48 comments/ 20178 views/ 8 favorites One For the Road Ch. 03 By: Vanadorn I am still leaning on 5 chapters for this story, two more than the last tale, but each chapter is significantly longer. There might be a 6th, it depends on how I spread out the next one. I like the way this tale is going and it's been flowing out at a decent clip. I hope that others are enjoying it as well and please, as always, comment and vote if you want - enjoy your right to do so. As for me, I enjoy writing so I am already enjoying my rights. This Chapter will see Jimmy hitting bottom. And when you hit the bottom you either bounce or break. Like a great writer once said: Write what you know. So that's what this is, me writing what I know. There will be no crazy glue body openings closed or A-Team style gunplay or shopping for a new cock cage or practicing kissing with your wife's lipstick. This is as close to reality as I could get it and still tell the story. Enjoy! -V ***** I sat on that unyielding wooden bench with my hands cuffed behind me and chained to an eye-hook located back there long enough for my legs to fall asleep. The reek of urine was sickening but there was nothing I could do since it was coming from my own crotch. Each time a cop walked in front of me I tried to make eye contact but they ignored me like I was a piece of shit. When I tried to address one of them, some big burly meatball of a fucker in a uniform stepped out from behind the counter and told me in a menacing tone to, "shut the hell up for now until we are ready to talk to you." The fact that his hand was resting on the pepper spray on his belt, near the taser, near his pistol, had the bufuddled mess that was my brain shut the hell up. Eventually I was interviewed by a surly looking lady officer who clacked away at her keyboard like she wished her fingers were probing at my inner organs. She listened to my responses and typed them away, finalizing her activity with a flurry of entering before folding her hands on her lap and sitting back. The big-assed meatball sized cop was nearby, watching me like a pit bull watches a wounded bird. "Mr. Skelly," she began, "you waved the right to contact an attorney, correct?" "Yeah. I don't need one and I don't have one." "You are aware that you have been taken in for Drunk and Disorderly Conduct, Assault, Domestic Disturbance, and Resisting Arrest." Her eyes bored under my skin. "These are serious charges and you will need to go to Westbury to see the Judge for this." "Then someone will have to drive me home because I do not have my car with me." "Mr. Skelly, you will not be able to see the judge until Monday morning at 9 AM." I made to stand up, unable to due to the chains and bindings. This caused both officers to tense up and made me realize that I was pretty fucked and should calm the fuck down. Like right now. I settled back and let out a deep breath, forcing myself to relax and hopefully showing them I was cool. "So, what is going to happen to me?" "You are going to be remanded to the Nassau County Correction Facility in East Meadow where you will stay until Monday morning." I was stunned. "I'm going to JAIL?!?" She leaned forward just slightly, eyes a narrow pair of windows staring deeply at me. "Yes you are, Mr. Skelly." The rest of my time at the police department was a blur as I was in shock at how fucking bad my day was turning out. The world's most fucked up Wednesday could not have been better perfected except for what I was going through. Within a half hour I had been what the cops called processed (involving pictures, finger prints, and a catalog of what I came in with from shoes to wedding ring) and then marched out to a cop car where I was placed in the back, my handcuffs once again chained, this time to an unyielding brace in the back seat. The trip to Nassau Correction was short, but it felt like hours to me. Whatever buzz I had earlier had worn off and now all I felt was a sensation of being utter crap. Jimmy Skelly, going to jail, scaring his kids, hurting his wife. What a piece of shit. All I could feel was my self-pity worming its way throughout my everything. We turned off Hempstead Turnpike and make out way north to Nassau Correction. The sheriff's office was right outside the barbed wire fence of the prison, the building squatting there like a guard dog ready to bite you. There were two gates to get in and we stopped outside the first one. A pair of guards with rifles, fucking rifles, stopped the cop car and spoke with the officer for a bit while I just stared out the window in shock. Eventually we rolled through both sets of gates and we stopped in from of the main doors marked as "Admittance". I was helped out of the car and marched up to the double steel doors. Another officer opened them for me and I was whisked inside. Inside prison. They marched me down the grey and white hallway where the cop in question handed me over to the correction officers. A file was given as well, my name marked on the side tab, and then the Nassau County Police Officer turned and left. "Name." I turned, startled that anyone was talking to me. A heavy set male officer was seated outside another set of industrial green doors, computer screen in front of him, waiting for me to reply. The officer standing at my side, his hand holding the chain leading to my cuffs, gave me a nudge with his shoulder and motioned to the seated officer. "Answer him." Oh. "James. James Skelly." "Mr. Skelly, you have been remanded here to the Nassau Correction Facility until such time that you can be presented to the Nassau County Court in Westbury to meet with the judge regarding your crimes. Any time required for your crimes will be offset by the time spent here from this point Wednesday to Monday morning. Do you understand?" I nodded. "Yes." "You are going to be placed with the general populace in Section 4 where you will accord yourself properly. Any discipline problems may result in you being moved to a private cell and possible extension of your time here." "I'm not looking for a problem. Honest." "Please place all your belongings in this bin. There are clothes for you to wear in this bag, please put them on." He slid the cheap clear package of blue dyed clothing towards me. "There are two meals a day and if you have money on account, you can purchase other items from the commissary. However, being that this is only temporary for you for the time being, that option will most likely not be at your disposal." I got undressed and they cataloged everything I owned, putting it in the cardboard bin and then sealing it up. I tried to limit the time I was naked in front of the correction officers, feeling uncomfortable in the new clothing. It just felt waxy and cheap on the inside; maybe a bit stiff at the joints. And it just didn't fit right. When I was finished they escorted me down a large hall where another correction officer opened a set of double doors, let us through, and locked it behind us. There were a series of smaller hallways to the left but on the right were larger rooms, each with a huge stenciled number above it. We stopped in front of number 4 and waited. "One to come in," said the officer to my left. From a speaker to the side of the door a tinny voice replied, "One to come in. Stand clear of the doors." There was an electronic sounding buzz and the double doors opened. There were two more correction officers in here, professionally crisp in their uniforms and sporting a decidedly no nonsense look to their face. Each was armed and I could see there were others behind a thick pane of glass; some looking at me, others looking into the large room beyond. They checked me in and then stood me near the next set of smaller doors that would allow me to enter Section 4. The same officer who had walked me down here could tell I was growing nervous as I stood staring at that last barrier. He had a grip on my arm just above my elbow, holding me firm and close enough to him. "Listen, Skelly," he said in a low whisper. "Keep to yourself and you'll be fine. Don't steal anything that isn't yours, watch your own stuff like a hawk, and if you let some of the harsher ones push you around, they'll run roughshod all over you." I could hear the officers inform the inmates to move away from the door, three of them shouldering rifles and bringing them to bear. Holy fuck, rifles. They weren't pointing them at anyone specifically, just letting the populace know that they were not going to be trifled with. I had no idea how much of this was normal, how much was different or special. All I knew was I was not at all fucking prepared for this and I desperately needed a drink. Like right fucking now. But I also knew that there wasn't going to be one. Finally the door opened with a series of metallic clicks and I was escorted inside. There was a painted box just inside the door, marked off on the concrete floor roughly four paces square. Once I was taken into that point the guard let me go, gave me a pat on the back, and backed out of the Section. I heard the door shut and then lock once more and there it was...Jimmy Skelly was in fucking jail. The room I was in was large and divided into two main areas, a number of low simple beds that seemed to be bolted to the floor and a second area where there were tables and long benches situated, also bolted to the floor. The room looked like it could hold 60, and a quick count led me to believe it was almost that full. "New meat," someone called and I realized I was still standing in that damned painted box. I stepped out of it and made my way across the floor. Behind me there was a 30' wide window of either thick plastic or glass where I could see ten correction officers watching the men in the Section. One of them pulled a microphone attached to a bendable metal stand closer to his face and squeezed it. "Skelly. Bed 32." I walked to the sleeping area and saw that the beds each had a simple painted placard near the feet so I wandered through until I came upon number 32. With a shaking hand I pressed down upon it, testing that it was VERY firm. The blanket was woolen but simple, and the pillow smelled faintly of bleach with a scratchy pillow case. I sighed and sat down, looking at the men around me. They were a diverse group. Some of them looked like teachers or accountants, a few had a larger build to them but didn't look like you would assume a criminal to look. However, there was a minority of specimens who had a hardness to them. An excess of tattoos, a swagger to their stance, a feeling of arrogance to their demeanor. There weren't many of them, perhaps 12 total, but they were decidedly the alphas and real criminals in the room. One of them must have been waiting for me to make eye contact, a swarthy Latino looking guy with a tracery of scar tissue along the side of his face and the faint discoloration that made me think he had been in a fight recently. "Hey!" he called, slapping his hand to his knees and bolting from his bed. "What'chu looking at?" Ok, I know shit about prison etiquette. Outside of a few TV shows and maybe a movie about Alcatraz with Nick Cage and James Bond I couldn't tell you a fucking thing. I do know that I was unsure what to do, so I figured I'd treat the spindly prick coming at me like I would any other wanna-be bully on the playground. I bolted from my bed and stormed across the space to my approaching nemesis, gratified inside to see his eye falter and his arrogant step slow down. "I wasn't looking at a fucking thing. Now? Now that's a different story." I saw him glance back at some of the others near his bed, two of them getting to their feet and sauntering over slowly. Fuck fuck fuck, Jimmy, 11 minutes in jail and you're already getting into a fight. Three on one, and where the hell are the guards? Aren't they going to come in and stop this shit? "Fuck you, punk." He sneered, thrusting his chest out and closing to two feet of me. This had me both laughing and nervous. First rule about fighting was to be in your zone of strength and keep the other fucker out of his. I was a good eight inches taller than this guy and he closed in to me, right about where I could clean his fucking clock. But, all he needed to do was either rock forward and jab me, or wait for me to swing and then get me on the approach. I decided I would get him to hit me first, and the guards would see I was defending myself. I hoped. "Nah, I don't fuck men, but if you do - enjoy. I ripped one off already before coming in. And man, I made that, " think Jimmy, think, take a fucking guess, "little Ecuadorean bitch squeal she ain't never had a real sized cock before." From the way his eyes flared and the rigidity of his jaw I was pretty sure I had guessed right. His body was already coming forward into my zone and I could read him like a book. As he stepped in to hit me I stepped back, blocked his leading punch with my forearm, and then finished my movement by swinging my right arm over my head, arcing it down, and blasting it against the top of his skull. The poor fucker actually cried out like a 9-year old school girl before he smashed into the floor face first, and I hoped he lost a tooth. The other two pricks sort of stopped and looked at what happened, hands going up at the same time I heard the overhead speaker come on and the voice of the correction officer say, "We have a lockdown. Lockdown. Everyone put your hands on your head and stand at the foot of your bed. Again, Lockdown, lockdown. Skelly, Morales, don't move." The main doors opened and too many officers with rifles came in. Everyone complied with their instructions while four of the officers came forward, took myself and I assume Morales, the guy I hit, out of the room and to another section of the prison. I was placed in a smaller room, 10 x 10, Morales was taken elsewhere; honestly, didn't give a shit. There was a small table and two chairs, again each outfitted with the standard floor bolting. I was seated but not cuffed, and then left alone where I waited for only two minutes before a woman came in. She was in her mid-40's, had a no nonsense look to her. Her dishwater blond hair was pulled back in a tight ponytail, her clothing was a mix of correction officer looking as well as business ware. She had no make-up on that I could see and I was displeased to see she was packing a pistol, mace, and handcuffs on her belt. "Mr. James Skelly," she began, her voice rough from too much smoking, "you are not here to cause problems." "I am sorry, Ma'am. All I did was sit on my bed and look around." "My name is Captain Phillips and you will refer to me as such." She drummed her fingers on the table. "Mr. Morales is a member of the Iron Nation, although not a highly placed member. By attacking him, you might have placed yourself in their view. Are you aware of this?" I scratched my head and sighed. "Listen, Captain Phillips. This morning I woke up late for work, this afternoon I had too much to drink, this evening I was tasered by the police, and tonight I was attacked by a thug I would normally avoid because I accidentally glanced at him while sitting in prison. Who he is and what and Iron Nation is is right now just beyond me." She glanced at her paperwork in front of her and then looked back at me. "You are here for a variety of reasons: drunk and disorderly, resisting arrest, assault and battery. Being that there will be no court until Monday, you will have to find a way to fit in and acclimatize for the four days and five nights still to come. I would suggest you keep to yourself and make no contact with the other inmates, or you might find yourself here longer or possibly in the infirmary." "I understand." "If there is another incident we will have to remove you and place you in solitary for your own safety. Do you understand?" I nodded. "Yes, Captain Phillips." She stood up, weight leaning forward. "Excellent, Mr. Skelly. Let us return you to your section." I once again had to cycle my way in and was then cleared to return to Bed 32. When I got there I was dismayed to see my pillow and blanket were no longer there. Great, Jimmy, now some fucker took your pillow and blanket. I resisted the urge to say anything, instead I just wandered up the quiet row while the inmates watched me, expecting me to do something. When I got to an unused bed I stripped the blanket off of it. I looked around and saw a few inmates were sleeping with two pillows. I gave them all a short once over, trying not to make eye contact, noting a few of the "regular" looking guys had a second pillow; most likely taken from the unused beds. I cleared my throat. "I'm not looking for a problem. While I was getting spoken to by the correction officers, my pillow...seems to have disappeared. Does anyone have a spare they might be willing to give up tonight." No one replied. I shrugged and went to turn back to my bed when a voice called out, "What you gonna give for it?" I looked around and saw a fairly beefy guy with a 3-day growth and pretty greasy blondish hair lounging back in his bed. He had a third pillow that he was holding up, giving me his version of a stink eye. "What do you want?" I tried to think about all the prison and jail shows I had ever seen. "I don't have any cigarettes to trade." The guy chuckled and so did a few others. "Nah, man. That ain't needed." He tossed the pillow up and caught it. "Tomorrow, I want your rolls." "My rolls?" "Yeah. Breakfast rolls. I want 'em." I shrugged. "Ok. Breakfast rolls, done." He tossed it to me. "Name's Scott, you can call me Sqautch." "Thanks Squatch." He waved his hand dismissively, "Don't want your thanks. Just want your rolls." I wandered back to my bed with my new pillow and blanket, lay myself down and let myself fade away. All I could picture was Myra's face as we spun around and around the kitchen, her eyes were filled with pain. Such pain and sorrow. I slept like shit. Being in the Nassau Correctional Facility over Thanksgiving weekend was an eye opening experience for me. There were two main meals: 8 AM and 4 PM. They were not very filling and I quickly realized that I got very screwed giving up my two rolls to Squatch as I was hungry long before nightfall. In addition, by the time we got our food, it was barely warm regardless of what was being served: Soup, pasta, sandwiches, etc. Also, it wasn't like there was much to do. There wasn't a weight room with gangbangers working out. There wasn't the fear of getting ass raped in the shower. Surprisingly the majority of the guys read or played cards or checkers or chess. The biggest thing I had to look forward to was boredom and my own thoughts. I had heard nothing from my family since I was taken from the house. I had been given the opportunity to make phone calls but no one answered at home. I also tried to call my parents but it was a collect call and no one took that call there. I was going to call Tim or Jerry but figured I didn't want any of my friends to know what happened to me so I didn't. And that was a big piece of it. Besides feeling like a loser, I was also terribly embarrassed. I'm in jail. I can honestly never say that I had not been in jail if I was asked in the future. True I'm not a felon but it was cold comfort when I realized that I was going to spend the better part of a week "behind bars". Each night some of the guys would have what they called a 'cook up' which involved some of the inmates hoarding their food during the day or trading to get better items. A few of the guys had some credit at the Commissary which allowed them access to coffee, tea, and just about anything else. After the last meal we would gather what we had collected and then use the hot water and hand heaters to make slow cooking instant soup mixes, breads, whatever that could be heated and eaten would be gathered into a garbage bag and left to percolate until there was something warm and filling later on that evening. One For the Road Ch. 03 I volunteered to be a part of it Saturday and again on Sunday, enjoying a cup of instant soup and some crackers both nights. I had learned that I wasn't the only 'drunk' in the mix; a term I immediately hated to hear. They inmates seemed to know what your crime was and whatever it was was where you were lumped. There was some pride and jockeying in the inner hierarchy and I'm sure it was different in each location, but here Assault with a Deadly Weapon was like the kingpin of the Section while Rape was the ultimate bottom. There were also degrees of variety like Larceny was both Grand and Petty with the former having more prestige than the letter. Drunk and Disorderly was a bit low on the pecking order but Assault and Battery raised my standing. All in all, it was very 8th grade and very childish - but it was my world and universe for four and a half very stress filled days. Finally Monday came and I was escorted along with almost 20 other men from my Section and others to a waiting blue and white prison bus where we were cuffed to our seats and driven that rainy morning to Nassau Courts in Westbury. We were taken in and allowed to wash up (no shaving) and generally make ourselves tidy while we waited in a side room away from the public. And waited. Court was held from 9 to 11:30 and again from 1 to 3:30. And besides our presence, there were a lot of people at court. We could glimpse them through the drawn shades, hundreds of people milling about back and forth. A few of them would stop near our window and press their faces against the narrow slit to peer in. I mean, what the hell? Was this the cafeteria? Were they looking for the bathrooms? Some of them were pretty damned fat, slovenly, or unshaven - which given the state of myself and my fellow inmates made no sense. I would be thrilled for the chance to wear something better and get myself all cleaned up and these dumb asses are home and out in the real world and they just have no pride in their appearance. One by one our names were called and a court officer would lead the guys through the back door and to whatever courtroom they were supposed to be in. I watched them go, one after the other, waiting for my own chance to go through. "Skelly, James Skelly," came the call at 11:04 according to the clock. I raised my hand and the officer unlocked me from the bench and led me down a short hall to a greenish painted room. There was a round table and four chairs, a couple of pictures of plants on a counter, and one other door out of here on the opposite wall. A thin man in his mid 30's with bad posture, a small gut, and thinning hair was sitting here; his body radiating all the signs that screamed out 'I don't give a shit about the job I'm doing right now'. He stood up, extended his hand to mine to shake and introduced himself. "Mr. Skelly, I'm Nathan Sweeny, your court appointed attorney." I shook his hand and was surprised to find a firm grip from him even if his palm was a bit sweaty. "Nice to meet you , Mr. Sweeny. I wish it were under other circumstances." We both sat down, the court officer remained standing by the door. "I've gone over your case and wanted to know if you had any complaint against pleading guilty?" ""I don't know...what exactly guilty of?" "Assault, drunk and disorderly conduct. We don't admit guilt to resisting arrest since you never actually approached the officers. We also fight against the endangering a minor charge since your sons were not there during the altercation." "Whoa, whoa," I held up my hand. "Where did THAT one come from?" "Since your incarceration, Mrs. Skelly has had an order of protection filed against you in her name and against you in the names of John and Joel Skelly." He ran his hand through his hair and then went back to thumbing the papers before him. "I believe we can plea against this one even though they were on the property, it depends on what the judge is looking for." I was still fixated on what he said earlier. "Wait. What. Why would Myra do that? What does...I can't see my kids? Does she need to protect them against me? I'm their fucking father. I love them and I love her. Why does anyone need to be protected from me?" Nathan shrugged. "I am sure you love your family, Mr. Skelly, and that they love you. But Mrs. Skelly has to take these steps even to your detriment in order to protect her children." "OUR children," I corrected him, pointing at my own chest. "Mine and hers. Ours. They are our kids. And again, I hear this 'protect' crap. Protect against what? Me?" "Mr. Skelly, the courts work in a particular way and they work slow. No one is looking to keep you from your family one minute longer than they have to. Everyone wants the best for all parties, but when it comes to children, they often err on the side of caution and that means that there are certain steps we have to take before the matters are resolved." "So what happens now then? How do we get this fixed fast so I can return home?" "We go in and plead guilty to Assault and Drunk and Disorderly conduct. You have no prior convictions or record. You enroll in an alcohol dependency program, show some material improvement, satisfy the court and then the orders are lifted and you can return home." "And how long will that take?" I asked wondering. "15 days in jail, less time already served." "What?" He continued, "Then 3 months worth of therapy and dependency to follow and another 3 months of supervised visitation before the orders would be revised or lifted." I gaped at him, eyes wide in shock. "Are you fucking shitting me?" Nathan drummed his fingers on the table, staring at me with as neutral an expression he could muster. "No, Mr. Skelly. I am not shitting you. That's the way it works." He clipped his papers together and slid them into his briefcase. "And that's assuming everything works to our satisfaction and you follow the programs without deviation. If you don't, it could be considerably longer." "What...what if I plead innocent? Then what?" He shook his head. "I would seriously counsel against that. Your wife sustained injuries that had been documented. Your children were the point of discovery of the assault. Your actions were documented by eight different individuals even though four of them were minors. You were visibly intoxicated however be thankful that you weren't driving at the time as your penalties would be more severe." Straightening his collar, he continued, "Plus, if you plead innocent there will be depositions, bond, and the potential for much greater jail time and monetary fines. My professional opinion is to do as I outlined. Or if you are unsatisfied with my counsel you are welcome to retain your own attorney should you wish." My head was spinning. I didn't want to piss this guy Sweeny off since he seemed to know what he was doing and I really seemed to be fucked. Ok, Jimmy, you can go out there, eat some crow, and get yourself into whatever shit they want you in. "Alright, Mr. Sweeny. We'll do it your way. I just want to get home and get back to my life." "Excellent." He motioned to the officer who nodded his head and disappeared down the hall. We chatted a bit longer until the officer came back and indicated that we should follow. We stopped at a thick wooden door with a thin window where the court officer opened it and escorted us in. The courtroom was pretty small, smaller than I expected it to be. I saw my wife at one table, wearing her white button blouse I called her "church shirt" since she wore it every time we had to go to a wedding, mass, or a funeral. I looked but didn't see my boys which made me terribly sad. Sitting behind her was my mother Stephanie and my pop. Being that I didn't see mom anywhere I guessed she was babysitting the J's. I wanted to call out to Myra but kept my mouth shut, shuffling along in my prison supplied clothes and feeling like shit; escorted to another table where my lawyer and I sat on the other side of the room. I stared at Myra who was looking back at me with a watery gaze and quivering lips. Her cheeks were splotchy and it was obvious to me that she was barely holding it together. Stephanie had a cool expression, only the diamond hard glint in her eyes let me know that she was royally pissed at me. Terrific. As for pop, his skin was ruddy and flushed and his jaw was clenched so tightly I thought he was going to crack a tooth. He was breathing so hard that his nose was flaring and compressing with each breath, his chest pumping like a bellows. It had been years since I had seen my pop lose himself to his Irish rage, and I had to admit, I was glad I was in court instead of facing off from him and his boiling temper. "The case of Myra Skelly vs. James Skelly and New York State vs. James Skelly is called." One of the court people intoned, standing near the judge. I didn't know who was who, but the judge was pretty obvious. Had to be over 50, hair going white, pair of glasses with thick frames, that judge robe they wear and sitting at the bench. But it was the look on his face, the way that everyone in the room was staring at him - it just affirmed to everyone in here that THIS was the judge and you were in his kingdom. I listened to some attorney on Myra's side talk for a bit and then Sweeny did his spiel, trying to refute everything the other guy said and soften it up. I had to admit, 5 days sober and fresh from jail, I sounded like a real cracked up piece of fucking work. The judge had a few comments and questions but I was only half listening as the lawyers did their dance thing; my attention was entirely on Myra. I love that woman. I know all her moods, her thoughts, her wants and needs. And I knew without a doubt two things at this time: 1) she was terribly sad and overwhelmed, and 2) she was also terribly pissed and ashamed of me. From the same flintly glower I would catch from her now and again; matching the one her mother had. The firm narrow set of her lips, pressed almost bloodless white when she caught herself looking too long in my direction. From the way she gently but incessantly bounced her right foot slowly up and down, rising up to her toes and off again. I don't know another time that Myra had ever been this damned furious. And I couldn't talk to her which was only making the entire situation more fucked up. Nathan gave me a nudge in the ribs and my attention came back to the judge and his narrow-eyed glare in my direction. "I said, Mr. Skelly," the judge repeated, "are you willing to join an Anger Management group as well as an Alcohol Dependency group?" "Yes, sir. Yes, your honor. Whatever it takes." He stayed hyper-focused on me before backing off slightly and glancing down at his desk. "You will be required to successfully complete both programs before we can talk about altering the orders to allow you supervised visitation with your children. You can use that as an incentive to cooperate with the counselors and graduate swiftly." "Yes, your honor. I'll do it." He nodded his head. "You will be remanded back to Nassau Correctional for a 15 day sentence at which time you will be released. Be aware that you are not to approach Mrs. Skelly or the children any closer than 100 yards. You are to remain away from the marital home as well. Upon your release you can arrange with the Sheriff's department to go to the home and gather whatever personal effects are needed." He rapped his gavel and intoned, "Dismissed." Nathan stood with me as one of the court officers came to escort me back to the waiting room. My pop's voice called out, "I'll pick you up when you're out. You'll be staying with your mom and me." I nodded my head and looked at Myra, mouthing "I'm so sorry" to her but she shut her eyes and shook her head sadly. She didn't even watch me be led from the courtroom. As Nathan said, I only had to spend another 10 days in Nassau Correctional; but to my way of thinking, it was 10 days too long. My mom put $25 on my account at the Commissary for me which might not seem like a lot but it was like a little slice of heaven. I had purchased a 20 oz bottle of root beer as my first item and it was like drinking liquid bliss. The next day I bought a small bag of Lay's potato chips. Another day I purchased a cup of coffee. Small items, but when you don't have access to them and are denied the opportunity to partake, they are that much sweeter when you finally get to have it. On my 13th total day in jail while I was enjoying our 1 hour of 'yard time', which meant we could walk around outside, I was approached by four Latino looking guys who were walking up to me with their palms showing. "Oi! Are you Jimmy Skelly?" Quiz time. Do I answer yes or no? They obviously know who I am since they singled me out and came right up to me, so the question was rhetorical. They wanted to see what I was going to answer. Yes and I was upfront, no and I was a pussy and a punk. And I wasn't a fucking punk. I stood up slowly to my full 6' 4" height and stared at the one who spoke with my most 'I-couldn't-give-a-shit-about-you' glance. "Yeah." That was it. Nothing else. Let them take up the slack. "Thought you might wanna know that Les is pissed at you." I shrugged. Who the fuck was Les? They looked at each other. "You not bothered?" "Couldn't care. Don't know anyone named Les." "Les, man. Jorge Morales. You damn near broke his neck." Ah, that was the guy I got into a fight with. "And?" I didn't want to assume anything. "Just sayin', man. Les ain't right in the head. He's got that Napolean thing going, always picking fights with big dudes. He's a cell warrior at best." "Listen. Thanks for the heads up, but I'm out of here in two days and I ain't looking to ever come back in here again. As long as he gives me some space, I'll do the same." The speaker of the four-some shrugged. "No problem, man. Carlos wanted to let you know that Les was foamin' for you. If he does come after you, it's not because the Iron Nation has any beef, Les is selling wolf tickets when he mentions the Nation. Ok?" I really had no idea what was exactly being said but it sounded like Les, Morales, whatever the fuck he was, was pissy at me but his gang wasn't because he mouthed off a lot to the big guys. Like me. Fucking lovely. What was next for me, an invitation to the Crips Christmas party? I had to get out of here and away from this high school playground horseshit. "Done, got it. Thanks and tell...Carlos thanks too." "De nada," he replied and the four of them wandered away. And then it was time. Day 15. I took a long shower with the crappy scratchy soap and the shampoo that smelled a little like oil, trying to get clean. As I was mustered out, given my original clothes (unwashed - ugh) and belongings and then escorted to the front doors where they cycled me through the main doors and both parts of the barbed wire fence until I was in the parking lot. And there was pop. He was standing next to his crappy Honda Civic arms across his chest, his big assed gut hanging out underneath. There was a lot more grey in his ginger hair than I ever noticed before, and it was odd, but I never realized how deep some of the lines were in his face. He had to weigh a good 60 lbs more than I did and he was north of 50, but I didn't want to be on the receiving end of his punches or slaps - my memory filling in the many times his heavy handed corrections came into play while I was growing up. "You look like shit, Jimmy." Nice fucking greeting, pop, tell me something I didn't know. "Sorry, pop. The stylist doesn't come in till Thursday." "Don't fucking sass me, you smart ass." He opened the driver's side door and climbed in, motioning for me to get in the other side. "It's already enough I have to pick up my son from jail, I don't have to listen to your fucking mouth." He waited for me to sit before starting the car. "Buckle up before I'm tempted to kick your ass out on the side of Newbridge Road." We drove home in quiet, my pop breaking hard and accelerating roughly. He gripped the wheel tightly and had his eyes firmly riveted on the road. "Listen, pop," I said, "I'm sorry." He snorted. "I am. Really." "Your wife had big assed black and blue finger prints on her damned wrists for a week, you prick." He slapped the dashboard. "What kind of a shit are you?" "Dad, it was an accident." "Bullshit, boy. I call bullshit on that." He sneered as he spoke. "Too much salt is an accident. Tapping another car while parallel parking is an accident. No, Jimmy, what you did was fucking deliberate. You deliberately had too much to drink, and you deliberately hurt your fucking wife." "I didn't mean it." "Fuck you, Jimmy. Just fuck you with that whiney assed shit. I didn't mean it my grandfather's bleeding asshole!" I kept my mouth shut the rest of the ride until we arrived at my boyhood home. The first thing I noticed was my baby on the street. There were a number of boxes and bags piled inside of it; I assume it was clothes and stuff. Pop got out of the car grumbling and I followed close behind. He opened the door and called out, "Mary! I'm back with your son, the felon!" My mom came out from the kitchen, wiping her hands on the pockets of her housedress. I could smell corned beef cooking and I could only assume mom was making it for me. "Hey, mom," I greeted her, hands in my pockets, unsure of the greeting I was going to get. She only held back for a second before stepping in and giving me a big hug. "Oh, Jimmy. Welcome home, son. Are you ok? Did they hurt you in there?" "Jesus, Mary!" my pop exclaimed, "The boy's bigger'n most everyone he meets, he was fine." "It's ok, mom. I'm good. Thanks for letting me stay here." "Don't you think nothing about it. We just want you to get yourself better is all." She led me to the kitchen. "Come on, I have dinner cooking and you look like you haven't been eating right." My first day home involved me not telling my mom about my time in jail, not pissing off my pop by being around him, and taking a shower with real soap and wearing my own clothes that fit and felt right for a change. I awoke the next day early, December 11th, and drove my car to Florence Building to talk to Doug about what happened and hopefully get whatever check was still there. When I walked in the door at 6:50 the conversation around the counter stopped as all my peers just stared at me. Someone whispered, "Holy shit, Jimmy. Where've you been?" And that was enough to call Doug from his office with the sound of his chair scraping against the wall. "Jimmy? Skelly?" He came out of the doorway and stopped, staring at me. "You," he said in shock. "What the fuck...Get in my office. NOW!" I followed him in and he slammed the door closed behind me. "Where the fuck have you been?! I told you, I fucking told you, you screw up once more and you're out of here. Didn't I tell you that? Didn't I? What the fuck? Did you think I was screwing around? Making that shit up?" "Doug. I'm sorry. I was in jail." "Well la-dee-fucking-daa; thanks for the news flash Channel 7. I found out you were in jail when I finally got a hold of your wife by Tuesday morning." "Doug, you have to let me explain..." He held up his hand. "No, Jimmy. No I don't." He reached into his desk drawer and pulled out two envelopes. "Here you go. Your last check, and whatever vacation and sick time you haven't taken. Take it and go." He waved his hand towards the door. "I won't fight your unemployment so go sit on your ass for a while; figure out what you're going to do. Because whatever it is, it isn't working here anymore." I took the checks and stuffed them into my pocket, standing up. "Thanks Doug. I...I really fucked up." One For the Road Ch. 03 He sighed deeply and looked up at me. Whatever anger had been fueling his tirade suddenly evaporated and he slumped back in his chair, looking much older than he normally did. "Yeah, you did, Jimmy. And it's a shame, too. Because I always thought you had potential." He shook his head. "Listen, kid. You fix whatever's broken in your life and you get your head on straight. Go make something of yourself, ok? I mean it." I shook his hand and nodded. "I'll try, Doug. Thanks for everything." I drove away with my eyes straight and shoulders squared, not letting anyone know how fucking torn up inside I was feeling. I stopped at the bank and deposited my two checks, surprised to see the second one was over a thousand dollars. 'Must have had quite a number of days sitting around, Jimmy,' I mused. After that I went home...I mean, my parents' home. It was surreal being at my parents' house. I had no contact with my wife or kids but my parents spoke to them every day. They always passed my messages along and I could hear my boys screaming "we love you, dad" when my mom would hold the phone up for me. But it was lonely. I had all this time on my hand, no job, no family, no nothing. Just my thoughts and how much I was missing my wife. On Monday I took a trip down to Phoenix House in Hauppauge, at the ass end of the Northern State Parkway. It was the place the courts had recommended for me to go to for Alcohol Dependency so to show I was taking it seriously, I took the trip and met with Sally Restatin at 11:30. She was like Phoenix House, a bit old, a bit worn, and gaily painted. "Mr. Skelly," she gushed, actually gushed as she shook my hand with both of hers, "Welcome. Welcome. Can I call you James? We're a bit informal here." I repressed a grin and answered, "Sure. James or Jimmy is fine." "Excellent. Excellent. Let me tell you a bit about what we do here. And I mean we, as in you and I, because we don't do the heavy lifting for you in regards to your issues. No, no. What we do is show you how to work your own way through your addiction and come to a place where you can live with it instead of living for it." I looked around, not really impressed with the office. "Do I have to move here or something?" "No, no. We have in-patient and out-patient programs of course, depending on the severity of your situation. From what I've read in your dossier you are not in need of our in-patient services." She licked her lips and continued. "James, you are aware that this kind of therapy only works if you want it work, right?" "Of course. I know that. I need this and I need it now; I have to get home to my family." "Why?" I frowned. "Why? What the fu...hell kind of question is that, why? It's my wife, my kids. I love them and want to get home." "Do you want to get home like the person you were or not?" "Listen Sally, I don't understand these questions, but I want to get home and learn how to control my problem so I don't drink that much. So in that regard, I don't want to be the person I was." She tapped her finger once on the desktop. "James, you might not want to believe this, but you are not going to be able to just 'reduce' your drinking. You're going to have to learn to accept you have a problem, face it head on, learn your urges and triggers, and understand that as an alcoholic - you are an alcoholic for life. There is no 'reducing'. There is only preventing and vigilance." I arched one eyebrow at her. "That sounds like bullshit to me, Sally. I already quit once." "It didn't take, did it?" I scoffed. "Obviously not. I'm here." "Then you didn't do it correctly. You mostly likely fell back into a pattern and assumed that you were on top of the situation." "Maybe. But I was able to do it." "For how long? A month? Two? Three days? It doesn't matter the length of time, the fact is that you didn't have all the tools at your disposal to truly tackle your alcoholism." I sighed. "Alright. We'll do it your way since I admit I somehow didn't stick with it before. What do we do first?" I spent the rest of the day listening to Sally prattle on. She was a former alcoholic herself, fifteen years worth of drinking. She had two kids, a boy and a girl, that lived with her ex in Staten Island somewhere and she got a chance to see them every other weekend. She kept talking about her 'dry date' and that she was seven years past it. The thing I didn't like about the whole situation, beside the fact that she kept calling me an alcoholic, I had to come out here every fucking day for 6 weeks, she had that strung out older bar chick look and too much makeup, and the fact that this entire thing sounded like psycho-bable bullshit, was that I got the feeling that she was going to burst into a song about Jesus any second and try to douse me with a vial of holy water. I also got that sensation when sitting in on group sessions; everyone was talking about the higher power and how it helped them when they were down. Now I'm as Irish and Catholic as the next Mick and I spent my life since age 14 trying to forget that I ever went to church but this entire thing was too preachy for me. So each day, Monday to Friday, I took a ride east to bum-fuck Hauppauge and listened in and sat and chatted and tried to get what was the underlying reason for all of this. But each day that passed I was without Myra and the J's and I had my mom and her constant worrying and my pop and his barely checked rage. I missed my house, my job, everything. But I also noticed that as the days went on, I missed having a drink. It started as a dull throbbing behind the eyes one day. That lasted for a bit and then I noticed a hot starchy feeling in my mouth, like my tongue was too thick or I just had a mouthful of mashed potatoes. I would be having a regular day, maybe surfing the cable box and suddenly my brain would shout out, "Man! I could use a beer!" and then my skin would grow clammy and I would get that warm thick tongue headache thing again. I tried talking to Sally about it and she said it was a good thing. Fucking good thing? How the fuck is this good? She told me it was a physical urge and I should concentrate on it and really get to know it. Um, that's fucking stupid. I don't WANT the urge to drink you dumb bitch. I want to get RID of the urge to drink. I didn't have much faith in the therapy and kind of thought that Sally and the others were most likely Jesus-freaks and Born Agains who were going to drag me back to the cross and make me vote Republican. The weather grew colder and December marched on. I know Christmas was coming up and I was feeling more and more depressed being home with mom and pop and not with my kids. I called my lawyer to ask him if I could somehow go and see them and he eventually called me back 2 days later to let me know the social workers didn't feel it was a good idea at this time and wanted me to finish the program before evaluating that possibility. Fuck you. On December 22nd I was eating dinner with my parents when my pop slammed his fork down with a loud crash and stared at me. "I just heard from Myra that you haven't given her a god damned dime for the boys' gifts this year." I looked at him, my eyes wide. "I'm not allowed to see her, remember? Or my sons. Remember?!" "Well, your sons were going to get shit this year until I gave Myra two hundred for gifts and crap. When the fuck were you going to help out?" "How, pop? And with what? I'm not working, you know." "So get a fucking job. You have some money in your bank. You keep gas in your damned car. And I know you are getting unemployment money deposited to your account. And you help out by HELPING OUT!" His voice bellowed at the end. "I'D LOVE A DAMNED JOB!" I hollered back, matching him volume for volume. "And if I could see my fucking wife, I'd happily help out with Christmas!" "Don't you RAISE your voice in MY house!" My pop's face was growing red, and his eyes were getting that weird veiny look around them like he was going to have an aneurism. "You haven't offered shit!" "Shane! Your blood pressure!" mom was trying to calm pop down but he was already building himself up to a full head. "Jesus, Jimmy! Just put some fucking money in my hand and I'd give it to her! What the fuck? Don't you guys have a joint account or something? Go transfer some fucking money! I heard that Stephanie had to give Myra some money to buy groceries this week, you haven't helped out for fuck's sake!" "God damn it, pop! I'm not living there! What the fuck am I supposed to do? I don't have a job, I'm not working, I don't have shit for money, and I have to go to these fucking therapy session for drunks and wife beaters every damned day!" My mom tried again to diffuse the situation. "James, if you need some one to bring something to Myra, just ask." "I didn't know she needed anything." "Bullshit, Jimmy!" My pop barked. "What? Bills just fucking stop because you're a piece of shit jailed drunk?!" "Shane! That's enough!" Mom's voice rose at this point, not quite a yell, but loud enough that it immediately quieted both pop and me. "This isn't helping." "Then tell YOUR son to get off his ass and help his family," he threw his napkin down on the table and got up. "Where do you think you're going, Shane?" "Somewhere away from him," he pointed at me the same way you would point at a sewer rat. "Jimmy, you're my son and you have place to crash here. But it's not forever and you better figure out what's wrong in your head and fix it. Be a man, not a whining bitch." "Shane!" My pop just shook his head and stormed out of the kitchen. We heard his car start up and then he drove away, leaving mom and me in the awkward silence alone. "Damn it, mom. I don't know what to do." "Jimmy, this is hard on everyone. But for all you are going through, it's the hardest for Myra and the boys. They didn't deserve this and they have the most difficult job trying to carry on without you." "Come on, mom. I'm the one with the problem." "But they are innocents and they have to live with the wreckage." She bowed her head. "Jimmy, I pray for you. I do." "I'll be fine, mom. This is just so damned hard and unfair." Mom lifted her eyes, locking them on my own. "It's unfair to everyone, James. Not just you." She patted my arm and left me alone in the kitchen with just my thoughts. There's all this crap about what everyone else is going through, but they all forget that I'm the one suffering. Me. I went to fucking jail. I lost my job. I can't see my kids. I can't see my wife. I have to go to these stupid assed therapy sessions. I'm the one living here with mom and pop. And I'm the one that would really like a fucking drink. Oh god. I can use a damned drink. All this fucking bullshit has got me knuckling under the pounding in my head. I looked around the corner and didn't see Mom, meaning she must have gone upstairs. So I tiptoed to the cabinets and started looking through them slowly and quietly. Pasta, cans, old mugs, bowls, cake mix, spices. Shit. I looked in the bottom cabinets. Mixer, pans, pots, soup, rolling pin, jars of sauce, bottle of Black Bush Irish Whiskey. Bingo. I pulled it out, happy to see the seal had been broken and about half the bottle was gone. I listened hard, hearing nothing, then unscrewed the cap and brought the mouth of the bottle to my lips. I tilted it back until the taste of grain hit my teeth and filled the space under my tongue. I pinched my lips closed, swirled it around, and swallowed. Oh. Sweet. Jesus. That was so good. It hit my gut and spread out in a warming wave washing up and over my chest and lungs. I suddenly felt more awake and alive since this shit had started before Thanksgiving. I took another swallow, savoring it as it washed across my tongue and down my throat. Oh god, Jimmy. Tears were coming to my eyes it was just so good. I swallowed the last bit noisily and lowered the whiskey to the counter. Taking a look at it I noted roughly how much I had drunk and then ran the mouth of the bottle under the faucet, refilling it back to the original level. I swirled the bottle around to mix it up and then sealed it closed again, carefully placing it back in the cabinet where I had found it. Not wanting to lose the feeling I had, I wandered to my old room where I had been staying and lay down, just staring at the ceiling. I think this was the solution. Obviously doing it the way the therapist and counselors and Sally was saying was not an option for me. Cold turkey just wasn't going to happen. I was going to have to wean myself off of it until I could better control these damned urges. Like just now, I took a drink or two, felt real good, and closed the bottle back up without a problem. I can do this. I got it. The next day and the 24th were exactly as I suspected them to be. I went through the day and my sessions, listening in when I had to and telling them what they wanted to hear when it was my turn to talk. And at the end of each day I went to the park where I took a few swallows of a Jameson bottle I had purchased from the local liquor guy. I kept the bottle under the driver's seat in my baby and made sure that I didn't drink any of it before therapy so they couldn't smell it. I was feeling better, more in control of my life now that I was doing this my way. My mind was sharper and my focus was dead on. This was good. Real good. Finally it was December 25th. Christmas morning. In my family, it's the next biggest holiday after Easter, but ever since I had kids, the two holidays sort of flip-flopped in importance. And my fucking parents were going to Myra's to spend it with the boys. "So what am I supposed to do while everyone is at MY house celebrating the holiday with MY family?" I asked as mom and pop were getting their coats ready. "Jimmy, we'll be gone till about 4, 4:30," my mom reassured me, wrapping a scarf around her neck. "Then we'll come home with more than enough leftovers for you." "And if you cared so damned much, you'd support them," my pop groused. "I still haven't heard how you added any funds to Myra's account, sent her a damned envelope with cash in it, or paid a bill." "I don't have anything to give. She's got the savings, I'm sure she's been using that. Besides, SHE'S still in the house and working. I'm not!" My pop just frowned. "You really are a piece of work, Jimmy. I can't believe you're my damned son." He looked at mom. "Come on, Mary. Let's get the hell out of here." Mom leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek. "Merry Christmas, Jimmy. Don't let it get you down." I watched them leave, my vision blurred from gathering tears, until their car drove away. Once they were out of sight I went to the kitchen cabinet and rooted around until I found pop's bottle of whiskey. Fuck them. Fuck them all. I drank it straight from the bottle and almost passed out from the euphoria that spread across my skin. Yeah, that was the stuff. Just what I needed. I wandered out of the kitchen, making my way into the family room where I flipped on the TV to watch the Macy's Parade. Whenever the glowing sensation began to fade from my mind I would tilt the bottle back and take another drink, renewing the feeling and bolstering me for another chunk of time. Time. What the hell was I doing? I was wasting time, that was sure. The therapy was a waste of time and I wasn't getting anything out of it. Swallow. Sally was trying, I could tell, but she was sort of spinning her wheels with me and I suspected she knew it. And that made her only try harder to get me to make that great 'first leap' as she called it. Swallow. I didn't need to leap. Or jump. Or even fucking step off. I was doing just fine and once the courts were satisfied I did the program I could have contact with my sons again and get home to Myra. Myra. I could feel the sadness take root in my soul as I thought about how much I missed her. Swallow. How much I loved her. Swallow. God damn I was feeling depressed. I had to wrap this shit up and get home so I could show Myra that I could be the man she always loved. I can fix this, I know I can, but only if I can actually get home to do it. Swallow. Fuck, the bottle must have been more empty than I thought. I went back to kitchen and looked around to see if there was anything else down there. Hmm, a bottle of white zinfandel, a quarter sized bottle of Captain Morgan's, and some sherry. Ugh; I ain't drinking the sherry. I took the Captain Morgan's out and shook it. Mostly filled. Good, this'll do. I'll go out later and buy a replacement for pop. I sat back inside while Miley Cyrus did some song on the stage near Times Square, taking a smaller sip of the Captain, staring at the TV but not really watching anything. I need a job. Now would be a good time to really get on someone's construction crew. I know lots of the builders, it shouldn't be too hard to get one of them to take me on. I know I'd work rings around those guys they get from outside the Bagel Boss in Bethpage. Swallow. Then once I'm making the big bucks and get some experience under my belt, I can look for my own jobs. Nothing big to start, small projects like hanging windows or doing trim work. Swallow. Hell, I'd even spackle, it can't be that hard. I've seen the spackler crews that would come in and most of them didn't speak any English and didn't seem like the smartest bunch of guys. If they can do it, I know I can. Swallow. Then. Then Myra'd be proud of me. The boys too. I'd have my own truck, call my company something like "Three J's Construction" because I know my sons would love to eventually join me. Swallow. Some of those guys weren't the best out there and I know that I could run rings around them. Yeah. Then Myra'd be proud. And she can have nice clothes like Grace and I'd have a nice house like Jerry and they'd come over and be like, "Whoa, Jimmy! This is really good! We love your place!" Swallow. And then they'd be envious and jealous of me and my family. Hell yeah. Swallow. Swallow. Fuck. It's 2:00 already? And where the fuck is the rest of the Captain? Shit, now I think I spilled it, it's empty. Nope, floor's dry. So where the hell is it? Fuck it. I'll go out and buy another one. But it's Christmas, so I guess the liquor guys are closed until later. I'll go out later and get it. But first, I'm really hot and want to take a nap. Yeah. This is nice. I squashed my shoulders into the chair a little harder and leaned back, putting my feet up on the ottoman. Ah, this is the life Jimmy. Real good. "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS!?!?" That's what I heard at the same time that something slapped me hard along the side of the head, waking me from whatever nap I was briefly taking. Blearily I looked up to see my pop standing over me, his big coat open, face red and chest heaving. There was anger there, real deep rooted iron clad anger. Just behind him I could see my mom standing by the entrance, hands at her mouth, a big brown Bloomingdale's bag at her feet. "Huh?" I asked, struggling awake and trying to sit up. "YOU MISERABLE FUCKING DRUNK SHIT!" My pop reached over and slapped me in the head again, making my head ring and causing me to stumble off the couch. "Are you FUCKING insane!?!? You drank!? HERE!?!?" He hauled off and cuffed me again, catching me on the ear this time where it stung. "Hey! Knock it off!" I yelled back, gathering my arms and legs underneath me and trying to stand. He lunged forward again, delivering another open handed slap to the side of my head and face. Ok, that one fucking hurt. "Jimmy Skelly! You are a FUCKING disgrace!! How dare you drink! How dare you do that! What the FUCK is wrong with you, you god damned bastard!?!?" One For The Road Ch. 03 Casey was having as much fun as Dylan was and she threw her ass back at him matching him thrust for thrust. Soon they were back up to full speed as he hilted his tool in her ass with each stroke. Dylan felt the tightening in his balls and knew that he was about to cum. He wanted to get Casey off once more so he picked up the pace even more, pile-driving his large cock full force into her ass with each thrust. He returned his hands to her nipples and began to pinch them again. Sensing that he was close and knowing that John would be back soon, Casey dropped her hand back to her clit and began to frig herself again. The pressure was building for both of them. They were both very close. So when Dylan drove once more into her ass full strength, and twisted her nipples at the same time, that pushed her over the top. She started thrusting back at him and shaking in his arms. She was coming apart at the seams as he continued his assault on her ass. She started grunting so loud that Dylan was afraid that John would hear her cries of pleasure, so he put a hand over her mouth. Casey was still in the throes of orgasm as he continued to thrust into her ass. He was so close. Any second now he would fill her bowels with his cum. Then they both heard. "Casey. Hey Casey. Brian wants you to read him a story." At that exact moment, Dylan's thrusting cock exploded in Casey's ass shooting volley after volley of hot cum deep into her bowels. "Casey can you hear me." John was much closer now. Dylan removed his hand from her mouth. "I'm cumming, darling." She cried out in a strained voice. "You certainly are, "Dylan whispered in her ear as he continued to plow into her ass. "Be right there, baby." She groaned. "Okay." John called back and they heard him move away. Dylan returned his hand to her mouth to make sure there were no extra noises as he thrust a few more times into her plundered ass shooting the last of his cum into her. At last, he released her melon like tits and slowly pulled his shrinking prick from her dripping asshole. He took a step back and sat down hard in the tub causing water to splash every where. Casey crawled out of the hot tub and sat on to the edge. "I won't be able to walk for a month. You are the most incredible fuck I have ever had," she said as she put her tits back into the tiny top. "And you have the most incredible ass I have ever fucked. If I am ever in Ukiah can I call you?" "Please do. Name's Martin. We are in the book." Casey stood and adjusted her thong to cover her pussy and sore asshole. "I have to go baby. Thank you. And I learned my lesson. Never try and out fuck a stuntman." "You know it. Bye" "Good-bye," she said as she walked toward the gate. Dylan watched her ass in amazement. It was one of the best he had ever seen. Then she was gone. "Fuckin' A!" He said to himself. What a great day! What a great fucking day. And with that he leaned back against the side of the tub, closed his eyes and smiled.