. He could tell. The studio was utterly silent, a perfect hush enhanced by the heat of a noonday sun beating down. Presently the woman rose, crossed to the window, her arms sticky with paint and looked out into the heat.

From where she stood she could see the sparse flowers edging the neglected pathway, the building opposite her with its broken windows, the scandalmongering vines climbing up the tiled roof that cut the violet-blue of a July sky into fragments.

In the center of the courtyard was an ancient, dry fountain; some tall red sayuri lilies grew there, the pure cherry of their hearts bright as the paint the woman had been applying to the succubus reclining wantonly behind her. 

The boy stood and walked to stand behind the woman, to see what had caught her attention. The sculptress rested her elbows on the sill, it was so hot that she felt it burning through the paint that was quickly drying on her hands. She had the air of one routinely use to being by herself, the unquestioned calm that arose from a life of long silences. Her face was reserved, even sombre; her lips, well shaped but pale, were resolutely set; there was a fine curve of strength to her chin. She had wide, black brows, smooth dark skin, nebulous mahogany eyes. Her throat was full, she had the sort of muscles sculptors called beautiful.

After a time of gazing at the sun-burned garden she turned back into the room. Standing in the center of the studio, with her teeth worrying her red middle finger, she looked questioningly at the half-crimson succubus. The boy smiled, waiting patiently to see what she finally would say. Some times it would take her hours to form a single comment, but they were observations he always found endlessly interesting. Instead, with a sigh, she took a curiously wrought key from her belt, swung it about in her fingers and left the room.

The building was built without connecting corridors or passages. Each room opened onto another, the upper ones were reached by short wooden staircase built against one of the outer walls. There were many apartments on the second floor, each one boasting imperial designs from at least fifty to sixty years ago. As with all the windows on the first floor, the ones on the second were set facing the old courtyard.

Many queer and exquisite objects could be seen in those long deserted rooms; carved chests full of Korean silver; paintings from China full of erotic terror; furniture made by long-forgotten hands. In one chamber hung several gold-silk tapestries depicting the Eight Devils of Kimon, all done in shades of ruddy brown. As she walked lightly from one room to the next her footsteps caused little clouds of dust to billow up, marking her slow passage. 

Passing these things without a glance the woman unlocked a door on whose rusty hinges it took all her strength simply to turn. It was a store-room, one lit only by one low window looking down upon the street. Like everything else in the building, it too was full of dust as well as a sallow, moldy odor. About the floor lay many bound-chests, untouched and before one of these the woman knelt, fiddling with the lock.

The smell of rust filled her nose as the lid swung open. The chest contained a number of cut gemstones. She selected two of more or less equal size, each a crystal pink in hue. Then, after locking the old door behind her, she silently made her way back from where she had come, returning to her studio. When she saw the hollow eye-sockets of the succubus, she placed what looked like living liquid fire into the wooden skull. Watching her statue's eyes sparkle she finally relaxed, standing for a long while contemplating her handiwork. Finally she washed her hands and arms, putting away her orphic paints.

By then the sun had changed position as it crept across the room, casting hot brindled shadows, cast from the dappled vines hanging from the window eaves over the river-clay Oni, dazzling the colors in Inari's psychedelic robe.

For the second time that day the woman left the room, venturing into the hall, opening the door that exited upon the street. She shaded her eyes, gazed across the July dazzle, the shadow of her slack, slim figure was cast into the square of hot sunlight issuing from across the hallway and through the open door.

It had been almost two years since the Siege of Kyoto. The section where her studio stood had been devastated. Now, newer suburbs were being built, but that left her neighborhood's ruins neglected. It was hard for her to imagine a city as vast as Kyoto containing ghost towns, but wasn't that what this was? She looked at the barren market-place, surrounded by abandoned buildings. Everything was falling into decay. Beyond those shells she could spy the squat roof of the local Shinto shrine jutting upwards across the scarlet sky. Brown grass grew between broken cobbles. There was not a soul in sight.

Under the rusted iron bell that hung against the door beam to her building hung a basket. Her mysterious patron had been by it seemed. She fished out of it bread, a flask of plum sake, some old vegetables wrapped in a linen cloth. The sculptress took these with her and closed the door upon the outer world.

Carrying her loot back in her arms, she crossed the hallway and came out into the opposite end of the courtyard. The tall red sayuri lilies seemed to be nodding their heads to her, as if the two of them were in on a secret no one else knew. Entering by a door next to the fountain the woman found herself in her workshop once more.

Setting her load down on a corner of her work table, the woman proceeded to prepare her meal. Above the wide tiled hearth hung a metal chain and attached to that was an iron pot. She lit a fire under the pot, filled it with water, then put the vegetables in. Then she took down a heavily bound book from off a shelf. Bending over it, huddled on a stool, she began to read.

It was a book filled with drawings -- strange, horrible, erotic artwork -- as well as curious stories that had been written in a black-blue scrawl. As the woman read she uncrossed her legs and her face grew hot. She flushed while resting her cheek on one hand, turning pages with the other. The heavy volume felt cumbrous on her knees. Not once did she look up but with parted lips pored over the midnight-blue drawings.

Outside the vines curled against the sun-kissed brick, the empty sky looked down upon the dry fountain, it burned the dead grass, the tall red sayuri lilies. The sun sank on the other side of the building, still the woman read on. The flames leaped on the hearth, the vegetables seethed in the pot unheeded.

All alone the woman leaned back on one elbow looking at the drawings. She reached down with her free hand and raised the hem of her kimono, revealing the cotton thong of a man's fundoshi that she was in the habit of wearing. She ran one long fingertip along the front of her cunt and moaned. She looked up at the window and then back at the book, an anthology called "Kinoe no Komatsu / Languishing for Love". She let her knees fall open wider and pulled the crotch of her fundoshi to one side as she turned the page. The glorious mound of her pubic hair was already wet and sticky. She plunged two-fingers inside her girl-lips and began to grind, leaving a wet cum-smear on the stool's seat.

The woman groaned. There it was, the famous print known as "Dream of the Fisherman's Wife" a prime example of the "aesthetic of the grotesque" in the erotic age of Hokusai. The body of a woman, head thrown back in either carnal abandonment, or drowned and swaying this way and that in the inky green water, allowing Tako no Kami, the octopus god, access to her cunt. It was a curious new form of 8-tentacle "kun'niringusu," as the Kyoto poets once called the ancient art of clit licking. Her fingers plunged in-and-out of her soaked pussy.

"I'm going to cum--"

The woman's eyes were screwed tight, her mind lost in the approaching orgasm. She was finger fucking herself so red-hot and hard that her tiny breasts under her kimono were shaking. She knew exactly how that fisherman's wife felt; she'd fuck a devil-god if the opportunity presented itself. That need to be filled up with something otherworldly, that need to cum all over something impossibly hard.

"O! O! O!"

She was making soundless noises now, feeling the wave over take her. She slipped a third finger into her cunt as she brought herself to the brink. Closer -- harder -- closer -- faster -- clo--

With that, without warning, a heavy clang from her old rusted doorbell broke the spell. The woman dropped the book, sprang to her feet, gazing in horror and bewilderment, one hand still buried between her legs as the long awaited orgasm ... faded away.

Again the bell sounded.

She picked up the book, put it back on the shelf, licked her fingers, feeling ambivalent.

For a third time the iron clang, insistent, impatient, breaking her quiet once and for all.

The woman frowned while readjusting her clothes, pushing back her hair from her sweaty forehead, fingered her clit through the fabric of her fundoshi, then went, with cautious steps, across the courtyard once more, back through the dark hall and up to the door. For a second she hesitated -- was it really worth it? -- then drew back the bolt and threw open the door to world outside.

A woman stood waiting for her.

She was younger than the sculptress, but not greatly, gorgeously attired, a lady no doubt from the emperor's inner court. A concubine? No, a warrior, even though her carefully pleated and folded dress was stunning. Her coiffure was just as stylized, with not a hair out of place. 

"You cannot want me," the sculptress finally said, surveying the stranger for a couple of moments. "And there is no one else here. Sayonara." 

"If you are Mistress Fuyu Tsukiko," the splendidly-dressed stranger answered, "then I certainly do want you."

"Want me?" The sculptress opened the door a little wider. "I am Fuyu Tsukiko, but I do not know you."

"Perhaps," the other answered. "But I have questions that only you can answer. I am Lady Leiko of Nagasaki." 

"Leiko of Nagasaki!" repeated Fuyu softly. Then, as if she had come to a conclusion, she stood aside, motioning for the lady to enter. When she had passed into the hallway she carefully bolted the door, then turned to her with a grave expression.

"Will you follow me, my lady?" she said, walking before Leiko to her studio.

The sun had left the room by that time, but the air was still bathed in a reddish warmth. There was a sense of great heat that lay trapped in the ancient bricks and grass.

Fuyu Tsukiko offered a seat to her guest, who accepted in silence.

"You must wait until the supper is prepared," she said. With that she placed herself on the stool by the pot, stirring its contents with an iron spoon, openly studying the woman.

The material of Leiko's semitransparent kimono did nothing much to hide her curves, although most were hidden by layers of silk. Her beauty mesmerized Fuyu until she forgot for a moment what she was suppose to do.

Leiko, for her part, returned Mistress Fuyu Tsukiko's steady gaze.

"You have heard of me?" she said suddenly.

"Yes," was the instant answer.

"Then you know what I am here for?"

"Perhaps," said Mistress Fuyu, frowning.

Leiko turned and stared at the half-crimson succubus with great interest, even, Fuyu mused, a little fear. 

"My mother is the Lady Miyuki of Nagasaki," Leiko finally answered in a manner one might have called arrogant. "The Emperor made me a warrior, an Onna bugeisha, when I was fifteen. Now I am tired of Nagasaki life, of castle life, of my mother. So I have taken to the road."

Mistress Fuyu lifted the iron pot from the fire to the hearth.

"The road to where?" the sculptress asked.

Leiko made a large gesture with her hands.

"To wherever the road leads."

"As an Onna bugeisha?" asked Mistress Fuyu.

Leiko tossed her fine head.

"As a former Onna bugeisha. Now I have other ambitions."

Mistress Fuyu smiled, moving about, setting the food ready. She placed the little clay Oni on the window-sill; flung, without any ado, her drawings, paints and brushes onto the floor.

A queer silence fell on the room. The host did not seem to encourage comment. The atmosphere was not conducive to talk. Fuyu opened a cabinet in the wall, took out an elegant cloth that she laid smoothly on the rough table. Then she set on it earthenware dishes, honey in a clay jar, flushed pears cut thin, rice cakes in a plaited basket, steamed cabbage, radishes fragrantly pickled, the bottle of plum sake.

"Does anyone else live here with you?" Leiko asked at one point.

"I live by myself. I have no desire for company. I take pleasure in my work alone. Sometimes people come to buy my art, usually one of my sculptures for their shrines, but of late very few."

"You are a good artisan, then?" asked Miyuki. "Who taught you?"

"Old Mistress Yoi, born in Higashimurayama village, taught in Edo. When she died she left me this building."

Again the room sank into silence. Shadows crept about.

Leiko ate everything put in front of her. Fuyu, on the other hand, seated next to the window, rested her chin on her palm, stared out at the bright and fading orange sky, then at the broken windows, then at the sayuri lilies waving about the dry fountain. She ate very little. After a while the lady asked, almost shamelessly, for some of the sake. The sculptress rose and brought a sake cup to her.

"Why have you come here?" Fuyu inquired, placing the bottle before Leiko.

Leiko laughed easily.

"I am married," she said, as an explanation, lifting her cup to her lips. At that Mistress Fuyu frowned.

"There are a lot of married people in this world."

Leiko surveyed the mysterious swirling liqueur through half-closed eyes.

"It is about my husband, O my host; that is why I am here."

Fuyu Tsukiko leaned back in her chair.

"Yes, I have known your husband."

"Really? Please, tell me about him," Leiko of Nagasaki requested. "I have come here for that story."

Fuyu smiled slightly.

"But why would I know anything more about him than his own wife?"

Leiko flushed.

"Perhaps. Perhaps. But never mind, go on, what do you know? Tell me."

Fuyu's smile deepened.

"He was the only son of the Lady of Kobayashi, he hid himself at the cloister of the Red Brotherhood in Kyoto to avoid having to marry you."

"I see you know that," said Leiko. "What else?"

"Since you wish for me to tell you about your own life, listen to what I have to say, my lady."

Fuyu spoke with an uninterested tone, staring the entire time out of the window.

"He desired, I think, to become one of the Order of the Red Brotherhood. But when he was fifteen his elder brother died, thus he became your mother's only heir. Many families wished to align themselves with her, but in the end they agreed for him to marry you."

"Without my wish or consent," Leiko added, refilling her sake cup.

Fuyu simply shrugged.

"The feelings seem to be mutual. Your husband, who wished most passionately, I am told, to become a priest, fell ill with grief. In his despair he confided his misery to a local miko, a temple maiden, who lived in his neighborhood."

Leiko's eyes flickered, hardened behind their long lashes.

"Your husband was to be heir to a great fortune," said Fuyu, "but it was through this miko that he became introduced to the Brothers. In his fear of marriage he promised them all his inheritance if they would save him from his mother's iron will. So the priests, tempted by greed, spread the rumor that he had died. There was even a fake funeral and he was kept secret in the city's cloister, dressed as an initiate. All this was put into writing, documented by the priests, so that there would be no doubt when the boy returned from the dead, as it were, looking for his inheritance once his mother had died."

"Yes. I was glad to hear that he had died, at least at the time," said Leiko. "For by that time I loved another and there is no honor in behavior like that, husband or no."

"He lived for a year among the priests," Fuyu Tsukiko went on. "But his life became bitter. He wanted to escape, I believe, yet he could not make himself known to his mother for then it would become known that not only had he lied about this death but that he had promised the priests everything."

"Go on."

"Is there more?"

"You know there is."

"So, as life became more and more horrible for your husband he found a way to send a letter to his widow."

"Yes. I have it here." Leiko touched her breast. "He told me all about his dishonesty, begged forgiveness," she laughed. "He asked me to come rescue him."

Fuyu crossed her long hands upon the table. There was still red paint under her nails.

"But you ... but you did not rescue him, though. You did not even answer his letter."

"No, I did not rescue him. His mother had taken another husband, she now had a new son to inherit everything." Leiko lowered her eyes moodily, "I was occupied, in love with a ... dairy fairy. Plus, he had lied, my little foolish husband: to Buddha, to me, to the world. 'It will be poetic justice,' I thought. 'For him to suffer as I once suffered'."

"He waited for months for your answer," stated Mistress Fuyu flatly. "Finally he fled from the cloister to here, to this very building. Again he wrote to his wife and again she did not answer. That was two years ago."




Statue of a Crimsoned Succubus



"Did the priests make no attempts to search for him?" asked Leiko.

"By that time they knew that the boy was heir to nothing. They were afraid that the tale might reach the ears of the shogun and there might be ... repercussions. But did it matter? Around that time the usurper, Tokugawa, lay Kyoto under siege and everyone suddenly had other things to worry about."

"Indeed. Had it not been that I was required to help mount a defense of the city I might gotten here sooner," explained Leiko. "But I was occupied with fighting."

"The cloister was destroyed, the brothers murdered or fled into exile," continued Fuyu. "The boy lived here, learning many crafts from Old Mistress Yoi. She had no apprentices but the two of us."

Leiko leaned back in her chair.

"That much I have learned. That the old woman, dying, left her place to you. What did she leave to my husband?"

Fuyu gave her a long, unblinking stare and then turned back to the window.

"It is not strange that you are here, now? You, Leiko of Nagasaki, after all this time, inquiring about your husband."

"A woman must know how she is loaded down with other people's responsibilities. As it turns out only you and I know that he had an existence of any sort after he faked his death. He might be a fool but he is still my husband."

Dusk -- hot, blood-red -- had fallen on the chamber. The half-crimsoned succubus gleamed dully, the wet lips of her cunt spread vulgarly before the two women. Lady Leiko of Nagasaki felt a little chill pass through her, despite the heat, a little sullen chill, but she waited to see what the older woman had to say.

The sculptress rested her smooth pale face on her palm, her mahogany eyes were hardly discernible in the twilight, but the shadow of her lips moved when she spoke.

"Shijo died two years ago," she said. "His grave is in the garden, next to the fountain, where those red sayuri lilies grow."



Statues in the Snow



The shuttered apartment was so warm I didn't want to leave. The food was good, the conversation lively. The host was an American film critic, and I was young and ambitious and I wanted to get him onside so that maybe he would give me some freelance work writing about the movies. I was the last to leave, and we talked into the small hours. He was gay, but I knew he wouldn't make a move on me. He offered to call me a cab, but I told him the streets around his apartment in the Faubourg Montmartre were always full of them: I would have no problems.

Neither of us was aware, cocooned in that warm flat, that while we coffeehoused 6 inches of snow had suddenly fallen on Paris. As the outside door slapped shut behind me, I took in a sight I had never seen before: Paris, empty. There was no sign that a human being had ever visited this outlandish white place. There were no people, no cars, certainly no taxis. There wasn't even any sound. I pondered whether I should ring the bell again and explain my predicament: but then the enchantment of what was before me took over. I had a long walk ahead of me, right across the ancient heart of Paris to my tiny garret on the Left Bank, but it was a walk I knew I would never have a chance to experience again.

So suddenly there was noise in this silent city: the grainy crunch of rather too-thin shoes on fresh snow; the warm laboured breath of the determined pedestrian; the soft expletives of wonder as each turn revealed something new, something refreshed and redefined. Thankfully it is always warmer when it snows, and my spirited walking made up for my lack of a hat or scarf, though I was glad of the lined leather gloves my girlfriend had given me when last I saw her in London.

The wonders of the newly naked city took me out of my direct route home. The distant green and gold and now white of the Opèra drew me down the Boulevard des Italiens, way off my southerly course, and then the prospect of the severe Madeleine softened by snow kept me tramping and crepitating on my south-westerly route. A good hour, perhaps, I had been walking, and staring at the church where Bel-Ami had prospered made me think of the warmth of my bed. Not being a fan of the desolation of Place de la Concorde, I wound my way through the side streets onto the rue des Pyramides, passing without a glance the gilt statue of the ancestor of my future, as yet unmet, wife and crossed the deserted rue de Rivoli into the Jardins des Tuileries.

My thoughts had been full of the growing dampness of my feet and the ache of limbs unused to the effort of walking through snow. But as I crossed the Tuileries a realisation grew that now, finally, I could have my moment of consummation with my favourite Parisienne, and the prospect warmed me and quickened my steps.

From the courtyard of the Louvre down to Place de la Concorde ran the formal gardens of the Kings and Queens of France, the Tuileries. I am not fond of formal gardens and usually the Tuileries are packed with tourists waiting to visit the Louvre or recovering from said visit. But scattered about the gardens are the wonderful statues by Aristide Maillol: life-size bronzes of nude women in arresting and unusual poses. One in particular I adored: a naked girl, resting on her right hip which was the only contact statue made with pedestal, her strong, shapely legs straight, toes pointed; her torso cocked upwards, her left arm held straight out along her line of sight, the fingers cupped strangely so that she might be sighting something through them, or holding (and contemplating) something invisible held within them.

She lay, as though roughly thrown, just above a sunken part of the gardens, and my steps grew more hurried as I got nearer, realising that I could now, in this hivernal emptiness, finally touch those strident out-thrust legs, those tempting nates, that deliciously carved back without anyone officiously telling me not to.

She was delicately iced with snow along her length, but even so she looked both serious and coquettish at the same time. I slowly approached her, pulling off one glove to reach a bare hand to her no doubt frigid bronze flesh.

"Elle est belle, n'est-ce pas?"

I must have choked some recognisable expletive as I turned to see the figure behind me. 

"I'm so sorry, I startled you," she said, in heavily accented English. A woman, in a long black coat over boots, a fur hat on her head and a heavy scarf draped around her.

"You are American?"

"English," I managed to say, trying to recover from my hour-long solitude, so instantly ruptured.

"And you also like l'oeuvre de M. Maillol?"

"I admire his work, yes, but I have always loved this statue."

The woman came closer to me. 

"She looks cold lying naked in the snow, doesn't she?"

I had recovered enough from my shock to think that perhaps I ought to hold an end up in this conversation.

"She looks, as ever, impervious I think."

She turned to look at me. I saw that she was much older than my 25, perhaps twice that, but handsome still. She looked down at my bare hand and smiled.

"I think I interrupted you. You wanted this chance to touch her, non? Sans les gardiens et les touristes?"

I felt embarrassed that she had read my mind so easily, and she must have read that easily too.

"Allons-y." She took my arm in her gloved hand and led me closer to the statue. "Dina won't mind."

I looked at her, wondering what she meant.

"Dina is the model for this statue you love so much. She's an art dealer now. We say hello now and then. Of course, she was very young when she sat for this. Can't you tell...."

She startled me anew by taking my ungloved hand and placing it square on one of the statues high, pert breasts.

"...these are the tits of a young woman."

And they were. And they were icy cold.

"They were warmer then."

The nipples, though sculpted in detumescence, were nevertheless hard against my palm.

"Her breasts are what we French call 'an honest man's handful'—just enough, you understand!"

And she laughed, a shocking sound in that muffled silence: and her laugh had that little ragged edge that spoke of a smoker. Her hand then took mine lower, down the gentle contours of an adolescent belly and up onto the proud haunch of a woman unafraid of work and along the calf of a woman with the strength to keep going and down to the toes that I had always thought would look so beautiful splayed in orgasmic bliss.

I thought her hand would continue with mine on this erotic excursion round this beautiful form. Instead she pulled me back, and then around to the head with it's peaceful yet puzzling expression.

"What are you thinking, young man?"

Her voice was suddenly sharper.

"Do you think she is ready to fuck? Do you think she is opening her legs for her lover? That her enigmatic hand is grasping the cock that she seeks to pull into her wet mouth? Well?"

I must have looked like a goldfish, my mouth opening and closing as I searched for an answer to her aggressive questions, for suddenly she was laughing that rough laugh again.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Forgive me, I'm only teasing you. Put your glove back on, your hand is frozen."

And it was, from that sensual glissade along Dina's body. 

"But what I said is what I hear, most days, from louts and perverts who hang around here and whisper the foulest things about her: about what they would do to her, about what she would do with them. About how she is a tart who spreads her legs for the world to see."

A mute young Englishman watched a tear start in the eye of this strange French woman, swathed in black.

"But I knew her you see, know her still. She was a sweet and innocent young girl who happened to have no shame in her naked body, and he was an honourable old man whose art was dead and she brought it alive again. Please don't sully her with your fantasies."

"I didn't mean to...I just love the statue."

She looked at me then, and sighed a great cloud of breath.

"I wish her story could have been mine."

Puzzled, I began to speak, but she stopped me with her cold gloved hand on mine.

"I need a hot drink. If you would like one too, my apartment is not far."

We walked in silence within the greater silence of the city, her arm crooked in mine, across the Pont des Arts and up into the Left Bank streets. She lived not far from where Oscar Wilde died bemoaning the bad taste of the wallpaper, on the fifth floor (no lift, of course). The place seemed warm but poky when she switched on the lights, but then I realised the room we were in was cramped by heaped piles against each wall, covered in heavy cloths. It pushed the furniture into a small area in the centre of the room, like a wagon-train besieged by Indians. The kitchen area was curtained off with an expensive-looking drape, which she swept aside and hooked up. I could hear the sounds of a kettle filling, a match struck, gas igniting.

She came back in unbuttoning her coat, which she threw, along with her hat, gloves and scarf, onto one of the formless piles against the wall.

"I am having a tisane. What would you like?"

"A coffee, if you have any?"

"I can reheat some. I think I have some whiskey too. You like?"

She didn't wait for an answer, but swept back into the kitchen nook. Another pan was set on another ring and the bitter smell of coffee soon filled the flat, vying with the herby aromas of her tisane. 

"I was also a model, like Dina."

She was curled in one of the big armchairs, her tisane in its outsize cup steaming away on one arm while she took a sip of her whiskey. Her dress was black and shapeless: a large piece of freckled amber hung from a gold chain on her breast.

"I grew up in Normandy, near the sea. I was a good student, and was sent to the Lycée in Caen. It was a long walk from the bus-stop home and the buses were irregular, so my parents were used to me being home late. The walk took me past a large dilapidated house, an old gentilehommerie. I had heard that an artist lived there, but no one seemed to know much about him, which was a shame as the idea of an artist living close by certainly piqued my adolescent interest.

"I had seen no sign of life there until one day in the spring of my final year. I was early, for once, dawdling on a nice afternoon when I heard this voice. 'You girl, come here.' I saw this big, shambling....well, mountain of a man coming down from the hitherto empty house. I remember he had on this loose white shirt over blue trousers, both dirty and stained, and his hair and beard wild and straggly. He looked a mess, frankly: but if this was the artist, well...wasn't that how they were supposed to look? 

"As he came closer to me, I could see he was looking me up and down in the rudest way. If it had been one of the Caen boys, always trying to look up our skirts, I would have said something. I had a sharp tongue. I was known for it. Not now. 'You'll do', he said, and grabbing my arm pulled me towards the house. 'There's money in it, if you're good.'

"Why didn't I fight? Why did I let him drag me into his house like a goose? I didn't know then, and I don't know now. He pulled me along a dark corridor into a back room suddenly full of light and the appalling mess of a painter in mid-flow. A large easel, canvasses stacked everywhere, paint over all, every surface streaked and dirty, and an old brass bed in front of the windows covered with a greasy-looking spread.

"'Get undressed', he said, leaving me suddenly marooned mid-room. I stood there in my drab school uniform as he grabbed a sketch-pad and charcoal. He saw I hadn't moved. 'Get undressed!' My hands trembled as I obeyed him, but the first man I stripped naked for never even looked. As I hastily removed my knickers he threw the charcoal into a corner and started instead to sharpen a fat pencil. Horribly aware of my nudity, I waited until he was satisfied with his preparations. Only then did he look at me.

"'You young girls don't eat enough', he said quietly as he came up to me. There was a smell about him that....it made me wrinkle my nose, but...More whiskey?"

I must have goldfished again. She chuckled and produced a half-crushed packet of cigarettes and a tiny lighter from somewhere in her dress. She lit up and exhaled a perfect cloud of smoke in the still air.

"Help yourself to more. He briefly felt my small tits, my nipples puckering madly as he handled them, then he stepped back to look down at the dark hair at my groin. His hand gripped my shoulder to twist me so he could see my bum. He handled me like meat. I was 18 and had kneed a boy in the balls for touching my bum at last year's St.Jean. Why did I let him treat me like meat?

" 'Lie on the bed, on your back, arms above your head, crook your left knee open.' I did as he told me, and he sketched: quickly, violently, a page finished and ripped off the pad and thrown to one side. 'Pull your knees to your chin.' 'Hold your tits.' 'Rub your slit.' 'On all fours.' 'Dip your back and push your arse out.'

"I did all that and more as the sketches fluttered down until the floor was littered with them. I was embarrassed and ashamed—quelle honte. But I was also aroused and soiled, and I didn't know what my poor heart was going to feel next. I was face down, holding my buttocks open, when I felt his huge hand on me again. He pulled me upright, sitting on the edge of the bed. I felt like I was coming out of a cloud. He was fiddling under his shirt, and suddenly produced his penis. I know now that it wasn't prodigious, but it seemed so to me then.

" 'Are you a virgin?' I managed to nod. 'Open your mouth...and use your tongue.'

"I went home with a promise to return, a 100 old franc note and the taste of sperm in my mouth. Does my story discomfort you?"

"No....not at all." I was hotter than the flat, but I couldn't say so.

"You haven't refilled your glass. Let me."

She had the grace of a cat as she unfolded from the armchair, grasped the bottle and leant over to refill my glass. Her scent, and the warm fragrance of tobaccco, enveloped me.

"I should have been disgusted. His cock smelt rank, unwashed, sweaty, and I had sucked it. His sperm was heavy and tasted bad, but that night in bed my tongue teased behind my teeth in case a sense of him had survived the potage and the pork. I slept badly, remembering the thickness of his cock between my lips, how it bruised them as he fucked my virgin mouth. His filthy smell remained in my nostrils and made me ashamed and wet."

She sank bank into her chair and fumbled for another cigarette.

"Of course, I went back next day. I can't explain why. He didn't even have to tell me to strip. He just gestured to the bed, and there I was—naked and spread for him. I was young and limber and he had me take positions I never knew could exist, and I could feel the dampness in my loins as I opened my body to his uncaring eye. I was in a world of my own lust when he pulled me roughly off the bed onto my knees. My mouth was already opening before I even saw his penis. He ejaculated on my face, told me to sit still and sketched me as I knelt there, bespattered and oddly elated.

"I played with the drying flakes of his sperm as I walked home, peeling them from my face and putting them in my mouth. There was an old lavoir at the edge of the village, and it was only there, within sight of my house, that I washed my face clean.

"Every week day, I was a model student at school and a model whore for him. As we worked he told me all the dirty words for the body and what could be done with it. After a week or so he no longer needed to fuck my mouth: I would avidly kneel to suck his cock the moment his fumbling at his flies told me our session was over. He taught me how to touch myself as I writhed for him, and I learnt to come under his implacable gaze.

"The weekends were too full of chores for me to get away, and I found myself longing for that riot of exhibition, and for the taste and torture of his smelly, unwashed flesh.

"The third week, he made me take longer poses, and spent longer on his sketches. His favourite was me on my knees, shoulders on the bed, back arched, buttocks spread. It was a particularly shameful position for me, knowing that my vagina and anus were so intimately exposed for him. It was humiliating and jaggedly exciting. I was posed thus, one day, when I felt his hand between my shoulder-blades holding me firmly down. He hardly ever touched me, and I bucked against his hand.

" 'Keep still. I won't hurt you.' I obeyed, even when I felt his other hand, cold and greasy, move over my bum. His calloused finger hurt me, despite the grease, when he pried me open. I whimpered and tensed. 'Relax yourself, ma petite. It will hurt less, and you'll still be a virgin'."

I found my breath was held tight as she was speaking. Perhaps she saw it. She took a sip of her tisane and the cup clanked against the saucer, allowing my breath to escape unnoticed.

"That was a different walk home, I can tell you! The whole lower half of my body ached, and each step seemed a torment. My anus felt as if it would never close again, and the oily trickle from it only added to my shame and the hot blush of disgusted excitement. I couldn't wash that part of me at the lavoir!

"I told my mother I needed a bath before supper. While it ran, I inspected my bottom in the mirror, bending over at a ridiculous angle. My anus was a little red, that's all. I couldn't help touching it. My fingertip opened me easily enough. I can't remember how I ended up on the floor, fingers wildly fucking each of my holes as I bit down on a towel to stem my screams.

"I could barely sleep. The thought of doing such a dirty thing with a man, having his penis in my bowels, feeling him ejaculate there—I couldn't stop masturbating at the thoughts which crowded and clashed in my head, and I couldn't stop coming.

"He didn't bugger me that often. My mouth and face gladly took his offerings, but I sometimes found myself half-hoping he would pull me onto all fours and inflict that exquisite torment on my arse.

"And then he died."

She studied my face a moment as she took another sip of her tisane.

"It was the Easter holidays and I couldn't get away that much. My body throbbed for his filthy embrace. Easter Monday I managed to slip away for a while. I walked down the road thinking of what he would do to me. I was wet with anticipation. At the gate was a large black van, a couple of men leaning against the back of it smoking. I slowed down, suddenly afraid. An older man came out of the house. One of the van men offered him a smoke. They all seemed unconcerned, enjoying the Spring sunshine, enjoying their Gitanes.

"I couldn't hear much of what the older man said. '... a pigsty....no, alone....heart attack probably.' They were grinding their cigarettes out and opening the van. I slipped through a gate into the field and took the long way home. I cried all the way."

She drank her tisane in silence for a while, sunk in her memory. I felt I had to show I had been listening, that I cared—and not just about the solid erection which had been paining me throughout her story.

"I'm sorry, that must have been awful for you. What did you do then?"

She gave me a look that chilled me.

"What do you think I did? Go into mourning for my dead lover? Tch! I threw myself into my studies, talked to teachers about Universities, tried to keep my thoughts away from what we had done in that studio and my hands out of my privates. I passed my Bac. My family were pleased with me. And then....

"One of the last days of school, a lovely Summer evening, I walked past the closed-up house without looking, as usual. I heard a creak behind me and a voice calling, 'Mademoiselle'. My heart was pounding as I turned. There was a very well-dressed middle-aged man standing in the open doorway, gesturing for me to come closer. He looked very dapper, very out of place in the countryside. 'I knew I would recognise you', he said as he held the door open for me. 'Please come in. I have something for you.'




Statues in the Snow



"The studio looked no different. A bit more dust on the dust I'd breathed every day. I stood in the middle of the room as the man made space for his briefcase on one of the cluttered tables. He was very....business-like. 'My name is Marcel Gijon and I was poor Henri's agent and am now his executor'. Did I know his name was Henri? Had he ever said his name to me, or I to him? I couldn't remember. 'Henri rang me several times before he died, raving about the young model he had found locally—a model who was so free and open with her body that it had given his painting a new lease of life. Artists often say things like that—they do like to exaggerate! So I had no great hopes when I came down here to make an inventory.

"'Imagine my surprise when I saw his work—saw your work!' 'Why do you think it was me, Monsieur? It could have been any of the local girls.' He grinned at me and turned to pull a sheaf of drawings from a folder, handing them to me one by one. Oh, it was me all right. Me, naked, in all manner of obscene poses: my breasts, my vagina, my anus all drawn with marvellous energy. The last drawing was of my face. It was a very good likeness, right down to the thick gouts of sperm which adorned me.

"I shivered as I looked at that picture. I felt shame that this man had seen how defiled I had been, how sluttish. And yet I was also proud of how I looked, and newly aroused by the memories of those evenings. Henri had never shown me anything of the drawings he had made of me. Looking at them for the first time I understood that there had also been something special going on amidst the dirt and squalor and lust. We had created something.

"'They are very beautiful, these sketches, and very arousing. Don't you agree, Mademoiselle? 'Yes, they are.' 'And you must see some of the paintings he made from them. He must have finished this one just before he died.'

"Marcel crossed to the easel where a large canvas was shrouded with a dust sheet. I followed as he pulled it away and there I was, on my knees and elbows, my back arched, the really beautifully caught sheen of sweat on my widespread buttocks and the dizzyingly erotic trickle of semen from my slightly dilated anus. 'So wonderful. Henri was truly a gifted artist. And he's left all of these gems to you.'

"I turned to look at Marcel. He could read my disbelief. 'Oh yes, he updated his will not long ago. And I am a loyal executor of that will and I am here to see that you get what is now yours.' He gave me a moment to take this in. 'But, Mademoiselle, I am also his loyal agent and if I may I would like to make you a proposition.' And I heard the sound of the zip on his trousers being unfastened. He asked a question with his eyes to which he already knew the answer. Demurely, I knelt before him and accepted his penis in my mouth. He talked as I sucked. I was happy with his proposition and his cum tasted sweet after my long drought.

"So I didn't go to University. I came here to Paris with Marcel, as principal model and muse to the group of artists of which Henri had once been a part. You won't find the work of the group in galleries: we make erotic art to private commission. There are other models, of course, but I have always been their favourite since the day I arrived fresh-faced from the countryside. I work with them individually, but sometimes they get together for some particular project, and that can be quite tiring. A woman has only so many orifices."

I must have blushed as the meaning of this sank in. She laughed throatily.

"I enjoy my work, Monsieur. I've enjoyed it ever since that day Henri hauled me off the dusty road and had me strip in his studio. It took me a while to accept my enjoyment, that is all. Come here."

She stood and moved to one of the covered piles that I had noticed when we had arrived. I understood now what they were.

"I've kept most of Henri's work, for....sentimental reasons. I am well-paid by the group, but if I need a little extra, Marcel sells one for me. They fetch good prices. And I have had some outrageous offers for this one."

She pulled the sacking back, and there was the painting she had described: a beautiful young girl exhibiting her anal defloration. It was truly breathtaking, and my tumescent penis leapt anew at it. But what does an aroused man understand about anything? I bent to look closer at the painting.

"And the other model....Dora? Did she ever work with you, or was she.....?"

"I think you should leave now, Monsieur."

"I'm sorry, I...."

"Please leave now. It is late and I have work to do later."

I gathered my warm clothes in the sudden chill of the appartment. She was silent until I stepped out onto the landing.

"Her name is Dina, not Dora, and I told you that she was and is a good woman. The first time we met she saw straight through me. I blushed as if she could see me on my knees sucking men's cocks. But then she smiled at me, and that unjudgemental smile bit deep. We were both models, yes, but everything I have posed for is hidden and out of sight as if it were shameful, and she adorns the Tuileries like a modern goddess.

"Was what you have seen and heard shameful, Monsieur?"

I had no idea what to say. Her lips gave a little twitch. It might have been half a smile.

"Goodnight, Monsieur."

As the door closed the timer on the landing light went out and I realised that there was a faint glimmer from the window above. Outside, dawn was breaking. In the hours I had listened to the story, Paris had woken up and gotten on with life—snow notwithstanding. As I walked along the river towards my room, buses and lorries were churning up the streets. People were everywhere, walking carefully amidst the slush.

Paris was the same again, just whiter and dirtier.



Statuesque



The piece of paper he held in his hand was beginning to look as creased as his shirt had become over the course of the day, as he pulled the slip out of his pocket for the umpteenth time. The very ink itself was threatening to rub off each time he ran his eyes across the words that he himself had scribbled down a few short hours earlier.

A voice from the front seat jolted him from his anxious gazing. It took him a second to realize that the driver had pulled the taxi up in front of the very building he'd wanted, and was asking for the fare. Sliding the payment through the open window, he got out and stood looking at the size of the converted warehouse as his carriage drove off behind him, happy to find its self looking for business in the trendy part of town.

Making his way up to the large black doors, he stepped inside the vestibule to find row upon row of buttons, each linked to one of the apartments above. He unclenched his fist from around the crumpled piece of paper as he pulled it out of his pocket again, his mind seemingly unable to recall what it'd previously willed his hand to write.

He pressed the button that was marked as the one he wanted for about a second and waited, half holding his breath in anticipation. Although still slightly unsure of what to expect, his lungs exhaled sharply as a crackle came over the intercom, followed by the voice of a girl whose mouth sounded too close to the speaker.

"Yes?"

"I-I have an appointment... my name's Mr. Johnson." He stuttered.

"Fine," came the reply, "just look up at the camera for me."

He looked around for a second, expecting to find a lens pointing at him. He opened his mouth, ready to state his inability to find what he was searching for, as she stopped him before he even uttered the first syllable.

"To your right, above the door." She said, a hint of a smile showing through in her lilt.

Sure enough, as his eyes followed her directions they soon found the glass that shielded the camera, its angle set so that it could view, from top to toe, anyone accessing the buttons beside him.

"That'll do," she said, "up you come."

A buzz emerged from the door that died off as he pushed it open; the crackle of the intercom signaling the woman had put the receiver down. Firmly closing the door behind him, he made his way along the hall and onto the stairs, his speed a little quicker than walking pace, yet not quite jogging, as he alternated between taking one step or two at a time.

His heart, already uncomfortable from the exhaustions on the stairs, was pounding loudly in his chest as nervousness sharpened his thoughts. The door appeared before him quicker than he'd been expecting, as he stood in front of it, his lungs taking a deep breath for courage as much as for the need for oxygen.

Pressing the bell on the frame, he heard the distant chimes and waited, his ears listening out for any footsteps from the other side. As though someone were there waiting for him, a small light appeared through the peephole, vanishing just as quickly as an eye was put to it before the door was unlocked and slowly opened.

A head, just about level with his shoulders, peered around at him, the eyes of its owner hidden by strands of black hair until she moved them back to their rightful place behind her ear. She opened the door wider to let him in, a smile lightening her face that was as warm as the voice that identified her as the one he'd spoken to.

"Hi, come in. I'm Charlotte." She said, locking the door again behind him as soon as he'd walked through.

"I'm not late am I?" he asked, taking a glance at his watch, in the unlikely event of it stopping between his leaving the office and arriving at the apartment.

"Not at all," she reassured him, "in fact, you're a little early. Would you mind taking a seat for a minute?"

He turned around to see the chair she was offering was right behind him, and sat down as she tottered off. She flashed him a smile as she closed the sliding doors behind her, catching his eyes staring at where her latex-clad ass had been as she wiggled out of his sight.

Time felt as though it had slowed down to almost a stop as he waited there, looking around the room and thinking how normal the place seemed. Exactly what he'd been expecting it to be like took his mind off his nerves for a few minutes as it conjured bizarre images with people dressed so decoratively that they were in danger of being hung on the walls as pieces of art. 

"Then again, maybe that was the point..." He thought, giving it enough of his attention that he failed to notice the girl reappear at the door.

"We're good to go in there now, I just have to get you sorted and then we can begin." She said. "First there's the small matter of your 'donation' to sort out..."

With the emphasis making her meaning clear, he reached into his jacket, taking out the amount she suggested. He watched her hands as she folded the bills, sliding her hand under her blouse to tuck them into one of the cups of a bra that matched her skirt perfectly.

That same hand then found its way inside one of his, leading him into the room she'd said was ready. He'd been too busy gazing at the delicious shape of her ass earlier, to notice what was behind her. As the centerpiece of the room, an immaculately made bed took pride of place, the few remaining items of furniture arranged in the corners serving to heighten its presence.

"If you'd like to get undressed behind there..." She said, pointing toward a screen that stood angled for as much privacy as possible. "You can pass your clothes out to me and I'll put them to one side for you."

He followed her suggestion and made a start at slipping out of his suit, a slight feeling of self-consciousness entering his thoughts as he took off his shirt, his less-than-flat stomach reminding him that he'd a few more pounds on him than he would've liked.

One by one he passed his clothes out to the girl, with neither him looking out at her, nor she looking in at him, until he stood there, naked behind the thin sheet of wood and canvas. With a deep breath, in part to hold in his gut, he stepped around and back into the relative open space of the room.

Standing with his hands by his sides, aware of how pointless it'd be to cover his modesty, the openness of the room mingled with his nudity to leave him feeling completely vulnerable. He watched as the girl finished with his things, the delicate way she had folded and handled each item with a seemingly reverential touch serving to confirm his assumption that it was she who had prepared the bed.

It was there that she led him, having turned her attention back upon him, her gentle smile returning to replace the furrowed brow of concentration she had previously been wearing. She held his hand high above him, in the way a gentleman may when assisting a lady from a vehicle, as he knelt on the sheets, positioning his body so his head rested in the center of the pillow.

Carrying four leather cuffs from a small table in the corner, she knelt at his side, firmly fastening one onto each wrist and each ankle in turn. He felt his cheeks flush as the heat from his body gathered around his groin and pushed its way into his cock, turning it from its soft, lifeless state into a pulsing erection that the girl couldn't help but take notice of as she pulled the chains from each of the bed's corners towards him.

Resisting his urge to ease the ache that seemed to burn inside his balls, he shifted his limbs towards the restraints, resting them again at the sound of each rattle. The girl set about with four small padlocks, fixing each cuff to one of the links in its chain as he found himself secured to them so tautly that they made hardly a sound.

The girl stood upright, giving a quick glance toward the only other door in the room before walking out of his field of vision, leaving him only his ears to make sense of what she was doing. In turn, they gave him only the sounds of the thin chains that linked her cuffs to her belt as she moved her arms, and of her footsteps as her heels clicked on the wooden floor.

"Open wide..." She said, startling him, as her hands appeared, one over each shoulder.

As he duly obliged her, she slid a bit gag between his lips, trailing the straps both beside and over his head. He felt them tighten as he lifted his head off the pillows for her to attend to their fastening, enjoying the slight discomfort from the buckle as she gently laid him back down.

"Almost done now," she said, fetching the remaining things from behind him, "just don't give me any surprises with this next part, will you?" She smiled.

Opening a new packet of condoms, she took one out of its wrapper and knelt between his legs, taking a light hold of his cock as she positioned it right at its tip. With consummate ease, she slid the condom down his shaft until it completely rolled out just above his balls.

His cock had almost recovered from her touch as she was back again, fitting a leather cock ring around the base of his shaft, trapping the end of the condom under its grip. A small metal ring showed itself from the leather, which the girl made sure pointed towards her, and to which she clipped on a short leather leash, giving a small tug on it for good measure.

"Is he ready?"

The voice came from to his left. Straining his neck, he turned his head as best he could to see the speaker. A woman stood in the open doorway, switching her gaze from the girl to the nakedness of his body and back.

"Yes ma'am," the girl replied, "I've just finished now."

"Good girl, now wait over there and watch as I deal with this one." The woman instructed.

She kept her head slightly bowed as she moved around to kneel at his side as he watched her mistress walk to between his feet, the sound of her leather boots clicking echoing around the hushed room. Uncoupling her hands from behind her back, the mistress stroked the riding crop she held in her palms, as she looked him up and down.

Arching an eyebrow up towards her widow's peak, she looked him straight in the eye with a stare that sent a shiver down his spine that mixed both fear and pleasure. His cock stiffened even harder, lifting itself from off his stomach as she parted her lips, running the tip of her tongue across them as she eased out her words.

"Well? I take it you like what you see..." She said, missing his nodded reply to look down at his crotch.

The girl was in no doubt that he did either, watching him gaze up at her mistress's riding jacket and knowing full well that he was hoping the white blouse beneath it was open enough to show her cleavage.

Raising a boot onto the bed, the mistress let the tip push against his cock, moving his member from side to side before pulling it away to hear it slap back on his skin. She placed her knee between his thighs, stretching the fabric of her tight white jodhpurs further as the girl stretched over him and handed her the leash.

"Let's see if you've attached this well enough, shall we?" The mistress said, looking at the girl as she pulled it sharply towards her body.

Seeming satisfied, she held it so his cock was pointing to the ceiling as she pushed the tip of her crop to his gagged lips with her other hand. His body flinched with pleasure as she snaked the leather down his chest, paying particular attention to his nipples as she flicked them lightly.

Her grip on the leash tightened as the crop reached his genitals, stroking through his neatly trimmed hair before she rubbed it against his balls and up towards his shaft. A quick glance saw the girl watching his cock intently as he closed his eyes, savoring the sensations he felt through the rubber.

"You like that don't you? Both of you in fact." She stated, obviously amused.

"Yes, ma'am." The girl replied, looking sheepish under her mistress's gaze.

A wicked smile crossed her lips as the mistress turned her attention back to his cock, rubbing her crop on the tip of its head. She raised it slightly off his skin, holding it for a moment before bringing it effortlessly back down on his shaft. A sharp intake of breath from the girl matched his wriggling as the crop rubbed against the spot it had just warmed.

The mistress raised it again, this time not waiting as long before whipping it back to just beneath where her last lick had landed. There was no rubbing this time, as she headed straight for the next lash, placing it even lower than the last, followed swiftly by another as she picked up her tempo.

Underneath her ministrations, his crotch recoiled from every stroke, the discomfort straddling his pain threshold enough to stimulate him like he'd never felt before. The mistress had noticed from the way he bucked, that the closer to his balls she got, the closer he came to losing control, and turned her blows upwards.

The ache in his balls grew as she denied him the release he craved, slapping all around the tip of his cock, each blow coming quicker than the last as she built him up towards the peak but never letting him over the edge, as his cock bulged with her hand on the leash. His squirms increased as she let an odd lash fall on his shaft, pushing him further before she pulled him back.

A mixture of frustration and desire flashed in his eyes as they flicked between the mistress and that which she was doing to him, his body a rhythm of clenched fists above cuffed wrists and undulating hips. From behind his gag, his groans came quicker, almost matching the lashes in tempo as the coup de grace approached.

Pulling his cock tighter towards her as she took a firmer hold of the leash, the mistress aimed her blows on his shaft. Raising his hips to meet her lashes, she let each one land harder as the burning inside him escalated. His ache throbbed as hard as the whipping as the room resounded to the rhythm of the slapping, the build up in his balls reaching unstoppable heights.

Every thrust of his hips drew out a leak into the condom as the crop met his cock, its length on the edge of ecstasy. The first blow on his balls pushed him over, as the mistress's aim was perfect. His cock pulsed as its first load shot out into the tip of the rubber, followed immediately by spurt after spurt of cum as his hips reached as high as his tethered limbs would allow.

The mistress matched his ejaculations, slowing her lashes as the heat left his cock and filled the condom. His ass returned onto the sheets as his body began to come down from the high, while the mistress stroked her crop back to the end of his cock, rubbing cum around his tip until every inch was glistening with his juices. 

As the sensations abated from inside him, his body matched the flushed arousal of the girl, hindered from relaxation by the mistress' return to standing over his feet, adjusting her outfit as the calm descended on the room again. The cock ring had kept him erect through the lapse in stimulation, and it was there the mistress was looking as she spoke again.

"I think it's time for you to experience some more of the crop, my little toy." She smirked. "Your cock certainly seems eager enough for it..."

A look of surprise on the girls face matched the one of horror on his at the thought of enduring that exquisite pain until he came again, if the mistress would actually let him this time. The fear on his face hadn't gone un-noticed by the figure whose mercy he was at, as her stern expression mellowed.

"Maybe not today though, perhaps when you next come to see me." She said, smiling devilishly, as though she could see into his soul, knowing he'd be back for more.

With a click of her fingers, the mistress got the girls undivided attention, curling a long finger-nailed digit to summon her sub towards her. She stroked the same nail gently over the girl's cheek, leaving a faint line over her skin as she gave her a delicate kiss on the forehead.

"The slave here can be released now, but first, since you've been so good, I think you should clean him up a little..." She said.

The girl knelt over his groin, giving her mistress a good view as she tore the rubber off above the cock ring, waiting for a nod of approval before tilting her head back and pouring the contents into her open mouth, her tongue outstretched to catch any drops that may linger inside.

Once the condom was empty, she turned to what she'd admired since first setting her eyes on it. She took her tongue to the shaft of his cock, running over its entire length up to the head, sucking up his cum before sweeping back down to where a dribble had reached the ring. Her lips shone with his juices around her mouth as she parted them to take his cock inside her, as though wanting more than what he'd spilled, wanting every last drop he had.

"Hmm, you are a greedy little thing today aren't you..." The mistress mused. "Next time I may have to have you play with yourself while I work on him, I'm sure you'd like that, wouldn't you?"

"Yes, ma'am..." She replied, quickly finishing so as not to be caught speaking with her mouth full.

"Then, if he's got nothing left for you, I do believe it's time to unshackle him."

With that, the mistress turned on her heels, walking back through the door in which she'd entered, perfectly aware that both pairs of eyes from the bed were watching her as she left.



Statuesque



In the dim light golden bubbles caught brief reflections of the city lights outside as they danced up the glass. I handed her one of the glasses and we sat down on the couch, sinking into the smooth, supple black leather. "Well," I said.

"Well," she said.

"It's been a wonderful evening," I said.

"It doesn't have to be over," she said.

I smiled, warmth and gratitude in my eyes. "I hoped not," I said. "This is what I've hoped for since I bought the restaurant."

She gave me a little sardonic look, as if to say, nobody buys a restaurant just for the chance to date the hostess. Well, I did. "You don't believe me. I know. But it's true. Six weeks ago, I brought my clients from Japan there because I knew Sergio's reputation for hiring such tall, beautiful staff, and attracting celebrities to the VIP lounge. I knew they'd be impressed by the scene. But I never dreamed I'd be blown away-- the moment I saw the hostess."

She blushed a little, and seemed a little uncomfortable. I knew why; she didn't think she was quite as beautiful as the other girls Sergio hired. But it was time to tell her the truth about the evening, the lovely evening we'd shared. I had to hope it wouldn't end it right there.

"My clients were all over the others, I know. They have conventional tastes, are easily wowed by blondes like so many foreigners. But I saw only you. Over six feet tall, and taller yet in high heels. Flaming red hair. Dramatic brown eyes. A broad, open smile. And from there... well, there used to be a word for it, statuesque."

Now she was really blushing. "Or just big boned," she said, a little caustically.

"Or just beautiful," I said. I could have gone on, had it been polite, to describe all the other things that attracted me-- large, high breasts which jutted out heroically; rounded bubble butt, a little broad and soft by model standards, breathtaking to me in tight jeans as she strolled back and forth through the restaurant that night, the click of her heels on the hard floor; and finally those long, long legs, starting somewhere around my chest, thick at the top, coming to a point with her heels. She wasn't fat, she wasn't skinny; she was statuesque, she was full-figured, she was heroic.

"I was taken by you the moment I entered the restaurant. A woman of such strength and size." I began to stroke her neck, and down the front of her blouse where those large bosoms strained against the buttons. Her breathing grew faster. "The next day I called Sergio. I just wanted a little information--" here she seemed to grow concerned, at my checking up on her-- "--because if you were married or in a serious relationship, I would have backed off immediately."

I moved closer to her and her leg went on top of mine. "But then I learned that Sergio was overextended and looking for a buyer. Within a week, I had made plans to buy the restaurant. So you see, I wasn't joking. I bought it to meet you." I stroked her face and her red lips parted, waiting for me to kiss her at last.

"The thing is, though, there's a problem with that."

Again, she looked at me with concern. I knew that, as much as we had enjoyed each other's company tonight, the owner-employer relationship made it a delicate situation. I had to say something to reassure her that abusing my position was the farthest thing from my mind.

"The problem is... I'm so unworthy of you."

She stared at me, mystified. I went on. "Who am I, to look at a strong and beautiful woman and wish to make love to you? I saw your power at the hostess stand, as people tried to scam their way in with phony reservations, or get seated near celebrities. You laughed at their pitiless attempts at hipness, their lame lines that meant nothing to you. You crushed their hopes of being admitted to the VIP lounge and squashed them like the bugs they are. Watching you in action, I knew that my hopes of winning you were as pathetic as their attempts to get inside, and deserved the same thing from you-- to be crushed."

Now her eyes were wide, but a bit of a malice was beginning to creep into her smile. "So you bought the restaurant... and you thought that entitled you to go out with me?"

I sank to the floor in front of her, kneeling before one foot, in its gleaming black pump. "Yes, for one mad instant I thought that," I said, the toe of the shoe just inches from my face.

She pressed her foot against my chin and pushed me backwards onto the shaggy white rug. She stood up and planted one mighty leg on either side of my chest, and put her hands on her hips, towering over me like the imperious statue of some ancient goddess, mighty legs disappearing into the inky blackness of her skirt, vast breasts jutting out like twin promontories, red hair cascading over her shoulders like blood running down a temple of human sacrifice.

Then she kicked off one shoe, pressed her bare foot against my cheek, and smashed my face against the rug. I could only watch with one eye as she unbuttoned her blouse, revealing the white bra which held back the avalanche of her breasts, and then unsnapped it, allowing them to tumble forward from their captivity, pink and free.

"You really thought a worm like you was worthy of my body?" she said.

"Yes, yes, I was wrong," I muttered out the side of my mouth, and into her foot.

"Very wrong," she said, removing her foot from my face. "Take off your clothes, you miserable wretch."

"Yes, yes, certainly," I said, hurriedly scooting out of my clothes from my position on the floor. My cock was about ready to burst out of its skin, it was so hard.

"Is that all there is?" she asked, looking at it. "Not much of a tribute to me. I have seen so many better-- and harder. Still," she said, slipping her skirt down and showing me, for the first time, the round bubble butt in white panties that those two thick and mighty thighs led to. The panties slipped off and above me now stood a patch of flaming red, a fire calling me to be consumed.

She turned around and then knelt down over my chest, those mighty thighs clasped around either side. She grabbed my cock roughly and tugged at it, then sat down until her ass was right on top of my face. I dreamed of grabbing her thighs, but dared not touch her until she said I could. Instead she pulled apart her cheeks and thrust her asshole against my mouth, her scratchy fur tickling my chin. "Service me," she said.

I eagerly stuck my tongue into the wrinkly hole, twisting it around and trying to force it in as far as it would go. A few moments of this and then she squeezed my head tightly between her thighs, giving me a brief glimpse of the nectar forming in that thicket of red fur. Releasing me as I started to see stars, she stood up again. "Enough pleasure for you," she said. "How should I punish you next?"

"Whatever you do, don't take anything out of that chest next to the couch," I said.

"Ahh, I see," she said, walking over to it and bending over, offering me a magnificent view of those long, muscular legs and the round, curvy ass atop them. She came up with a purple silicone dildo, ridged in imitation of anal beads. She squirted some lube on the end of it and commanded me, "Turn over."

"Yes, yes," I said eagerly, flipping onto my stomach, pressing my cock between my stomach and the rug. With a thud (at least it seemed like it to me) she sat down on my legs, that gorgeous round ass pressing down on them like two pillows full of lead, and a moment later I felt the dildo enter me, each nub opening my ass a little wider as it went deeper and deeper. Then out, blub-blub, puckering and closing my ass with each rounded edge. As it went in a second time she stretched her long legs out toward my head, and pressed her bare feet against my face again, squeezing my head between the cold, soft flesh on the bottom of each foot. I licked at the toes as she rode my ass, rhythmically.

Now she got up and then I felt the full weight of her plop on top of me, dildo still in my ass. As she fucked me I felt her full, soft breasts rising up and down against my back, her muscular thighs pushing against my ass as she moved the dildo in and out. To be trapped under her, my ass entirely under her control, the sensation overwhelmed me. Suddenly she stopped again, and roughly flipped me over. My bent cock sprang back up. "It's not looking very good, but I'll see what we have available," she said, as she had said to so many customers at the restaurant, and in an instant she had lowered herself onto my cock, her fiery red bush consuming it in an instant, her round, jutting tits thrusting into my face. As she rode me the dildo started to work its way out again until she reached underneath and brusquely shoved it back up to the hilt, a move she repeated several more times until, finally, I came within her and she leaned back on my cock, sticking her toe in my mouth, and rubbed her clit to her own orgasm.


* * *

We were married six weeks later; I run the restaurant, she still works the hostess desk, choosing brusquely and cruelly who will be allowed to dine here, and who will not. We maintain Sergio's policy of only hiring gorgeous women, and often they seek to get ahead with the boss by giving me a quick blowjob in my office or even coming home with us for a threeway. I know that to do so is to misbehave, however, and so whatever happens, I immediately confess it to my beautiful wife, knowing that whatever punishment awaits me from her statuesque body is more than a miserable worm like me could ever deserve.

* * *

Look for more BBW stories by Joris K. Huysmans on my profile (linked above and below the story).



Statuette



"Happy birthday, Ken!" 

He smiled, knowing that whatever his best friend gave him as a gift, he would love it and cherish it. The gift-wrapped box was large, but the contents within barely made any noise as he gently shook it, so he could not even venture a guess as to what she had bought him. 

"Consider this both a birthday present and a bit of decoration for your new place in Chicago," Fiona said. Her eyes sparkled more than usual as she clearly awaited his reaction to the contents of the wrapped box. 

Without further ado, Ken began the unwrapping. As he unwrapped the box, however, deep in the recesses of his mind envisioned himself unwrapping Fiona. 

At last, he took off the lid of the box to reveal... packing peanuts. Ken could only laugh, Fiona's laughter joining his in a sweet duet. 

"You just want to extend my anticipation just a little longer, don't you?" Ken challenged, to which his best friend nodded emphatically with a big grin on her face. 

Dipping his hand into the sea of Styrofoam, he felt something: a hard plastic, somewhat rigid. Moments later, he was extracting the gift from the box and his eyes befell something he had not expected: 

His gift was a statuette. 

The craftsmanship was exquisite. The statuette depicted a young woman with flowing blood-red hair bound by several chains to a gothic-style cross. The woman's white dress was torn repeatedly, practically decimated, with rips strategically placed to demonstrate that she wore no undergarments and that her nipples were prominently hard despite the myriad of reddened lines blemishing her flawless pale skin. What was most striking, however, were the eyes: sparkling orbs which demonstrated both pain and trust. 

As Ken looked up from the statuette in the plastic casing to the young woman who had instantly captivated his heart when they had first met in college, he saw those same sparkling orbs beaming at him, further augmenting the glow emanating from his best friend. 

Ken's expression immediately transformed from jovial to respectful. "This was you," he said softly, the background music suddenly as silent as the vacuum of space. 

"I know," Fiona replied, leaning across the table to gently stroke his forearm. "I saw that online a few months ago and was stunned that such a statuette existed, as if someone had taken a picture of a truly significant moment we had shared and then turned it into a three-dimensional memory. I immediately bought it, because I knew you'd definitely like it." 

"I do," Ken acknowledged solemnly. "I definitely do. Thank you." 

"When you look at it, you'll always remember the times I submitted to you," she said. "I wish I could submit to you again, but..." 

"I know." Scott's name did not need to be mentioned. "I accept that." 

The rest of the evening passed with much more laughter, and ended with a long, heartfelt hug, a hug which threatened to never end. Even the next morning, as he packed his few remaining belongings and prepared to go to the airport, Ken could still feel the soft warmth of Fiona's breasts pressing against him, he could still smell the faint fragrance of her favorite strawberry-scented shampoo, he could still hear her whispered promise of coming to visit him as often as she could with her hectic work schedule. And as the plane flew northward, his thoughts were focused upon the statuette in the bin above his head, and the night of kinkiness it represented. 

*****

It took several weeks to finally turn the apartment into a home. To Ken, it did not feel complete until he had at last found a suitable means to display the statuette: atop a narrow, waist-high, dark oak bookcase. 

For perhaps an hour, he sat and simply gazed upon the statuette, a seven-inch reincarnation of that wonderful night. Granted, Fiona had submitted to him plenty of times before that, suffering his well-checked wrath as he guided her in the pleasure of pain. Yet that night in particular, she had connected with him in a powerful, heartfelt manner that he suspected he would never achieve again with anyone else. Even as he looked fondly and wistfully upon the three-dimensional trigger, his ears were filled with the slicing of the air, Fiona's cries of pain, the rattling of the chains. His arousal was unmistakable within his jeans, yet this time, she was not there to witness the power her pain had upon him, and that saddened him even as he accepted that fact. 

Weeks passed. Daily, he would sit and gaze upon the statuette and remember. In his mind, he traced the long red welts upon her flawless skin, heady in the knowledge that she had suffered willingly for him and yet begged for more with her sparkling eyes. He recalled how she had tried to arch toward him, against him, as his fingertips reignited the pain he had inflicted upon her body. He could still feel her silken hair in his fists as he savagely kissed her in a prelude to still other acts which should never take place in a graveyard... 

As day turned to night and the light of the sun was replaced by the curtain-diffused glow of the streetlights, the statuette stood tall and proud before him. At her full five feet, Fiona was again chained to an old iron gothic-style cross before him, her jaw quivering, her eyes filling yet pleading. 

Ken's arousal was intense, yet he was not yet finished with his best friend. Her dress was irreparably torn, her body reddened from the use of several different floggers, the angry red lines testament to his skill with the single-tail, yet something seemed to be missing... 

A long thin branch had fallen from the nearby tree. The inert branch would be easy to wield, and just rigid and irregular enough to truly hurt her even more. 

He picked up the switch, testing it, enthralled with the sound it made as it split the air and pleased at how that very sound caused Fiona to lurch in her bonds and cause the chain to rattle greatly. He wanted -- needed -- so badly to inflict more pain upon her, but looked into her sparkling eyes first for a long, long time... 

...and she acknowledged both her pain and her desire for him to continue. 

Fiona's cries split the night air, carrying across the graveyard as the moon cast its glow upon the landscape. Harder and harder he struck her, faster and faster the branch carved the air until, at last, Ken could wait no longer, casting the switch aside and quickly undressing as his best friend hung limply from the old iron cross, her battered body heaving with her sobs, her sobs transforming into gasps as he filled her, taking his pleasure from her and finally walking away with his seed trickling down her thigh... 

...and awakening in the darkness upon the sofa to find her upon him, sleeping like an angelic babe, calm and peaceful. He did not question -- he simply held her close, caressing her as she slept upon him. 

*****

To Ken, nothing was sadder than having to leave her in the morning and go to work, yet nothing made him happier than to come home from work -- especially if he was able to leave the office early -- and come home to her. 

She cooked. She cleaned. She catered to his needs and his desires. She practically knew what he wanted even before he could ask -- or, as was more often the case, order. 

Best of all, however, was her eager pain. Yes, he used her almost daily. Yes, he would sometimes unleash his seed upon her, although he was more apt to fill her instead. But what truly enthralled him was her willingness to hurt for him. 

For him. 

He bought heavier floggers. He bought a cane. He bought ginger root. He bought needles. He bought a TENS unit. 

She made very good use of the penis gag, yet her voice still rang sweetly in his ears. Even if she was blindfolded, her tears -- especially if she was wearing make-up -- tugged at his heart in unimaginable ways. 

And then, on a Friday night, as he sat naked upon the sofa as she knelt before him in the darkness and attempted yet again to swallow his entire solid length, there was a knock upon the door. He ordered her to answer the door as usual, even though she was fully naked as was typically the case on a Friday night, and she heard a shrill scream. 

...Fiona's shrill scream. 

Ken rushed to the door, his manhood bobbing obscenely, grabbed his best friend, and hauled her quickly inside, kicking the door closed behind them. 

"That's not me!" Fiona cried, pointing accusingly at her living doppelganger. 

"No," Ken confirmed. "That is the statuette you bought me, but she has come to life." 

Fiona fainted. 

*****

"You look just like her," Ken whispered in the darkness, stroking Fiona's hair as she lay upon his bed. "How? You only looked similar to Fiona before, but now you look just like her." 

The living statuette slowly stepped away from the window, toward him. "I am simply the embodiment of what you wanted most," she said quietly, "although in this case, it is really who you wanted most." 

Ken was quiet for a long time, absently stroking his best friend's hair as his mind reeled with the unusualness of this situation, and also with the truth of what he had just heard from someone who logically should not even exist. Fiona whimpered at one point, but quieted immediately, which concerned him greatly. 

"Yes, I want to hurt Fiona," he finally admitted, "and I know that she enjoys it to some extent." 

"But...?" 

"But I want more than just that, even though I know I can't." 

"You can't?" 

"No." 

"Why?" 

"Scott." 

"I see." 

In the morning, when Ken awoke beside Fiona, he searched the house and found that the doppelganger was gone. 

*****

Ken tried to explain the situation to Fiona, and she was actually taking it quite well from his perspective. She had not yet stormed out, she was not particularly angry... 

"So where is she now?" 

Ken shrugged. "She was gone when I woke up today. At first, I figured that with you here, she had returned to being just a regular statuette, but she -- I mean it... I mean... whatever -- wasn't on the bookcase. While you were still fainted, I searched the entire apartment, but there is no sign of her in either form. My best guess is that she's moved on somehow." 

A few moments of contemplative silence passed, and then a familiar jingle which Ken had not heard in several months surprised him. With a sigh, Fiona stood and crossed the room, rummaging in her purse until she found her cell phone. 

"Hello? ... Speaking. ... That's impossible, because I've been in Chicago since last night. ... Yes, I do have an alibi. He's right here with me. ... Are you sure you have the right person? ... No, I... Hold on, Sergeant." 

"What's going on?" Ken asked in a low voice as Fiona turned to him. 

"Scott's dead," she said, confusion evident upon her face and in her voice. "I supposedly murdered him late last night, in a crowded restaurant." 

Ken's eyes suddenly grew wide as the only possible explanation hit him with the force of a speeding train. "Oh shit..." 

"Her?" 

Ken nodded. "Her." 

"Oh shit..." Fiona agreed.



Status Quo Vs. Online Love



Unhappy housewife turns to the Internet for love.

Cheryl sat in the living room mindlessly listening to the weatherman's weather report and sipping her morning coffee, while watching the snow make snowcaps out of the cars parked outside. They should have cancelled school, she thought, but this surprise snowstorm had fooled everyone. She could have used another hour's sleep, instead of having had to drive the kids to school earlier. She dreaded picking up her children from school later, especially if they haven't had a chance to plow the roads. Now, she wished she had kept them home today.

"There's a slight chance of snow later today," he said startling her to react.

"Slight chance of snow? Look out the window, dumb ass. It's a freakin' blizzard." She stared with contempt at the television. "With all your advanced degrees, computers, and radar, you still can't give an accurate forecast," she said continuing her tirade at the weatherman's image. "It's time to open the Farmers' Almanac or to count the spots on the back of a beetle or to look to see how high the birds are building their nests. The animals know more about the weather than you do, moron."

She was angry, but not with him. She was angry with her personal situation and frustrated with her life. Instead of her time on the planet getting better, it was stuck in neutral and had been for the past few years. She thought things would be better when they bought this house and moved into this neighborhood and she was happier for a while. Only now, the additional expenses required that her husband work longer hours. She saw him more when they rented the small apartment on the other side of town.

She was happier before they bought the house...the house...the house. Their thoughts, their conversation, their energy, and their money were all pent up in the house. A house had suddenly defined their existence, given new purpose and meaning to their marriage for a while, but now the house had taken control of their lives. Everything was about the house. Emotions misplaced from the emptiness of their relationship suddenly manifested itself into an enclosed and claustrophobically confined structure of high walls, draped windows, and closed doors. With mortgage payments, insurance, repairs, and maintenance, the house was now an all consuming member of their family. The house had become a living and breathing entity of unrelenting burden, pressure, and expense.

She thought buying this dream house would make her happy. Now, she was miserable. She removed her kids from the school they loved and left all their friends behind to move here, a better neighborhood. Only, the people in this neighborhood all had more than she had and with their plastic smiles and cool demeanors were standoffish because of it. It's funny, she thought, how you don't know how happy you were, until you lose all that you had, didn't even know what you had, until it's gone and now it's too late to get it back.

You can never go back. Even if you tried, those who you left behind will never let you back in to experience the way that it was before. There is a price to pay when shedding your old skin and abandoning your old life for a new one. You've changed and the dynamics have changed enough that you no longer belong there. That simple thought calmed her and she considered her present situation, now thinking that this may be her happy time compared to what the future may hold in store for her. 

"Enjoy the moment," she said for no one to here. "You should have a problem. Everyone is healthy. Status quo is okay."

The florist van that entered her line of vision, and stopped in front of her house, reminded her that it was Valentine's Day. She put her coffee cup down on the coaster on the side table and jumped up. She looked in the mirror, fixed her hair, adjusted the tie tighter on her bathrobe, and looked out the window again before unlocking and opening her front door.

It had been years since her husband had bought her flowers. She couldn't remember exactly when, but she knew that it was before they bought the house. Then, she remembered, he bought her flowers the day after he stayed out late and came home drunk. It was a cheap bouquet that he picked up at a roadside flower stand, flowers that weren't much better than his excuse for not coming home and flowers that lasted not much longer than his passion did that night in bed and the next day. 

This was different. He never bought her flowers from a florist before. Something is up. Maybe, he got a promotion or a raise. Maybe, he's having an affair and this is a bouquet of guilt. Quickly, she ran to the kitchen to grab her purse for a tip and ran back to the front door in time to see the deliveryman emerge from the back of the van holding a big vase with two dozen roses as white and as fresh as the falling snow.

"Oh, they are so beautiful. He remembered that white roses are my favorite," she said smiling widely with her hand perched on the doorknob, while leaning to peer out the door's side window to watch for his arrival and to time her look of surprise. She hadn't had white roses, since her wedding day.

Phil is so sweet, she thought. He shouldn't have, but I'm so glad he did. What a nice surprise? That's why he didn't give me the usual candy and card this morning, before he left for work. He didn't want to spoil this surprise of flowers. He wanted her to think he had forgotten. I'll reward him later with a blowjob tonight.

Her neighbor Gayle will be so jealous, she thought with a pang of one-upmanship. She decided to prominently display the flowers on her coffee table so that everyone who walked by the house could see them from her living room window. Even better, she thought about inviting Gayle over for coffee, so that she could see the beautiful bouquet up close.

"Oh, my flowers, yes, thank you for noticing, Gayle, they are beautiful, aren't they," she imagined the conversation between Gayle and her. "Phil is such a romantic. He's always buying me flowers. I just love how they smell," she imagined herself leaning down to inhale their fragrance. "I imagine he's going to expect a little something naughty in bed later tonight," she said with a wink and a sexy smile. 

Her dream sequence burst as quickly as her blood pressure rose, while watching the deliveryman walk across the street to her neighbor's house with her flowers and ring her bell. Suddenly, her wide angled vision that encompassed the entire street of her neighborhood narrowed its focus and microscopically zoomed in on Gayle's house.

Gayle was always getting something, no correction, Gayle was always getting everything. She got diamond earrings to compliment the rock on her finger and a mink coat when she complained she was cold. She wears French perfume that lingers in the air long enough to reveal that it is very expensive and to let everyone know that Gayle had been there long after she had left the room. She got the patio furniture she wanted, the expensive set that was not even on sale. She got implants and liposuction last year and her husband, Glenn, tied a big, red bow on a shiny, new, black Lexus SUV that he gave her for Christmas.

"Oh, Glenn! What a surprise!" Cheryl mouthed the words, while mocking her neighbor's screams. The entire neighborhood was forced to listen to Gayle swoon loud enough to hear her over the movie they were all watching, "It's a Wonderful Life." It figures that she was relegated to watching "It's a Wonderful Life," while Gayle lived it.

For Glenn's birthday, Gayle bought him a giant screen, drive-in sized, HD-ABC-XYZ television that the whole neighborhood can see from their living room windows and the space shuttle can see and set the position of their flaps for landing, as it zooms by their house. In the summer with the windows open, they don't even have to turn on their television to enjoy the Wheel of Fortune in surround sound stereo, they can just watch Gayle and Glenn's super-sized set. More unbelievably, even with the size of that screen, Vanna White's tits pale in comparison to Gayle's big, fake boobs.

The second marriage for both Glenn and Gayle, they had no children, or even a pet to care for, and were always taking trips and romantic weekend getaways. A reminder of the striking differences in their lifestyles and relationships, she could see the toaster, the blender, the coffeemaker, the George Foreman grille, the juicer, and the microwave that Phil gave her last Christmas, the Christmases before, and this Christmas from where she was sitting in her living room. She laughed while hoping that he'd buy her a hyperbaric chamber next Christmas, so she could hide from him and the kids, while decompressing from the stresses of her life. Mindlessly, she thought, while staring over at Gayle's snow covered, brand new Lexus, that she needed new tires on the faded blue, Ford Focus station wagon that hid in her cold, unheated garage.

The last trip that she and Phil took together was down to Home Depot to buy lawn and leaf bags and they argued the whole drive there and back. He hated raking and feigned allergies. He hated shoveling and feigned a bad back. She raked and bagged the lawn and yard in the fall, and shoveled and sanded the walkway and driveway in the winter. 

Only now, watching giddy Gayle emerge from the house in a tiny towel that barely covered her surgically sculpted cleavage, she watched her show of surprise for the benefit of the deliveryman by the gift of flowers, two dozen snow white roses, on Valentine's Day. 

"Oh, flowers! What a surprise! They are so beautiful!" Cheryl mouthed the words of her neighbor. She was glad the snow deadened the sound of her annoying, high pitched voice from traveling across the street, through her walls, and into her ears to reverberate in her brain for the rest of the day. She ducked behind the drape when she saw Gayle look over to see if she was looking.

With Gayle's big boobs bouncing and practically spilling out of the towel wrapped around her body, it was then she wished she had supernatural talent, much like that of the witches that Elizabeth Montgomery and Nicole Kidman played on Bewitched. If she was a witch, just a little wiggle of her nose would slam Gayle's front door closed before she could retrieve her caught towel. She imagined Gayle squatting down in the snow naked as the deliveryman ogled her stripper sized tits, while staring over and watching her fiddle with her locked front door.

"Sorry, Ma'am, your front door locked closed," she imagined he'd say trying in vain to open her front door. "I'd give you my jacket but it's company policy that I must always remain in uniform. Here's my handkerchief to cover your nakedness." She imagined him leering at her tits. "Those tits are the biggest tits that I've ever seen, much bigger than Vanna White's tits on the Wheel of Fortune. Are they real?"

"Wait, where are you going?"

"I'm just gonna get my camera out of my truck to snap some photos of you for, uhm, liability and insurance purposes. The guys won't believe this, I mean, it's company policy."

Her imagined scenario burst, when Gayle disappeared in her house with her tits, her towel, and her Valentine bouquet of white roses.

She wished that Phil had given her a shotgun for Christmas, so that she could shoot out the headlights and the tires of the Lexus parked conspicuously in the driveway across from her line of vision or shoot out the silicon that Gayle prominently displayed for all to see. She looked down at her barely B cup, sagging breasts from nursing two babies.

"Perk up girls, there's another baby on the way."

Alone with her bad self, with the kids off to school and her husband gone to work, she missed her daily work routine. At least her job kept her mind occupied with work and the office hobnob with co-workers gave her a vicarious diversion of polite interest and retrospection of the lives of others spiced with the occasional juicy gossip. She loved her role as mother and wife, but working as an administrative assistant in an office gave her more of a purpose. Now, she was bored, alone, and lonely.

Yet, after deducting childcare expenses and transportation costs to and from work, she barely brought any money home from working a 40 hour week job. Sadly, it wasn't worth it for her to go out the door. Her time now better spent with her children was more rewarding and beneficial to their growth and her sanity. Nonetheless, the job she gave up to stay home with the kids had made her feel important, had given her a sense of self, and afforded her own money to buy the things she needed without having to ask her husband. She sometimes felt she needed his permission to buy makeup, hair care products, or even a pair of shoes.

Somehow, he always had money. He gave her the money that she needed, but not without that look that made her feel small, unimportant, unappreciated, and unloved. She felt, as she did, when she was a child asking her father for money to buy candy. She hated that look, the look that men give women, that look they give when they think they are smarter, better, and when they think they are humoring them.

She was pregnant again for the third time. It was a mistake. A moment of passion that consumed her, when she saw a flicker of Phil the way that he was in the past, slim, vibrant, loving, caring, attentive, and happy, only to watch him fade away and disappear from her memory and reappear in his present form, heavier, balding, detached, distant, unresponsive, and angry.

His job gets the better of him and she gets what's left. He comes home tired and cranky. Mindlessly staring at the television and drinking beer, while she cooks, cleans, tends to the kids, and pays the mortgage, car payments, and credit cards, he zones out to a place where she can't reach him and isn't invited to go. She wished she had a special place to go where he couldn't find her. She thought about the hyperbaric chamber again and laughed.

"Daddy, where's Mommy?"

"Mommy's decompressing," she imagined him telling the children.

Suddenly, with a click and a whoosh, she saw the hyperbaric chamber door open from its vacuumed seal, as she stepped out calm and relaxed from the chamber and out from a cloud of fog that emerged around her looking so much like an alien alighting from a spacecraft.

They don't go anywhere. They don't do anything. The distance between them is too far to bridge with this house and with their children. They thought they could fix their problems by buying this house and by having another baby. Now divorce, once a possibility, was just as impossible as the thought for a blissful marriage. The encumbrances and entanglements of their debt insured that they remain together forever, until death do they part, something they both sometimes looked forward to experiencing for a change and for a chance at restful peace. Nonetheless, they were content to be complacent. It wasn't so bad. Was it? Status quo is good, isn't it?

Except for the Sports Channel and the big screen, high definition television that he bought without consulting her, there's never enough money for any other personal entertainment activities. They cut that out of their budget long ago to afford this house, a 4 bedroom, 2 ½ bath, and two car garage home on a quiet street and in a better neighborhood. She couldn't remember when she had her hair done last. Except for taking the girls to Disney World four years ago, before they bought the house...the house...the house...they haven't had a family vacation or a couple's weekend getaway since. 

It's the same boring routine every day, every night, and every weekend. It was not her dream to go from a blushing bride to a pregnant mother to a bored, unhappy, and unfulfilled housewife. She wanted more out of life than to discuss a manicure, massage or makeover. She felt trapped on suburbia drive and hidden among all the other women who looked like her, talked like her, and acted like her. Now one of "them" to those who viewed her turning down or turning out of her street and/or pulling in and pulling out of her driveway, so much like an ant going into her little ant hole, she felt invisible, ordinary, and stuck.

Only here, she wasn't even one of them. Her husband didn't make enough money for her to fit in with this bunch of self-centered and self-absorbed shrews. She felt isolated and ostracized in her own neighborhood. She felt, as detached to their affiliated acceptance, as she felt trying to find a common ground for communication with her husband. Alone, lonely, and on her on without anyone but her bad self to help lift her out of her funk, she had no one to talk to and no one to help her through this difficult period of her life.

"Help," she said for no one to hear. "Help," she said for no one to care. "Help! Help! Help!"

Even though she was pregnant, knowing that she'd have to shovel the snow before it iced over, she looked out across the street as the lawn care truck pulled up to Gayle's house to plow out her driveway and snow blow her walkway. The sound of their snow blowing machines shattered her sanity in the way that a prolonged electrical shock would in the guise of electrical shock therapy. She watched as Gayle's housekeeper pulled in the freshly plowed driveway wondering what got so dirty in a house without children and without pets that she needed the services of a housekeeper three times a week. She wanted Gayle's life, but with kids and a dog.

Maybe, it's a boy this time, she thought, allowing her hand to slowly circle her stomach, as her mind imagined a tall, handsome son helping her with food shopping and household chores, such as raking leaves and shoveling snow. Having a boy this time would make her husband happy. A son would make him stop pressuring the girls to learn football plays and to go out for a long one, while he pretended that he was the quarterback of the New England Patriots. She laughed with the thought of her new born son barely walking and wearing a Patriots shirt and an oversized football helmet, while learning to throw and catch a football.

"49! 28! 37! Hut! Hut! Hut!"

Phil already made it known to everyone that he'd name his son Brady, after Tom Brady, the quarterback of the New England Patriots and she reluctantly agreed. She was glad that her husband had already named their Black Lab, Touchdown, otherwise that name may have been considered by him as a potential name for their son. Once he had decided on a name, he was just as opposed to entertaining other selections, as he was to having her mother come for an extended visit to help out with the new baby, once it was born. She was relieved that he had left her to name the girls, Allison and Melissa, otherwise he may have named them Bella and Chick, after Coach Belichick of the New England Patriots.

Her argument that the kids at school would taunt and tease a boy named Brady Grady fell on deaf ears. He thought that Brady Grady was a great name, a man's name, and a name, when famous, that the Football Hall of Fame fans would remember. He hated his name, Phil, especially after she teasingly reminded him that he shared his first name with Phil Simms, the great quarterback of the New York Giants. He hated the Giants, as much as he hated his name. She was glad that they were not English citizens because if knighted, her son's wife would be Lady Brady Grady.

Phil was never home on weekends. Either attending football games or chasing down sales leads, she lived the life of a widow. Even when he was home physically, he wasn't there for her mentally. Floating away down Budweiser River, his mind was lost in the blaze of blurring televised replays, quick timeout runs to the refrigerator, and surround sound whistle blows of high school, college, and professional football games.

In the way that he sat on the edge of his seat with bulging eyes, cheering yells, and red-faced jeers, she wondered if he gambled on the games. She didn't know. How could she know? He kept close tabs on the money. She didn't even know how much money he made every week. He kept that from her, too. She didn't want to know. Knowing how much he made and how much he spent on himself would be cause for just another fruitless argument and more pent up resentment.




Status Quo Vs. Online Love



She wondered had he not blown out his knee in college, where'd they be now. Maybe, she'd get the diamonds, the mink, the roses, and be driving the Lexus. Maybe Phil would be married to Gayle and she'd still be sitting here watching the world pass her by from her living room window with Glenn instead of with Phil. She imagined watching the Wheel of Fortune on Phil's super-sized television screen from across the street with Glenn. She wondered if Glenn would treat her better than Phil or if all guys were basically the same jerks.

It was then that she realized that her husband was just as unhappy as she was. He was lucky to have found his passion early in live, but he wasn't living his dream life. He never wanted to be a traveling salesman. He wanted to play football.

Once he could no longer play with his bad knee, they revoked his college scholarship a year before graduation. It was then that she realized that he was as depressed and as angry, as was she. That wasn't fair. Life isn't fair. Yet, that was his reality.

He never talks about it to her and he certainly doesn't seem to dwell on it. Maybe he suffers in silence. Maybe he numbs his disappointment with alcohol. Maybe he'll take up coaching when his son, Brady Grady, is old enough to play and live the dream that Daddy couldn't.

She didn't know how to fix what was broken or to find what was missing. How could she? She didn't know what was broken or what was missing, nor did he. She had an inkling of those things that were wrong but they all got tangled up in her head with the pressures of everyday life, whenever she tried to verbalize them and explain them. She had a feeling of how things could be better, especially living in the shadow of Gayle's bright rainbow. Only, she couldn't help but fee that her life was all such a mess and was all so overwhelming. 

Only, for her, her daughters filled the holes that Phil escaped through and she found it safe to live on the other side of the wall that she had worked so hard to build, even though it was riddled with cracks. Occasionally, she'd look out through the openings, as she does when looking out her living room window and envying Gayle, while hiding behind her draperies or disappearing behind her veiled curtain wearing her mask of contentment. She smiles and listens, if only to avoid the confrontation and the conflict of another fruitless argument with her husband.

Just as she focused on her frustration, it was then that she realized her husband's inability to cope by numbing himself with alcohol, while hoping to sooth his bleak reality by reliving his youth with the excitement of vicariously watching football after football game. It was obvious to her now that they were a co-dependent couple staying together out of habit, financial necessity, and for the sake of the children, but not for love. How sad is that? Viva la status quo.

They could be happier, no doubt, but it wasn't so bad. They had two great kids with a third one on the way and they had this beautiful house, after all, in this safe and better neighborhood. Things could be worse. She should have a problem. Inhale and relax, she told herself.

Decompress from the stress of everyday life. Meditate and be happy. Trying to maintain her tough veneer that had already cracked more than once, her constant affirmation that "things could be worse" and "it wasn't so bad" numbed her into settling for status quo. Not ever having a rapport of give and take, yin and yang, and hot and cold with her husband and with their relationship, never testing the extremes, exploring the outer boundaries, and traveling the deepest depths or the highest peaks of love, they were in a rut. Instead, like a cancer, their relationship slowly ebbed into a deep ditch of silent suffering and complacent co-existence.

What happened to the giddy happiness they experienced when they found one another and fell in love? Where did that couple go? They've realized all their dreams with marriage, children, and their very own beautiful house, but why are they both so unhappy?

Too weak to save themselves; an artery of their relationship severed long ago, they were slowly but fatally bleeding to death. The temporary bandage that saved them from dying were the children and the house. Indebted and unhappy living their dream of owning a big house in suburbia, they languished somewhere under their rainbow always able to see it, but never able to grasp it and pull themselves up on top of it. Somewhere over the rainbow, they didn't know how to dig their way out. Instead of making their way to the top, not expecting any better, they grew accustomed to living at the bottom and watching the rainbow from afar. 

"Twinkle, twinkle little star," she said to herself for no one to hear. "I wish I could win the lottery."

"We don't expect more than a dusting," said the weatherman interrupting her thoughts of being a big lottery winner and rich with his incompetence. She turned off the television and looked out at the snow that had already dusted several inches of deep, white, fluffy stuff.

"Fools! They must not have a window at the weather station, otherwise they'd know it's a blizzard and not a dusting." 

Already hurt from his lack of interest, she hoped that Phil had remembered that it was Valentine's Day. Just as she thought that, she felt pathetic that she clutched to the one day of the year that was commercially earmarked for love, when every day should be held in high reverence of that emotional bond felt between two people who freely committed their lives to one another.

Generally, he gives her a card and candy in the morning before leaving for work. Instead of a box of candy, she wished he'd take her out to a movie and/or to dinner. Maybe, he forgot and will remember during the day that this is their special day, a celebration of love and remembrance of times past before children, mortgage payments, and credit card debt. This is their day to unite as a couple and to reinforce the reasons why they are together still. Maybe tonight he has a special surprise planned. Maybe tonight he will give her the romantic evening of her dreams. She was excited with the thoughts of Phil whisking her off for dinner reservations some place fancy.

Only, she had a special meal planned for tonight, his favorite. If he had planned a surprise on taking her out, she could always save what she cooked tonight for leftovers tomorrow. She spent the day wondering what she'd wear for tonight's surprise festivities. If she had known he was going to take her out, she would have scraped up enough money somehow to have her hair done.

He called her a few minutes before he was scheduled to arrive home to tell her that he was going out with the guys and not to wait up for him. He told her not to worry about feeding him. They were having a big Valentine's Day party at the strip club for a co-worker, who was leaving the company, and they'd have food there, a buffet. 

As she talked to him on the phone, no longer listening to his excuses for not being there for her again, she watched Gayle and Glenn climb aboard the Lexus for their Valentine's dinner at that new swanky restaurant that Gayle so enjoyed telling her about. She had her hair done and was wearing her new sparkly dress that glittered with so many colors of the rainbow beneath her mink coat. They looked nice. They looked happy. They looked in love.

Alone again, it was just her and the girls again eating another supper without him. He didn't wish her a Happy Valentine's Day. He didn't say that he loved her. "I love you. Happy Valentine's Day," she said too late to the reverberating echo of the dial tone.

"Insensitive jerk," she said slamming down the telephone receiver.

She looked at the pile of gifts she bought him with the Valentine's Day card crowning the top that hid a sexy message inside for a special romantic evening tonight. She suddenly remembered that she needed new batteries for her vibrator. She was horny. She was alone. She was frustrated. She ripped the Valentine's Day card in pieces and threw it in the trash.

She looked down at her pregnant belly that she had hoped held his son, Brady Grady, and felt fat. Now, she hoped for a girl for herself, instead of a boy for him. She felt hungry and the food that she did not want and did not need, and that her husband drove her to eat, and that drove him to the strip club to pass out more dollar bills than he could not afford to give, would never fill the emptiness that just transpired between them. 

She felt hurt. She felt sad. She felt rejected. With the girls in bed, she turned away from Desperate Housewives reruns for the comfort of some erotic conversation online.

As soon as she logged onto her site, she was greeted by the one she had hoped was there.

"Hello, Mistyblue."

"Hi, Tonytiger."

"Happy Valentine's Day" he wrote. Suddenly, the image of a bouquet of white roses appeared across her screen. He remembered.

"Happy Valentine's Day to you, too." She was blushing and couldn't type her message to her mysterious cyber friend fast enough. 



Statute of Limitations



To the reader: This is my first attempt at writing. If you like it that would encourage me to write more. If you don't, then I'll just continue writing software. Either way I would appreciate your comments.

PART 1 -- Opening Pandora's Box

Sunday, October 3, 2010

"Hon, just have a great time and don't worry about me. I've got plenty to do around here. I can't get into any trouble," Richard says as they walk down the sidewalk to the airport shuttle van. "Just remember, don't let your sister talk you into anything stupid."

"I'll behave," said Joan. "Now just you behave. I'll only be gone two weeks so I expect the house to still be standing when I get back. Be careful and just remember that I love you more than anything." With that Joan grabs Richard's head and pulls his face to hers for a long, deep kiss.

"Come on! We haven't got all day to sit here and watch you two slobbering all over each other... we've got a plane to catch and men to chase." Richard and Joan both turn from their kiss and look at Joan's younger sister Brenda sitting in the van making a kissy face at them. Joan mouths the word "Bitch" and Richard just rolls his eyes.

"Bye hon. I love you too."

Joan gets into the van next to her sister and blows Richard a kiss just as the driver closes the door. The driver gets in; they pull away and leave Richard standing in the driveway waving at them muttering "Damn! I thought they would never leave." He turns and starts back toward the house thinking about his marvelous plans.

"I've got a hell of a lot of work to do over the next few days but boy is it going to be worth every aching muscle. When she sees what I've done to the bedroom she is going to jump on me right there without ever unpacking. We're going to break in that new mattress for the whole weekend again and again and again. God I'm going to be sore but it WILL be worth it. Well, let's get to work."

Once in the house Richard goes to the kitchen and calls his son. 

"Hello," comes Marc's deep slow growl over the phone. "What time is it? What day is it?"

"Wake up and grab your stuff. We've got a lot of work to do and it's almost eleven o'clock," Richard barks back.

"Is that AM or PM?" 

It's obvious from the slurring and the deepness of his voice that he's just waking up. But dad keeps at him. "It's Sunday! Don't think, just be here by noon. Get some coffee, eat something and get your ass over here. We've got to get everything moved out today and the painting prep work done before dinner.

"K," is the only reply before the line goes dead.

Richard hangs up and goes into the garage and gets the boxes of supplies that will be needed for the prep work. With everything in hand he starts upstairs.

Richard has had this planned for months. While Joan is out sunning herself on a cruise ship in the Caribbean with her sister and two friends from work, Richard and Marc are going to completely strip the master bedroom down to the bare walls and refurnish the entire room. This includes new paint, new carpet, and all new furniture. Joan has had her heart set on a bedroom she found in a magazine called Colonial Homes that she saw one day at the dentist's office. She "borrowed" the magazine and cut out the pictures and pinned them to the bulletin board in the kitchen. This has been her dream. It has also been a constant reminder to Richard to get on the stick. So when she gets back her dream will have come true.

Last month the furniture and carpet were ordered. Two weeks ago the paint was purchased. Last week Marc finally agreed to help out. Everything is scheduled to arrive and be set up over the next few days. By Wednesday everything should be done. And Joan knows nothing about it. It will be Richard's 30th anniversary present to her.

He makes one more trip to the garage to get the pile of boxes that all of the drawers and closets contents will go into temporarily. He starts unloading the dresser contents into the boxes. Next he unloads the armoire then the night stands. He takes the pictures off of the walls and the shoes off of the floor, stuffs them into boxes, and takes everything into the spare bedroom. "Well, that's the easy part," he says to nobody in particular, obviously because there is nobody in particular there to hear him. Then he turns his attention to the closets. One of the major selling features of this house when they looked at it way back when they were first married was the two huge walk-in closest that set on either side of the hall that led from the bedroom to the master bath. Each was about 20 feet deep by 8 feet across. They're huge. They're small rooms without windows. After 30 years they are pretty full of stuff. The reason they are so full is because Richard is a pack rat. And after they were married Joan picked up the habit and also became a pack rat. Now being a pack rat has its advantages sometimes but other times it's just crazy, bordering on obsessive. They keep just about everything. Richard keeps odd things like screws, old tools, books, car parts, and just about everything that "someday we might need." Joan has also learned that behavior and has kept every school paper and grade report that Marc ever had, brochures from places they visited over the years, and more craft magazines, sewing supplies, and kitchen gadgets that would fill five yard sales. Every usable space is just filled with useful stuff. And the two closets in the bedroom are no exception.

With a sigh he heads into his own closet. Almost an hour later he has everything boxed up and moved into the spare bedroom. Then he turns his attention to Joan's closet. He just stands at the entrance and feels completely overwhelmed.

"Hey, I brought you lunch," Marc says as he enters the room and promptly trips over the pile of unfilled boxes.

"SHIT!" Richard jumps. "Knock or something to let me know you're there. All we need is for you to give me a damned heart attack. Then you'll have to call your mother and tell her you killed me."

"Sorry. Here's your sandwich and soda."

For the next fifteen minutes they both sit on the bed and eat. "Here's what I want you to do," dad says while stuffing his face. "I'll box up the small stuff and you can take the larger stuff from mom's closet over to the spare bedroom. Afterwards we've got to get all this furniture down to the garage and into the truck. It's going to Goodwill later."

"K," is all Marc says. Short answers are Marc's main method of communication.

With lunch finished they get up and start in on Joan's closet. Richard packs up the clothes on the shelves, the shoes and other clothes on the floor, the pile of stuffed animals in the corner, and the miscellaneous small odds-and-ends around the room. Marc starts taking the pile of shoe boxes, boxes of books, and luggage to the spare room.

Marc grabs a small case from the far corner of the top shelf that was hidden behind a bunch of shoe boxes and says "Hey! What's this?" Richard looks at it and says "that's a cosmetics case that went to the set of luggage that we got from your grandmother when we cleaned out her house after she died. I didn't know we even had any of it any more." He takes the case and looks at it saying to Marc, "Look. They don't make stuff like this anymore, its real 1950's; solid, indestructible, beige and boring. It went with the eight piece Samsonite luggage set that was old when we got it. I think we gave it to Goodwill years ago. I wonder why we still have this piece." Richard tries to open it but both latches are locked. "Well just put it with the other junk in the spare room."

It takes a good two hours but the closet is finally empty.

After a short break they start taking apart the furniture and trudging it downstairs and into the garage. By the time the room is completely empty they are both tired and hungry. Since it was getting close to dinnertime dad gives Marc twenty dollars and sends him to Luigi's to get a pizza. There is already beer in the refrigerator, so dinner is all set.

After pizza and a couple beers Marc says he has to go because Brandy has planned something or another but he can't remember exactly what. He just knows that he had better be home by seven o'clock. His wife has a bit of a temper and Marc has learned to not stir it up. Five minutes later he's gone.

Richard cleans up from dinner. How hard is that? Pizza box and napkins in the trash and beer cans in the recycling bin. Soon he's back in the bedroom starting the prep work needed before painting can start. By nine o'clock the taping, plastering, and sanding is complete. The outlet covers are removed and the tarps are laid out to protect the carpet that will be in the trash in two days, but that's the way Richard is... anal.

Sunday's work is done. He gets another beer from the refrigerator and plops himself in his lounge chair in front of the TV and after only one sip of the beer he's sound asleep.

**********

Monday, October 4, 2010

Marc actually shows up at seven o'clock as he promised. This time he rings the bell to prevent any heart attacks and Richard stumbles from the lounge chair to the door.

"Damn! You're early."

"Actually, I'm not. I said I'd be here at seven and here it is seven. Where's breakfast?" That's the Marc everybody knows and loves; always hungry.

Breakfast is poured into the bowl, milk added and they eat. "Today is nothing but painting," Richard explained. "First we do the ceiling and then the walls. I'll cut in everything up high and you can do around the floor. That'll probably take until noon then we start with the rollers. I hope Brandy doesn't have anything planned for you today because I'll need you to stay here until we're done, and it doesn't matter how late. We've got to be done today."

"No problem. She'll be over at her mother's helping her do something or another. She won't be back until late."

So begins a very long day of one of the most boring jobs any homeowner can do - Painting.

Monday ends much like Sunday did. Richard, sound asleep, with a beer, in front of the TV. But this time he took a shower first.

**********

Tuesday, October 5, 2010

Six AM is pretty damned early but there at the door is the carpet installation crew. Well, actually a crew of two. There's nothing for Richard to do but stay out of their way. And besides, he doesn't speak Spanish. Breakfast today is the same fare as yesterday, delicious cold cereal.

It's incredible how fast a job can get done when someone knows what they're doing. The two guys are finished and gone by ten AM.

Since the furniture won't be delivered until noon, Richard goes about sorting through the stuff in the spare bedroom looking for anything obvious that can be thrown out. Once again he picks up the little beige cosmetics case and looks at it. It seems heavier than it should be so he shakes it. There's something inside and like he always does he gets a bit curious and starts fiddling with the latches. He goes to the bathroom and sits on the toilet and works the locks with a paper clip. After just a couple minutes of making no headway opening the case the doorbell rings, so he sets the case down next to the sink and goes to answer the door. It's the furniture delivery people. "Come on in and I'll show you where everything goes." Again Richard knows to get out of their way and just let them do their jobs.

When all of the furniture is in and the people are gone Richard starts the arduous task of moving everything back from the spare bedroom. He gives up around midnight and heads off to the lounge chair, the TV, and a beer.

**********

Wednesday, October 6, 2010

Richard sleeps in today. At 9 AM he takes the old furniture to Good Will and stops at Denny's for breakfast. By noon he starts on the final bit of cleanup. When everything is back in the bedroom he does the one last item on the list and that is to hang a large banner on the wall over the bed that simply says SURPRISE. 

Taking one final look around the room before he calls it a day, Richard finds a foot long gouge in the paint along one wall that obviously was done when the movers moved the dresser into the room. "Damn. That needs to be touched up." He gets the can of paint and a brush and spends a few minutes adding the final touch to the room. "That's done. Now just clean up, take a shower, and have dinner." He goes into the bathroom to wash the paintbrush out. He's is in a hurry to get something to eat and sets the brush on the side of the sink. It's not balanced properly and falls to the floor. "Shit!" which is a reasonable thing to say when you get paint all over the floor. He gets a rag and looks down for the brush and sees that it didn't hit the floor. It fell on top of the little cosmetics case. So he picks the case up and starts to rub the paint off but instead is rubbing it into the faux leather top. "Turpentine, that's what I need," and downstairs he heads with the case. A few strokes with a turpentine dampened rag and the case looks as good as 1950's new.

He puts the paint and supplies away in the garage and comes back into the kitchen. You know what curiosity did to the cat? Richard was still wondering what's in the case. Maybe he should take a clue from the cat rhyme. But instead back out into the garage he goes to the workbench and gets a big gallon jar off of the shelf. It's full of old keys: Just one of the many jars of useful stuff he has amassed over the years. He dumps it out and starts sorting through them looking for an old square key that he remembers fit the Samsonite luggage. "Damned if there isn't one in here," he again says to nobody.

Now, sitting at the kitchen table Richard puts the key into the left lock, turns it and the latch pops open. Then he puts the key into the right lock, turns, and it too pops opens. Lifting the lid Richard doesn't know what to expect but he's just like a little kid with a new box filled with toys. Each item inside will be a new adventure. But the adventure in this little beige Samsonite cosmetic case is something that Richard could have never in a million years expected.

On top is a large bulging manila envelope. He pulls it out and looks at the front. It's addressed to Joan. The return address is an A. Stephens from Seattle Washington. Looking closely at the postmark he sees that it is dated September 15, 1991. That's almost 20 years ago. And it's unopened. He sets the envelope aside on the table and looks underneath. 

Now on top of the case is a blue pile of cloth. Richard picks it up and sees it fall out into a bikini. He smiles at it thinking of what Joan would look like wearing it. After setting the bikini on top of the manila envelope he pulls the case closer and looks down into it. What he sees on top makes his heart skip a beat. His jaw drops and all of his senses just seem to shut down. He's staring down into the case at a 3 X 5 picture of Joan and some man sitting at a dinner table, kissing. Time passes. It seems like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds. Mechanically he reaches in and picks up the picture. Now his hands start to tremble. His mouth is dry. He sees the picture but his mind can't make any sense of it. Why is my wife kissing some man? And, who the hell is he? Before he knows it his Denny's $6.95 breakfast is rapidly coming back up. 

After just making it to the bathroom he sits on the floor in front of the toilet wondering what in the hell is going on. Somehow he's on his feet and splashing cold water on his face and neck. He walks back into the kitchen and stands for the longest time staring at the tableau in front of him: Kitchen table with beige cosmetics case on it and a manila envelope beside it with a blue bikini on top. On the floor is his crushed heart.

Richard sits back down and takes the pile of photos out of the case and places them on the table. Yes, that's Joan. Her head is turned to the man and her lips are on his but her eyes are on whoever is taking the picture. The man is a mirror image of Joan. Without thinking he turns the photo over and looks at the next. It is an old Polaroid of the same man standing next to a door without a shirt. Turning to the next he sees the same man in a close up of his face. Next he's lying on a bed asleep. Next picture is him from behind nude. Next picture sitting on a bed with his legs crossed, nude.

Looking at all of the pictures Richard sees that they are all of the same man, some at a formal banquet dinner, some on the beach next to a fire, one waving in an airport, and the last is of him driving a car and laughing. The more intimate ones are old Polaroid's and the rest look to be 35mm stock. He puts them down and just stares at them wondering "what the hell?"

Richard looks into the case and sees a woman's white silk scarf wrapped around something and tied with a red ribbon. He takes it out and unties the ribbon. What he finds are a handful of letters. They are all written to Joan and addressed to her at work. They have postmarks from 1989 to 1991. He takes the one with the earliest date, pulls out the letter and starts to read.

**********

June 22 1989

My dearest Joan,

It's only been one month but God how I miss you. I miss your beautiful voice. I miss your tender touch. I miss your sweet, soft lips. But most of all I miss the warmth of your body next to me in bed. God I love you. Did I say I miss you? 

It only whetted my appetite for you when we talked on Tuesday. I'll do exactly as you wish and only call you at work and only send my letters there too. I don't want any unhappiness for you. Just so long as you still want me I'm a happy man. I've enclosed one of my business cards so you can have my office address and phone number so you can call or write me as often as you want.

San Diego is everything I ever wanted, except that you aren't here with me. My position in this medical consortium will allow me to see patients and at the same time pursue some research in areas of interest. They are even encouraging me to write some scholarly papers. I couldn't have asked for a better place to be. As soon as I'm settled here I'll need to come back to see my parents to help sort thru a lot of the stuff we left behind. When I do I want us to be together. I'll take whatever I can get; a minute, an hour, a whole day. I just want to make love with you again, and again, and again. I'll never get enough of you. I'll call you to let you know when we can be together again. 

Please think of me sometime at night and I'll think of you. Maybe our thoughts will link up in the cosmos somewhere and we can be one again.

With all my love,

Tim

**********

"HOLY SHIT!!!" Richard says at the top of his lungs. "That bitch had a lover!"

He throws the letter on the floor and just sits staring in space. His body is numb but his mind is racing at top speed with a thousand questions; and they don't have answers. The only way to know what's going on is to go over everything in this damned case, he thinks. Then maybe I'll know whether I've got a life anymore or not. He picks everything up and takes it into the living room and sets it into the middle of the floor. He then drops onto his bottom next to it. Just look at all of that junk. Joan is just as much of a pack rat as I am. He starts pulling things out of the case.

The first thing out is a blue felt jewelry box. Inside is a gold heart shaped locket on a gold chain. I've seen that before he thinks. He quickly gathers the pictures and scans thru them until he finds the one at the fancy dinner. Joan is wearing a v-necked black dress and the locket is right there above her cleavage.

He pulls out two napkins and one has "I Love You" written on it. This is not Joan's handwriting he thinks. The other has a telephone number on it.

Out comes an invitation to an awards presentation in Chicago for November 12, 1990 that says "Dr. Timothy Dahl and Guest." Somebody scratched through the "and Guest" part and wrote above it "My Love".




Statute of Limitations



Did you ever turn on the news expecting to see something about Egypt or Afghanistan and see a national newscaster talking about your hometown? And not just your hometown but the apartment complex where you lived and the high school where your wife was a teacher!

Well that happened to me six months ago when I was on a business trip to San Diego. My name is Paul Morgan and my wife, Chris, is an English teacher at Central High in our community in upstate New York. We got married right out of college six years ago. Chris was kinda wild in college but she settled down and made a great wife. I found a good job with a national computer company and I have had two promotions since I started with them. Our marriage is a happy one.

We live in a very nice apartment complex with a gym and indoor pool and a great group of people. The manager of our complex, Bill Zinneman, is a capable and friendly guy about fifty years old and divorced. We often have a drink together at Charlie's Bar across the street. And Bill's name was featured prominently in the news report that was so shocking.

I called Chris that Friday night and she filled me in on what happened. She sounded real strange but that was not surprising considering what had happened. The story was simple but outrageous.

Bill Zinneman was checking an air conditioner that had malfunctioned and he discovered a stack of eight by ten color photographs. The pictures showed two women, both teachers at Central High in various poses naked and having sex with five male students from Central High. The apartment belonged to one of the gals in the pictures.

When I got back that Saturday evening, Chris was relaxed and pleasant and not nearly as upset as I expected. I think she may have taken some puffs off a joint. She filled me in on the details. The teachers were friends of hers. The students came to the apartment a couple of afternoons each week, smoked pot, and had sex with the teachers.

I had followed the story as closely as I could, although I had to leave on business trips several times. Chris always saved the papers for me. After a couple of weeks the news died down but Chris kept me informed from gossip at the school.

The parents didn't want the boys to testify in court and I could understand that. Everybody was lawyered up and nobody was talking. But the pictures provided all the evidence necessary. It still took several months while they argued about the exact charges, but finally the District Attorney accepted a plea bargain and the teachers went to prison.

I had a chance to hear more from Bill Zinneman as we were regulars at Charlie's Bar. Apparently the pictures had been really graphic with the gals getting fucked in every position and giving blowjobs as well. Sometimes sucking a cock and getting fucked at the same time and sometimes taking it up the ass. Those were really wild parties.

He laughed and joked about it and after my initial shock I laughed with him. We both regretted not having teachers like that when WE were in high school.

Meanwhile I got a job offer from our branch in San Diego. It was a good offer and Chris kept urging me to take it but I was having a tough time making up my mind. School had let out for the summer and Chris pointed out that this would make the move easier.

My world came crashing down one Saturday afternoon about six months after the whole thing started. I was updating my spreadsheet when Chris came in looking very serious.

"We have to talk," she said. "And I think we both need a drink first."

"Can it wait till I finish this spreadsheet?" I asked.

Chris looked at her watch and shook her head. "No. It can't wait. I've put this off as long as I can."

What the hell was this about I wondered? She looked really serious.

She poured us each a double shot of single malt scotch and added a little water. We sat on the couch in the study next to the master bedroom. She wasted no time finishing her drink and then she told me an incredible story.

"This is very hard to tell you. I was hoping we would move to San Diego and I wouldn't have to, but it's too late now. That Friday morning, six months ago, when the police came to the school to arrest those teachers, I knew it was going to happen. And I was afraid that I might be arrested with them. I was terrified!"

"You see," she continued, "it was THREE teachers at those sex parties, not just two. The boys' lawyers never let them testify under oath. Nobody talked, so it never came out. That third teacher was me."

I finished the rest of my scotch in one gulp. I started to pour another and then didn't because I told myself I'd better stay sober. But the pictures Bill Zinneman and I had laughed about in Charlie's Bar started flashing through my head and they were no longer funny − they were very ugly.

"Jesus! You had sex parties with high school boys?"

She nodded her head and said softly, "Yes."

"Why the hell did you do that?" I yelled.

"I don't know," she said, almost whispering. "I really don't."

"At least tell me how it got started," I said.

This was so incredible I had trouble believing it. How could my wife have done this?

She dropped her head and stared at the floor and mumbled out the story. It was ugly.

"It started off with us getting high to relieve some of the tension we were having at school with the new curriculum the state put in. After a hard day at school, Lois and I went to Carolyn's apartment to smoke pot. It helped us relax. I didn't for a single minute intend it to end up the way it did. It just did and ... well you know how I am when I get high. I lose control."

"Yeah I know you do," I said.

"Well, one afternoon two kids knocked on the door after we were stoned and Carolyn let them in. Both were in my Honors English class. I have no idea WHY they stopped by. As I think back my guess is that they had been there before. Shit! Carolyn was almost forty − over twice their age!"

"Anyway, they got stoned with us and Carolyn took them both into the bedroom and left the door open. She stripped down buck-naked for them and one guy started fuckin her while the other guy watched and waited his turn. The way they were acting I'm sure she'd fucked 'em before. I should have walked out right then, but I didn't."

"Why didn't you?" I asked.

"I don't know. Because I was stoned I guess. Anyway Lois watched Carolyn fuck for a while and then she went in and stripped down and started to fuck the other guy. I don't think she had done that before. She was just stoned out of her mind."

"I was stoned out of my gourd too and you know how horny I get when I'm stoned. I don't remember how it happened − darling I really don't − but the next thing I knew I was fucking this kid from my Honors English class."

Didn't know how it happened? Bullshit! It happened because she wanted to fuck! When she got stoned she fucked like a mink. That's how I fucked her in college and I know several other guys that got her stoned so she'd fuck. Jesus! Is she still doing that?

"The next week three guys showed up after I was real stoned and I fucked all three of them. Just fucked 'em one after the other. It sounds hard to believe but I was having orgasms big time fucking high school kids!"

"Why didn't you quit going to Carolyn's apartment?" I asked.

"I don't know," she said. "After those three guys I just felt trapped. And pretty soon it was five guys and the fifth guy was a picture taker and could print out color pictures on his Dad's computer. After the sex got started he'd take pictures."

"He always cleaned up his camera and his Dad's computer after he printed the pictures so his Dad never found them. It went on for about four months, usually twice a week, before Bill found the pictures in that air conditioner where Carolyn hid them."

"So you kept going back for four months even when you knew you'd get fucked after you got stoned. Why did you do that?" I asked.

"I don't know. I really don't know. I felt trapped somehow. Just compelled to go back," she said almost pathetically.

Trapped hell I thought. She wanted to fuck!

"And you fucked those kids for several hours?" I mumbled, astonished by what I had heard her say. "What did you do?"

"You really don't wanna hear that," she said.

"Yeah! I really DO want to hear that," I responded.

She looked down at the floor and said very softly, "Okay. There were five of 'em and each one wanted to do all three teachers every time. It was a macho thing to do three teachers in a row. So I always fucked five guys to start. I was stoned and having orgasms with each one."

"And usually several guys wanted seconds with me and the other girls. An eighteen year-old peter gets hard again real fast after it spurts and it spurts a lot. There was a hell of a lot of fucking. And we did a lot of other stuff too. Stuff I don't wanna tell you about."

I knew about the stuff she didn't want to talk about. Bill and I had laughed and joked about it drinking at Charlie's Bar, when I didn't know I was laughing at my own wife. It's not so funny now.

"Twice a week?" I asked.

She nodded her head and said, "Usually twice. Sometimes only once."

I just sat there in shock at what she told me. Then it hit me and I asked, "How come the cops didn't arrest you too?"

"That's the second part of what I have to tell you. It's just as difficult to tell you as the first part. The morning he found them, Bill Zinneman separated out all the pictures that had me in them and held them back along with some of the other juicy ones. That afternoon before he turned them in to the cops, he caught me in the lobby as I came in from school. It was a Thursday. You were in San Diego."

"He took me up to his office and showed me the pictures. The deal was simple. He wouldn't turn in the pictures of me as long as I fucked him. Well, I fucked him Thursday afternoon in that bed," she said pointing to our bedroom.

"He turned in the pictures of Carolyn and Lois to the cops Thursday night. The cops came to the school Friday morning."

"I fucked him again Friday after I got home from school. We were naked in bed fuckin when you called. And I fucked him all day Saturday while you were flying back from San Diego. That's the first time I smoked a joint with him. It's better that way because I cum quicker. I figured if I had to fuck him I might as well enjoy it. And I've been fucking him several times a week ever since."

"That's six months!" I said.

"Yes Paul. I been fuckin him for six months," she said softly, staring down at the floor. 

Shit! I thought. Four months for the kids and six months for Bill make ten months and we've only lived here for a year!

She looked anxiously at her watch.

"We don't have much time," she said. "Last night he laid it on the line. He said he wasn't gonna sneak around any more or wait till you were out of town to enjoy pussy. He wanted to fuck me whenever he felt like it. He said you had as much invested as I did. You'd just have to put up with it and keep your mouth shut he said. He'll be here in a few minutes and I'm gonna fuck him!"

I was stunned! I couldn't think of anything to say. My mind almost exploded. Then I realized there was only one thing to say.

"I'll kill the son of a bitch!"

I jumped up and ran toward the safe where I had a thirty-eight special. Chris knew exactly what I had in mind. She screamed at me and I stopped and turned and looked at her.

"You shoot him and they'll find those pictures and we'll BOTH go to prison. I'll be a whore and you'll be just another pretty boy and you'll find out what it feels like to have a big cock shoved up your ass. I've read that guys get to like it after a few weeks − just like a woman learns to like it. And I KNOW what I'm talking about baby, so leave that damn gun in the safe!"

She was right of course. I sat back down helpless. Thinking, she's so beautiful and I don't want to lose her. I'll take that job in San Diego. That bastard can't afford many cross-country trips.

Would he really turn those pictures over to the police? What's he got to lose? He can say he found another stack of pictures somewhere else. He held back some of the others so what he turns in wouldn't be only pictures of Chris. And he wouldn't turn 'em in if we moved to San Diego because he could still go out there and fuck her when he could afford the travel.

She looked at her watch again, got up, and went into the bedroom. She opened the dresser drawer, took out a joint, and lit it.

As she blew out the first puff she said, "He'll be here in a few minutes and I like to be stoned when I fuck him. When I'm stoned I cum a lot. I didn't get stoned those first two times. I was wide awake and so scared of getting arrested that I almost didn't cum."

Then her voice got soft and sweet, "Honey I'm really sorry about all of this, but I gotta fuck or go to prison. Just pretend it's somebody else fuckin him not me. And it really is somebody else because I'm not me when I get stoned."

"Now I gotta get naked for him. He always wants me naked right away," she said walking into the master bedroom and closing the door, puffing hard on that joint. She'll be out of it when he fucks her, I thought.

The doorbell rang just as she closed the door. It was a grinning Bill Zinneman. I let him in and we sat on the same couch where Chris told me that horrible story a few minutes ago. He had a large envelope under his arm.

"Did she tell you?" He asked, still grinning.

I had trouble looking him in the eye. I just nodded.

He opened the envelope and took out a colored glossy print.

Handing it to me he said, "Be careful with it. It's one of my favorites."

It was a color photo of Chris, bent over getting fucked doggie style by a kid. The kid was grinning and waving at the photographer. Chris had that pot-induced horny grin that I knew so well in college and she was also waving. She was buck naked except for four-inch spike heels. Her large breasts were hanging down and I could see her hairy beaver clearly. She was beautiful!

"Check out those tits," Bill said. "You never get to see 'em from that angle. Remember Paul it's those tits that kept your wife out of prison. If Lois had had those tits I'd be fuckin her and Chris would be locked up now."

Bill laughed. I didn't say anything. I thought that picture said it all. I was wrong. There was more.

"I don't know where that kid's dick is," he said with a chuckle. "When I got her, her asshole was nice and friendly. Those guys had stretched it out for her. I do her in the ass a lot. She likes it that way. She told me you never did her that way Paul. You ought to try it. That asshole is real user-friendly. You might discover that you like it as much as she does."

I just sat there as he taunted me. This was the friend I drank scotch with at Charlie's so many times in the last six months while he was fucking my wife.

"You wanna see some more pictures?" Bill asked, holding up the envelope. "I got some of her doin two guys at once − mouth and pussy both full of cock at the same time. I got one with her bent over taking it up the ass where you can see that cock stretching out her asshole and she's looking back smiling."

I shook my head no and just stared at that damn picture He was right. Her smile didn't tell me where that kid's cock was.

"Now are you gonna be a nice guy and let us use your bedroom to fuck when we need it or are you gonna cause trouble?"

I just sat there silently staring at the floor. I was helpless. I couldn't seem to face the bastard.

"I'll take that as meaning you're gonna be a nice guy."

"Talk to me Paul," he said firmly. "I'm gonna be fucking your wife regular in your own bed right there. And I'm gonna be doin it till the Statute of Limitations runs out about ... well ... I gotta check but it depends of whether any of those kids was under eighteen."

Then he pointed at our master bedroom.

"Right there!" He repeated. "That's where I been fuckin her and I'm gonna fuck her there again in a few minutes."

"So now you got three choices. I can leave the door open so you can watch us fuck. I can close the door so you can listen to us fuck − you got a noisy bitch there Paul. Or you can go over to Charlie's Bar and drink scotch while you think about us fucking. I'm gonna be up here several times a week so you try it different ways and figure out what works best for you."

Then he laughed. He got up and walked over to the bedroom door and opened it.

"Come out here baby. I want to show your husband why you're not in prison."

Chris walked out of the bedroom and stood before me as I sat on the couch. My God! She was beautiful! She was stark naked wearing those same four-inch spikes I had seen in that damn picture. Spikes that made her long legs look magnificent. Her body was sun bronzed to perfection. Her figure was perfect. The sharp outlines of her milky white bikini protected skin were striking. Below her flat belly her dark, curly haired beaver hid what I knew to be an extra large and very sensitive clitoris.

But it was her breasts that were the most impressive − large 36D beauties, firm with huge nipples − erect and pointing straight out. Unbelievably gorgeous!

"Hands behind your head baby, elbows back," Bill said. "Show us your tits!"

Chris assumed that classic pose and her breasts were even more beautiful than before. My God she was lovely! I wanted to keep her.

She had that pot-induced grin on her face that signaled she was really stoned − way out there in fantasyland. She was someone else. As stoned as she was, she was going to enjoy fucking this bastard. She could fuck anybody when she was stoned.

This was not my wife. This was a whore who had taken over her body and I wouldn't get my wife back till the pot wore off.

Suddenly a shocking thought hit me! Hit me hard! Maybe I wouldn't ever get my wife back. Maybe my wife was a figment of my imagination. Maybe what I'd married was a whore who became a better whore on pot. I needed to think about that.

Bill walked behind her. He reached around and took her breasts in his hands and jiggled them gently as she grinned at me.

"These are why your wife is here fucking me and not in prison with those other two whores. She's my private whore now Paul. Okay baby, let's go fuck."

He turned and walked into the bedroom starting to undress as he went. Chris followed him eagerly, her breasts jiggling as she trotted in those spikes. When she got to the door she stopped, turned around, and looked back at me. She kicked off her spike heels and stood barefooted − feet wide apart.

Then she grinned and giggled and said, "Wanna watch us do it honey?"

She was ready to entertain her husband by fucking another man. I shook my head no and she turned and ran barefoot eagerly to bed closing the door as she went.

I was gonna have to put up with this several times a week for at least two months before I could complete the arrangements for that new job in San Diego. He'd still fuck her there but it would be expensive pussy considering the cross-country airfare.

I need to think this thing through while I'm sober. Is my wife really a whore? She fucked at least five or six guys in college that I know about and each time she was stoned. Does college-fucking count?

How about since we got married. There was that time right after we got back from our honeymoon that I always wondered about. We went to a pot party and she disappeared for an hour. I thought that she might be with an old boyfriend who had fucked her before on pot. That night she took a tub bath, not a shower, before she came to bed. Yeah, I thought, she probably got fucked.

She went to a lot of pot parties when I traveled on business and twice a friend said he thought she might be fuckin. I told him I didn't believe him and he didn't talk about it again. I was looking the other way I guess and not wanting to believe it.




Statute of Limitations



We rented that house on the south side for four years before we moved to this apartment a year ago. At least once a week I'd get home and she'd have taken a tub bath and had a perfumed pussy and she'd be stoned. She'd say she was getting ready for me. I always fucked her but I never imagined she might have been fuckin somebody else before I got home.

Shit! She probably had a boyfriend or maybe more than one in that neighborhood. And it was only a couple of months after we left there that this high school student thing started.

She'd had something going at pot parties and on the south side and then here with the students and Bill. She's been fucking somebody all the time that we've been married! She was so damn beautiful that I just looked the other way.

She always fucks when she's stoned. And it's her choice to get stoned. Yeah, I thought, my wife is making a decision to fuck when she decides to get stoned with a guy. So she's a whore and has been since I met her in college. It's in my face now and I can't look the other way.

The next question is do I love her? I thought I did but there's no way you can love a whore. You can want 'em but loving 'em is crazy and I'm not crazy. I guess I just WANT her. Want to fuck her!

Now I could hear him pounding her hard in the bedroom − naked flesh slapping naked flesh. She's grunting like she always does when she fucks. And then, suddenly, I heard her grunts change to groans. Chris wasn't a screamer but her orgasms were loud.

That didn't take long, I thought. But then when she's stoned it never does. And she's gonna have a lot more of those before this afternoon is over. She's fuckin like a whore and she's having fun.

Then I heard him say something and she giggled and then he said something else and she laughed really loud. Maybe I'll go over to Charlie's Bar after all and drink some scotch and think things over. Maybe I'll come back and get sloppy seconds from my own wife. I guess it wouldn't be the first time.

As I got up to leave I heard her start to grunt again. They're fucking I thought. I looked at my watch. They've only been in there fifteen minutes. How long can that old guy last at this pace. That bitch is gonna give him a heart attack. He's at least fifty.

"Oh God do it! Do it harder," I heard her scream as I started to leave the study.

Maybe I'll stay and listen a while I thought. It might get interesting. I went back to the couch and sat down. Suddenly as I sat down, my confused thoughts all began to fall into place just like a business deal coming together.

My wife was a whore. She'd had something going for her wherever we lived since we got married. Bill was gonna fuck her for several years. ANYBODY could fuck her when she was stoned. I couldn't change even ONE of those facts.

But there were things I could change: whether to go to San Diego, whether to take her with me, and how long I wanted to fuck her. Looking at it this way it was all very clear. I'd leave this place and go to San Diego two months from now. I'd fuck the bitch as much as I wanted and I'd decide when to dump her ass after I'd fucked her for a while. And one more thing: I'd fuck her stoned from now on, like a slut.

Chris screamed again and I knew she was having another orgasm. I heard Bill groan with his. Looking at my watch it was a half hour since they started. They weren't wasting any time. They were fucking like bonobos.

I sat there and thought through my decisions one more time and everything fit together with two thoughts added. Bill was no longer my enemy. He was just using that whore like I planned to. And I probably ought to get a quickie divorce, which she wouldn't dare fight, and then keep her as a private whore and kick her out if she didn't perform. That's much better than staying married because she'd know I could dump her ass anytime I wanted to and she'd do what she was told.

I poured myself a drink and sat there. If I was gonna fuck her I didn't want to drink too much. They talked and she giggled for quite some time as they rested. He's gotta be playing with her tits I thought. Then I heard her encouraging Bill to fuck her harder.

It was another quarter hour before she had her third orgasm and then a quick fourth as Bill kept on fucking her. Finally he groaned and I assumed Bill had his. That's his last I thought. It took the poor guy a long time to cum, even with her yelling encouragement. Then the toilet flushed and after a few minutes Bill came out the door with a grin on his face.

I got up and smiled at him.

"I hope you enjoyed yourself," I said. "It's good pussy isn't it?"

His grin changed to a genuine smile and he said, "Yeah, it really is good pussy. You don't look mad like you were before."

"I'm not," I said. "I thought it through. She's a whore. I never really faced that before. I'm gonna dump her ass, but I plan to fuck her for a while first. You're welcome to fuck her as much as you want."

"You're right Paul. She IS a whore. I think you have made a wise decision," he said as I walked him to the door.

Then he added, "I've got an old army buddy passing through town next week. He'll be staying with me for a few days. Do you mind if he fucks her?"

"I don't mind. He can fuck her as much as he wants. You gonna do her at your place?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. "I was thinking we might double up on her."

"Well, school's out for the summer," I said. "You can have her all day any weekday while I'm at work. Get her stoned and she'll spread those beautiful legs for anybody. I want her most nights though." 

I opened the door and we stepped out into the hall and I asked, "You want to fuck her tomorrow?"

"Yeah I'd like to. Is three o'clock convenient?"

I like this I thought. It's much more civilized. We're talking to each other like gentlemen about the use of a jointly owned property. That property is a whore but it doesn't hurt to be polite to each other talking about her.

"It is convenient," I answered. "I'll see you at three sharp. Our whore will be stoned, buck-naked in those red spikes, and ready to fuck when you ring the doorbell. Then you can fuck her as much as you want to."

He chuckled. "No Paul, I can't fuck her as much as I want to but I'll fuck her as much as I'm able to." 

"See you then," I said, laughing. "Oh and Bill, would you bring those pictures. I'd like to see her in action. It might give me some ideas."

"Will do," he said. "It might even give US some ideas if you wanna do her together with me."

"That's a thought," I said and got a picture in my head of me getting a blowjob while he fucked the bitch doggie. We could BOTH play with those big tits that way.

He gave a lewd laugh and headed for the elevator. I decided that I'd get her stoned tomorrow before he gets here and fuck her first. Let HIM try sloppy seconds for a change. Of course we're friends now so maybe we should alternate who has to fuck a lathered-up pussy.

When I went back into the living room I saw Chris standing there with that stoned grin on her face, puffing on another joint. She was still naked, but she had freshened her lipstick, and put her spikes back on. Those spikes made her legs look fabulous. And those breasts! God she was beautiful! I had to remind myself that she was a whore − any man's woman for a moment. Just public pussy!

It was obvious she wanted to look good for me so I'd fuck her. But she forgot to clean up the cum dripping down both her inner thighs. This was the whore I once thought was my wife. And I was gonna do what you do with a whore: fuck her!

I took one more look at her, searching for some sign of the wife I'd once imagined I had. Was there any slight regret about fucking another guy after asking hubby if he wanted to watch? In my head I heard her giggling voice saying, "Wanna watch us do it honey?" Any time I thought I might feel something for her I was gonna hear that voice in my head.

I looked for something but saw nothing − nothing but a naked whore. Mine for only this moment to enjoy. Wanton sexuality available to me or to Bill Zinneman or to five high school students one after another singly or in pairs. A whore!

She saw me looking at her body and her grin widened. 

"Show me your tits," I said and she assumed the classic pose.

I admired those gorgeous boobs that had kept her out of prison.

"Shake 'em," I said.

And she did and I watched 'em jiggle. God they're lovely.

She kicked off her spike heels and stood barefooted. Then she grinned that pot grin and posed saucily with her hands on her hips.

She giggled and said, "Wanna do it to me honey?"

I chuckled. It didn't matter that I was her husband. All she wanted was a man who could fuck her. Even a boy would do if he could get it up.

"Yeah, I wanna do it to you," I said. "Wipe that cum off your legs and go get in bed.

She smiled, turned and ran eagerly for the bedroom, those big tits bouncing all the way. Jesus! I thought, right now she'd fuck any guy that asked her. Satisfying this cunt is gonna be more than a one-man job. Then I chuckled as I thought, it always HAS BEEN more than a one-man job. I just didn't discover it till this afternoon.

I'll enjoy her again tomorrow. Then Monday I'll start to plan my new life.



Statute of Limitations



There is a dried red rose in a plastic bag, Dr. Dahl's business card, a small glass Waterford crystal figurine of a whale's tail coming out of the water. There are brochures from the Greenbrier Hotel, another from the Plaza hotel in New York, a swizzle stick from Antonio's restaurant, a hotel menu from the Ritz Carlton in Chicago, lots of match books from different hotels and motels, some near by and some far away. There are receipts from hotels, airplane boarding pass stubs, a wine bottle cork, a hotel room key, a pair of men's sunglasses. a man's handkerchief with lipstick on it, a California road map with the California Coast Highway highlighted, a black velvet sleeping mask, a 1988 wallet year calendar with two days a month, each month circled, a couple of sea shells, several pens and pads of paper from various hotels, some 35mm film strip negatives, and a rolled up, empty tube of KY jelly.

What the hell does all of this mean?

Richard grabs the large manila envelope and tears it open. Inside he finds another collection of letters and pictures all bound with a rubber band. The pictures are of Joan; some are Polaroid's. The first Polaroid is of Joan naked from head to toe striking a pose on a balcony. The second is a nude close up of Joan showing her from the waist up with a particularly beautiful smile. The third has her facing away, bending over slightly, with her hands on her knees, and looking back over her shoulder mugging to the camera. Richard's stomach is starting to erupt again after seeing Joan naked in these pictures, but it settles down before he has to rush to the bathroom. The rest are of Joan and this man at the formal dinner, Joan looking over a cityscape at dusk, Joan in the passenger side of a moving car laughing, and Joan on the beach wearing the bikini that is now setting next to the case. It's not getting any easier seeing these pictures either.

Richard looks at the letters and they are all addressed to Tim Dahl in San Diego and postmarked from 1989 to 1991. He takes the one with the earliest date, pulls out the letter and starts to read

**********

June 25, 1989

Tim my love,

You can't imagine the pain I felt when you told me that you were moving to California. I died right there. I can't let you go, I love you too much. I know that the move is important to you and your family but I'm a selfish bitch and don't want you to ever leave. I know you said that we would still be able to be together from time to time but I want you always and forever, not from time to time. I can't let you go! Please hurry up and come back east and I'll drop everything to be with you. I'm yours to do with what you want, just let me feel your body next to mine. I want to feel your cock in my mouth and your tongue between my legs. GOD! I'm getting so wet. Please, please, please hurry back.

I'm counting the days until we're together again.

I love you now and forever.

Joan

**********

This is too much. I can't think straight. I've got to get some air. No, I've got to get something to drink. Shit. I don't know what to do. I can't lose Joan. I love her. I've always loved her. But she loves someone else. Maybe I've already lost her. Oh no! Please God, help me. I want to just lie down and die. Oh SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!

Richard begins crying.

He's sobbing deep in his chest and soon curls up in a ball on the floor and rocks himself to sleep.

**********

Thursday, October 7, 2010

"Why can't I get a cell phone connection"?

"Well Duh! We're on a ship at sea, dummy." Brenda is being her usual bitchy self with her sister this morning. "Why do you want to call home anyway? Rich will just say he's doing something boring like going to yard sales or cleaning the gutters. You're here to have fun and enjoy yourself and not think about home. Now, go over to that cute young man at the bar and get me another Screwdriver and forget about home. "

"You know you can be a major pain in the ass sometimes. I'm going to go up to the communications office and see if I can get a message to Rich." And off she stomps all the while mumbling "Bitch" under her breath.

The communications office has a series of computers that the passengers can use to access the internet and their email, among other things. There is also a phone for guest use. Joan picks up the phone and punches in her home phone number. "Good, it's ringing." But there's no answer and when the message machine picks up she decides she had too much to say to leave a message. So she tries Rich's cell phone. It's not turned on. So Joan logs onto one of the computers and sends Rich an email telling him about all of the fun and excitement of the last few days. She even tells about Brenda hooking up with some other passenger and being AWOL overnight. Just like her.

Sadly, without talking to Rich she just wanders back to the pool.

**********

Darkness can be a frightening thing. The darkness of sleep gives way to the light of day. There is happiness in the light. Usually that is except right now in Richard's heart. It's as dark as the sleep he just awoke from. The pain from yesterday's tour through Joan's past with her lover was excruciating and the pain is starting to rear its ugly head again. But, Richard has to get up to face whatever this day has to offer. It'll probably be bad but it still has to be faced.

Sitting up on the living room floor, Richard realizes that he slept on the floor all night and awoke among the contents of the little cosmetics case. He is stiff and hurting in places that he didn't know he had. He gets up and stumbles into the bathroom for his morning pee.

He returns to the living room in a daze and looks down at the mess on the floor. His eyes rest on the nude picture of Joan. He says to himself "that's from her 'Babe Period'."

Richard and Joan have known each other since high school. Richard was mostly invisible to everyone in school, to everyone but Joan that is. She saw him and liked what she saw. What she saw was a young man of average height (5' 10") and weight, dirty blond hair, glasses, and a dry, quick wit. Everybody would say that he was not handsome, just average looking. To everyone else Richard, or Rich as she called him, was average, but to Joan he was remarkable. She loved him from their first date in their senior year. Now Joan was almost as average as Richard. She was short (about 5' 2"), wore glasses, and had wavy dark brown hair that cascaded over her shoulders. Joan was, and still is, somewhat overweight. Her weight may be what turned off a lot of potential boyfriends but Rich didn't see her as fat, he thought she was soft. Her heart shaped face and sharp nose made her face seem too small for the rest of her body, and that made her look all the heavier. But the most remarkable single thing that Richard just couldn't get enough of was Joan's beautiful eyes. They were sparkling green with flecks of gold. When they looked into his eyes they could touch his soul. When Joan first looked into Richard's eyes something erupted inside him. Of course something between his legs came to attention too.

They dated continuously throughout their senior year and on into college. They both went to the local community college for two years and on to a nearby university for the remaining two. Richard studied Computer Science and Joan Laboratory Sciences. They graduated in June and were married the last Sunday in October. Richard went to work for the local county government and Joan started as a lab technologist at a nearby hospital. Within a few years both were moving up in their jobs. Richard was made the head of a group of programmers and Joan was promoted to manager of the hospital laboratory. And they bought their first house, a fixer-upper but at least something they could afford.

Both wanted children but also wanted to be as financially stable as possible before they started a family and soon they were as ready as they could be. Their son Marc was born five years after they were married. Joan took a short maternity leave and then had Marc enrolled in the hospital's day care center. She could see him at lunch and any time she just felt the need to be with him.

Marc stayed at the day care center until he was old enough to start public school. During that time Joan entered what Richard lovingly called her Babe Period. At that time Joan started going to Weight Watchers and lost a large amount of weight, maybe 50 pounds or more. She was soon around 115 -- 120 pounds. Also she started going to a tanning salon and looked like she just stepped from the beach. A new wardrobe followed and soon Joan looked like a real babe. The weight loss did another amazing thing; it made her breasts seem larger. They were always large but with the additional pounds they just blended in. Now, they stood out and were absolutely eye popping. Whenever Richard and Joan went shopping at the mall heads would turn to look at her, all male. At her sister's wedding several of the somewhat inebriated groomsmen were crawling all over themselves to dance with her and bring her drinks. She loved the attention but never did anything to give Richard any heartburn. At that time Richard would muse to himself, "what did I do to deserve such a beautiful lady... just shut up and enjoy you fool!"

Joan started the end of her Babe Period when she got sick one August. Not physically sick but emotionally sick. She said that work was overly demanding and depressing, and she was physically drained. She missed a lot of days from work and she stayed in bed a lot when she was home. Richard took Marc to day care before going to his own work and took care of the house and Marc in the evening. Joan was out of it for a few weeks and then slowly started to become her old self again. One day after work she came rushing into the house with big wide eyes and tears streaming down her face. Richard was setting the table for dinner when she grabbed him around the neck and sobbed into his ear, "I'm so, so sorry. I missed your birthday. I was so selfish with my own problems that I completely forgot about you. Please forgive me." Richard smiled at her and said simply, "you can make it up to me this weekend, if you get my drift." 

Soon after, Joan started gaining weight again. Within a few months she was back at her pre-Babe Period weight. Nobody turned their head to look at her anymore and she didn't get the extra attention from the male population. But Joan and Richard were happy and besides, Richard didn't really care about the weight. He loved her. Besides he thought being voluptuous was sexy. 

But now Richard is standing over the cosmetics case contents on the living room floor staring down at Joan's naked body in the picture. "No matter how much this hurts I've got to find out what this is all about, and to find out if we have a future together anymore," he says out loud in the empty room. He sits down and picks up the next letter in sequence addressed to Joan.

**********

August 19, 1989

Darling Joan,

Our time this past week was wondrous. I can still smell your perfume and hear your moans. I can still feel the heat of your body. All of my senses were on overdrive on the plane ride back home. I'm surprised that the woman sitting next to me didn't pick up on how worked up I was. The trip was agonizing because I was getting further and further from you.

I don't care what you say, just because I'm in California and you're in Virginia, our love will not lessen one bit. We will be together physically as often as I can arrange it. But we will always be together spiritually. Nothing can keep our love apart. 

And speaking of love, just thinking about last Thursday at the Marriot will keep me hard for the rest of my life. The third time we made love was the most tender and sensual experience of my life. I thought I was too exhausted to continue but when you looked into my soul and said those three magic words 'I Love You' I knew I could do anything. It was slow and tender and I stayed inside you with your legs wrapped around my waist for what seemed like an eternity. When we both came I prayed to God to never let this feeling stop. I was sore, I was sweaty, and I was exhausted, but I was with you and that's all that mattered. I Love You so much.

The first time that day was a hell of a surprise. I have always fantasized about a woman ravishing me but you made my fantasy come true in a BIG way. By the way, I had to throw out that new dress shirt because it was just torn to shreds. You can do that any time you want!!! I never had anyone suck me like that. I thought you were trying to suck my eyes out through that little hole in the end. My toes curled and I had a cramp in one leg. GOD what an experience! When I finally recovered my senses and found your sweet pussy hovering just above my face I could think of nothing but tasting you. What a surprise when you dripped right into my eye. That's why I was laughing about so hard. If we could bottle the flavor of your pussy we could be rich beyond the dreams of avarice. How many times did you come into my mouth? Five? Six? I lost count. When you crawled up on top and straddled me I saw a goddess on top of me. You can ride me like that any time you like. I just laid there and watched you thrust up and down on my cock amazed at your stamina. I loved watching your breasts bounce up and down with your movements. I'll never get enough of your fabulous breasts... soft and firm at the same time and more than a handful. I know I came only once but it was an explosion that I was sure hurt you. That's that is why I apologized. I shot up into you so hard that I knew I must have done some organ damage. God, what a day!

I never knew that love could be like this.

With all my heart,

Tim

**********

He is describing my Joan. This is exactly the way we spent some weekends when we were first married. She could be dynamite in bed, aggressive one minute and tender the next. She has always been every man's wet sex dream. But, she's doing this with somebody else. It's not me. It's some other man, her damned lover. A lover I NEVER knew she had! How could she do this to me? Shit, I could just kill both of them.

"Easy there! You don't want to kill her. God! I'm starting to talk to myself. I am pathetic." Grabbing the next letter addressed to Joan's lover Richard starts to read.

**********

August 21, 1989

My love,

It took me three days to recover from your visit. I hope you're proud of yourself. I couldn't sit down at work at all the next day and I was walking bowlegged for the next two. But I'd do everything all over again, and more. I do it a million times as long as it's with you.

I'm so, so sorry that we could only have the one day together, that's why I tried to make it as memorable as possible. Was it for you? It sure was for me. The next time we're together we need to pace ourselves. I can't wait. When are you coming back? Please hurry

You should have never told me about your fantasy of having an aggressive woman in bed. It's all I could think about waiting for you to arrive. When you shut the hotel room door all hell broke loose I my head. I didn't plan it. It just happened and I'm EXTREMELY happy it did. Wanna do it again sometime?

I'm a little mad at you for laughing at my pussy like you did. What was that all about? I may forgive you a little if you eat me like that again. GOD!!! Seven orgasms is a personal best. Your tongue certainly does have stamina.

I can't describe what it's like to just lay there and let you stroke in and out of me for hours on end. We both found the perfect rhythm. That wasn't all sweat rolling off of my face. A lot of that was tears of joy. I was crying because I never wanted it to end but I knew that it would. When I looked up into your beautiful face I could see your love for me and that made me cry all the more. God, I can't get enough of your love.

When driving home that day I was thinking about my crazy, mixed up life. On one hand I've got the perfect marriage, home, child, and career. On the other hand I've got you. I have two men in my life that I love more than life itself. When I'm with you nothing else exists. When I'm with my husband nothing else exists. I can't imagine living without either of you. I must have both of you. I will not do anything to hurt either of us or our families but I just can't come to grips with everything. I've got two men that I love equally and will do anything for. Either I'm the worst woman in the world or the luckiest. I'm so confused.

You will always be in my heart. You will always be in my life. I want you always in my bed. I can't live without you. You are my love. You are my lover. You are my life.

Joan

**********

Jesus H Christ!!! She's confused? I'm totally fucking confused! She says that she loves me and some ass hole at the same time. Is she nuts or am I missing something here? What's next? Is she going to say that she wants to have his baby? Ooooooooh SHIT!!! What if she already did? What if Marc is really his son? The only thing I can do is just keep reading. 

For the rest of the day Richard reads each of the letters. Occasionally he gets up and paces the room or walks outside for some fresh air. A couple times he just sits and cries. Life as he knows it has come to an abrupt halt and he's still reeling with the knowledge that his lovely wife of thirty years has kept her lover a complete secret from him all these years. He turns his attention to the other papers in the box and sees the evidence of their rendezvous' in various hotels and motels and of the "lab conventions" that she supposedly attended. There are receipts and match books from some places they stayed: All the stuff of a typical pack rat. When he finishes and is just about to put everything back into the cosmetics case he notices another letter setting along the front edge of the case that he hadn't seen before. It's different in that it's addressed to Joan but comes from the same A. Stephens that the manila envelope is from. He reads.

**********

August 14, 1991

Joan,

My name is Anna Stephens and I'm Tim's sister. I found your letter to Tim and read it and was amazed to say the least. I could never have imagined that Tim would be having an affair. But it's obvious from your words that it's been going on for some time now, probably since before he moved to California and that you love him deeply and he loves you too. I have a bit of sympathy for you for my own personal reasons that I won't go into and that is why I'm writing this letter now.

Tim died in a car crash last week. Some kid in a stolen car ran a stop sign and hit Tim's car in the driver's side door at 90 miles an hour. He died instantly. We had his funeral yesterday. I've enclosed one of the service cards for you. 

I have been helping Ellen get Tim's affairs in order and will soon be sorting through his personal belongings at home and his office. I want to save Ellen any more heartache and will try very hard to prevent her from knowing about you. If I find any more letters or any other personal mementos of yours I will gather them up and send them back to you. Please understand that I harbor no ill will toward you but I will do everything in my power to prevent your affair with Tim ever coming to light.

Please don't try to communicate with me or any of Tim's family. 

I'm truly sorry for your loss. Please pray for Tim and his family.

Anna Stephens

**********

Some of the handwritten words of the letter are smeared. It looks like the letter is tear-stained. It was once crumpled up but smoothed out before being put back into the envelope. The service card is missing.

This explains a lot Richard thinks. This explains why Joan was so depressed that month. Her lover just died. That must have been devastating for her. Obviously it was because she spent almost three weeks in bed. She missed her husband's birthday too. 




Statute of Limitations



How could someone say that they love two people at the same time? I just can't imagine it. How can you give one-hundred percent of yourself to two people at the same time? Don't you end up giving fifty percent of yourself to each? And what about the lies she told? To keep her lover's existence from me she had to lie to me and lie a lot. She had to lie about where she was going on the days she met him. She lied to me when she said she was going on her lab convention trips. She lied to me when she said that she loved me and only me. She obviously didn't lie to her lover about me... he wrote that he didn't want to upset our family. She just lied to me. What else did she lie about? When we made love did she think of him? That's the same as lying. Did she lie to me about Marc? Is he my son? It's all bullshit! The lies and the deceit that I now know about makes me question everything she ever said. What was lies and what wasn't? I can't tell. How will I ever know for sure? It's all bullshit!

Richard now knows as much as can be learned from the contents of the little cosmetics case. Joan had an affair with a married doctor from the hospital for more than three years. He can't tell exactly when it started but it appears to have started about the time he came to work at the hospital. It may be before Marc was born and it may have been shortly afterwards. It ended abruptly with his death in August of 1991. They met at hotels around the area and sometimes in Joan's office at work. After he moved to San Diego they met every few months either at a hotel near home when he would come back to visit his parents or they went away together for a few days. On their out of town rendezvous Joan would say that she was going to a "Laboratory Conference." They went away to Roanoke, Chicago, New York, San Francisco, and possibly other places. Nobody else knew about them. They said that they loved the other very much. Both seemed conflicted about their relationship and how it could affect their families but neither of them wanted to break it off.

Richard looks to the front window and its dark outside. The clock says ten PM. He has been there all day reading and thinking.

"I need to take a walk." 

So outside he goes into the night air; confused, hurt, and alone, not even bothering to lock the door behind him.

**********

Friday October 8, 2010

"Damn it, where is he?" When the answering machine picks up Joan leaves a message this time. "Rich where are you? I tried to call yesterday but your cell phone was off and I didn't want to leave a message because I've just got too much to tell you so I sent you an email. Are you there hon? Please pick up. I'll call again this evening. Damnit! Be there or I won't come home at all. I'll just stay on this ship with all of these cute young guys and go round and round the Caribbean. Please be there. I miss you and I love you."

This is the longest time I've ever been out of touch with Rich since we've been married Joan thinks. I'm beginning to get a little worried. If I don't talk to him tonight I'll call Marc and see what's up.

Now let's go see if I can find that slutty sister of mine.

**********

Huh? Joan. Hon, where are you? Oh shit. It's the answering machine. 

Richard listens to the message as its being recorded. She says she loves me and misses me. Yeah, right. Liar! Bitch!

He falls out of the lounge chair where he slept and stumbles into the bathroom. While peeing he hears Joan's voice in his head over and over. "I miss you and I love you." I love you too you two-timing bitch, he answers back. But I can't ever believe another word you say. You hurt me. I can't go on like this. I've got to figure out what to do. OK, so that's my job for today; figure out what I'm going to do. 

Now that that's settled Richard shakes and looks at himself in the bathroom mirror. "GOD!" he says out loud. You look like death warmed over. You haven't showered or shaved in three days and I don't' remember eating since Denny's. That's the first order of things. So after a hot shower and shave and a hearty breakfast of cold cereal Richard sits down at the kitchen table and starts thinking about the future. An hour later he has the outline of plan and gets a pad of paper and starts making a list of things he needs to do. First order of things is to see if Marc is his son or not. He goes into the den and opens up his laptop and finds a site offering a home DNA testing kit and orders it to be shipped by overnight mail. The entire list will take a few days to accomplish but Joan won't be back until next Friday and he has a week, so there's time.

I've just got to keep from thinking too much and getting depressed. I'll just do every chore around here that I've been putting off. That should keep my mind occupied today. And he begins.

**********

"Now this is getting to be a bit worrisome. I can't get hold of Rich and he isn't returning my calls. I tried two times today. I even left a message for Marc to check on his father and call me back. I hope something hasn't happened."

"Joan, stop worrying. He's just probably gone fishing or out drinking with his friends at work or shacked up with that brunette down the street." Brenda has always had a way of comforting her sister. 

"You aren't making me feel better you know, so just shut the fuck up or I'll come over there and shove that Pina Colada umbrella up your ass." When it comes to Richard, don't mess with Joan!

**********

Saturday October 9, 2010

I've got to spend a perfectly good Saturday morning babysitting my old man. If mom hadn't left me a message last night I'd be in bed now all warm and cozy next to Brandy. Marc can be cranky at times.

Knock, knock. "OK old man, open up, I know you're in there." Now where in the hell is he. If he isn't in the back yard I'm going home and back to bed. 

"Why don't you answer the door?" Marc said to his father. 

"Because I'm in the back yard trimming a damned tree? Are you blind as well as stupid? Why don't you just shut up and get me a bottle of water. "

"And pretty damned angry too I might add. Give me a break will ya?" Marc goes inside and get's his dad a bottle of water.

Richard takes a break and downs half of the bottle of water. "Hey, go out and see if we have any mail."

"OK anything to get away from you." Marc brings the mail around back and in the pile is an overnight mail envelope for Richard. Richard goes into the house and opens the envelope and the kit and quickly reads the instructions. "Hey, Marc, come here," he yells. "What now?" comes Marc's not so pleasant reply. "I just got this testing kit for the new strain of the Swine Flu virus and want to test you. You gave it to me last year and no way in hell I'm going to go through that again. That was a miserable few days. So open up and let me swab the inside of your mouth and I'll send it off to be tested. If it comes back positive then you and I should get the new flu shot." Of course Richard was dishing out a load of bullshit. This was really the DNA test that would prove if Marc was his son or not. And if not, well, he hasn't quite thought that far yet.

"Would you please call mom back and let her know that you aren't dead. She called me last night and asked me to check on you to make sure you weren't laying in a gutter somewhere. Just call her and get me off the hook, OK?" With another pleasant visit over with, Marc heads out the door.

Richard finishes up with the testing kit swabbing the inside of his mouth and sealing everything in the return kit. Since it's Saturday and there's no mail the rest of the weekend it can wait until Monday to be mailed back. "Well, back to work." He spends the rest of the day and most of the night working around the house, anything to keep his mind off of his troubles, and Joan.

Before going to bed Richard has the first substantial meal since he found about his cheating wife. The pizza delivery boy drops off a large deluxe pizza. That and a six-pack of beer is the first decent food he's had in a week, that didn't come back up.

**********

Sunday October 10, 2010

Early in the morning Richard calls Joan's cell phone. He leaves a voice mail message that goes something like this. "I'm OK. I'll try to call you on Monday from work. Don't worry. I'm fine. Have fun with your little boy toys but don't bring back anything communicable."

The rest of the day he spends at the park watching the ducks and the happy families.

**********

Monday October 11, 2010

Richard is up and out for work at the usual time but today work will not be the usual fare. On his way to work he stops by the post office and drops off the overnight mail envelop with the DNA test samples. At work he goes directly to the human resources office and applies for retirement. He's been eligible for a couple years now but never planned to retire until Joan could retire along with him. Those plans are down the toilet now. Afterwards he stops and sees his bean-counter of a boss and tells him that he's retiring effective immediately and to take the next two weeks from his annual leave. Before he leaves for the last time he places a phone call to one of his oldest and most trusted friends, and also his attorney, Luke Pauley.

"Hey guy, long time no see. What's been happening in the Alexander household?"

"Luke, can I come over to see you today? It's kinda important and I need some of your time and a lot of your advice."

"Sure, anything for my godson's cranky old man. How about one o'clock? Good. See you then."

An hour later and a couple handshake good-byes at the office and Richard's 30 years with the county government are history. And sadly everything that he's accumulated over those years fits into just two boxes.

Richard stops at the bank and takes care of his checking and saving accounts dividing the money into a new checking account in just his name. He also takes his passport and a few important papers out of their safety deposit box. The bank is also able to help him with his credit cards. He sets up one for himself and takes his name off of the one that Joan uses. Then he writes a check to pay off the balance. 

Richard then stops at the insurance agency to change the beneficiary on his life insurance from Joan and Marc to just Marc. He changes the insurance for Joan's car to her name only and his truck to his name only. Once the finances are in order he shows up at Luke Pauley's office.

"Rich, we've got to get together more often, dinner and some beers, or something with you and Joanie. I can't have you making an appointment to just come shoot the shit. It makes me look bad. Hey, what's up? You look like you've got a problem. What can I do to help?"

"Luke I need your advice. Tell me about the statute of limitations on divorces."

"What are you talking about? The statute of limitations applies to crimes and the time that can elapse before they can't be prosecuted any more, but that just doesn't really apply in a divorce case. Every state is different in the way that they handle divorce laws. Some states consider a marriage to be a contract which can be entered and dissolved at will. Other states still have laws on the books that say the dissolution of a marriage can only come about when a crime has been committed. Adultery is considered a crime in a lot of states. Why are you asking?"

"Luke, if Joan did something a whole lot of years ago and I didn't find out about it until now has too much time passed for me to do anything about it? I mean, are there a statue of limitations on adultery?"

"Adultery? Bull shit. No way could Joanie commit adultery. It's just not in her nature. What's going on Rich? Tell me as a friend before the lawyer in me kicks in."

For the next hour Richard dumps everything he knows on his friend. At the end he even puts the cosmetics case on the desk.

"What you told me is unbelievable. I can't imagine any better couple than you and Joanie. There has to be another explanation. What do you want to do?"

"I feel like the woman I married has betrayed me. The only thing I can think of now is for you to write up divorce papers. I don't know what's going to happen when she finds out about them but at this point I don't really care. I just want away from all of this shit, all this pain. It's not too late is it? She did this almost twenty years ago and there is no statute of limitations on her crime?"

"As your friend I say to talk to her and listen to her side of the story. Get into counseling. Do anything you have to to save your marriage. Just work it out. You two are meant to be together. As your lawyer I'll write up the divorce papers as you ask, but I won't like it. I'd recommend a fifty-fifty split since this state has no fault divorce laws. Marc's too old to be an issue and there isn't anything else to consider."

"Except my will. Luke, I want you to change it so my beneficiary is Marc and take Joan out altogether."

"Again as a friend I say talk to her and maybe get some help. But your lawyer will make the changes. Come back Wednesday and I'll have everything ready for you to sign. What are your plans now?"

"I don't have anything concrete yet. I want to be alone for a while to think. Maybe after some time when the shock and pain has worn off I can talk to her. But for now I just can't face her. I may be a dick but that's what I've got to do. I'll call you when I've settled somewhere."

Richard is not able to sleep in the newly redecorated bedroom. So later that night he grabs a beer, turns on the television, and settles into the lounge chair for another night of restless dreams. He thinks about the next few days. Sleep doesn't come easy.

**********

Tuesday October 12, 2010

Today is another day and there is another message from Joan on the answering machine. 

I need time to get everything set up properly. If everything is done today then it's over. I just can't be here when she comes home. Today or tomorrow at the latest and it's done.

He doesn't bother to call her back. There just isn't anything more to say.

**********

Wednesday October 13, 2010

Richard has his new credit card and everything is set up at the bank. The only thing I've left to do is sign the paperwork with Luke.

"Hello, Luke? This is Richard. How's everything coming with the paperwork?"

"Rich, I've had a little administrative help problem here and getting the final paperwork ready for your signature will take another day or two." What Luke didn't say is that he is deliberately delaying the paperwork until Richard has had time to talk with Joan. It will all go away when they do he's sure. "Can you give me a number where I can reach you and I'll call when it's ready?"

"I'm going to leave my cell phone home. I'll have a landline that you can call but only in case of emergencies. And under no circumstances are you to give that number to Joan. Call me and I'll come back and sign everything."

"Listen Rich, when Joanie get's back I'll talk with her and see what I can do. I won't give her your number but I will hear her side of things. If you two want I'll act as a go-between. God, I'll help in any way I can. You guys are family."

"I appreciate it Luke, I really do. I'll call."

The rest of the day Richard spent preparing. He picks up the mail in the afternoon and is disappointed that the DNA test results were not there. He needed to know if he had a son or not. 

At nine o'clock that evening Richard quietly disappears.

**********

PART 2 -- Pain Of Discovery

Thursday October 14, 2010

"Marc? Get your ass over there and see what's going on with your father. I haven't been able to talk to him since we left. You call me right back when you get there and let me know what's going on. I need to talk with him before I get home Friday. Somebody's got to pick us up at the airport. Listen. Brenda had this little excursion to see Aunt Dee and Uncle Ted planned from the beginning. If I didn't go she would have had a major fit. We're in Naples Florida at your great aunt and uncle's place and will be flying home tomorrow morning. Call me when you know something about your father."

"Yes mom. I've got it. I'll call you as soon as I talk to dear old dad. Bye." He drops the phone on the floor, turns over and puts his hand back between Brandy's legs, and drifts back to sleep.

**********

Friday October 15, 2010

"OK sleepy head, wake up and get a move on. We're here," Joan nudges her sister in the airport shuttle van awake.

"Already? Oh, it's just your house. Let me sleep until they get to my house." With that Brenda turns away from the door and goes back to sleep.

"Thank you ma'am. Your luggage is by the front door. Please call us on your next trip." The shuttle people are always nice.

Joan unlocks the door and hauls the two large suitcases and two smaller bags into the foyer and sets them at the bottom of the steps. "Hello! Rich! Honey, I'm home. Where are you?" No reply. Nothing. She walks into the kitchen and looks for a note. Nothing. She opens up the back door and calls for Rich again. Again nothing. It's too quiet. "I'll bet he's at the airport waiting for us right now." She calls his cell phone and hears it ringing on the counter. "Just like him to forget to take his cell phone with him. I'll get unpacked and start some dinner. By then he should be back."

She manhandles one of the larger suitcases up the stairs and opens the bedroom door. The first thing she sees is the large banner on the wall saying SURPRISE. When she looks around the room her heart skips a beat. Everything is totally different. This is it, she thinks. This is my dream bedroom. It's amazing. It's just what I wanted. Oh, Rich, you little schemer. You had this planned all the time. You just wait until tonight. I'll thank you so hard that you'll be sore for a week. She goes over and rubs the new oak dresser. She sits down in the rocking chair. She kneels down and rubs her hands over the new carpet. She touches everything. She's so happy that tears start to form.

Joan goes into the hall and gets the suitcase and lifts it up onto the bed. She sits down beside it, opens it and starts to unpack. After a minute or two her attention turns back to the beautiful room. "Even the colors are perfect," she says out loud. "Where is that man? I want him to see this smile before it wears off. I want to try out this new bed." She scans around the room and her attention turns to the SURPRISE banner. Attached to the bottom of the banner is a small photograph. When she scoots closer to get a good look at it she what she sees causes her heart to sink and her smile to disappear. She sees a photo of her and Tim at the Chicago awards banquet. It's stapled to the banner. Over her face is the written word WHORE. "OH MY GOD NO! Please God say it isn't so. No. No. No." She tears off to her closet, throws open the door and starts to throw everything around looking for the cosmetics case. It's not there! Tears start to cloud her vision and she can't see what's she's doing anymore. Quickly she runs downstairs and looks in the living room, kitchen, den, and garage... no cosmetics case. Dejectedly she goes back to the bedroom and sits down on the new bed and starts crying. "Oh my God NO. Please don't say Rich found it." But he must have otherwise how would there be a picture of Tim and me up there.

Joan picks up the phone and calls Marc. No answer. She calls her sister. Again no answer. She can't call Rich because his phone is downstairs. Now she's starting to feel desperate and quite alone. The tears are flowing down her cheeks now. She can't stop mumbling about Rich and the case and sobbing.

After an hour of crying and wailing, Joan gets up and tries the phone again. She calls Marc, her sister, his phone at work, all of their friends and nobody, but nobody knows where Rich is. She's close to panic when her sister shows up at the door.




Statute Two



My thanks and more to Prosecutor M. who not only edited this work but was the inspiration for it as well. She knows who she is...

"Open file, case number 10212." Sitting at my desk I watched as a hologram appeared showing me a man, approximately forty years of age, his brown hair worn unfashionably long, his blue eyes warm though he seemed to look away rather than forward. He stood 5' 10", 165 pounds, rather average at first glance as I spoke yet again saying, "Report," and with that a mechanical voice replied.... 

"Name: Jonathan Samuels, occupation: author, crime violation of Statute Two, purveyor of words used to excite and inflame the public, sentence death or reeducation based against the findings of prosecutor M. and the ruling of the Council." 

I continued to look at the face before me, the graphics as clear as if he were standing directly in front of my desk as I spoke softly, "Breaking the code is the second most serious offense you can commit next to murder Mr. Samuels. What was it that you said?" 

"Download files, all images and material pertinent to case," and seconds later I slipped the drive into my bag, preparing to leave for the night. It had been a long day in the judicial office and I was ready for a quiet evening at home. I wasn't fooling myself; I knew full well that I would spend a great deal of it pouring over the information requested in anticipation of meeting Samuels for the first time tomorrow morning. First impressions were still important, even in the year 3042, and his could mean the difference between life and death.

I arrived home, in the private transport I was now privileged to use, thanks to my recent promotion to lead Prosecutor. It gave me a chance to relax instead of being forced to exchange empty smiles and meaningless hellos with other strangers using the public shuttles. 

Looking out the window I couldn't help but wonder, "Why me, why this case?" Most of the prosecutions I had been assigned to had involved an actual act against society, usually spawned by greed or malice. The three dimensional character I had viewed seemed incapable of harming another yet he now stood on death's door, a sentence I very well might have to recommend.

I walked into the master bath, "Shower, full blast, 104 degrees," and with that I slipped out of my clothes, allowing the android to pick them up where they would be cleaned then laid out to wear again the next morning. The standard uniform was simple, the smock blended in with all the others and provided a covering that neither confirmed nor denied anyone's gender. Every man, woman and child wore a variation of the garment, enforcing the same gender neutral attitude.

Physical contact had proven to be the downfall of civilization and early in the millennium, when I was just an infant, it had been banned along with all forms of written and visual stimulus. This was the reason behind Statute Two.

As I stepped from the shower into the warm drying tube, I closed my eyes for a moment enjoying the sensation. As I opened them I caught sight of my reflection in the shiny surface of the drying tunnel. It was the only reflective piece in my home big enough to see my entire body. 

Green eyes looked back at me. The eyebrows above the eyes were dark as was the short hair that was cut in a unisex style that was standard among government employees. Fitting in was the key to survival in this day and age.

But viewed objectively I thought I looked pretty enough. I remembered seeing outlawed photos in past case files, and thought I could look just as nice as some of the women. My eyes traveled down the reflection taking in the larger than average breasts. It was something of double edged sword. Personally, I liked them, but they made it harder to hide the femaleness of my body. My nipples were pink, soft in the warm air while my stomach was softly rounded, as were my hips and bottom. I wore smocks bigger than necessary to help add to the asexual look so I couldn't be suspected or accused of inciting others.

As I took in my form, I wondered, as I often did, why viewing it would be seen as arousing another to engage in activities which the state had deemed unlawful? I shook my head, trying to clear it, reminding myself of my role and that the law was clear on the matter. The only release, as far as the physical body was concerned, was only allowed through the cerebral stimulation program imbedded in each citizen, activated when they were of adult age. I had never utilized the neural stimuli process though I had heard others in whispered tones mention the enjoyment to be found within. It had been my work that provided me with the greatest pleasure and up until now, there had been no need for any other.  

Sitting down on the bed, my robe lying across it I took the drive and inserted it into the audio/visual monitor and said, "Play". After slipping into the garment, I engaged the food replication device to provide dinner and then I listened to a voice pour out from the speakers, the sound almost hypnotic in tone... 

"Sometimes there are stories that write themselves, while at other times it takes considerable time and effort to create something of substance. I've always found that when it comes to my own desires, my own fantasies the latter is the case. I don't know why, I guess when it's someone else's desires I do not judge, do not censor my words nor my thoughts.

When it comes to me, though, I choose each word carefully, dissecting each sentence, each phrase, until finally I grow weary and usually just finish, never really allowing things to progress to their natural conclusion. I'm unsure why I think this one will be different, I'm not really sure why I'm even writing it, but perhaps I'll discover that and even more by the time I'm finished. This is a tale of pure fiction, the characters have never met, know nothing of the other's existence, but soon their paths will cross and nothing will ever be the same again." 

I was unsure how long I sat there, listening to his words, the story he wove like nothing I had ever dared dream of. All I knew was by the time he had finished, and the mechanical voice asked if I wished to proceed to the second piece of evidence against the accused, I felt feelings unlike any I had ever felt before. It had been like listening to someone recalling a dream, yet the images seemed so lifelike, so...dare I say, erotic, that I had felt a conflict of emotions, feelings I'd never thought I might experience, simply by the sound of his voice.

My food lay cold, still waiting as I stood from the bed, my legs wobbly, my heart racing as my mind envisioned that which I had just heard. "Prosecutor M., do you wish to continue?" The voice was so cold and mechanical compared to the one I had been listening to. That voice, those words, had started a slow burn that was as welcome as it was unexpected. 

"No, pause and wait," my voice trembling along with my body, a trait as unfamiliar as the feelings coursing through it at the moment. 

That night when sleep finally came it was filled with vivid dreams painted with the words of the mesmerizing voice. When I awoke the next morning it was to sweat-filled sheets and half-formed memories which left my body hot and wanting, though unsure as to what.

The reflection in the drying tube that morning resembled more closely the outlawed photos, instead of my usual self. My face was flushed, my nipples were hard and my breathing was still heavier than normal. It was...arousing. I quickly dressed and then sent a missive, directing the penal system that I would meet with the prisoner and his court appointed clinical psychologist at ten that morning. Today would play a pivotal role in his future and though I was at a loss to say why, I felt compelled to insure that his future would last beyond this day. 

By the time I arrived, a room had already been prepared, and it was only seconds later that the door opened and in walked two others, one of them dragging a third man whose legs seemed to be inoperable as the hulking figure not so gently deposited the prisoner in a seat across from me.

The man in the chair bore no resemblance to the one I had seen in the holographic image only twenty four hours ago. He looked as if his physical presence and his mind had been destroyed over time. The pitiful figure resembled one of those who had been unlucky enough to live through the urban wars waged hundreds of year ago. His body emaciated, while his eyes were unresponsive to anything or anyone.

As I sat there taking in the spectacle, I saw the look of complete disinterest on one man's face along with an almost sadistic glee in the eyes of the other, the guard. He was holding some form of remote, and it was only then that I noticed how he was looking at me, having seen my interest in the object in his hand.

His voice was almost a deep growl saying, "This is to insure that the infamous Fantasy Writer here doesn't get any ideas as to acting up. Isn't that right, my good man?" 

He pressed the button, the leather collar around Samuels neck lighting up, an electrical charge surging through it, and to my horror, the individual in question didn't even blink, simply sitting there, almost comatose in his lack of response. I looked directly into the prisoner's eyes and finally I understood. 

Turning my attention to the other man I spoke tersely, "I assume you are the case worker for this subject. He's obviously under heavy sedation. What has been prescribed, to what levels and why has it been administered?

The look I got in return was disdainful as the white-coated figure said in a sarcastic tone, "I am no case worker, I am Doctor L. and if you'd taken the time to read my works on him, you would already be aware that any Statute Two violator is kept on a complete regimen of pharmaceutical drugs to insure their cooperation within the penal system Prosecutor M.." 

He spoke my name like it was some form of indentured title before continuing. "Those convicted of crimes against Statute Two are among the most violent we house within these walls. They are kept this way not only for their safety, but for that of all the other inmates who may have committed minor offenses, but nothing compared to offenders like Samuels."

My anger felt palpable as I fought to push back any outward sign of my emotions only to see the Doctor had already turned his attention elsewhere while the guard looked as if he was itching to once again shock the helpless figure. After a deep breath, I pulled out my portable communicator and within seconds the door opened and in walked the Warden of the facility. Both of his employees quickly stood as I pressed a button, a holographic replay of what had just transpired playing clearly, and by the time it had finished, I was more than ready.

My attention was strictly on the head administrator, my tone sharp, and my intent obvious. "I have never witnessed such a blatant lack of regard for a human being's civil rights, even during the worst of times in this society, Sir. Your guard, a man in a position of authority over this individual, deliberately tried to induce pain, though the prisoner did not provoke him or require any sort of correction for his actions. The man simply sat here while this man told me how through his misuse of medication and whatever type of 'inspirational' message your medical staff utilizes, broke a human being's mind and spirit. He deemed someone violent without cause and in doing so I now see before me a man more dead than alive. Pain has ceased to exist for him; your guard has happily proved that point."

My eyes burned with intensity as I unleashed a torrent of words. I took a step closer to the man who was in charge of this facility, my voice calm yet speaking volumes. 

"I demand that this individual be removed from his position immediately. If not, I will draw up formal charges against him for the misuse of state property and prejudice against his fellow man unless he resigns his post immediately. I will have that paperwork before I go." 

The guard looked as if he would charge at me, but was quickly stopped by a glance from the warden, shaking his head slowly as the large man glared in my direction. Turning on my heel I resolutely ignored him knowing if he put his hands on me, he too would find himself on the wrong side of the bars. I had garnered complete control of the situation and there was still another guilty party, one far worse in my opinion. The guard had an excuse, he was simply a sadist, the physician on the other hand was an incompetent fool. 

"As far as his court ordered case worker is concerned, his attitude reeks of insubordination." Turning towards the doctor I let my dislike show. "And by the way, yes, I did take the time to read your rather copious notes, Doctor. Although it all seemed written to possibly publicize your findings in either a book or some form of on-line drivel showing how you managed to control this 'beast' before me, congratulations by the way," my voice tinged with sarcasm. 

I watched him pale as he took in my words, "It also states in the rules and regulations when dealing with suspected Statute two offenders, not CONVICTED, since I am here to pass judgment, that it is at the discretion of the doctor if they are to be kept on a closely monitored regimen of drugs when it comes to the normal murderers, rapists, child molesters and other ilk who are incarcerated for their actions. This man has only been found in suspicion of words. Do you hear me?"

My voice rose in volume, "Yes, he may be guilty of a crime, but you are guilty of gross misconduct. I will insure your license is stripped, your words never see the light of day and if they do, I will personally represent this individual even if he is found guilty of his crimes. Now, I suggest both of you get out of my sight right now. Warden, they are dismissed, I require that you stay." 

It was only a minute later that I moved to sit beside the man who smelled as if he hadn't been allowed to bathe in months, the stench almost overwhelming and I had to force myself to draw near, my voice almost a whisper. 

"Mr. Samuels, can you hear me?" 

There was no moment of recognition, no look in his eyes to show that the few words spoken had been heard, recognized and an answer to follow. From the list of medications I had read which had been forced upon this individual, he, in layman's terms, had been given a medicinal lobotomy, his brain wiped of any cognizant thought or idea. 

Sitting there in the silence I felt my anger begin to build again, as the Warden stood by quietly. As I glanced up and looked at the administrator he looked at the prisoner. Suddenly he tensed and began to quickly move toward us only to stop when I held one hand out, the words unspoken but the meaning easily seen. 

I had felt the movement, the tremor as the man who sat beside me with trembling fingers raised his arm and let it gently fall down, his hand on top of mine. He never moved in any way other than that, his eyes still lifeless, staring into whatever oblivion he had been forced to submit to. What followed was nothing short of a miracle as his lips parted; his voice so soft almost not to be heard as he uttered three simple words. 

"Let....me...die." 

I turned, seeing a single tear run down his impassive face, his hand still in place and it was only when I removed my own that it simply fell beside him, as unmoving as the rest of his body. 

As I stood, I looked at the man in charge of the facility saying, "I want this prisoner cleaned, properly dressed with the uniform he has been wearing handled with care. It will be sent for testing to determine how long he has been living in such filth. If any of this evidence is tampered with, you will find yourself also playing a leading role in my report to the Council. Now, I suggest you deal with those two imbeciles and do as I have requested, now." 

That night, back in my home, I lay in bed, replaying it all. Even as softly as he had spoken, his words had been clear and I couldn't help but wonder if that was his true wish. If I would be derelict in my duty if I didn't do as he desired. Yes, technically he was guilty, of that there was no question. The law was clear, there could only be one of two possible outcomes. Lost in thought, I could only see another human being's hands outstretched, seeking compassion, possibly even comfort in telling me that it was okay to end his existence for what this country had been based on so many years ago; the freedom of speech. 

I poured over the contents of his file, reading the words of the pompous fool who even now was in the process of losing his license for his lack of ethics. I suddenly noticed something, a phrase that caught my attention, and an idea began to formulate in my mind. I read it over and over before finally speaking the words out loud, thinking how this could possibly be used to my advantage.

"In his ramblings, the patient shows an underlining desire to be put in the position of the opposite sex. This is a contradiction in terms as he is charged with channeling propaganda demeaning to the female of the species."

This alone confirmed my opinion of the doctor's lack of ability to understand the complexities of the writings I had listened to for the first time only yesterday. If anything he was championing women's rights in showing their superiority, though in a setting unlike modern day society. I remembered one sentence in particular where he described his words as being erotic, not pornographic and the meanings while blurred from the ancient text still spoke of a redeeming quality hidden away in others. The seed was planted, the idea growing and as I slept that night, I once again dreamed.

The next morning, I organized my thoughts, planning how to proceed in presenting my findings to the Council. The three members were made up of two women and one man, hopefully an edge to the rather risky plan I had in mind. I had already sent the request to the prison facility, to have the man, Samuels, transported to the central command, there to be brought forth when I required, and as I entered the formal chambers, before motioning for him to be brought forward.

The warden had done as I demanded, although the uniform was woefully too large for his body, the collar had been removed though he still wore the gleaming cuffs which seemed to be a police staple never to be discarded even in this modern age. He was able to walk on his own two feet, shuffling until he was positioned next to me and then after taking a calming breath, I began.

"I come before the Council today with my decision concerning this matter. Mr. Samuels stands here accused of the heinous crime of violating Statue Two. He has shown no remorse in his actions and has steadfastly continued his silence even when I have attempted to communicate with him with the exception of three words. His request was to be granted to die. I've gone through many other cases concerning violating this stature and in more than 95% of those- the individual has been put to death. The rare exceptions, the remaining five percent have been reeducated and placed back into society, usually in the most menial of positions, their thoughts, their memories gone, basically slaves to the system."

I paused for a moment, wanting to assure myself that I had the three members' complete attention. What I was going to propose was perilous not only to the man whose fate lay in my decision but to myself. They looked on, the man rather dubious, but the two women seemed to be intent, and I only needed two of the three to approve my findings. I had known in advance which two I would target. 

"We have come a long way since the Statute was written. Our society is based on changing for the betterment of everyone. But sometimes in those changes fear remains and we find ourselves also trying to cling to the old ways. I believe that following the protocol that was entrusted to us by past generations would be a mistake. We are a new world with brighter minds able to create a safer place for us all.




Statute Two



What I would ask is that we look at this issue from a completely different perspective. I have read in its entirety, Mr. Samuels words, which have brought him before this council. His case worker, while I do not approve of his methods, and I are in agreement. His total lack of respect for the female of the species is both disturbing and repulsive. He has been kept in a medically induced state to insure his words were not spread or for him to act on his impulses."

Once again I had worded this carefully, but any rational human being after having read those files would have seen that he almost made women a deity, held in a higher status than their male counterparts. Statute Two violators' works were almost always classified, and I believed I was the only one to have actually read the contents which I had already deleted from my files. I could almost feel the tension in the man's body as he stood beside me, but I still hoped he was under the influence of the many drugs he had been forced to endure for if he were to speak prior to my conclusion, then all would be lost...for both of us. 

I took a step toward the dais, keeping my eyes on the two women, as my voice became a bit more impassioned. "If we put this individual to death, we set no example to the populace when it comes to such matters. It will be done quietly, clinically and will not make a single ripple in the fabric of society. Even if we reeducate, as is suggested, then we make yet another factory drone, one who can provide us with absolutely no insight into why an individual would question the state. All of his thoughts and memories erased, leaving us with nothing to show for this." 

This was the moment, this was the time, as I turned my back, letting my eyes look directly into the man's whose life hung by a thread. "I would ask the council, I would fervently request that this individual be shown not only the error of his ways but also be used to educate others by being not only reeducated by a process which I will personally oversee, but also by being instructed to undergo completely the SRS program which was perfected at the turn of the last century. By utilizing Sexual Reassignment Surgery, a process that used to take years but now can be accomplished in minutes, he will then live the remainder of his life as a woman, the same object of his own scorn and we can show the world that with such actions, there is a price to be paid. A very heavy price." 

I had not forgotten the words of the so called 'physician', his one actual nugget of truth he had spoken, and as I looked into the still drug-induced haze that coated the prisoner's eyes I saw a spark. It lasted only for a brief moment, dying as quickly as it had come, but I thought it was the signal that I needed. I turned, seeing the look on the three individuals' faces and determined to drive my final point home.

"The choice is clear. We have tried the old, now it is time to embrace the new. As we have evolved, so must our ways and this is the perfect opportunity to show the populace that we will not tolerate such actions by any individual. All have been granted the use of the cerebral stimulus, yet this man chose to discard such a remarkable gift to our society and tried to forge his own way. If we sweep the evidence under the rug, do not allow the general public to see, then we are as guilty as he is of trying to hide our actions. Let the people see what happens when they dare defy our most sacred law and how quickly their lives can change, not just for the bad, but for the betterment of society and the greater good." 

I gave the three of them a nod as I turned away. Walking back to the table I passed the still motionless man, his eyes unwavering as I sat down, my heart racing knowing I had played my cards, and only now wondering if in doing so I had doomed not only the prisoner, but myself in the process. I could hear the rather heated whispers which were being passed between the trio of members, but I could not ascertain the meaning of their words. Like the man, I was now just as much a prisoner to their decision as he was. It seemed like an eternity but in reality was only a few minutes before I heard, 

"Prosecutor M, you will rise and approach the bench." 

I did so, trying to appear calm and measured in my steps though inside my pulse was pounding from my heart racing. I stopped, seeing the single male shaking his head, the two women; one looking at Samuels with complete disdain while the other looked at me, her mouth set in a straight line, her eyes filled with her own emotion, concerning the matter.

"First of all, I find it refreshing to see that you have obviously given this matter great thought and consideration. Far too many of those who come before this tribunal do so only going through the motions, not looking out for anyone, but their own career, not taking into consideration those they might condemn or grant a second chance to. Your methods, while very unorthodox, have struck a chord with this Council, at least with the majority."

I knew at that moment, based on the expression of the gentleman who, no doubt, had voted down my proposal that through the anger of the one and the possibility of breaking new ground by the other, I had won. What I didn't know was what precisely my prize would be. The woman who had spoken then turned her attention to the prisoner, her mouth again firmly set, her eyes coldly taking him in as she began to speak.

"Jonathan Samuels, you have been convicted by Prosecutor M. of being in violation of Statute Two. At her recommendation, you will immediately be taken to the state-funded Reeducation Center where you will undergo the processes as determined by the Prosecutor prior to the day coming to a close. You should be thankful that she has afforded you a unique chance to pay your debt to society and failure to comply with her wishes will result in your termination. She will be solely responsible for your actions and will be granted full power over you and your indoctrination back into society. Do not fail her or this court. We are adjourned."

I stood there, frozen to the spot, the enormity of the words which had been passed down suddenly hitting me. In my mind, I had justified my actions by thinking somehow I was repaying him for opening my eyes to more than the possibilities than the state-ordained cerebral stimuli package might present. Instead, I found myself with another human being whose life or death still rested in my hands only now to be complicated by the matter of the decisions that I would have to make.

Standing there, I watched as two officers of the court walked in, taking him by his arms though he offered no resistance, one of them saying, "We have a vehicle waiting Prosecutor, the Council's decision has already been sent to the Center, they are preparing for your arrival." 

Nodding, I picked up my items, following behind them, my mind awhirl as they escorted him and me into the waiting armored transport. The vehicle glided over the surface and the trip took far less time than I hoped as I tried to figure out what I was going to do.

By the time we arrived, I was still unsure, and as we entered, the prisoner was first scanned then strapped down to a gurney as one of the two individuals, a rather non-descript woman who had helped tightened the restraints spoke.

"I'm Doctor H, please follow me Prosecutor so that we can make sure we understand your requirements when it comes to this individual. The Council has informed us your decisions are final, and we will do what is necessary to achieve your desired result."

Following her down a hallway, I saw the surgical suite, the man still strapped to the gurney as his clothing was being cut off. His head moved slightly, his eyes catching mine for a brief moment, a look of what I hoped was recognition only to come to an abrupt halt as a powerful sedative was administered and his eyes quickly closed.

I knew then they closed for the last time as Jonathan Samuels. We reached the area where the sterilization process took place, the light changing from white to blue as I heard the woman say, "You will be present during the procedure, Prosecutor, so that if there are any corrections which need to be made, we can do so immediately."

She then stepped into an adjacent suite, a bank of monitors, computer and the sight of the now motionless man awaiting us both. "I will need you to speak clearly; your words will be translated into directions for the computer to begin the process. You will need to describe everything, ever detail from the color of 'her' hair, to the shape of 'her' body, no change is too drastic, the computer will simply follow your guidance and will then create 'her' in that image. Once you have completed your thoughts, we will program the lasers that will be required and the total process should take only a few minutes for the physical changes." 

As I stood there, my mind awhirl with the responsibilities that were being thrust upon me I heard her continue saying, "A bit more is required for the emotional and psychological needs 'she' will require to function in 'her' new world. I've seen ,based on her charts, that 'she' was kept under a heavy dosage of Thorazine and other drugs which have in all probability erased the majority of her memories and thought processes. I can do another complete mind sweep to insure this but I'm not sure that it is necessary. If you don't request it, then we will only implant 'her' new thought process and you can guide 'her' through any gaps, such as 'her' behavior and speech capabilities." 

An idea played at the corner of my mind as I nodded and then began to speak clearly and succinctly. I closed my eyes, picturing her, her age in her late twenties, her body shape and size, her chestnut hair with auburn highlights and blue eyes. When I had finished, the Doctor turned to me with a set of blue safety glasses. I'd only put them in place when the computer came to life, the sound of the laser activating as a blinding light filled the room.

The woman's words proved to be prophetic as the man on the table only minutes later was no more, a woman, a young beautiful woman lay there now, strapped to the gurney as I heard a mechanical voice say, "Initiating subliminal messaging and reeducation programming." 

With that, the doctor motioned for me to follow her and we stepped out of the room and into a clinical office, the walls, everything a brilliant white as the physician sat down behind the desk, motioning to the chair in front of her as I sat only to hear, "This case represents a huge shift in the handling of certain violators and I would request that you keep me advised of any abnormalities or shifts in the subject's physical and mental capabilities. We've never attempted both SRS and the reeducation process at the same time and this is new ground we are covering Prosecutor. One thing I neglected to ask and as it will need to be implanted in her psychosis, what name have you chosen for her?" 

The question caught me off guard but a name came as easily to mind as my own, and I said, "Gabrielle, her name is Gabrielle."

The doctor nodded, speaking into her headset, giving the command as she began to pull out a series of forms which needed signing, including the one showing that the object known as Ms. G, was now the legal ward of the guardian, Prosecutor M.. For a moment I had to fight the urge to smile as I remembered one of the stories I had read, realizing that this very scenario was so similar.

It was only a short while later that the doctor and I found ourselves standing back in front of the surgical suite, this time seeing two nurses checking the vital signs on the young woman who sat there in one of the customary smocks, patiently waiting as they went about their tasks, her eyes turning to watch us as a shy smile crossed her face. As the two attendants left, I walked in with the doctor and listened as she began to exam the girl.

"What is your name?" 

The voice was soft, barely above a whisper but in a lilting tone saying, "My name is, Gabrielle, Doctor H."

The woman nodded saying, "Do you know who this is, Gabrielle?" the physician asked as she gestured to me. 

Once again she answered in the affirmative saying, "This is Prosecutor M., she is responsible for me and I am to follow her instructions. She is my protector and I am her ward." 

The doctor nodded, her voice calmly saying, "And do you know who Jonathan Samuels is, Gabrielle?" 

The chestnut-haired beauty's eyes showed no recognition, her head cocking to the side as she shook it before saying, "That name is not familiar to me, Doctor H. Should it be?" 

The doctor smiled, shaking her head in reply saying, "No, Gabrielle, it should not. I will make sure your transit is ready and you will follow your protector home. I'm sure the two of you have a lot to discuss. I will expect you back here in one week's time Ms. G to insure you are operating at your complete capabilities." 

The doctor left, leaving the two of us alone as I walked a bit closer, peering into the young woman's eyes, yet seeing no guile, almost a shyness as she lowered hers slightly under my gaze. Finally a guard came, leading us both to the awaiting transport, the trip made mostly in silence. I watched the blue-eyed woman glancing out the windows like a child might, looking through new eyes at the world around her until we found ourselves alone in my home.

As I walked in I suddenly felt a bit overwhelmed at what had transpired that day, unsure as the droid walked in to take my things. Before I could give them over, the young woman confidently stepped forth, her hand reaching up, keying in some kind of code, the mechanical creature coming to an abrupt halt. My eyes opened wide, my mouth opening to speak, to question only for her to put a finger to her lips. I stopped suddenly as she walked over and picked up a legal pad and marker. She wrote four simple words down, holding it up, her eyes almost pleading. 

DO YOU TRUST ME? 

The words were simple, the answer not nearly so much. As she stood there, holding up the sign, her blue eyes were steady, not lowered, matching my own gaze as finally I nodding my head slowly and her face relaxed. She put down the pad, reaching up behind her and once again my eyes opened wide as she let the smock she wore drop, pooling at her feet as she stepped out of it, naked before me, the person listed as her guardian, the equivalent of an owner, in direct violation of a time honored rule though she seemed to care not. 

She reached up, taking her right breast, my eyes unable to stop looking at her as she carefully lifted it, and pressed what looked to be a small mole which glowed bright red, three times and then went dark. I stood there, once again frozen to the spot as she gave me that shy smile before doing the same to me. I stood naked before her, my eyes unable to understand, as I saw another mole, in the precise spot as it had been on her own body. I watched as it blinked thrice and then it stopped and finally she spoke. 

"I know this is going to be difficult to understand, Prosecutor, and even more incredible to comprehend but you need to know the truth."

She took my hand, pulling me over to the couch, seemingly as comfortable naked as I was dressed and I sat stiffly, listening, trying to come to grips with what was actually transpiring. 

"The drone monitors everything in your home, every movement you make, every program you watch, and every entry you make on your computer. There is no such thing as privacy, you are...you were being monitored every second of the day. By shutting it down, it has sent a message to central command, and you should expect a knock on the door in the next five minutes, we have very little time."

I reached down, grabbing my garment, pulling it over my head as she laughed saying, "Always the practical one. That is why I chose you." I stopped as she shook her head, and reached down to pick up her own as she continued, "First of all, I need to ask. How did you know? How did you come to the conclusion to have my 'punishment' fit the crime?"

I had to struggle to find my voice, mumbling how I had read the words of the author and how I felt it was precisely what he wanted. It was only then that it hit me, he knew, she knew. My eyes opened wide saying, "You, you do know Jonathan Samuels." She gave me a smile just as the knock came at the door, the authoritative voice saying there had been a report of a breakdown in the droid assigned to this domicile and she nodded at me, her voice barely a whisper, instructing me on how to handle the situation.

It was a short while later that the two men had left, unable to repair the unresponsive unit, but promising a replacement would be sent out the next day, that we found ourselves alone. I poured two glasses of wine for us but my hands trembled as my new charge sat across from me, regarding me with almost whimsical eyes as I sat down and requested the tale which followed. 

"First of all, what I did to you was put your cerebral stimuli connection into a slumber mode. It still shows a signal showing you are on line to those who monitor the populace but you are free to speak and act as you desire at least until they return the new droid to continue with the monitoring of you, and of course, me. I knew how to disable it, and the droid as well because I created both of them." Once again my eyes opened wide as she smiled, taking a sip of the wine before continuing. 

"I knew the moment I had finished my work that it was going to be used to control the population, to make them slaves to the program when it came to fulfilling their desires, their hopes, and their aspirations and since I was the creator, I also was responsible for what had happened. I had signed an agreement that I would never speak out against how my creations were used, but that was Jonathan Samuels, not a woman named Gabrielle." 

As she took a final drink, her eyes again locked onto mine, her voice though soft was still filled with the passion I had heard when I had listened to the readings of the books which had started me on this strange journey. The voice was different, but my response, my body's response was the same. 

"Prosecutor M., I know that you were aroused by the writings, the ones I made sure you would have to read prior to deciding on my case. They were aimed at a woman precisely like yourself, one who enjoys the power she holds, who wields it fairly, and then dispenses the, as you call it, judgment, while as I refer to it, punishment to the appropriate party. Either way, since you have never utilized the program I created, I'm going to show you the difference between fantasy...and reality."

She rose, taking my hand, leading me over to the cerebral stimuli chair, helping me disrobe again. I blushed to have my nakedness again on display, though I took pleasure in looking at her as she did the same before placing the device over my head. 

I was biting my bottom lip, uncomfortable with feeling so unsure as she gave me a smile saying, "I will guide you, Prosecutor, every step, we will be joined in the simulation and together we will do so without the prying eyes of others, no one will see this, feel this, experience this except for the two of us, I promise. Now, all you need do is close your eyes."

As I did so it was like entering a dream, except at first all I could see were grid lines as I then felt the presence of another, my mind taken aback to see the man I had prosecuted walking toward me, a smile on his face as he said,

"I exist in the mainframe, Prosecutor; in here I can be either Jonathan Samuels or the girl, Gabrielle. I take this form because it was how you read of me, the story that intrigued you most involved me and a woman such as you. Do you remember it? Picture it in your mind." 




Statute Two



I smiled, remembering it as the lines disappeared, my body seeming to shimmer and suddenly I stood there, adorned in leather and lace, my body fully covered and yet completely revealed.

A shocking sight as opposed to my usual garb as the gentleman smiled saying, "And how would you see me, M'lady?" 

Once again my thoughts reflected back and within a second, the man hung there by a set of restraints, his body gently swaying, the leather instrument, what he had referred to as a flogger, appeared in my hands. His eyes pleaded with me and without hesitation, I stepped up and granted him what I knew he desired. It was primeval, instinctive, not thinking, simply acting as my body came to life and for the first time, I truly soared. 

By the time I finished, his body was covered in the remnants of the tentacles which I looked at curiously before moving closer, seeing how his eyes had glazed over. I reached up finding his hair, pulling it sharply, seeing him try to focus as his body jerked, releasing a long string of thick, white fluid, his face a mixture of anguish and what looked to be...pleasure? 

I watched as the lines of the grid appeared again, a voice calling softly to me as my eyes opened and I saw Gabrielle smiling down at me.

"What you have just experienced is level five in the cerebral stimulus program which I created. Only those in power are allowed to obtain such levels. The general populace has to be content with a single level, the one which provides them with the minimal pleasure that can be found as opposed to what their bodies might crave. The overseers felt it would become too addictive, thus they took my work and corrupted it, the old adage about those who have the power make the rules, still true even in today's society." 

I nodded as she took my hand, leading me into my bedroom, the stark white walls and bed in contrast against our skins as she gave me that endearing smile before lying down beside me. Her eyes watched me, as I wondered what she was thinking as she laughed.

"We were linked in the cerebral programming, it remains the same here. I think you are beyond beautiful, lovelier than any creation I could have made in the world that is the mind, Prosecutor. What you witnessed was fantasy, what I want you to feel is reality." 

Before everything that had transpired that day, I had been led to believe I would be the teacher, she would be the pupil. Instead, I shyly lay there as she began to explore my body, to find those places that required a tender touch, sometimes a bit of pain, my sighs turning to moans, at times even whimpers as I felt myself come alive in a way that I had never dared dream might exist. She kept up a running commentary, telling me what she was doing, how she was doing it, teaching me, and guiding me until suddenly I felt something, something...amazing. 

I wondered if it might be like what I saw on Samuels' face at the end, his emotions overwhelming him as my own were doing the same, her hands, her mouth having taken me to the edge of what felt like might be the difference between life and death. 

If death was living by the rules, the regulations I had fought so diligently to uphold, then life was the expression of my body as I succumbed. I welcomed the orgasm as it ripped through my body, my screams of pure pleasure, more beautiful than any music I had ever heard through the annals of time. 

It was the look on Gabrielle's face though that would be forever imprinted in my memories, in my own time bank. She glowed with a vision, her thoughts echoing in my mind. "I have provided this woman, this person, this human being with the pleasure she has found. No machine, no computer, no android, no cyborg, but another made out of flesh and blood has done this, as it was done before and as it should be again. Our society has created many wondrous inventions but none that can match the feeling of...love." 

I was like a child who had been given a treat, a rare and special one and one was simply not enough. Her smile told me she understood perfectly and as the night progressed, so did our passion. It seemed to know no boundaries and in the end, I proved to be as proficient as she was, providing her with the same decadent pleasure, intent upon showing her how grateful I was for the gift she had bestowed upon me. In the end, we lay in each other's arms, both of us sated, our bodies entwined as she leaned in close, her voice a sultry whisper in my ear saying, "I wonder what the future will hold?"

It was only then I knew a new day had to dawn...for all of mankind. It was time for a change.

THE END

If you would take a moment to please vote and if you wish, comment on my works I would be appreciative. This is my foray into the world of the future and I do hope you enjoyed.