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Baker's Dozen

By: Walin



The night was quiet as I baked. Baked isn't as glamorous when I use it. By bake I mean, I placed frozen dough on pans lined with wax paper, sprayed with nonstick stuff, and put them in an oven. There's no sifting or measuring for me. I work in a grocery store. I don't mind it, though. 

My night starts at midnight, when I put my finger on a small device that clocks me in, grab a cart, and begin removing out of date product from the shelves. All the while I make a list of what I need to replace said stock. All in all, pretty dull, but I don't mind it, though.

The night goes as usual, put the pies in the oven, get the French breads and sweet goods in the queue, and then comes the raw dough products. This routine is used every night, and it makes the time pass quickly, since I can lose myself in space and let the mind wander while the body performs the work on its own. 

"Hi Mike. How you doing tonight?" startled me a bit when I was traying up some Italian loaves. The voice was high and familiar. It was Marsha, the overnight clerk. She was attractive in the non-traditional way. She wasn't pretty, really, but she wasn't ugly. She was pretty average all around, except she was half Cherokee and it showed in her skin color. 

"I'm good, Marsha. Same shit, different night, ya know?"

"Yeah, same here. Whacha makin?"

"This?" holding up a long, white, doughy roll of what passes for Italian bread. "Your favorite. Italian."

"Think you can hold one for me this morning? Was going to make some BLTs with it."

"I'll call you when they're out of the oven."

"You're so sweet. Why is that?"

"Just me" I said, holding back that I was wondering what she looked like naked, darkly tanned lags wrapped up in mine, and my hand in her hair. "Besides, what are friends for?" She smiled her average smile and I watched as her average ass bounced away. My mind was already filling her with my cock and forcing my real one to swell a bit.

I pushed it away and kept on baking. The hours passed, Marsha took her bread, and when I got home I slept after masturbating with an image of her in my mind, ass in the air and filled with my cock. This happened most nights, not always with Marsha in mind. Customers would come in the summer with asses hanging out of shorts, breasts peeking out of bras, and just generally making me horny. Being a shy guy, I would never approach them and if I could Marsha's taken. So are the other women I work with. 

Just once, I wanted what happened in my head to come to life. Little did I know, things were about to change.

I went through the normal routine. Wake up, shower, eat, play some World of Warcraft, get changed, go to work. On the way I saw a car at the side of the road. This was late night, and though it wasn't a dangerous neighborhood but I rolled by slowly anyways, and I stopped when I saw the older woman in the driver's seat.

I pulled up next to her and stopped.

"Do you need help, ma'am?"

She looked up and smiled. "Why yes. Yes I do. It seems I've broke down and my phone is dead. Could I use yours?"

"I don't have one, but I can give you a ride to somewhere to call a tow truck."

"My hero." she giggled, opening the door of the sports car and climbing out.

Older for sure, how much older was anyone's guess, but definitely a cougar. I hadn't really seen many of those. Fiery red hair pulled back in a bun, glasses, and a business suit that could be called borderline slutty but mostly suggestive. The suit was dark with a very boxy low cut top. The tops of her breasts fought to stay inside the thing, covered by a white button-down shirt with a strained couple of buttons. A belt in the middle and a knee length skirt below showing nice legs and high heels.You could she the age in her face, but it was more maturity than anything. A woman who had been places, seen things, and had a good time of it. 

"So.." she leaned over to look at my name badge " Mike, you work at Roger's Market? That doesn't sound interesting."

"Well, it pays the bills." I responded by impulse. She didn't really care, I was sure. 

"You don't sound thrilled about it. Is it not what you wanted to be when you grew up?" she reached into her purse, producing a cigarette. "Is it okay if I smoke?"

"It's fine... smoking and the job. I have a graphic arts degree, but jobs are hard to find. Roger's keeps me fed and under a roof."

"I get the feeling you've had a hard time of things, Mike. Nice guys finish last, and that sort, am I right? No girlfriend, no real family, no real friends, just Friday nights playing video games by yourself." She puffed on the smoke, blowing out into the night air.

"Why would you think that?" More than slightly offended,.

"It's okay Mike. It happens to lots of nice guys. Here's the thing, though. I believe nice guys should be rewarded. You are a noble soul, after all you stopped and helped a stranger. That is rare indeed, in these times. I'm going to tell you something you won't believe."

I looked over at her. She was smiling, cigarette gone, and undoing her belt. A moment later her coat was open, and the buttons on her shirt began to be relieved of their duties. 

"I'm going to give you a gift that will make your life better." Her breasts were out now, nipples hard and slightly pink than the paleness of her other skin. "Because I am Aidin. I am a goddess, and I like the downtrodden and loveless. You have been chosen by me to receive my blessing of good luck." 

"You're right" staring at tits between road glances, noticing her skirt being pulled up to reveal white cotton panties. " I don't believe it."

"You don't have to, but you will." She reached over and undid my belt. "It's time." A moment later my cock was out and in her hand. She stroked from the passenger seat, simultaneously rubbing her own pussy over her panties. I could see them getting wet, adding to my own excitedness. This was what I wanted in a woman. The librarian look. Glasses and all. 

I should be saying no, I knew, but it had been so long since the last time a woman touched me like this. The rest I did on my own, and that's not nearly as satisfying as this crazy woman now putting her fingers in my mouth. I sucked her pussy juices off them. They were sweet and made my cock jump in her hand.

"Someone's ready now, I take it" she said, leaning down over my cock, mouth open. She took the head first, suckling gently, slightly mewling. It was almost too much, my balls tingling I was ready to come when she pulled her mouth off of me. "Not yet, darling. The road is a long one." 

She ran a finger from the head of my cock to my balls, down the bottom of it's length. The sensation to cum stopped. 

"You won't come until I'm ready for it. This is part of the gift I give you, Mike. You will will cum when your partner is ready, not before. Until then you will stay at your hardest. You will feel every bit of pleasure, but you will not cum." And her mouth was on my balls, gently suckling, taking one completely in her mouth before running back up the shaft to the tip of the cock. "The second.." She took it all now, my cock in her throat, mewling causing everything to vibrate, bringing again to the edge, but I could not cum. "..you will have women. Twelve women to play with, and one to have forever." My cock disappeared once more into her mouth, her hand stroking shaft and balls being played with. "All women will be attracted to you more than normal, but these twelve..." she gave up on the blowjob now, manuevering to somehow straddle me. I wasn't sure how, but the car stayed on the road even while she began to ride me. Her pussy sucked hungrily at my cock, and she moaned now, as she began to ride me. "you choose will have no choice but to fuck you, any way you want. Like Marsha, for example..." I perked up, sobering a little, how did she know? "..Marsha will be yours tonight. A last gift from me, because this is one of the best cocks I've had in ages."

And then she came, and I with her, our moans and grunts mingling into an orchestra of pleasure I had never known before. My eyes clenched closed on their own as I shot my wad deep into her pussy. Her head, panting rested next to my ear.

"Sleep, my darling one. You will need your rest" came the kiss. Long, sweet, loving, and tender as any I'd ever had. I kissed back urgently, wishing to forever stay in that embrace, those lips, that pussy. I woke up sweaty and stiff cocked half remembering the dream of sex. I jumped in the shower, work awaiting only an hour and a half away.

Bits and pieces came back to me from that dream. Red hair. Milky white breasts. Hands in my hair. A gift. "crazy dream" I thought, tossing my shirt on. 

The routine began, as it always does, with the pies. Before I was even done with them, a familiar voice said "Hey Mike. How you doing tonight?". 

"Pretty good. Same shit..."

"Different day." she giggled. 

"I thought you were off tonight, Marsha. Need some last second milk? Eggs? Or the usual Italian loaf?"

"Nope. I'm here to say, thank you." came around the counter with her, joined by eyes seen only hungry wolves and mad generals. She was wearing a t shirt featuring some band I didn't know and fairly short shorts with sandals. I don't think I'd ever seen her outside the drab Roger's uniform, blue polo and khaki pants. Her hips were exaggeratingly wishful, her hands perching there causing her chest to push out until she finally was close enough to rest her hand on my crotch. 

"You're always such a nice guy, Mike" panted into my ear, pulled close by a hand in my hair. Her tongue briefly darted out and around the lobe. My cock jumped, already swelling, to almost fully erect. "I'd like to be nice back." Shirt yanked out of pants, replace by a hand gripping my cock.

"You.. You always... say thank... you. Really, it's.. n-n-nothing." balls aching to release their combined load, I was led to the freezer door. 

"I have something... more, in mind" she smiled. Like the cat that caught the mouse, that smile hid more sinister things. Click of the latch brought a cold release from the freezer. It was powerless against my cock now, fully engorged and leaping with expectation of pentration.

"What about.. Your husband.." "I won't tell if you won't." puffed out of her mouth. The cold was noticeable in her tits. Her nipples were hard and showing through the shirt. They must be amazingly long or she wasn't wearing a bra. My pants open, she stroked my cock lovingly. Gently mewling while she eyed it. "I want to taste you" lowering onto knees, tits visibly braless down her shirt. 

I breathed in sharply when her mouth closed around my cock. She bobbed halfway down, slowly, then back up. Gently she suckled on the head, her tongue probing and swirling before bobbing down again, taking a little more than half my length. I wasn't huge by any means, but 8 inches isn't exactly nothing, either. She sucked and stroked tenderly before releasing.

"When I'm masturbating at home, I think of you." she said, still jerking me off with care. "I sit in the bath, fingering my pussy and I think about you fucking me. But when I cum I think of something special." Lick from head to balls and back, the cold biting and invigorating my eagerness to cum. A situation not helped by the fact I could see her other hand in her pants, the bulge of her fingers moving where her pussy must surely be. "I think about your cum covering my face. I think about sucking your cock dry. I think of playing with it between my fingers. I think of it sitting on my tongue before I swallow. Have you ever thought of that?"

"God, yes!" fought to get out. My hips begun to move on their own, fucking her hand, hoping it was a pussy or a mouth or an ass. 

"Would like to do that to me?" she teased, taking my cock in her mouth and sliding all the way down, her chin on my balls. I could feel her breath on my pubes, and my cock in her throat. She pulled off, coughing slightly. After a breath my hands grabbed her hair, entangling themselves and pushing her head down again, my hips coming up to meet her, my cock entering impossibly deep. Finally, I came in what felt like gallons. 

My steaming hot jizz slapped her face, covering much of it. It hung from her nose only to be lapped up by her tongue. It dribbled from her chin, and ran down her cheeks, leaving trails of condensation. She eagerly wiped it up with her fingers and licked them clean, then began moaning as she came, her fingers working vigorously inside her shorts. 

"Want a taste of my juice?" she asked, offering her middle and index fingers, fresh from her writhing pussy and wet from the insertion. I leaned down to suck them clean, gently wrapping my tongue around and between, suckling every sweet drop. 

A rather awkward moment passed, goodbyes and thank yous were exchanged between Marsha's groin pawing and oral assaults on my face and neck. I should have worked, then, but I just watched her leave. She had the same swagger as before, only a little limp. Maybe her foot fell asleep. She did, however, have a noticeable wet spot in her crotch. 

"Was it everything you hoped it would be, Mike? It's only a sample, you know."

Looking up I saw a redhead woman, older but attractive, idly leaning on a bascart, one arm propping her head which was plastered with a sweet smile. That smile slammed him down to earth, sobering him, pulling him out of the afterglow and into the memory of a dream filled with sex and gifts and the sweetness of a goddess' cunt. 

"That was a dream... wasn't it?"

"Yes, Mike, it was a dream, but that doesn't mean it isn't quite real. It's just the easiest way to get someone's attention the first time. After that it's easy." Aidin replied, still smiling that smile. "You didn't answer the question. Was it all you hoped for?"

"...yes... better... Am I still dreaming?"

Aidin walked behind the counter, her lips catching mine, her tongue playing tag with my tonsils and winning. Her breasts crushed me against the oven door, thankfully not the really "oh my fucking goddess" hot glass part.

"Mmmmm... Her pussy is nice. Did it taste better than mine, darling? Scratch that. I know there's no way it could. Maybe I should bring her back and lick your cum from her mouth, eh? Would you like that?" my cock leapt slightly, already uncharacteristically eager for more. "I'll take that as a yes!"

"No! Well, I mean, yeah I would, but not now!"

"Awwwww. Why not?"

"I'm working, and I'm already behind. Not that I mind too much." my hands began their task of twisting dough into knots for rolls. "We can talk while I work. Maybe goddesses don't work, but I'm almost behind on rent."

"Alright" she sighed "I'm glad you liked the gift, so far. You still have the twelve, Marsha was just a goodwill present."

"She's married you know. What about her husband. What did you do to her?"

"Nothing.. Much. Look, she was already leaning that direction. I just gave her a push. She wasn't lying about wishing for your cum. Her husband's a lazy jackass. She's not happily married, just married. It really didn't take much pushing. You're more charismatic than you think. Just horrible at talking to girls." 

"Why me? Why gift me with this... whatever it is."

Aidin leapt her rear atop a facing table and sat, legs crossed just enough to barely show her still cotton panties showing off a camel toe. "I told you already, Mike. I like you. You're a good guy and deserve a little good luck at getting lucky." She snorted a laugh. "Sorry. Sometimes I crack me up." I rolled my eyes and continued working. "Anyways, you can have any twelve women you want on a whim. The rest of the women in the world have you on their radars now, too. You have to work them for it, but it'll be easier. Especially once word gets out about the rest of the gift."

"What do I owe you for this, supposing you are a goddess, I'm not asleep, and I'm suddenly very much more sexier than I was."

"Nothing really. I would like to watch sometimes, though. Maybe participate." her hand parted her knees "This gift helps me, too. Every time you fuck, I get stronger." and crept up to her pussy "It's a form of worshipping me." gingerly fingering outside her panties. They were moist, from the look of it. 

"And what happens when the twelve I choose are over with? That's very distracting when you're trying to have a meaningful interaction, by the way. She scowled and removed her hand, but kept her legs spread so I could watch her panties dampen, revealing her pussy under white cotton.

"Well, you can't just pick them anymore. The rest stays the same."

"I meant for you, too. This isn't some evil plot, is it?"

"No, no, no. How can free love be bad?" she grinned "It just keeps me around. In case you hadn't noticed, not too many people worship Celtic spirits anymore."

"Wiccans and druids?"

"HA!" she scoffed "What do they know? 'Let's dance under the full moon'. A bunch of rubbish, really. Anyways, what do you care? When was the last you shot cum all over the face of an attractive woman? Or even an ugly one? Or had a woman touch your cock?" her hand was gliding up her thigh again. My cock was growing despite my best mental images of baseball and my grandmother naked. "Speaking of, may I..?" she pointed to my penis, now noticeably causing a tent in my pants.

"NO! I have to work! Get out of here!" I grabbed a cart now filled with raw dough and pushed it to the oven door, unlatched and swinging open. "And I'm still not sure I believe all of this." but when I turned back she was gone. "But how else would I explain any of this?"

And I can't.

Bakers Dozen



Bakers Dozen

From the offices of The Honorable Curtis ‘Fitz’ Slocum

Two Rivers Mayor and Acting Chief of Police

February 13, 2004

Porker,

Kindly take care of the attached.

Sincerely,

Mayor Slocum

Lester ‘Porker’ Hogg ran his thumb over the embossed seal in the mayor’s expensive letterhead and cursed under his breath. The memo was dated the previous Friday and had taken the entire weekend to make its way across the hall from the mayor’s office. ‘Fitz’ as he preferred to be called, was the only one in town who still used the nickname, ‘Porker’ when addressing Lester. 

The nickname originated 20 years before when the two had played together on the last football team the town had fielded. Thinking of that fateful day in the shower, Lester shuddered. ‘Fitz’, a 200 pound tackle, eyeing Lester, a 135 pound guard, had pointed out that Lester had a hard on. “That’s a porker,” Fitz had declared. 

Like the raised letters on the mayor’s new stationery, that day in 1984 was indelibly etched in Porker’s mind. In addition to being the last football game to be played in Two Rivers it was the last day either of the boys would see their fathers alive. Porker’s father, as a member of the fire department, perished in the fire that leveled the mill, leaving only the irregular foundation at the edge of the mill pond where two rivers came together. Curtis Slocum Senior, manager of the Fitz Yarn Mill, committed suicide that same night.

Until the night of the fire Fitz and Porker had only been acquaintances. Coming from different economic spectrums and different parts of town, they had little in common. But the fire brought them together; they now had something in common. They vowed to return after college to look after their widowed mothers and to look after the town.

Over the next four years they remained friends, seeing one another during school vacations to renew their vow. Rebecca Fitz Slocum was financially independent and did not need much looking after but Porker’s mother, Mary Ann Hogg, was getting by on her deceased husband’s small pension. Fitz spent his summers relaxing while Porker did repairs on his family’s old home. 

The mill fire had taken its toll. The town they returned to was quite different from the town they had left only 4 years before. Mill workers had moved away, reducing the population from 2000 to 1000 and reducing the need for most businesses in town. All that remained was one general store, one bar, one church and one real estate firm. The high school was closed and the fire department was now manned by volunteers. Two Rivers was becoming a ghost town. 

Fitz had a job, he would take over his mother’s business interests. Porker had no prospects for work but he intended to fulfill the commitment he had made to his mother and to Fitz. He started by painting the old house he and his mother would share. There was no other work in town. Banks had foreclosed on many of the homes vacated by those who had moved away. The business district was in shambles. Prospects were dim.

Just as Porker was putting the finishing touches on the paint job, Fitz was elected mayor of Two Rivers, an unpaid part time position. At his first meeting with the board of selectmen, Fitz told the three men of the vow he had made with his friend, Lester ‘Porker’ Hogg, their plan to look after the town. Young Fitz Slocum was congenial fellow. Even with the town’s meager budget, he convinced the board of selectmen to hire Porker as his administrator. Like the town’s budget, the salary would be meager.

They made a strange pair as they surveyed the rubble and made elaborate plans to revitalize their home town. Fitz had gained forty pounds while in college. Porker had grown a handle bar mustache and gained 6 pounds. Seeing to his mother’s business interests required frequent travel, Fitz left Porker to ‘handle’ things. 

When Fitz married in 1990, Porker was his best man. As the years passed, the mayor and the selectmen placed more and more responsibility upon Porker. In order to save money, positions were phased out until Porker became the town’s only full time employee. He prepared the town budget, issued tax bills and attempted to collect taxes on real estate that had been vacated and abandoned. 

He wore a number of hats. As collector of taxes, Porker foreclosed on property with outstanding taxes. As building inspector he proclaimed the property uninhabitable and issued contracts to dismantle buildings that were deemed hazardous. As street commissioner, he often made the decision to close streets rather than spend the town’s funds on repairs. After a time he issued contracts to have them dismantled. 

The mayor and the three selectmen were happy with Porker’ ingenuity and the way he conducted the town’s business. Porker was a devoted son, making his mother as comfortable as possible on his scanty salary. He devoted his time and energy to a declining town. 

Then, three things happened to turn Porker’s life upside down. A four lane highway that would come very near Two Rivers was built. The state declared an audit of Two Rivers’ books. About this time, Porker’s mother died. 

Having fulfilled the commitment to his widowed mother, Porker decided to resign from his position and made plans to leave Two Rivers. By going elsewhere he could easily triple or quadruple his present salary. He would get away from his home town, possibly meet someone with whom he could settle down. At the next selectmen’s meeting he gave notice that a replacement should be found because he would be leaving. The selectmen said they would accept his resignation as soon as the audit was completed.

Irregularities were found. The audit took years to complete, keeping Porker chained to the job. Seventy-five percent of the contracts had been issued to one Seth Tucker, a general contractor. The city council pleaded ignorance to this, saying that Lester Hogg had awarded all of the contracts in question. Porker explained that Seth Tucker was the only contractor with a dump truck and jack hammer who would bid on the jobs. All other contractors had left town during the real estate boon of the eighties. 

By 2003, with the new highway completed, Two Rivers had suddenly become a very desirable place to live, being between two cities that offered employment, it was a convenient commute to both. Houses were in demand. Porker had issued 250 building permits and the town’s population had doubled. Seth Tucker became a prominent developer of new sub divisions. 

Now, in 2004, the audit complete, there was talk of hiring a town manager and Porker was packing his bags. He rubbed the Mayor’s seal on the expensive stationery, typed by the mayor’s new full time secretary who had been too lazy to walk the memo across the hall. Instead, the memo had gone through the mail department which was operated one hour each day by the new part time janitor. 

The attachment, a pink telephone message, had been stapled to the memo. 

Mrs. Margaret Potash had called the mayor’s office at 4:30 p.m. the previous Friday to complain about her house number. There was a telephone number and an address, 13 Cornbramble Road. 

Cornbramble was a Seth Tucker development. Porker had been there often to perform inspections as the 25 homes were constructed. He recalled a conversation with Seth who wanted to know how to number the houses. Porker had said to number them one through twenty-five with odd numbers on the left hand side of the street. There would be no need to skip numbers for future use because the town’s new zoning by-laws were very strict with regard to lot sizes. Porker foresaw no additional homes on this street. He also recalled that Seth had bought the land, a corn field with brambles along the back fence, from one of the selectmen. 

Now that new town business demanded they meet weekly, the selectmen had voted themselves a raise in pay. Porker had been excluded from the pay raise because he would be leaving soon.

“Mrs. Potash? This is Lester Hogg, I’m the street commissioner of Two Rivers. The mayor asked me to look into your complaint.” Porker had chosen the title that seemed most appropriate to the complaint as he understood it.

“Mr. Hogg? You’re the street commissioner?” The voice was soft spoken, timid.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I was expecting to hear from the Mayor.”

“Mayor Slocum asked me to see if I can help you Mrs. Potash.”

“It’s my house number, Mister Hogg. When I bought it there was no number but now that I’m moved in....will...it’s a number I just can’t live with.”

Porker looked at the telephone message again and noted the address: 13 Cornbramble. “Mrs. Potash, the houses on that street have been assigned numbers. Your house is in the center of the block. There’s nothing I can do about it now. I hope you can understand.”

“NO, I CAN NOT UNDERSTAND,” the voice had suddenly taken a gruff tone. “You have to do something, if it means assigning new numbers, so be it.”

“There’s really nothing I can do, Mrs. Potash,” Porker said calmly, trying to console the new resident of Two Rivers.”

“You may not have heard of me, Mr. Hogg, I am a reporter for the Springfield Times. I can make life very difficult for you and your fair city. You may also want to advise Mayor Slocum that I’m angry that he did not return my call.”

Porker recalled the name. “Maggie Potash” was a hard hitting reporter for her paper. Springfield was the city to the east, recently connected to Two Rivers by the new highway. ‘Indeed, she could make life difficult,’ he thought. But he would be leaving soon, with the audit completed the selectmen could not hold him any longer. He was tempted to tell ‘Maggie’ what she could do with her house number.

“I have a condition known as Triskaidekaphobia,” her voice had calmed, she was pleading. “Mister Hogg, I can’t go out of my house, I tried. When I backed my car down my driveway and saw the number on the side of my house, I froze. Mr. Hogg, I’m a prisoner in my own home. I can’t go to work.”

‘If she can’t go to work she can’t make life difficult for me,” Porker was thinking to himself. 

“I may not be able to go to my office but I can write my column here at home,” she said as if she was reading his mind. “I assure you, Mister Hogg, if something is not done in the next fifteen minutes, my column tomorrow morning will be your worst nightmare.”

“If I may be so presumptuous, it sounds to me that you need help, Mrs. Potash,” Porker offered.

“I certainly do need help. I can’t leave my house. I’ve waited here all weekend for your mayor to call. There is nothing left to eat: I’ve run out of food. Yes, Mister Hogg, you can help. Bring me some food and while you are here, take that number off of my house.”

Porker considered the predicament. He could not remove the house number. Town By-laws prohibited such action. He was still considering his options when a stern voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Mister Hogg?”

“Yes, Mrs. Potash.”

“You’ve wasted five minutes. You have ten minutes.”

Porker slammed down the telephone. No female reporter was going to threaten him. Yet, what if his name appeared in her column the next morning? What if the selectmen blamed him for the bad publicity? Could they make him stay until the situation was corrected? 

A sudden thunderstorm slowed Porker down as he drove to the only store in town that sold groceries. He dashed through the store, picking up bread, milk and eggs. By his estimate he had less than five minutes to get to 13 Cornbramble Road. As he pulled up to the garage a sinking feeling came over him; he was late.

The side door opened and there she was. Maggie Potash was a striking woman, more beautiful than the caricature he had seen above her column in the Springfield Times. Long dark hair flowed easily around her angelic features, the soft jawbone, the punkish nose, the succulent lips and the dark amber eyes. 

Fascinated by the creature in the doorway, Porker stood in the downpour, getting more drenched. 

“Come in, you won’t harm anything, it’s just the mud room,” Maggie insisted. 

She took the groceries from him while Porker stood on the ceramic tiled floor, dripping, watching her move. Her lithe upper body swelled to a pronounced sway at the hips, filling out the black matador pants she wore. Returning to the hall, she saw how soaked he was, water dripping from his wet clothes.

“I’ll get a towel,” she offered. He watched her move again, spellbound, the cheeks of her ass accentuated against the fine fabric.

Handing him the towel, “Give me your clothes, I’ll throw them in the dryer,” she ordered.

Porker looked at her in disbelief. He was a public servant, here to avert what could easily render a black eye to the town. He had brought her something to eat. Somehow, he had to explain that he could not remove the number from her house, then he would leave.

She insisted. “Give me you pants and shirt, Mister Hogg, I’ll dry them for you.”

“Mrs. Potash, I need to speak with you for a few minutes, then I’ll be on my way. My clothes would just get wet again when I go back outside.”

“Give me those God Dammed clothes!” Maggie Potash spoke with a resolute tone that could not be mistaken. She was determined to get his pants off.

“Maybe your husband has something I could put on,” Porker suggested, thinking that Maggie would get the hint and leave while he removed his clothes. 

“I have none of my husband’s clothes in this house,” Maggie said, watching him reluctantly begin to unbutton his shirt she thought, ‘his clothes wouldn’t fit you anyway.’ 

He handed her the shirt, revealing fine blond hair on his hollow chest. Drips of water were even falling from his handle-bar mustache onto the mud room floor. Porker had only gained six pounds since playing high school football. She did a double take as the pants came down. What is that between those chicken legs? 

“Can I get some breakfast started for you while you dry the clothes?” Porker asked, hoping he could take refuge behind the kitchen counter, thankful that she hadn’t demanded that he give her his jockey shorts. 

“What did you bring me?” Maggie called from the laundry room.

“Bread, milk and eggs, how do you like them?” he answered, squishing his way to the open kitchen.

“Ah, scrambled will be fine, I’m starving.”

She laughed when she saw that he had dawned one of her frilly aprons. It hid his front but from the rear it gave her a perfect view of his narrow hips and that ‘THING’ seemed to be growing between his skinny legs. She sat at the counter, trying to respect his privacy but sneaking peeks at his bare back and how his prick stretched the tiny jockey shorts. 

“Are you socks wet? I can still add them to the dryer,” she offered.

“No, they’re fine,” he said, hoping she wouldn’t hear the squish in his shoes every time he moved.

“What about your shorts, did they get wet?” she said, just to see how this man who had taken over her kitchen would react. She was curious about him. She had not seen a wedding band, ‘no wonder,’ what woman would want that handle-bar mustache and those toothpick legs. Still, there was something about him that fascinated her. As a writer she took notice of the most minute detail. She wondered if she could have noticed the detail between his legs if she hadn’t got him to take off his pants. 

Porker sat a plate of scrambled eggs with toast on the counter in front of Maggie. Then he poured a cup of coffee, saying that he would go check on the dryer. She watched his skinny ass as he walked toward the sound of the dryer, still wearing the apron, squishing his way.

His wallet and comb had been laid out on top of the dryer. While waiting for the cycle to finish, he combed his hair. 

“You have a crumb on your lip,” he pointed out, taking a seat on a tall stool next to Maggie. Fully clothed, Porker felt confident. He would deal with this woman and be on his way. 

“Where?” she asked, turning to him. She had wolfed down the eggs and toast too fast, hungrily disregarding her Miss Manners training.

“Right.....here,” he said, moving his thumb over her lip to flick the crumb away.

“Do you always make breakfast for your constituents?”

“My job is not an elected office. I don’t have constituents but I don’t mind cooking for a beautiful woman.”

“Are you flirting with me? You don’t actually think that a carefully worded compliment will deflect my charge against this town do you? I would never have bought this house if I had known the house number was going to be thi....thir....thirt....that number.”

“I guess Seth didn’t think about putting the house numbers on until the other day when he asked me how to number them.”

“He asked you about the numbers? That means you’re responsible for giving me thir...thir...the number. I’ll be sure to name you in the law suit.”

He swiveled the seat to face her, “law suit? you can’t do that, I was only recently cleared from an allegation. I....I’m....I’m leaving here....” 

Maggie turned to face him, placing her knee between his legs, a toe on the bottom rung of his stool. “Oh I can, Mister Hogg, and I will if you don’t make this right by giving this house another number.” 

Porker winced, watching a sly smile appear on her lips and thinking, ‘she’s about to kick me in the nuts.’

“You really should get some help with your....your...your condition, Mrs. Potash.”

“I have help, Mister Hogg, I have you. Now if you will excuse me I have a column to write.”

Head down, Porker started toward the door.

“Mister Hogg?”

“Yes, Mrs. Potash?” Porker said turning.

“I can get by with eggs for lunch but for dinner, unless you can have the number changed by then, I think I would like something more substantial. Why don’t you surprise me?”

Brenda Mae, the mayor’s new full time secretary, did not know when Fitz could be expected. Brenda Mae was new in town, having moved into one of the new homes with an ‘uncle’. She tantalized Porker with her long fingernails and sexy voice. 

Porker telephoned Seth Tucker to advise him that the odd numbered house numbers on Cornbramble would need to be changed. The Potash home would be assigned number 15, number 15 would be assigned number 17 and so on. Seth was dubious, saying he didn’t think that could be done. 

Porker explained the problem in detail, even telling Seth about Maggie’s condition, Triskaidekaphobia.

“A what?” Seth asked.

“She has a phobia about the number 13. She can’t leave her home because she can’t get past the number without having some sort of attack.

“That’s simple, we’ll change the number,” offered Seth.

“To what?” Porker ask, wishing it was that simple.

“Well, you’re the one that assigned the numbers. I don’t see how you can expect me to take care of your mistakes,” said Seth.

“Seth, you should have had those numbers on the houses long before they were sold. Mrs. Potash says she would never have bought the house if she had known it was number 13.”

“Sorry, Mr. Hogg. I’m very busy getting another development under way. You’re going to have to dig yourself out of this mess.” 

‘I don’t recall issuing a permit for that road you’re having built,’ Porker thought as he hung up the phone. ‘And you’re going to need building permits for each of those new homes you are about to start. I hope I’m still here when you decide to come by with the applications. Maybe I’ll stick around.’

Porker spent every spare moment trying to contact the new Cornbramble home owners with odd house numbers from 15 to 25. Of the six houses, he was only able to speak to three, all housewives who said their husbands would have to decide if their house numbers could be changed. The wives were not keen about the idea, having ordered new stationary and given their new addresses to friends. There was also the utilities to consider. Mrs. Combs at number 21 foresaw a mix-up with bills going to the wrong address. “I don’t want to get the electric bill for that big house next door,” she said.




Bakers Dozen



At 6:00 p.m. Porker did not have the agreement of any of the home owners to change their house numbers. He spent the next 30 minutes composing a letter to the new residences to explain the change of house numbers, claiming that it was being ordered by the town. The form letter said nothing about Maggie Potash’s phobia. 

At 7:00 p.m. he was on his way to number 13 Cornbramble Road with a pizza. It had stopped raining but he wore a raincoat, just in case.

Maggie, upon seeing the pizza box in his hands, beamed. “What kind is it?”

Porker had to think what topping he had ordered, “sausage,” he answered tentatively, hoping it would be acceptable.

“My favorite,” Maggie exclaimed, failing to tell him that she really did not care for it, she was thinking of the sausage in his trousers.

She produced a bottle of Merlot. They sat at the kitchen counter. She wanted to know about the town. He told her about the mill burning, the mass exodus of the mill workers, the hardships the small town had endured and the new highway being built which was rejuvenating the town. Even a pizza shop had recently opened in the town.

As the last slices of pizza were eaten and the last of the wine was poured they both relaxed and the conversation turned more personal. He told her how the mayor and the selectmen had delegated their duties and how they held him responsible for answering to the auditor. 

He was infatuated with this woman. In a weak moment he even told her of his high school nickname.

“Porker? why would they give you a name like that?” Then she giggled, “Porker Hogg, oh, I get it.” She had not ‘gotten it.’ But much later, laying alone in her bed that night, she would ‘get it.’

As he was leaving she handed him a stack of envelopes to be mailed. “You’ll need to stop at the post office to pick up my mail anyway. They won’t deliver it here until I put my house number on the box, something I will not do.” He noted that none of the outgoing mail had a return address.

“Oh, and here’s a list of items you can pick up. I feel like pasta for tomorrow night, is that okay with you?” 

Porker held his breath as he opened the Springfield Times the next morning. The Maggie Potash column was entitled: “City Vs Small Town, Bureaucrats in both are all the same.” The article said nothing about the house number being at the center of the conflict. Nor were any names mentioned. In the last paragraph there was a sentence that caught his attention: ‘Living in a small town does have its advantages. A very conscious streets commissioner cooked breakfast for me.’

All three town selectmen telephoned and the mayor sent Brenda Mae across the hall to see Porker personally. “What’s this all about?” they wanted to know. Porker explained how serious the situation was becoming. The selectmen all told him the same thing: “Handle it. Make sure there is no law suit.” Brenda Mae, having listened to what Porker told each of the selectmen, smiled. “You seem to have an affinity for getting yourself in tight places, don’t you Porker?” Brenda Mae had seen Maggie’s article, ‘he made breakfast for her, how interesting,’ she thought.

Porker had to agree, ‘he did like tight places,’ he thought when he watched the sway in Brenda Mae’s hips as she left his office. ‘This ‘tight place’ could have been averted if she had delivered the telephone message at 4:30 p.m. last Friday,’ he thought.

Porker visited each of the homes with house numbers 15 through 25, dropping off the letters to the same three housewives he had spoken to on the phone. One of them told him that the other three women worked outside the home. Mrs. Combs said she had discussed the number change with Mr. Combs. He had stated emphatically that their house number would not be changed.

“Did you see Maggie Potash’s column this morning, Mr. Hogg?” Mrs. Combs ask, a wry smile at the corner of her mouth.

Porker picked up Mrs. Potash’s mail, noticing one of the letters was from a Springfield law firm. The postmaster wanted to know when she would have a house number on her mailbox. “Soon,” Porker told him. 

The grocery list was lengthy. Porker was glad to fill the order, hoping the items would last Mrs. Potash a few days. He picked up a bottle of wine to go with the pasta.

Maggie was amused when she opened the door for him. Despite it being a clear February day, he was wearing a raincoat. 

While she opened her mail, Porker began making a salad and preparing the meal

Maggie was wearing a white knee length skirt and a black sweater, both tight fitting, displaying well formed tits and legs. Porker could see the panty line hug her ass. He tried not to notice, thinking of how he could explain why her house number had still not been changed.

By the time Maggie had finished reading her mail Porker had the table set and the meal well under way. She watched him work. Being cooped up in her own home was making her edgy. Although she did not want to admit it, she had looked forward to Porker’s visit. Why had this ‘mama’s boy’ remained single? Had she been the first women to notice the ‘asset’ between his legs.

She jumped when he turned to her and smiled to say that dinner was almost ready. ‘Damn, he had caught her looking at his skinny butt.’

During dinner they talked more about the town. She wanted to know about the mayor. She made mental notes of the people he mentioned. She knew Sally Scott who had recently taken over her father’s real estate business. Jeff Morgan ran the general store and was having a tough time staying abreast of the new resident’s tastes. Jeff had just installed a small bakery in his store, named ‘The Bakers Dozen.’ 

Maggie commented that she did not like the name of the bakery. Of course she knew Seth Tucker, the builder. 

Nothing was mentioned about Maggie’s column in the morning newspaper, nor did she inquire about the progress Porker was making to rectify the house number mix up although it was dominating both of their lives. 

Bored by being a prisoner in her own home, Maggie decided to have some fun. While clearing the table she accidentally bumped her butt against Porker’s arm. As he looked up at her in surprise she smiled at him. 

“Mr. Hogg, would you mind if I call you Porker?” 

“Why, no,” he answered. The nick name was very distasteful to him but what could he say, she had him by the balls, so to speak.

“Why don’t you call me Maggie,” she said when she returned to where he was sitting. “”I’ll need for you to go by the bank to make a deposit tomorrow, Porker.”

Leaning over, breasts near his face, she handed him an envelope. “This check came in the mail you picked up for me.”

“This is a Springfield bank,” Porker complained, not seeing how he could take time out of his busy day to drive there and back.

“It’s important that the deposit be made tomorrow, Porker. As you can see, it’s a rather large sum. It’s the final payment installment from my divorce settlement.”

Porker didn’t see how he could refuse this lady. The selectmen had been very specific. “Handle it,” they had said. Besides, her tits were still dangling in front of his face and her perfume captivated his mind. 

“What time will you be here? I’ll have the steak ready for you to cook.”

“I’m sorry, Maggie. Tomorrow is Wednesday, the selectmen meet on Wednesday nights. I have to be there.”

“Then come after the meeting. We’ll have a late dinner. I’ll be anxious to hear what the selectmen discussed,” Maggie said, undaunted.

“It may be late, Maggie. There’s allot of business to discuss,” Porker said, thinking of the questions they would have for him about changing the house numbers.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be busy tomorrow, writing my Thursday column,” she said as she let him out the door. “Come anytime.”

“I’ll be here as soon as the meeting adjourns, Maggie,” he assured her. 

Porker drove to the bank in Springfield to make the deposit. On the way back he cursed the new road. What a pain in the ass it had become to him. If it were not for the new road he would be free to relocate. His mind drifted to Maggie with the prominent panty line, very visible under the tight skirt. Was she teasing him?

That afternoon he had unfolded the plat plan for Cornbramble when his telephone rang. “Porker, can you bring me a copy of the notes from the selectmen meeting please?”

It wasn’t really a question. Maggie was just being polite. Her reporter’s voice was very sure and confident. 

Porker was stunned. There had never been such a request before. What would the selectmen say? “I don’t think that will be possible, Maggie.”

“Why not? Porker, isn’t the meeting public?”

“Yes, I suppose but we never have visitors.”

“Porker, I’m certain those notes are a matter of public record. As a citizen of Two Rivers I’m entitled to attend the meeting. Since you have me squirreled up in my own home I can’t come to the meeting.”

Reluctantly, Porker agreed to bring a copy of the meeting notes.

“Oh, I’ll need a copy of the notes of the meeting when the selectmen voted themselves a raise.” Porker balked, saying he would need to get a reading.

“Bring the note Porker. Thank you.” 

When the February 18, 2004 selectmen’s meeting came to order at 7:00 p.m. the small room was crowded with concerned townspeople. In the front row sat Sandy Scott, saying her curiosity had been peaked by the recent article in the Springfield Times. She was alert during the meeting, taking notes along with Porker.

At 10:10 p.m. Porker raced to his car with a folder containing the meeting notes Maggie wanted to see. 

Maggie’s house was dark. Had she given up on him and gone to bed? But when he tried the doorknob it turned in his hand. Inside he heard her voice from someplace in the dark house. “Hang your coat on a hook.” 

Complying with the voice from the dark, he hung up his coat and turned. A shadow appeared, making a swinging motion, something coming at him, a cold wet splash, followed by the realization that he was drenched. “What the fuck?” Porker screamed, dropping the folder of notes to the wet floor.

“Oh, Porker, I got you wet,” she said, throwing her arms around him. He felt the now empty bucket hit his back. She felt warm in his arms, pressing softly against him, her cheek against his.

“Your mustache tickles,” she laughed after they kissed for the first time. 

This woman had lost her mind and it was his fault for leaving her cooped up in the house. He would go outside and remove the house number, to hell with by-laws. She released him and stepped back. In the darkened mud room they gazed at one another. He couldn’t help grinning at the crazed woman. Her clothes were almost as wet as his, her shirt and slacks having absorbed water as her body held him close.

“Mr. Hogg, get out of those wet clothes,” she commanded.

He protested, mumbling that he would go home and dry off.

“Mr. Hogg, it’s February, you’ll catch your death in this weather. I refuse to be responsible. Take off those clothes,” she said with the same commanding voice that he could not refuse. He reached into his pocket to retrieve a damp bank deposit slip and began to unbutton his shirt. 

As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he could see Maggie’s eyes watch as he removed his pants. He offered her his pants and shirt, then stood waiting for her to take them to the laundry. But she didn’t move.

“Shorts too,” she said, a hint of gaiety in her voice. 

He flatly rejected the idea, saying his shorts were not wet.

“Do you want me to go fill this bucket again?” she ask, an edge to her voice.

He stalled, bending to untie his shoes. She waited. When he had removed his socks and shoes he looked at her, pleading.

“I’ll go fill the bucket,” she warned, turning.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he called after her, shivering with his bare feet on the damp tile floor. He bent down to pick up the folder of notes, deciding they were too wet to be readable. 

She reappeared with the bucket. He held up his arms to protest but to no avail. Water was coming his way, most of it directed toward the only garment on his body, his already damp shorts. He held the folder up, trying, unsuccessfully, to deflect the water from hitting him in the face.

She dried his hair with a towel. 

“You’re wet too,” he boasted, rubbing his wet hands down her back to her hips to mold her body to his. 

“Mmmm,” she moaned as he kissed her, again tickling her nose. 

“Let’s get these wet clothes off you,” he suggested, already slipping the blouse over her head.

“Mmmm,” she moaned as he kissed her while unfastening her bra. She didn’t complain when his mustache ticked both tits as his tongue traced the valley between them in an upward motion. At the same time he had released her belt, letting her pants fall to the floor. She stepped out of them as the handlebars of his mustache tickled her tits on the downward motion

He did not resist when she pulled down his shorts. In fact, he wiggled his slim ass as she stretched the waistband to slide it over his cock, aroused by the sight of her impressive breasts.

Short gasps of air left his lungs as she took his cock in both hands, squeezing its length while smiling up at him. She no longer seemed angry. She was just getting to know him, measuring him. The feeling made him grow in her hands. She was on her knees in front of him, kissing the end of his cock. 

Porker shivered from the cold damp floor and from the warm damp feel of her mouth engulfing his cock. She held his balls in one hand and the base of his cock in the other, getting to know him. He made little hissing sounds as she moved the head of his cock to the back of her mouth and sucked as she pulled back. Porker rested his hand on her dark hair, gently resting it there as she moved up and down the length of his cock.

There was nearly an inch of water on the cold tile floor when Maggie coaxed Porker down on his back while continuing to suck his cock. The shock when his back met the wet tile floor was nothing compared to the overwhelming thrill of Maggie’s wet soft pussy surrounding his cock as she impaled herself upon him. From his place on the cold wet floor he watched the expression on her face go from anguish as she adjusted to his girth to determination as she struggled with his length to one of fulfillment as she begin to slowly move upon him. He watched her eyes glisten in the dark and gave her an encouraging smile as she buried about one half of his length deep within her tunnel. When she bent forward to kiss him he felt the walls of her pussy contract. He pushed upward to let his presence be known. She responded with another contraction and ended the kiss to resume the workout she was giving his cock. 

He was still not in very far when she picked up the pace. He placed his hands on her hips to give her support and she cupped her tits to keep them from bouncing. Once a rhythm was established, he pushed upward to meet her downward thrust. Her tongue was in the corner of her open mouth and her breath was halted. As she slowed, he put his hands on her butt to help with the lifting motion. 

She came to a stop, gasping for air, her inner walls choking the bulb of his cock, relaxing in a flurry of spasms. She leaned forward, her tits flattened against his chest, her cheek next to his. “This.... is........ wonderful,” she whispered haltingly in his ear, the muscles deep within her pussy walls speaking more loudly.

She teeth chattered when her back felt the cold wet floor. Still engaged, he watched her face closely as he made the first forward thrust, slowly, easing in, seeing her grimace backing out, easing forward again, backing out. Not until he felt her legs wrap around him did Porker really Pork Her. 

Increasing his speed, he gradually increased the depth of his thrusts. Maggie loved it. She watched his lips move, mouthing something, what was it? She swung her head from side to side, getting her hair wetter and wetter in the cold water, hanging on to this thin man’s shoulders with her arms and her legs around his skinny ass. He fucked her deeper and deeper until she released her grip, dropping her arms to the floor. He felt the spasm deep within her. He waited until her head stopped moving from side to side and watched her lips move. He lowering his head to hear what she was saying. “This.....is....so...good....it’s.....wonderful.”

He took one of her nipples between his lips, waiting for her to regain her composure. When she raised her arms and clasped her hands behind his neck he resumed with short slow thrusts, watching Maggie’s lips mouth, ‘won....der...ful.’

When he felt her legs take their place, locked at the ankles, he increased the speed and depth of the thrusts. Their eyes were locked. She smiled when she saw him mouth, ‘I’m coming.’ She hung on to his neck, feeling the strong splats deep within her. They lay together on the cold wet floor, grinning, satisfied. 

In her bedroom after a long hot shower he had to tell her about the proceedings at the selectmen’s meeting because the notes were ruined. An inordinate amount of time had been spent on the house number conflict. ‘How did this happen? Who was at fault? What was being done to rectify the situation? Was this woman crazy?’ The selectmen had been quite critical of Porker’s actions, telling him to take what ever action necessary to ‘handle it.’ The audience had listened to the discussion very attentively.

One of the selectmen had said that the fear of the number 13 was just a superstition.

“Which one said that? what is his name?” Maggie wanted to know. 

“Huh?” Porker had been distracted by the bare thigh, un-hidden by the terry cloth robe that Maggie was wearing. His body was covered with a blanket.

Maggie covered her leg, then thought, ‘what the hell, how often do I have a chance at something that thick and that long in me?’ She leaped at him, covered them both with his blanket and kissed him, letting the handlebars tickle her nose.

After she had extracted the name of the guilty selectman, she ask him to move his car inside her garage, saying that his reputation was at stake, sleeping with a crazy woman. 

When he came back inside he found her at the computer. “Just making a slight revision to my column,” she explained.

Both hungry, they made a sandwich and went back to bed to fuck, rough and tumble, greedily, the thin man Porked the crazy woman with abandon, with less concern that he would hurt her now that she had ‘measured’ him.

As they were going to sleep she asked, “I saw your lips moving when you were fucking me on the mud room floor, what were you saying?” She was running her finger nails through his fine chest hair.

Porker mumbled something.

“What did you say?” 

He mumbled something again.

“WHAT?” 

Feeling his chest hair being clumped in her fist, Porker answered, “PORK HER,” bracing himself for what was to follow. She pulled, hard. 

By 7:30 the next morning there was not a single copy of the Springfield Times newspaper left for sale in Two Rivers. The Maggie Potash column was entitled, “City Vs Small Town, Bureaucrats in both are all the same.” Within the article it was claimed that the town selectmen had agreed to fine builders who had let residents move into newly built homes without an occupancy permit being issued. It went on to say that the selectmen had lamented the fact that certain builders had not filed applications for such occupancy permits. Naming the three town selectmen, Maggie gave the date they had unanimously voted to increase their pay. The article ended: ‘Living in a small town does have its advantages. A very conscious building inspector cooked breakfast for me.’

For the first time ever, Porker was late getting to work that Thursday morning. He had awaken to a very ambitious mouth locked to the end of his penis. Maggie achieved her goal in a very short time and was soon bouncing up and down, taking his huge member bit by bit. Still half asleep, Porker watched her ass move deliciously, feeling his cock being slowly encapsulated and her hands on his knees.




Bakers Dozen



Porker had not seen the article. Brenda Mae did her best to give him a synopsis

while staving off the seven builders who had stormed the office. They were there to apply for occupancy permits. Meanwhile, the phones rang incessantly.

‘What have I done?’ Porker thought. The article was totally inaccurate. There had been no mention of occupancy permits or of a fine for not having one.

‘What have I done?’ It was while they were under the blanket, Maggie’s tits dangling in his face, that she had extracted the idea from him. He had told her that while reviewing the Cornbramble file he had noticed a stamp at the bottom of each building permit. The stamp served as a check list for the building inspector and included each item to be inspected as the construction progressed. The last item to be checked was ‘occupancy permit.’ It was as if he was seeing the stamp for the first time. All of this was new to him. The permits he had issued had all been for demolition, until recently. As he mentioned occupancy permit to Maggie he wondered it he had been negligent in his duties. What if an accident occurred due to an unsafe condition in one of the homes. Would the town be liable for negligence, his negligence? That was when Maggie had asked him to put his car in her garage.

“How much do we charge for this occupancy permit?” Brenda Mae yelled from the collection window. She was being a real trooper, helping answer the telephone and now handing out forms to contractors who had lined up at the window. 

“Thirteen,” Porker said out loud, “that’s what got me in trouble, fucking thirteen.”

“Did you say thirteen?” Brenda Mae wanted clarification. Not waiting for an answer, she impulsively turned to Seth Tucker, thirteen times twenty-five, that will come to, let’s see, hold on Mr. Tucker, let me get a calculator.”

The telephone calls were mainly from angry residents who had recently moved to a newly built home in Two Rivers. At first, Porker hedged, saying there had been no decision as to when the fines would begin or how much they would be. But after hearing one of the town selectmen comment that the occupancy permit fines could turn out to be a bonanza for the town, Porker answered the calls with conviction, saying that the contractors were applying for the permits and he would do his best to make the inspections in a timely manner. 

“I don’t remember the subject of fines coming up, I want to see those notes,” each of the selectmen said as if they had spoken to one another before they called Porker. He had to confess that his notes had suffered water damage soon after the meeting. Naturally, the selectmen wanted to know if the unfortunate accident had something to do with the number 13. “Sandy Scott was there, we’ll see what her notes say about occupancy,” the selectmen said as if they had spoken to one another before calling Porker.

‘What have I done?’ Porker thought, ‘what have I done?’ 

By the end of the morning Brenda Mae had collected $3250, Porker had 250 newly constructed homes to inspect and Sandy Scott had confirmed that her notes included the occupancy discussion. She elaborated that the amount of the fine had not been set. More discussion would take place at the next meeting, prompting each of the selectmen to say, “I would remember it if we had set the amount of the fine.”

Seth Tucker took Porker aside, wanting to know how he was progressing with changing the house numbers. To this, Porker was very evasive, saying that he was having difficulty with the home owners, without being specific. In turn, Seth offered to do anything he could to help rectify the situation.

“That’s good to hear,” Porker replied, “I’ll be sure to call upon you if it comes to that.”

Porker wanted to begin the inspections, to get away from the ringing telephones.

He also wanted to go see Maggie. But there was another round of calls from the selectmen. Their conversations were all the same, as if they had spoken with one another before calling Porker. “Thirteen Dollars? Is that all you charged? You could have easily charged fifty or one hundred. We’ll make up for it on the fines. We’ll charge thirteen dollars per day.” They spoke as one, it was good to have them agree on something. 

Porker explained that the inspections would only take a few minutes each. He had been to all the homes several times. Unless he found a deviation to the plan, something added since his last inspection or otherwise out of order, the homes would pass. There would probably be no fines. Hearing this displeased the selectmen. 

“How does that work, an occupancy permit? What do you look for?” Maggie had him in a tit lock, his handlebar mustache pressed between her tits. 

“I have no idea,” he answered, knowing that with each word her tits were being tickled. She was beginning to like the feel.

“I would think there would be some reason for rejection in every house on the street. You have to reject this one.”

“For what?”

“What did you say?”

“What is the reason for not issuing an occupancy permit for your house.”

“What did you say?”

“You’re just doing that to get me to tickle your tits,” Porker said, having caught on to her prank.

She took him to the basement to show him the leak. Naked, she proudly pointed to the wet spot on the floor and drips of water coming from above.

“That’s from the mud room where you dumped two buckets of water on me.”

“You’ll have to reject my house,” Maggie said, so close to him that he had to agree with her.

“You’ll have to stop dumping water on me. From now on, just ask. I’ll take off my clothes.” They laughed together. 

“How did you persuade Sandy Scott to revise her notes?”

“She sold me the house. She felt badly that I got stuck with that number. She said she would be glad to help us get the house numbers changed.”

“Is that why you dumped the water on me? To destroy the meeting notes?”

“No honey, I doused you with water to get you out of your pants. Changing the notes was an afterthought when you told me about the occupancy permit.” 

“It’s a good thing Sandy went along with your plan.”

“By the way, she told me your nick name in high school.”

“Really, I thought Fitz was the only one that remembered that. Now you call me that and even Brenda Mae is calling me Porker.”

“That’s not it. Sandy says the girls called you Bakers Dozen in high school.”

It took over four weeks for Porker to conduct the house inspections, some of which had to be done on Saturday when he could catch working couples at home. All the new homes were found to be acceptable for occupancy except seven homes on the left hand side of Cornbramble Road, numbers 13 through 25. 

Seth Tucker was beside himself and the residents of the homes who had received rejection notices were outraged. Seth complained that the rejections were based on minor infractions. He and the angry residents attended the next town selectmen’s meeting, fuming, leveling the charge that Porker was discriminating against them, that he had rejected their homes for reasons having nothing to do with building codes. The selectmen, while sympathetic, reminded Seth that he was delinquent paying the fines. 

Seth also complained that permits for his new development were taking an unreasonably long time to be issued and work was being held up. The selectmen were sympathetic, explaining to Mr. Tucker that Lester Hogg was a very busy man. They were considering giving him a substantial pay increase and getting him some help as recommended in a recent newspaper column.

Meanwhile, Maggie’s column continued with the “City Vs Small Town” theme, ending each article with the title of a very conscious town employee who had cooked breakfast for her. Circulation of the Springfield Times had tripled in Two Rivers.

One Saturday morning Maggie’s door bell rang. She answered the door wearing the terry cloth robe, a tape measure in her hand. Seth Tucker apologized for waking her so early, it being 10:30 a.m. He explained that he had just changed the house numbers beginning with her house. He offered to pay for new stationary and for any other expenses associated with notifying others of the change.

“Oh, Mr. Tucker. That wasn’t necessary, I’ve learned to look at that number differently, it no longer offends me. I am now able to go to work without being affected by it,” she said sheepishly, fingering the tape measure.

Seth nearly lost it. He had spent untold hours convincing the other home owners to let him change their house numbers. He had even bribed some of them. His new project had suffered during his absence. Now this crazy woman was telling him it was all in vain. If it was not for those columns, where she named names, he would explode.

“I’m happy to hear that you’ve conquered your fear, Mrs. Potash. Tell me, how did you do it?”

“I think of the number as Bakers Dozen,” Maggie said, still fingering the tape measure.

Tipping his cap, Seth Tucker signaled he was leaving. “I’m going to try to find Mr. Hogg to let him know about the numbers being changed.”

“Oh, Mr. Tucker,” Maggie called after him. “Mr. Hogg is here but I don’t want to wake him. We didn’t get much sleep. I had him up most of the night, taking measurements,” she explained, holding the tape measure up for him to see. “I’ll let him know the good news as soon as I can get him up, again.” She smiled as she closed the door.

Lester ‘Bakers Dozen’ Hogg, town manager, ran his thumb over the raised lettering in the mayor’s letterhead.

From the offices of

The Honorable Curtis ‘Fitz’ Slocum

Two Rivers Mayor and Acting Chief of Police

March 30, 2004

Porker,

Kindly take care of the attached.

Sincerely,

Mayor Slocum

Brenda Mae had delivered the memo personally. She was spending more and more time in the new town manager’s office, often taking the liberty of referring to him as ‘Bake’ or ‘Doz.’

The attached pink telephone message was from Mrs. Dunlap, 20 Cornbramble Road: “Some idiot has changed the house numbers on the other side of our street. My house number 20 is now between numbers 21 and 23. I DEMAND that my house number be changed to number 22.

Porker ran his thumb over the embossing once more before stuffing the memo into his pocket, thinking, ‘I’ll ‘handle it’ when I go to lunch. Maggie’s sure to want to take a measurement.’



Baker's Dozen



Lachlan walked into the barn at the wrong time. At least that was how he decided to think on the matter later. After he gouged his eyes out and washed his brain with bleach. "Uh . . . sorry."

The bigger of the two men glowered at Lachlan. "You're interrupting a scene."

"I came in to get water for the beagle outside."

The smaller man lifted his gray capped head. "Jimmie's dog always does that, always dumps his water bowl."

Lachlan had a moment of shock. It was Tony! Tony was getting . . . screwed. Which meant the man behind him was his lover. Jimmie. Jimmie who was doing the screwing. 

A moment later anger hit Lachlan. "My sons could have walked in here."

Jimmie said, "You'll close the door behind you, water my dog, and keep the kids away."

"Fuck that! I'm not your damn slave. I'm not -" He snapped his mouth shut. It occurred to him that Tony was a bottom. Tony was submissive. He could actually be Jimmie's slave. 

Jimmie said, "You keep looking at me like that and I'm gonna start to believe you're enjoying what you're seeing." Then he slapped Tony on his flat ass and said, "Ass up. Just because you have an admirer doesn't mean you can slack off, you pussy."

Tony gurgled something. But he lifted his hips, his ass obscenely in the air. Like he was asking for it.

Jimmie said, "Last chance to leave, Lachlan, before I grab you for a go, too."

Tony was asking for it. Lachlan shook his head at his astonishment. Of a sudden he felt stupid. Of course Tony was asking for it. He was with his lover. He was getting fucked, sneaking in a fast one. He was mid-coitis and wanted a happy ending. 

Lachlan reminded himself that Tony was also an adult. The pleasure stamped on the man's face said he was enjoying himself. When Jimmie thrust his hips forwards Tony gave a gurgle. It was a sound of pleasure, not pain. Tony was enjoying himself and was on the bottom.

Jimmie gave a sigh and pulled free. His cock looked more like a cobra waving around in the air than it did a penis. It had a flat, flared head. For a moment Lachlan could imagine the muscle bound Jimmie putting his cock-head in a vice and squeezing it flat. Jimmie marched towards Lachlan, then past him to the door of the barn. Jimmie pushed the door open and motioned Lachlan out. "Now."

"Tony's coming with me." Lachlan's brain screamed at him to shut up. He didn't know what the hell he was saying. "I'm not letting him stay here to get raped."

"Raped." Jimmie rolled the word around inside his mouth. When he moved it was to close the door to the barn office and lock it. "Raped."

The screaming part of Lachlan's brain told him to run. Told him to protect himself. His mouth said, "Obviously that's what's happening here." His mouth didn't seem to notice that Jimmie was advancing in long, unhurried strides. It wasn't a big office. "No sane man would -"

Jimmie had him by the throat, spun Lachlan around, and thrust him down onto the desk. "For some stupid reason you happen to think there's anything sane about sex." Then, to Tony, "Bring me the rope next to the door.

Tony said, "He's my daughter's husband."

"He's a complete asshole from the stories I've heard. His own dad thinks he's a screw up. His own dad, Tony. Rope. Now. Unless you want to face the same punishment."

Lachlan heard rustling where Tony was at. It still hadn't registered that he was bent over a table. This was all part of a joke. Any moment now Bethany would come walking through the door and tell Jimmie to knock it off.

"I'm sorry, Sir. Here's the rope."

"Bend over the hay. I want your ass up, Tony. Then I don't want you to move." 

As Jimmie spoke the pressure on Lachlan's back lifted. Lachlan started to rise, only to find rope around his neck. It was a little too tight! The shock of the action, the speed with which Jimmie moved made Lachlan's heart pound. He was fully aware now, and in complete panic. He started to fight, to struggle. Not some acting job like he'd seen in the dungeons of The Keep. 

Behind him Jimmie gave a chuckle. "Too little, too late, buddy." His wide hand came down on Lachlan's ass. It was a light spank, not intended for punishment. 

It scared the hell out of Lachlan. It was one thing to play around when there were a half dozen dungeon masters making sure real rape didn't happen. It was a whole other ballgame locked in an office with a naked man who had the strength of a professional body builder. For a moment fear fuzzed his thoughts. The pain around his throat jerked him back to the present. "No!"

Into his ear Jimmie said, "Whatcha going to do, Lachlan? Scream? Then your kids will really come running. They'll get to see daddy dancing on my cock." Jimmie had Lachlan's wrist. He was a big man, a huge man, and had no fear of pushing Lachlan down on the desk and forcing his arm back. He had hand pulled up behind Lachlan's back. A sharp pinch of pain, short lived, and Lachlan found that hand immoble. With the other he held onto the edge of the desk. He tried to kick Jimmie.

What did he get for his efforts?

Jimmie laughed. "Oh, I think I've got myself a butt virgin here." He pressed Lachlan down onto the desk, his heavy body pinning Lachlan in place. Into Lachlan's ear he said, "I'm going to love taking your cherry." He had Lachlan's other wrist, jerked his arm behind him. "Bet you Tony didn't tell you I was an MP. Bet you he didn't tell you I do this for a living." Another pinch and now both Lachlan's wrists were behind his back. His wrists throbbed. The rope around his throat was too tight! Lachlan thrashed. 

"Uh-huh." Jimmie chidded. "Ass in the air." So saying he yanked Lachlan's shirt from his pants and used the belt loop to haul Lachlan's ass up into the air. He patted Lachlan's ass. It was something you'd do with a pet.

Lachlan had a moment of relief. Jimmie wasn't going to rape him after all!

Shock whipped through him when Jimmie reached around and under him, and popped the top button on Lachlan's jeans. Jimmie didn't even fumble it. He was that experienced with the maneuver.

"No!" Lachlan shouted.

"Hush now. Cherry ass like yours needs to unclench a little. Unless you like the pain."

Lachlan's sphincter tightened. "No! No, no, no, no, no!"

Jimmie pressed him down onto the desk again. Into Lachlan's ear he whispered, "Keep going and your kids will come running in here."

"Bethany will -"

"You tell your master where you were going? Hmmm? Anyone know you're in here with me?"

Lachlan froze. No, damnit, he hadn't told Bethany he was coming into the barn. He told her he was going into the house for a glass of lemon-aid and to use the bathroom. He said he might check out the game. Bethany wasn't going to come running to save him. Nobody was!

In that moment Jimmie caught hold of Lachlan's jeans, of the band of Lachlan's boxers, and pulled them down. All the way down. They were tangled around Lachlan's ankles. The only way Lachlan had now of protecting himself was to keep his legs closed. The panic rolling through him said that Jimmie couldn't rape him if Lachlan kept his knees together. The disjointed part of his mind asked, 'Wasn't that what they told little girls?'

Jimmie thrust a knee between Lachlan's legs.

"Nooooo!" It was instinct to protect his balls, and Lachlan jerked his ass upwards. Somehow, in that moment, one foot came free of his jeans.

Jimmie's hand pushed Lachlan down onto the desk. He kicked Lachlan's legs wider. He did something with the rope. "Now you just stay there, Lachlan, while I finish up with Tony. You better hope your father is a good fuck. When I'm done with him I'm coming after you." He smacked Lachlan's ass again. 

This wasn't some love tap, but was such a sharp sting that Lachlan gave a yelp.

"Want to save your son?" Jimmie asked. "Better keep her damn ass up, Tony. You better work those muscles and fuck me good. Got it?"

"Yes, sir." 

"Not fucking good enough." Jimmie snarled these words. 

Lacklan heard Jimmie's hand land on flesh. It was an unmistakeable sound. Time and time again the sound came as Jimmie delivered a spanking to Bethany's father. In his head he kept track of the smacks. As the number grew he began to grow worried for the older man. Lachlan's mouth took off again. "Stop it! He's an old man. He can't take that abuse! Stop it, damn you!"

Jimmie laughed. "Here that? The little boy is trying to protect you." Another ten smacks were delivered. Then . . . nothing. No sound. Only silence. 

Lachlan struggled to breathe. The rope was tight around his neck, yes, but not enough to cut off oxygen. He tried to get the knots undone. But he couldn't and his fingers were going numb. Worse of all was knowing Jimmie was somewhere behind him. 

Tony squealed. It was a shocked noise, a sharp noise. It was a noise made out of pain. He squealed again.

"Feel that, dontcha." Jimmie grunted. "Make noise for Lachlan. Let him know how it's going to be when I take his cherry." Another smack. Another squeal. "Betcha not going to forget the fucken lube next time, are you, Tony?"

Lachlan bit back a scathing reply. He hadn't even thought of lube. All he could think of was the pain of the rape. And that he, Lachlan, was next. Behind him Tony squealed again. 

Jimmie laughed. "Are you coming Tony? Already? I've still got quarts and quarts of cum. Think this time I'm not going to dump it in you. I think this time we'll get a little revenge on your stupid son. Another smack. Another squeal from Tony. 

Tony crying. Big, huge, sweeping sobs. Tony whimpering, "No, no, no. Please, no. I c-c-c-can't!" And the sound of two bodies slapping together.

Lachlan realized he'd been squeezing his eyes shut. When had he done that? He forced them open now. He forced himself to see the initials carved into the top of the desk. And the freshly repaired tear in the leather couch lengthwise against the wall. Absently his mind picked up that the desk chair was missing. It was an office missing a desk chair, but had a bale of hay instead. 

Tony begging in a breathless, hopeless way, "Fuck me. Oh, please fuck me Jimmie. I want it! I want it so bad. Screw me hard!"

Jimmie laughing at this. "Oh, I see you do like your son after all. Second hard on is always the best, isn't it Tony? I'm going to use mine on your son in law. If your lucky . . . " In a lower voice he growled, "If you're lucky I may even let you watch." 

Lachlan shuddered. It wasn't the happy type that preceded a good screw. It was the fearful don't-look-under-the-bed type of shudder. The idea of Jimmie forcing his huge cock into Lachlan was a nightmare. Making his father watch . . .? That was a circle in hell. 

The bodies behind him slapped together. Tony squealing again, his voice going higher and higher. Jimmie pounding into Tony. 

Jimmie snarling, "Take it! Take it you fucken pussy! Take it all." And underneath that the sound of the bale of hay shifting, sliding across the concrete floor. "Take it you fuck wad loser!" Jimmie grunting.

Tony begging, sobbing.

Then Jimmie laughing. "Oh, that was fun. That was very fun indeed. Are you . . .? You are! Look at you go, Tony, trying to rub one out on the hay."

"Please, sir!" Tony begged. "I need it. I neeeeeeed it!" He dragged the word out.

"Nope. Enough." Jimmie said. "Put your jeans on. Don't touch yourself!"

"Yes, sir." Tony saying, his voice small in the office. 

Jimmie said, "I'm gonna finish up with Lachlan. Don't touch yourself!"

"No, sir." Tony said. And then he gasped. It was a shocked sound, a sound so surprised that it lifted the hairs on the back of Lachlan's legs. It made his balls crawl up.

Jimmie was behind Tony again. Jimmie's hand on Tony's back, pushing Tony down onto the desk. "Ass up, Lachlan. It's your turn now." Jimmie said. 

Fear shot through Lachlan. Deep, shuddering fear. He willed a scream from his lungs. He tried kicking at the man. What did he get for this? Something cold and metal and sharp pressed against one ass cheek. Lachlan whimpered. It was the only sound that made it past his tight throat.

Bethany said, "Please don't. I'm not keen on having to explain stitches to the nurses at the hospital."

Cold sheeted through Lachlan. Bethany was here! 

Jimmie chuckled. 

Near at once the pinch around Lachlan's wrists eased. A moment later the rope around his throat was slack. Jimmie patted Lachlan on the shoulder. "Move slow now." Then, "He needs training."

Lachlan shook his head. He was dreaming. He had to be. Jimmie was fucking him but Lachlan was too far gone to feel it. He was dreaming he'd heard Bethany speak.

Bethany said, "Training is on the list." 

"I gave him a shock." Then, "Stand up, boy."

Bethany said, "He means you, Lachlan. Stand up."

Lachlan whimpered. It wasn't real!

Jimmie said, "Rub here. This is where the most pressure would be on his shoulders."

Bethany's slim fingers rubbed at Lachlan's shoulders. They eased around the ball of the joints. And somehow it brought him back to reality. It tethered him in the present. Bethany was here!

Lachlan let out a whimper. He squeezed his eyes shut. Was it all a dream? A bad dream? Did he hit his head? His mouth opened and ran, "Did you get off on watching your father get fucked?"

"Ha!" Bethany snorted. "The real show was you squirming and pleading. I kind of liked it." She tapped his bare bottom. "Pull your pants up."

He spun around, and almost fell for the tangle of clothes around his foot. "How dare you let him -!"

She kissed him. It wasn't a long kiss, or even a sweet one. It was a brief kiss.

"For your records." Jimmie said. 

Bethany's cell phone pinged.

Jimmie said, "You might enjoy watching that later. And I suggest you take it in to The Keep and review it with one of the dungeon masters there. The guy needs some common sense."

Bethany held Lachlan's gaze. But it was to Jimmie she asked, "Did he shut down?"

"Saw his eyes glaze over. Realized he wasn't acting in real time. Can't raise children with a guy who isn't all here."

Disappointment shadowed her eyes. "I know." 

In that moment Lachlan realized just how badly he'd screwed up. Again. And now he wasn't getting raped. No, something worse was happening. Lachlan was losing his kids.

Gently, Bethany said, "Pull your pants up, Lachlan. I want you in cool air, and there's none out here." 

Lachlan wanted to argue that he wasn't over heated. One look at Bethany and his mouth clamped shut. For once the two were in agreement. Lachlan kicked his jeans and boxers off, shook them out, and pulled them on one at a time. He said, "My daughter?"

"Sitting with my mom having the time of her life. And my mom's in love." Bethany rolled her eyes. "Dan snuck your sons away to the corral. They're using their freedom to learn to ride. Mitchell is watching them."

Then, shocking him, "What's a breeding party?"

"A what?" 

"Nissa told me she wants one." Bethany adjusted Lachlan's collar. "You'll have a mark around your neck for a few days. It can't be helped." 

Jimmie murmured something. Tony gave just as quiet an answer. Lachlan looked over, stunned to see Jimmie cuddling Tony to him. Jimmie touched Tony gently on the cheeks, smoothed the older man's hair back, and pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Their conversation was personal, private, intimate. Lachlan looked away. Partly from embarrassment, partly to give them privacy, but mostly in jealousy. He wanted that. He wanted soft touches and loving kisses from Bethany.

"Come, Lachlan." Bethany said in her steady, calm, unemotional voice. Lachlan wanted to rail against this. He wanted fire. Not this bland persona who now had him by the hand, who now led him from the office. They passed where Jimmie's beagle rested in the shade of the barn. Lachlan saw that someone had filled the dog's water dish.



Baker's Dozen Ch. 02



12 for fun, and one for love, I thought. A Baker's Dozen. Seriously? Aidin must have a wicked sense of irony, I thought. The events of the evening were mostly pushed out of my mind. I did my best to wrap my head around this idea of goddesses, gifts, and all the sex I could want. I knew that, back in ancient Greece and Rome especially, the gods and goddesses did this sort of thing all the time. This wasn't ancient times, though, and I didn't even really believe what was going on. 

Last night's blowjob was amazing. I didn't know dirty sex could be so good and passionate. Now, when I say dirty, I'm not talking fetish stuff. Urine, feces, feet, and a nameless amount of other activities ranging from mildly unappealing to outright disgusting were not my cup of tea. Then again, tea wasn't my cup of tea. This was more than I was used to, certainly. 

Sex so far had been a hushed affair. The lights out, no sounds except the occasional moan, heavy breathing, and sucking of a moist cunt, certainly hadn't inserted anything anywhere else. There was Susan at a party in high school, but her blowjob consisted mostly of probing licks, giggles, and ended when someone's (I have no idea whose party it was) parents came home. 

I pushed those thoughts away for as long as possible. The last batch of the night was the cinnamon rolls. Great big ones, fresh, hot and cinnamony from the stove. The glazing was what did it. Drizzling that sticky sweet substance over the tops of them brought back the images of Marsha's face, dripping in my cum. The way she licked it from her lips. Stared back at me from beneath a layer of the stuff. I grew hard again thinking about it, and was so absorbed I didn't realise I was no longer alone. 

"Good morning to you, too!" woke me from the daydream. The next few moments consisted of me finding I was nearly fully erect, my face burning hot with blood, and an attempt to hide the now deflating cock in my pants. The table stood as a shield between myself and Moira. The next few moments consisted of her giggling a bit too loudly, which dislodged a lock of red hair, and her brushing it aside while trying to maintain control. "No need to be shy, Mike. I've seen plenty of those, and to be honest that's quite impressive. You'll have to show me sometime."

"Baker's Dozen" I thought, waiting for my facial temperature to return to normal. Moira was sexy in that Tomboy-Next-Door kind of way. She worked on cars, shot guns, and chugged beer with the best of us. She was small framed, slender, and I've wanted to see her naked for a long time. "What better place to start?" 

"Step into my office, and I can show you now.." I challenged, opening the freezer door. Bolstered by the Gift, I forced her to blush now. My cock throbbed slightly at the sight, and the superimposition of her face on Marsha's during last night's activity. I sort of hoped she noticed.

"You're crazy! Not now!" she laughed, face losing color and changing. I could sense and see the almost immediate change in her demeanor. No longer flustered, she was lustful. I could almost see it radiating from her. A soft red glow and a gleam in her eyes. "What are you doing later?"

It took a moment. The whole exchange was overwhelming me. I had lost control again, my face blushing once more, cock deflating in fear. Had it worked? I've been trying for over a year to get closer to Moira, but was stuck in the friend zone for nearly all of it. "Well.. I ..uh.. I was going to raid with my guild tonight."

"No, you're not." She said, cat-got-the-mouse smile spreading across her face. She came closer, face an inch from my ear and her hand toying with my pants zipper.

"I'm.. not.."

"You're not. You're going to make me dinner..." hot breath on my neck "..we'll have awkward innuendo ridden conversation, Well, awkward for you anyways..." lips on my ear lobe "and then, you'll show me your cock." 

"And then?"

"And then, we'll see what happens." She said, releasing me and backing away before turning to leave. Her hips swung purposefully, in the way women do when they know a guy's looking and they love it "By the way, do me a favor. Don't play with that before I get there. I want all your cum, if I decide to let you give it to me."

I watched her walk away, round, tight little ass shaking just for me. After a moment of gathering myself together, I finished my daily tasks. The night was down now, turning into morning. Moira was one of the morning crew, so I knew the time must be near 8 AM. That meant shoppers and coworkers, and leafing the store will be difficult with the swollen cock I now had. Lingering, however, meant overtime, and overtime meant being berated by the store manager, so I slung my apron over my arm like a waiter at a fancy restaurant, draped it low enough to hide the slowly lolling erection, and made for the door. 

I casually, but politely, declined any amount of conversation other than a nod, wave, or "Good morning" as I plodded through the store, trying to hide my erection. It was slow to fall, the bastard. Normally it would deflate rather quickly when I thought I was noticed. At work, out shopping, or standing in line at the bank, I would often find myself getting a chubby due to a short skirt, blouse, or combination of the two. Not today, however. 

I made it out after a gauntlet of coworkers and regular customers. My pants were still noticeably tented, but had died down some. I breathed a sigh of relief and reached for an emergency cigarette in the glove compartment. Sharply inhaled smoke, slight lightheadedness, and Moira's offer overtook me. Was she the first? 

"Don't waste it on her. Trust me, Mike." came to me from the back seat. I choked a bit on smoke, garnering a laugh from the goddess. "She's a whore without a fuck buddy, Mike. She was already considering it, since she hadn't screwed you yet and she felt sorry for you. The gift just pushed it along quicker. It helps your cock is impressive. It's not porn star material, but it'll intimidate most average girls."

Her reflection was black and leathery, resembling a redheaded Joan Jett with her large breasts fighting to break free of the half zipped biker jacket. 

"Do you like it? I was on your computer and saw a lot of Joan Jett's music. I like her, too. Sexier now than ever."

"Is there something you want?" smoke drifting from my mouth, I watched her suck on a lollipop. She began to pout. 

"I'm just helping out. I don't want to see you waste The Gift on someone who will fuck you without it. I never meant they'd be the only ones who would submit to you." The sucker was lipped, tongued, and sucked on. My cock was engorging again. I threw the apron over my lap and pushed thoughts of her wet pussy out of mind as best I could. "It wouldn't work on me, My muffin." I failed. "Then again, you don't need it for me."

She removed the sucker, red and bulbous, from her mouth. Lips spread slowly as it evacuated, pushing through pursed lips. I opened my mouth to receive it, warm with her saliva, dripping on my tongue and down my throat with artificial cherry flavor.

"So when do I use it? How do I know?" I asked around the treat.

"Just stop and think about it. You'll know when you need it." she smiled, nose crinkled and adorable, then with a tap of my nose she was gone in a whiff of vanilla. I thought about this and smoked my cigarette. The sucker I saved in my other hand. 

Even rolling the window down for the drive home I could still smell vanilla. It went well with the Cherry sucker, actually. 

I slept. 

I slept, and I dreamed. 

The dreams were not nightmares, nor entirely pleasant. I was in the middle of a circle of light. Women, nude and shoulder to shoulder, surrounded the perimeter. They had no faces. They were blank. Emotionless. Soulless. I was excited, but frightened. Thirteen of them, backs to the darkness. They all reached out to me, arms wanting to hold, to have, to be taken. Behind them, the darkness stirred. Everything smelled like vanilla.

Blueberries. 

Blueberry muffins. 

I awoke smelling blueberry muffins. I didn't remember baking them, but I did bake them from time to time. Running water. The shower. Humming? The last few were not unusual, were I the one in the shower. 

The blanket hit the floor with a 'Thufffft'. I reached for a weapon to protect myself from whoever was baking muffins and using my shower. That didn't sound right, but with the couple of days I've had the guitar would make the perfect self defense mechanism. I could run away if need be.

The door was not far, or closed. I inched my way towards it, checking the mirror through the crack. It was opposite the tub and would be perfect for reconnaissance, since my shower curtain was clear. They were tall, thin, and had a great of set of tits. I would have thought Aidan, but her hair was blonde. 

"Put that down, love. Get dressed and grab a muffin, I'll be out in a moment. Her voice had bells in it, jingling on the high notes at the end of sentences. She didn't sound familiar.

"Who are you?"

She hummed in response, a song I didn't recognize. I decided to not tempt fate, and did as told. Jeans and a plain white tee were tossed on from the mostly clean pile of clothing on the floor. Cold linoleum met warm bare feet in he kitchen. My continental breakfast waited. The muffin was still warm, and a cup of coffee had been placed out. I sipped. Just how I like it. Was she another goddess? 

Following the morning ritual of the springs and falls, I ate out on the small patio. The coffee and muffin met well with the early autumn morning air. The hint of Halloween was there. This was my favorite time of the year. I ate the muffin. I drank the coffee slowly. I smoked a cigarette, and watched through the sliding glass window, waiting for the shower's occupant to finish up and come out. 

Halfway through the cigarette (three quarters through the coffee) the blonde appeared from the bathroom. She was classically beautiful. Not in a Reubenesque way, but a classic 70's Playboy pinup way. They don't make bodies like that anymore. Or breasts. Or asses. 

Her light gait almost made her seem to not touch the ground at all. She smiled a Mona Lisa smile under hazel eyes. The kind that said, "I know something you don't." A t-shirt was plucked from the floor and tossed on, barely long enough to cover the bottom of her ass and the curve of her pussy lips. She kept on smiling, opening the sliding glass door and spinning in the sun.

"I like your patio. It has a lot of sun in the morning. I love the morning sunshine!" arms outstretched, facing the daylight. The shirt lifted in back, showing me a good portion of her pristine ass. 

"Who are you, where are your clothes, and where'd you get these muffins?" smoking casually, those words said as coolly and calmly as I could manage. 

"I made them. Did you like them? I hope you liked them!" She beamed with pride, sitting across from me. Through the round metal top of the table, the kind with all the little holes in it, I could see her pussy now. It was smooth as a bowling ball but I'd want more than my fingers in it.

"They were the best I've had, but that's not the main issue here. My life's been interesting the last couple of days. I thought you might be Aidin, but you're obviously not." She giggled, and I heard harps in it. 

"I'm Asra. Aidin's my sister. I thought I'd come check you out. It's been so long, you see, since she's chosen. She can be pretty picky." She took my cup and sipped from it, still smiling. "You buy great coffee."

"Thanks, but can you answer my questions, please?"

"I don't have any." 

"Any what?" I took my cup back and drank. It smelled like wildflowers. I hadn't noticed, but everything did in the background. It edged at the other scents, not overtaking them but merging with them. 

"Clothes, silly! What does a divine being of amazing power need with clothes? I figured it might help keep you from being distracted if I covered up a little." She was kind of right. The white shirt clung to wet spots she missed when drying, and her nipples threatened to burst out of the cloth. Her body was much like her sister's, but softer. Brighter. Happier.

"That's not the question I meant, and you know it, Asra."

She giggled again, harps playing a tiny symphony. She took my cup in one hand, and my hand in the other. I was brought inside my apartment and she sat me on the couch. I watched Asra pour me another cup of coffee and make it the same way I would. 

"So... what do you want from me?"

"I just want to see you. I already checked out your manhood while you were asleep. Very nice. I was thinking of trying it out. You know, see what all the fuss is about." She came back with the coffee steaming in her hands. 

"Try it out? Seriously?" My prick perked up at the offer. I tried to think about something else, but she set the cup down, and her pussy peeked from between her legs where she bent in front of me. 

"I can tell you like the idea." She said looking back at my cock, fighting to be free from the confines of my pants. She was right, of course. A goddess of some sort had just said "Fuck me" and she beautiful and perfect and I would be a fool. I also felt I couldn't say no. Somewhere in the back of my mind my inhibition sat. It wasn't obliterated, just backseat driving.

It watched as my hands opened my fly and I pulled my dick out. It listened as she sat on it, waving its arms and jumping up and down as my cock penetrated her asshole. Asra moaned, mewled, and bit her lip, looking back at me as my cocks head stretched her anus. I had never had sex outside, and in all my fantasies it was never during the day. She rode me gently, leaning back so I could play with her tits.

She gasped for air, sliding my hand down to her pussy. I played with her clit while she fucked me, nearly dismounting before sliding back down on my cock. I sucked and bit her slender neck, one of her hands reaching back, tangled in my hair, the other helping me work her pussy.

"I'm going to cum..." she whispered. "Cum with me!"

My cock fired, the excalamation point on the end of her command. I could feel her pussy squeezing my fingers and her asshole flexing on my cock. I blew what seemed the biggest load of my life, gasping in her ear, her writhing against me.

And that's when it left. The inhibition gave up. Threw in the towel and packed it's bags. Cum gurgled and dripped as she removed herself from my dick. "Oops! Don't wanna leave a mess! What kind of houseguest would I be?" she said before sucking my cum from my crotch with a smile. She hummed the whole time. I lit a new cigarette while I waited for her to finish, the old one mindlessly lost sometime before I came. 

Finished, Asra straightened the shirt and sat once more. Hair in her face she blew it gently out of the way. "That is a good prick you have there! Some lucky ladies you're about to have! And your juice is delicious!"

I just smoked and watched her. She never stopped smiling once. 

"So... what now?" I asked, completely exhausted mentally and physically.

"Now, I show you how to use the gift. It's very subtle, if you do it right. It won't work on everyone, but most everybody. True love, of course, nullifies it's influence on a person."

I laughed. I coughed a little. I laughed some more. 

"Are you fucking serious? What kind of storybook did that come from?"

"It's nothing as pure as you think, Mike. It won't work because True Love is the work of our brother, Aurelis. We can't get in the middle of each other's deals. There are rules, after all. I'm sure he'll explain it all when he visits."

"What? When? He's not going to want to take my junk for a test drive is he?" I asked, not really relishing the thought of a gay sexcapade. "I don't swing that way."

And she laughed jingle bells on Christmas morning, giving god knows how many angels wings.

"You were a good choice, Mike. Let's go and test your powers, shall we?" she stood up and went inside, smirking as I butted out my smoke.

"I need a shower first, and you need clothes, Asra."

She pouted on the couch, turning on the tv while I started to get clean. What did she have in mind, exactly, for this training.