Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 ________________________________ This is a story about a sexual FANTASY
written for consenting adults.  If you're not both of those, don't read it.
Characters in a FANTASY don't get sick or die unless I want them to.  In
real life, people who don't use condoms and other safe-sex techniques do
get sick and die.  You don't live in a FANTASY so be safe.  The fictional
characters in my stories are trained and experienced in acts of FANTASY -
don't try to do what they do - someone could get hurt.

   If you think you know somebody who resembles any of the characters here,
congratulations, but you're wrong - any similarity between the characters
in this story and any real person is purely coincidental, since all of
these characters are figments of my dirty little imagination.

   This is my story, not yours.  Don't sell it or put it on a pay site. 
You can keep it and/or give it away with all of this information intact,
but if you make money off of it, you're breaking the law and pissing me
off. _________________________________ I don't recall having seen a story
or series titled "Me and Mrs.  Jones" before, but I would be surprised if
there weren't several out there - it's such a natural for this sort of
story.  Anyway, my apologies to anyone who might have used it before, but I
couldn't think of a better title for this series! 
_________________________________ Me and Mrs.  Jones - Epilogue (nosex)
(C)Copyright 2003 - Shakes Peer2B shakes_peer2b@NONOsbcglobal.net (remove
'NONO' from above address)

   I've been writing this from the study of our new home.  By the time
Becky and I got married two years ago, our combined fortunes, built on the
seed money given us by Mrs.  Jones, totaled an amazing amount.  We took our
time finding this place, in this neighborhood, and it's perfect.

   The house sits atop a low hill about a half-mile from the electronically
operated gate at the foot of the drive.  The place is completely surrounded
by high hedges and trees, not to mention a state of the art security
system.

   The staff and movers completed the job of setting up house and home last
week, and we made our grand entrance on Sunday.

   The driveway would have handled the Limo, despite its excessive stretch,
quite easily, but we arranged to have Charles, our butler, meet us at the
gate in his electric runabout.

   The long black limo slowly wound its way through the quiet neighborhood,
and like the pied piper, collected a parade of adults and children in its
wake.  The chauffeur, as instructed, pulled up to the curb in front of the
gate and waited for five minutes with the engine off, while Becky and I
checked each other over.

   At the allotted time, the uniformed driver emerged and walked sedately
to the left rear door of the shiny new Mercedes stretch.  Standing stiffly
at attention, he gravely opened the door and stood back, allowing me to
emerge.  I stepped out into the bright sunlight and straightened the
wrinkles from my tuxedo.  I checked the carnation in my lapel, then nodded
to the chauffeur.  He slowly closed my door.  I followed as he marched
around the rear of the limo to the passenger door on the other side.  In a
mirror image of his actions on my side, he opened the curb-side door and
came once more to attention.

   A long, slender, elegantly accessorized arm emerged gracefully from the
opening.  The perfectly manicured hand poised just so as I bowed and kissed
it lovingly.  Then, supporting its owner with barely perceptible pressure
under those long slender fingers, I watched with pride and awe as the
lovely Mrs.  Nash swung endlessly curved legs out the door and, planting
shiny stiletto heeled pumps on the sidewalk, effortlessly assembled her
perfect form atop those luscious columns.

   As always, her top barely covered the hard nipples that tented the
fabric of her clinging, mini-skirted dress.  Its plunging neckline showed
acres of cleavage and reached as far south as her bejeweled navel,
displaying the unbroken tan of her abdomen to great advantage.

   Rebecca removed a single long pin from the severe bun at the back of her
head, allowing her long golden locks to flow in waves about her shoulders.
She pecked me lightly on the cheek, and turned slowly to survey the ever
growing crowd of onlookers.

   Her gaze settled on a young lad standing astride the frame of his BMX
bike as if in a trance.  She took off her sunglasses and fixed him with her
piercing blue eyes, smiling just a little bit more than usual, and I knew
she had found her first 'special boy'.

   As I finish the final edits on this tale, Mrs.  Nash is down in the
playroom, giving the young lad his first lessons.  Already I can hear "Yes,
Mrs.  Nash!", "No, Mrs.  Nash!" wafting up the stairs.  If I cared to, I
could watch on the monitors, but I prefer to have her tell me about it
later, as we 'play' with each other.

   I will not get to sample the lad for a few weeks yet, but I can wait. 
When the 'special children' are not here, I have the lovely and talented
Mrs.  Nash all to myself.  In the meantime, I am busy seeking out other
potential candidates for Mrs.  Nash's special attentions.
   Oh yes, I must not forget to open an account in young Davy's name.