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o The Bookshelf Directories offer a very wide variety of stories. o
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The Mommies (FM, adultry)
by Al Steiner (al_steiner@hotmail.com)
Date: 3/99
Please enjoy this one. I had fun writing it. Feel free to archive, repost,
or use at your discretion but if you would, leave intact the text and the
author's name. Send any comments to al_steiner@hotmail.com I try to answer
all legitimate E-mail. Enjoy sex, if there's a God, he specifically designed
us to do so, so why disappoint him?
Not much else in my life has followed along the beaten path so I
suppose it was inevitable that the circumstances of my divorce would be no
different. I'd married Mandy when she was young, only nineteen. I was a
junior in college back then and she was studying to be a cosmetician at the
same school. As a struggling History major I used to pinch pennies when I
could. One such way was by getting my hair cut at the campus' cosmetology
building. It was free since it allowed the students to practice on actual
people. It was here that I'd met Mandy.
I knew we were different the whole time and I should have intuited that the
relationship would not work well. I was from a middle-class upbringing,
raised in the sheltered suburbs of Seattle. Mandy was from a poor,
trailer-trash type family. Both of her parents were alcoholics. Her older
brother was in prison for rape. Her sister was a high-school dropout with
three kids, strung out on crank. Mandy had seemed however, to be above all
of this. She took good care of herself and was striving towards an
employment goal. She drank very little and only occasionally smoked a little
grass with me. She was intelligent and easy to talk to and had little
contact with her family. My impression of her back then was that she'd had a
hard life and was working strenuously to pull herself out of it.
She was also very good looking; the best looking female that had ever shown
an interest in me, and I'd be lying if I said that that factor hadn't been a
major one in taking up with her. I was very shy in college, getting dates
only when the woman chose to be the aggressor; something that didn't happen
nearly enough. We got married less than three months after we'd met. By the
time I graduated with a BA degree in History and began working as a teacher
for the Seattle Public School System, we had a young daughter and another one
on the way.
Life in the early days with Mandy wasn't ideal but it had never struck me as
particularly unpleasant either. She was a good mother to our kids and helped
bring in the family income by working part-time in the late afternoon and on
weekends at a beauty salon. If there was anything that really stands out
about those times it is difficulty in conversation. As the years went by she
became harder and harder to talk to, keeping more and more inside of her.
Since I was a child I've loved to write stories. During my college years I
took as many creative writing courses as my general education requirements
would allow. I polished and refined my technique, always treating it like an
intense hobby. By the time my second child was born I'd published six short
stories and historical essays with various magazines; the prestige of such
endeavors far outstripping the meager payments that they provided. My first
year as a History teacher I wrote a novel, working on it in my spare time over
a period of six months. After more rejections than I can count, a publishing
house finally bought the rights and printed the book as a paperback. It did
moderately well in sales, just well enough for them to offer me a three-book
contract.
Since then I've published six more books, all in the same genre'. None of
them have been bestsellers, no hardback publishers have ever approached me.
There's a good chance that you've never even heard of me before, that your
eyes passed over my books in your local booksellers without the slightest
ding of name recognition or interest. My contract fees and royalties
combined only account for about twelve thousand dollars a year; certainly not
enough to quit work for in and of themselves. But by the time of my third
novel I was in fact able to give up teaching and work full time on my writing
thanks to a pleasant quirk of the writing business that I'd been previously
completely unaware of.
Some might call it selling out and I suppose in a way that it is. It's one
of those things that could only exist in a capitalistic society. What I'm
talking about is indirect advertising. Ford motor company was the first to
contact me. They offered me six thousand dollars to have the main character
in my next book drive a Ford automobile. Two fast food chains came next,
actually bidding with me for the privilege of having my characters consume
their food or conduct meetings in their establishments. I score eight
thousand a book for that. I get ten thousand a book from Smith and Wesson
for arming my characters with their firearms; they even give me a list of
specific models as suggestions. My two biggest advertising contracts
however, come from a large beer maker; who pays sixteen thousand for having
my creations drink their brand, and a tobacco company, who pays me twenty-two
thousand to have my protagonist characters smoke cigarettes. They
particularly like it when I have the character in question return to
cigarettes after a long absence while he or she is under stress. They once
gave me a five thousand-dollar bonus for a graphically good description of
how it felt to have that first cigarette when the shit started hitting the
fan.
So I'm not stinking rich or anything, but I'm comfortable. Mandy and I
bought a large house in an affluent suburb and settled down to the task of
raising our children. It was when I quit work, I believe, that the problems
really started. The communication problem increased to the point that, if we
weren't fighting about some stupid thing, we weren't talking at all. Our sex
life ground to a screeching halt. She kept herself away from home as much as
she could get away with, working as many hours as she could arrange to do
even though we no longer needed the money. A small part of me suspected that
she might be having an affair but I didn't know what to do about it. I would
have filed for divorce if not for two little things: Becky and Sarah; our two
daughters.
I love those two kids like I'd never loved anything or anyone else on the
face of the Earth. They are what it's all about. I was around them every
day, taking care of them while Mandy was out, and I was constantly in awe of
them; their innocence, their bright, inquisitive minds. They were and are
what made each day worthwhile for me. I knew that if I divorced Mandy that
my time with them would be drastically cut. The courts in our state do not
favor the father in custody disputes. As it turned out however, Mandy
herself solved this particular problem for me.
I'll never forget that early June day, when Becky was five and Sarah was
nearly four. Mandy had been at work, or so I'd thought, and the two girls
were playing contentedly with a dollhouse in my study while I worked on my
latest novel. I was trying to figure out a way to incorporate Goodyear tires
onto my main character's Ford automobile without sounding too obvious about
what I was doing. Goodyear promised me four thousand for an honorable
mention in this publication. Suddenly the doorbell rang.
I got up, irritated, and walked through the house to the front door. I peered
through the keyhole, spying two middle-aged men in cheap suits standing on my
porch. Figuring that they were salesmen or religious fanatics, I almost left
the door without opening it but when they rang several more times and then
pounded with their fists, I gave up and opened the door, prepared to send them
away post-haste.
They addressed me by name, which gave me pause. Salesmen or religious
fanatics would not have possessed that information.
"Yes?" I said, curious now.
"We're Detectives Watson and Langely from Seattle PD." He paused and they
flipped open leather badge carriers, displaying their credentials. "Homicide
division. May we come in?"
"Homicide division?" I said, all sorts of evil possibilities going through my
mind. "What's this about?"
"If you let us in." Watson said seriously. "We'll tell you."
I did so, leading them to the front room and inviting them to sit. The tale
they then told me took me completely by surprise.
Mandy HAD been having an affair, but that is not the surprising part of the
story. She began seeing an ex-con loser that was a friend of her sister's
latest boyfriend. This had been going on for some months and as near as I can
figure, Mandy fell in love with the guy and wanted to marry him. Simple
divorce however, and the inevitable alimony and child support that would have
followed, was apparently not enough for my beautiful wife.
She asked her new boyfriend if he knew of anyone that could be hired to kill
her husband and make it look like a random thing. She'd explained to him
about the two life insurance policies that would have provided about half a
million dollars apiece. She explained to him about the skyrocketing book
sales that would have inevitably followed my demise, pumping fresh royalties
into her account. He'd listened carefully to her suggestions and said he'd
think about it.
I must say that this two-time loser Brenton Hamilton, a crank addict, a wife
abuser, and a general dirtbag, has done a lot towards restoring my faith in
humanity. Despite what he was being offered, he was appalled by her
suggestions. He told his parole officer what Mandy said. His parole officer
told the Seattle Police Department. Homicide detectives quickly met with
Hamilton and a sting operation was set up.
Detective Watson posed as an outlaw biker hitman and met with Mandy, the
entire meeting taped on video and audio. She agreed to pay the sum of ten
thousand dollars to have me killed. She told him my schedule pointing out
the fact that I made a habit of visiting a particular yuppie coffee shop at a
certain time of each day and suggesting that a robbery of the coffee shop
would make an ideal "random" event.
Detective Watson gave her every opportunity to back out of the deal but she
persisted. Finally a third meet was arranged and Mandy handed over three
thousand dollars as a down payment on my murder. She was taken into custody
less than thirty seconds later.
I can't begin to tell you how shocking it is to see your wife coldly
arranging your death before your eyes on videotape. I was speechless to say
the least. I would never have direct, face-to-face contact with my wife again
and I never plan to. She was brought to trial on the charge of soliciting a
murder for hire. I testified against her in a limited capacity, my most
powerful evidence the bank statements indicating the withdrawal of the down
payment money. She was convicted in less than thirty minutes by her jury and
sentenced to six years in the Washington State Penal system. After the trial
I took Mr. Hamilton to a bar and bought him all of the drinks he could
consume. I write him a check for a thousand dollars a month to this day and
mail it to his current address. His likeness has been featured as the
friendly snitch in my last three books (and he smokes Camels, which brings in
another eighteen thousand dollars from THAT tobacco company).
The divorce went off without much of a hitch, as did the custody
arrangements. I pay no alimony and never will. I was granted complete
custody of the two children. Mandy, who will get out of prison in a few
years, has been forbidden to ever see, approach, or contact either me, Sarah,
or Becky in any manner whatsoever. It has been made clear to her that if I
was to die in some unfortunate manner she would still never acquire custody
or get her hands on any of my money. In retrospect I'm almost glad for what
happened. I got off cheap in more than one way.
Following this my life became pretty sedate. I watched my kids, took them to
school each day and picked them up. Nobody in my happy little neighborhood
knows about the history of my wife and me. I try to write at least ten pages
a day, which keeps me well ahead of my contractual schedule of 1.5 books per
year. I haven't remarried and I don't even date seriously for reasons which
I'm about to explain.
I found myself without a social life nor with any hopes for one. The only
time I am without my two daughters in tow is when they are in school. During
this time I write, I exercise, I smoke a little grass or drink a little beer
(I have a lifetime's free supply of beer from my brewery contract). I watch
the History Channel on cable, making comments to myself about how they've
sensationalized everything in the interest of ratings. I read pornography or
look at pornographic images on the Internet and whip my weasel to them.
Certainly none of the characters in my books have such a boring life, but I'd
always been content with the way things were.
About a year ago however, things began to take a turn towards the more
interesting, driving me into a way of life that I never would have believed
had I read about it somewhere. It began with the park and still centers
around it.
Adjacent to the elementary school my daughters attend is a small city park.
It has a sandbox (actually sawdust), some swings, some monkey bars, some
spring mounted rocking horses. Along the concrete paths, which encircle the
children's play area, are several sets of metal benches where parents can
watch their children recreate. I developed the habit of walking the girls
over there after school so they could play for a half an hour or so when the
weather was tolerable (in Seattle, tolerable has a different meaning than in
other places; we go outside and play in conditions that would keep people in
normal cities boarded up inside their homes). I quickly noticed that I was
not the first one to have this idea.
As I've mentioned before, I live in a fairly affluent suburb. The houses are
all over two hundred thousand in price range and are occupied by just about
what you'd expect in such a place. As I've discovered, the husbands of these
households are typically professionals of some sort that make pretty good
bank at their respective positions. For the most part (there are exceptions,
let me tell you now) the wives are young, college-educated housewives that
maintain part-time jobs at best. They tend to be very attractive, doting
mothers of an average of two children. They are your PTA members, your church
volunteers, and your charity drive leaders. They gather at the park along
with me each day to do the same thing that I do, watch their children play on
the park's enticements.
They noticed my presence immediately once I began hanging out there. There
was no way they couldn't have; I am usually the only male in attendance at
those hours. I don't know what they thought of me at first. Probably that I
was an unemployed husband whose wife was bringing home the coin, or some such
thing as that. They could tell that I wasn't a child molester or anything
since I had my two daughters consentingly with me at all times. I always had
the bench to myself, even if there was standing room only at the other
benches. I believe I even sensed some vibes of disapproval and mistrust
radiating off of some of them. None of them ever talked to me or approached
me for the first several months.
Children however, share no such preconceived prejudices or notions. Becky and
Sarah would romp and play with their classmates on the toys and none of the
mothers ever had any sort of problem with this. One day Sarah, who had not
perfected shoe-tying yet, came over to me to have me secure her Nike (no, I
didn't get any money for mentioning that shoe-brand, they wouldn't have put up
with the implication that their shoes are difficult to tie). Another little
girl, who'd been playing some game or other with her, followed her over to me.
As I tied my daughter's shoe the other girl looked at me curiously. "Hi." I
said, as I finished up, offering her a friendly smile.
She smiled back and placed her foot on my leg. "Me too." She told me
innocently. I saw that her shoestrings were also flapping loosely.
Without even considering the reaction, I reached down and began tying her
shoe for her, as any moral human being would do; something that, had I been a
woman, wouldn't have drawn a second glance. The reaction from the ranks of
mothers was immediate. With my peripheral vision I could see them staring at
me like mother bears whose cubs are threatened. One of them popped up like a
jack-in- the-box and headed quickly over.
She was attractive in a classy sort of way. Blonde, maybe ten pounds
overweight, with firm, jiggling breasts. I could instantly see the
resemblance between her and the little girl whose shoe I was tying. Her face
was set, her eyes nearly boring into me.
"Megan." She said firmly. "What are you doing?"
"Oh." Megan chirped brightly. "My shoe untied. Sarah's Daddy's helpin'
me."
"I see." Megan's mom replied carefully, continuing her approach like a cop
approaching a dangerous suspect.
She seemed about to say something else, something that might have changed the
entire course of what was to follow, but I spoke first. I smiled at Megan's
mom with my sincerest, friendliest face. "And I'm glad to help." I told her.
I then turned to Megan and gave her my parental voice. "But you know Megan,
you should be careful about who you have tie your shoe for you. There are
dangerous people in the world. You should always check with your Mommy first
before you talk to a stranger."
"You're not a stranger." Megan scoffed, withdrawing her foot. "You're
Sarah's Daddy." With that she bounced off, Sarah in tow, towards the monkey
bars once again. Mrs. Megan remained standing before me. My words had had
the desired effect. She seemed slightly embarrassed by her concern.
"Hi." I told her, smiling again. "Sorry if I alarmed you or anything, but
she DID need her shoe tied."
"Oh, it's okay," She assured me. "It just bothers me sometimes how quickly
she approaches.... You know, strangers. I hope I didn't offend you or
anything."
"Not at all." I said, although I HAD been slightly offended. "I'm glad to
help and I know how things are these days."
She smiled and, perhaps sensing an opportunity to interrogate the male that
had invaded their park, introduced herself to me. "I'm Karen Winslow." She
said, stepping forward and holding out her hand.
I told her my name and shook with her. Her hand was smooth and baby soft, as
if she'd never done a day's work in her life. While I shook her right hand I
glanced at her left hand. On her ring finger were an engagement/wedding set
that probably cost about as much as I'd made from the Tobacco Company the
previous year. The diamonds were so large as to be gaudy.
"So are those your two girls?" She asked, sitting down next to me.
I diplomatically gave her some room. "Yep." I told her. "The loves of my
life. Kids are great, aren't they? And I know how you feel. Sometimes mine
are a little too trusting of strangers also. But I assure you, I'm pretty
much harmless."
Professing my love for my kids really served to warm her up to me. She began
chatting profusely while our kids played. She told me at one point that she
worked as a substitute teacher for the school district now and then (she was
an English major, if you can imagine that). This really opened up the
conversation when I told her that I too used to work for the same district.
We discussed mutual acquaintances and administrators, which served both to
convince her of my bona fides and to catch me up on certain details of my
former life that I hadn't realized that I still cared about. Gradually she
worked the conversation skillfully around to what my current story was.
"Well," I told her. "I'm a full-time writer these days so I don't have to
teach anymore. It pays the bills and lets me be home with my kids every day."
"A writer?" She said, wide-eyed. "No kidding?"
"Yep." I confirmed. I named off a few of my books. She'd never heard of any
of them but didn't seem to doubt my story.
"What about your wife?" She asked at one point. "What does she do?"
Now I know damn well that she'd noticed the lack of a wedding ring on my left
hand, not much slipped by Mrs. Winslow. Still, I answered honestly. "I'm
divorced." I told her simply. "I have full custody of the children. The
mother's not really in their lives anymore. I guess I'm Mom AND Dad combined
now."
"Oh, how sad." She commiserated, not pressing for further details, which I
had no intention of providing anyway.
We talked for another twenty minutes or so, which extended the time I usually
stayed in the park by double. Finally I bade her farewell, explaining that I
had to start dinner pretty soon, and made my leave. I noticed that while we
talked the other mothers were keeping a close eye on the two of us, many of
them also staying beyond the time when they typically departed. As I loaded
the two kids in the car I saw Karen back among them, undoubtedly briefing them
in on what she'd learned.
Over the next few weeks I talked to Karen Winslow frequently. When I dropped
the kids off at school she made a point of strolling over to chat with me.
When I stopped at the park after school she also came over frequently. She
sometimes brought other members of the mother clan with her, introducing each
in turn. They were all very friendly now that they knew the basic story on
me. Two of them had actually read some of my books before and professed to
have liked them.
As our chats grew friendlier I heard the story of her husband. He was a
middle- level accountant in an insurance company, raking in respectable bucks
at the cost of working eighty hour weeks most of the time. She complained
that she rarely saw him and that Megan, their only child (we don't have time
to make another one! She complained) hardly knew who he was. She used the
term "good provider" a few times but never the word "love". I began slightly
infatuated with her to a mild degree, the way that men are with the
unobtainable. I would frequently abandon the endless litany of Internet
postings in favor of her mental image when I masturbated.
It took the longest time before I realized that she was openly flirting with
me each day. She practically had to hit me over the head with a hammer to
bring it home. I finally clued in when she invited me to the coffee shop for
"a mocha or something" one morning after we'd dropped the kids off. She
named a coffee shop that wasn't exactly the closest one to where we were and
insisted we break contact at that point. "Wouldn't want anyone getting the
wrong idea now, would we?"
"Of course not." I'd agreed, heading for my car, trying to convince myself
that I was misreading the signals that she was giving.
I wasn't. She talked very intimately to me over double mochas that day. She
expressed her frustrations over her sex life with her husband. "He screws me
maybe once a month." She explained bitterly. "And then it's like taking a
hot bath with a three gallon water heater. Just enough to entice you and
then it's over."
"That's a bummer." I said numbly. Pretty weak I know, but I was new to this.
"So where EXACTLY do you live in our fine neighborhood?" She finally asked,
her bare foot creeping up the pantleg of my left leg.
I told her to give me fifteen minutes and then to meet me at my house. I
drove home as fast as I could and did a semi-decent job of converting the
house from it's bachelor-with-messy- kids state to something approaching
inhabitable. I threw laundry in the washing machine without regards to
color. I stacked dirty dishes in the dishwasher by throwing them in. I
picked up toys and piled them in the kids' closets pell mell. When she
finally arrived I was just stowing the vacuum cleaner back in the closet.
"Come in, come in." I told her, sweat on my brow from my frantic
sterilization efforts.
We sat down on the couch and I poured us each a glass of white wine from the
refrigerator. The radio was tuned to a classic rock station at low volume.
Before a quarter of a glass was gone I was kissing her puffy lips and swirling
my tongue with hers. Her hand dropped to my pants and undid them, freeing my
rigid cock. She was panting in excitement, as was I.
Our first encounter was quick and to the point. She pushed my pants down to
my ankles and then unbuttoned her own designer jeans and cast them aside
along with her shoes, socks, and pretty pink panties. Her bush was blonde,
like her hair, her pussy lips swollen and inviting.
"Fuck the shit out me!" She said, lying back and opening her legs.
I mounted her and planted my straining dick in her wet pussy. I slid in
easily, feeling her grip me, and began thrusting. Her arms came around my
back as her legs wrapped around my thighs. We kissed frantically as I
fucked, my lips traveling from her mouth to her neck to her ears and back to
her mouth again. Her pelvis slammed desperately into me, nearly causing
pain. My hands probed beneath her sweater to her bulging tits, squeezing
them. Her hands gripped my ass, pulling me harder within her.
It wasn't five minutes before she screamed and bucked her way through an
orgasm. I was right behind her, pumping out a three-day old load of my sperm
into her hungry cunt.
I remained within her after my orgasm, thrusting gently within her now slimy
pussy with my semi-rigid dick. We kissed softly, sensuously as I did this,
not speaking, just feeling. I removed her sweater and bra, leaving her naked
before me. I sucked on her beautiful tits as I thrust, my dick hardening
once again. She moaned blissfully as I did this. Her nipples were large and
tasty, her tits firm and pliable.
I gradually hardened into a ramrod once again, my thrusts increasing in power.
Her moans became louder, more emotional, her fingers pulling at my own
sweater. I let her remove it while I kicked off my shoes, socks, and pants,
never flagging in my pelvic motion within her sucking cunt. I squeezed and
kneaded her tits with one hand while I put the fingers of the other in her
mouth allowing her to suck them. Our fucking picked up in pace once again.
She came two more times, each more violent than the last before I felt the
inevitability of my own ejaculation approaching. She squeezed my ass
painfully as I came for the second time.
I pulled out of her and dropped to my knees on the carpet. Her slimy,
drooling pussy was before me, giving off an odor that only an intense
copulation session can produce. I buried my face in it, plunging my tongue
in and out, tasting my own seed combined with the juice of her glands. Her
legs came around my shoulders, pressing on my neck and her vocal cords
produced a variety of interesting noises as I took her rigid clit between my
lips and commenced sucking on it. I kept my face there through at least
three more confirmed orgasms. Finally she pulled me upward and, with a wild
look in her eyes, pushed me to my back on the carpet.
My dick was hard once again, something I wouldn't have thought possible. She
attacked it with her mouth, slurping me all of the way in. She sucked up and
down, jacking me off with her hands at the same time, bringing me to the
brink of orgasm again and again before slowing down and letting me recover.
Finally, panting, with a mad, nearly insane glint in her eye, she pulled
herself atop me and planted her blonde pussy on my cock once again.
She rode me hard, screaming her way through one more violent orgasm before I
finally shot off for the third time inside of her body. We collapsed naked
to the carpet, holding each other tightly while we allowed our bodily
functions to return to a level approaching normal.
"That was incredible." She whispered to me after a while, looking at me.
"I've never been fucked like that before."
"Me either." I replied.
"This is probably a bad time to ask." She said, embarrassed. "But I don't
suppose that you're.... well." She paused, miserable. "Oh never mind. Too
much to ask. I can't believe I did this with you.
"I've had a vasectomy." I told her. "After Sarah was born. We didn't want
any more kids after that. And I don't have any diseases. I've been checked."
And boy had I. After the incident with my wife and the IV crank addict, I was
tested every three months for two years. All negative. "I wouldn't have done
this if any of that was to the contrary."
Relief was evident on her face. "You have?"
"Swear to God." I told her. "I even have a microscope in my daughter's room
if you want to take a sample and look at it for confirmation."
She stared at me, shocked, and then burst out laughing.
That was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
Now I've kept my mouth shut about her and I've fucked in her in varying
positions more than thirty times now. I know what her asshole feels like
with my cock inside of it. I know what it's like to fuck her in the bathroom
of the coffee shop. Nobody's ever found out about this from me.
But apparently Karen likes to run her mouth among the mother's club. It
wasn't two weeks after our first intimate encounter with her before Barbara
Bowser, a tall, sultry member of this same club approached me at the
beginning of the school day.
"Perhaps," She asked me, smiling sexily, "You'd like to join me for a coffee
today?"