Long Sentence by JimBob44,JimBob44

*Author’s Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.

**Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-Check. You have been forewarned, expect to find mistakes.

*..*..*..*

“At this rate, I’m going become one of those damned alcoholics,” Michael Chopin thought as he pulled up to the Casual, a small lounge that lived up to the name.

It was a casual, no-frills lounge with soft piped in music, dark wood paneling, soft seats and no ambience. Even the bartender was an easy-going man with slightly aloof mannerism. He was there to pour drinks. If needed, Terry would listen, but wasn’t there to solve your problems.

The exterior was also very drab. Plain cinderblock walls, a heavy wooden door, a faded, hand-painted and peeling sign that announced the name of the place.

“Joe Bob, you know, they say insanity is doing the same thing over and over, hoping for different results,” Terry, the old bartender was saying to a wrinkled and gray man at the corner stool. “In your case? Insanity is doing the same thing over and over, knowing what the results are going to be and just not caring. Hi Michael; the usual?”

Michael smiled. He’d last been in here four weeks earlier, but Terry already knew him, already figured what Michael was there to drink. Michael picked a stool far enough away from Joe Bob to discourage any conversation with the ill-tempered drunkard.

“Aw, Jesus Christ Joseph and Mary, Terry, you called her?” Joe Bob spat out when a harried looking mature woman entered the bar.

“No, Joe Bob. Women just have this innate thing, tells them when they’re man is happy,” Terry said, nodding to Carla as the woman tiredly approached her husband.

“And they just got to try and stop it,” Terry continued as Carla gently guided Joe Bob to the door.

“Breaks my heart,” Terry confided to Michael. “That woman’s a saint, you hear?”

“Really? What position does she play?” Michael asked.

Terry shot him a smirk, but got the message. Michael wasn’t there to hear about Joe Bob and Carla’s marriage. He was there for his one shot of bar brand whiskey.

“Terry!” a very attractive blonde called out as she entered the bar. “I, give me an Oakleaf, okay?”

“Whitney, wait your turn,” Terry playfully ordered. “Can’t you see Michael was here first?”

In the Smokey mirror over the bar, Michael looked at his attractive neighbor as she took a stool three stools down from him.

Michael recognized the beautiful blonde; she and her wife, her partner, her spouse, whatever they called one another lived right next door to him and his wife, Pamela. Pamela, not Pam, not Pammy. Pamela Katherine Chopin.

Once, fixing a loose board in their adjoining fence, Michael had seen the two women getting into their hot tub. In that brief moment, Michael had seen that Whitney was a true blonde; her thatch of curls matched the loose, lazy easy style of hair on her beautiful head. Her breasts had been magnificent; two beautiful globes of flesh dotted with perfect areolae.

Polly, the other blonde had possessed an equally stunning figure, but her pubic mound was completely hairless, a fetish of Michael’s. His cock was so hard he almost didn’t need the hammer to drive the two nails into the board; he could have used his hard on.

But, it was five days until Pamela’s fertile time. So, Michael would find no relief for his throbbing, aching cock until Pamela was fertile, ready for impregnation.

“And why’s the damned board all wobbly? Oh, that’s right. Because you wanted a useless hummingbird feeder. And, instead of just waiting for me to get home, you had your shit head pussy whipped Daddy come out and fuck the whole thing up,” Michael muttered to himself.

Michael looked at the cracked feeder laying on the ground and resisted the urge to kick the decorative plastic feeder across the backyard. Pamela’s father, George Johnson had not thought to unhook the feeder from the hook when he nailed the ring into the fence. One erroneous swing of the hammer and…

“Seventy three dollars? Seventy three fucking dollars for a plastic piece of shit, just because it supposedly looks like a red flower,” Michael muttered and finished repairing the damaged board.

Board in place, Michael nailed the ring of plastic onto the fence then hung the cracked, but still useable hummingbird feeder from the ring.

“George Butterfingers Johnson is not to do anymore ‘Honey-Do’ chores around my house,” Michael muttered to himself as he stomped across his backyard toward his back door.

“Mm, oh! Oh yes, oh God,” Michael heard one of his neighbors moaning and his erection returned with a vengeance.

Thankfully, spotting the pinched, miserable face of Katherine Johnson, his mother in law wilted the tent in his shorts. Michael knew Katherine was only thirty five years old, but the woman looked seventy five.

“Okay, board’s fixed, and the feeder’s up,” Michael said, looking at the same pinched, miserable face on his eighteen year old wife.

“Why?” Pamela spat. “I can’t use it; it’s broken.”

“It’s not broken; it’s cracked. It is cracked. But the bottle where the sugar water goes is fine and the dispenser is fine,” Michael tiredly explained. “The birds will be able to use it with no problem.”

“For the amount of money Babbage’s charged, you’d think it could take a whack with a hammer, George attempted to joke.

Michael gave the oaf a look of disgust before cutting through the living room to the kitchen. He stepped into his garage, shut the kitchen door, then gave his wife and her overbearing parents the finger.

The twenty six year old new hire at Thibodaux Investment had met Pamela Johnson on her third day of working at First Fidelity Credit Union in Elgee, Louisiana. She was stunning, long red hair, sparkling green eyes, heavily freckled face. Her manner of dress was a little dowdy, but there was no mistaking the two impressive orbs underneath the plain and shapeless dress.

She giggled and blushed as Michael flirted with her, but did refuse his request for a date. The next time Michael came into the building, he again flirted with the attractive bank teller. He found out she had recently graduated from Elgee High School and this was her first job.

Two months after first seeing her, Michael entered the Credit Union and got into line. Fortune smiled upon him; he managed to get in front of Pamela instead of another one of the three tellers on duty.

“Yesterday was my eighteenth birthday,” Pamela confided to the handsome man.

“I, well, how about that?” Michael smiled.

“So, if you really want to go out with me, we can now that I’m eighteen,” Pamela disclosed.

“Do I ever!” Michael enthused and she giggled and blushed prettily.

After dinner at Acapulco Grande Mexican restaurant, after steaming up the windows in his new BMW, Pamela and Michael went to Holland’s Hand Cranked Ice Creamery in the Courtyard Mall and enjoyed walking around, looking at the various displays. Her manner of dress was extremely conservative; she was covered from throat to ankle and from wrist to wrist.

Pamela told Michael she and her parents were members of the Church Of The Risen And Living Messiah. Their church forbade the cutting of hair, the use of cosmetics, the wanton displaying of flesh. Michael stated firmly that he was a Catholic, had been born Catholic, and would continue to be a Catholic until the day he died.

There was more hot and steamy kisses in his car, but when Michael tried to accelerate the action, he was firmly shut down. Pamela’s brilliant eyes bore into his as she asked him to please respect her, respect her religious convictions.

“Should have run for the fucking hills right then and there,” Michael thought out loud as his neighbor and Terry chatted while Terry poured Michael’s shot of bar brand whiskey.

“Hey, hi! I know you,” Whitney Chastaine gushed, looking over at Michael.

“Well, I would hope you do,” Michael smiled. “I cut the grass right next door every Saturday.”

“Yeah,” Whitney agreed and took a tiny sip of her own shot of amber liquid. “Mm hmm, oh, this, this is so good. Yeah, I know. Ought to hear what Polly calls you.”

“Oh, I’m sure,” Michael agreed. “But if I wait too late, it’s just too damned hot.”

“And,” Michael thought. “Ought to hear what my wife calls y’all.”

Apparently, the fat, balding sanctimonious horse’s ass that presided over the Church of the Risen and Living Used Car Lot Messiah had taken a marks-a-lot marker and had blacked out ‘Judge not, that ye not be judged’ in the pages of his Bible. The pompous jackass certainly never taught his followers the true meanings of the word of Christ. Forgiveness, servitude, love…

“Jesus died for ALL,” Michael had told Katherine, George, and Pamela when they yet again sat around his comfortable living room, passing judgement on all they found to be worthy of their contempt. “Even those horrible and disgusting homosexuals right next door.”

“But only if they seek forgiveness for their wicked wantoness,” Pamela smugly declared.

“For Jesus sayeth, ‘I am the Way, the Truth and the Light…'” Katherine stated. “No one comes to the Father except through me.”

“Dear God; I should have run for the hills,” Michael thought as Polly Chastaine came into the bar.

Their mannerisms were easy, comfortable. Polly and Whitney displayed a genuine affection for one another. It was quite apparent, they were together, they were a couple. There was no overt display of their sexuality; they did not grope one another, they did not stuff their tongues into each other’s mouths. But their attention to one another was unmistakable.

“”Hey Neighbor,” Polly said when Whitney pointed Michael out to her.

“Hey Neighbor,” Michael smiled. “When I bought the house from Samantha Porter; her dad had died what? Three months before? She didn’t tell me anything about the two beautiful women living next door.”

“Would it have changed your mind?” Polly smiled easily.

“Would have made me not talk her down ten thousand dollars,” Michael lied and Polly and Whitney laughed.

“Well, time to go home and face the music,” Michael said, tossing back the harsh, abrasive liquor.

Polly watched, eye brow cock as Michael ran his finger around the inside of the shot glass and rubbed the residue onto his cheeks, throat and shirt. Whitney watched the bizarre behavior with a puzzled expression on her beautiful face.

“Good night, neighbors,” Michael smiled, pulling a cheap cigar from his inner jacket pocket.

“Uh huh,” Polly agreed.

Outside, Michael lighted the cigar and puffed on it. The smell and the taste made him nauseous, so he only smoked it for a moment before crushing the cheap cigar on the ground.

Michael then drove to his home, his house at 2121 Pitman Road. It had not been a home for the seven months he’d been married to Pamela Katherine Chopin.

The kisses had been hot, passionate kisses. Those kisses promised so much pleasure awaiting him, or whomever did marry the beautiful red head. In time, Pamela even allowed Michael to grope her heavy breasts, but only for a moment. And, only on the outside of her clothing.

Her comment that her breasts were meant for their children should have clued Michael in. But as smart, as intelligent as Michael was when it came to market fluctuations, particularly foreign currencies, Michael was oddly clueless about the opposite sex. He was no virgin, but he had no long-term relationships, no practical knowledge to fall back on.

Michael winced as he purposefully screeched to a halt millimeters from his garage door. He knew those tire marks would be difficult to remove from his driveway’s surface. He intentionally mashed the button for the garage door repeatedly, making the garage door jerk up a fraction of an inch before coming back down.

Michael then jerked the door of his car open, staggered out of his car, then loudly slammed the door. He staggered and swayed his way to his front door, cutting across the short holly bushes his wife planted along the walkway.

“Fuck!” Michael hissed as the sharp leaves dug into his ankle.

Michael then tried the front door. Of course, the door was locked. Michael then dug his keys out of the left pocket of his trousers and tried to put the back door key into the front door lock. He then tried his safety deposit box’s key. He then tried the door knob again. Then Michael dropped the keys to the ground.

“What? What’s wrong with you? What are you doing?” Pamela snapped irritably at her husband.

“Tryin’ unlock God damn door,” Michael slurred drunkenly, picking up his keys.

“God…did, did you just say…” Pamela screeched, horrified as Michael knelt on the Welcome mat in front of their house.

“Oops!” Michael giggled as he jabbed at his wife’s crotch with the house key.

“Michael!” Pamela shrieked, jumping back.

“Found fuckin’ key,” Michael slurred, staggering to his feet and trying to fit the key into the door, even as it swung out of his grasp.

“Michael! Michael James Chopin! That sort of language is unacceptable in this house,” Pamela hissed forcefully.

“Know what, Pammy?” Michael said, finally fitting the key into the door lock and twisting it. “Ayent your house. Dis ish my house. My house, and in my house? That’s how we talk.”

Michael then slammed the door shut with his keys still in the lock. He staggered to the kitchen table where his now cold dinner sat.

Michael, you, are you drunk?” Pamela gasped, horrified.

“What? Me? Fuck no,” Michael denied. “I, I only had what? Two, maybe three drinks. Three little drinkie poos ayent goin’ make me drunk, huh?”

Pamela opened the door. Michael twisted, staggered, and attempted to sit in the chair.

“Hey, where you goin’ huh?” Michael demanded, and fell to the kitchen floor next to the chair.

Pamela jerked the keys out of the door, closed and locked the door, then hung Michael’s keys on the hook next to the door. She marched into the bedroom and slammed the door shut. Michael fought hard against bursting into laughter.

“Hey! This shit’s cold!” Michael yelled.

He staggered and swayed to the bedroom door. It was securely locked; Michael could have easily picked the lock but did not. He instead kicked at the door.

“How you spect me eat this shit? It’s cold,” Michael yelled.

There was no answer. Michael had not expected one. With a satisfied smirk, he walked back to the kitchen, no drunken sway or stagger to his walk. He put his plate into the microwave, and set the timer for forty minutes, instead of four minutes. Still laughing, he quickly fixed himself a ham and cheese sandwich and took it into the hall bathroom.

“Michael! Michael! What, what is wrong with you?” Pamela demanded as the smell of the burnt food filled the house.

“Aw, God damn, what did you do?” Michael demanded, staggering out of the bathroom.

“Stop! Stop using the name of God in vain!” Pamela demanded, fanning the smoke while the smoke detector screeched incessantly.

While Pamela struggled to clear the house of the smell of the ruined dinner, Michael went into their bedroom and flopped down on their bed, still in his suit. Surprisingly, he did fall asleep before Pamela came back into the bedroom. She made much noise as she gathered her pillow and slammed drawers open and close as she selected a nightgown and a pair of full cotton briefs to sleep in. Then she loudly slammed the bedroom door closed.

Michael laughed as he heard the door of the guest bedroom slam shut. He got out of bed, put his suit into the dry cleaning bag, along with his tie, then dropped his shirt and socks into the hamper. He brushed his teeth and pulled on his New Orleans Saints tee shirt. He played a few games on his phone, set the alarm and went to sleep.

In the morning, fully refreshed, Michael dressed and went into his back yard. Getting the lawnmower from the tool shed, Michael started cutting the grass directly underneath the window of the guest bedroom. He finished cutting the grass underneath the window of his neighbor’s house last. He hoped they noticed and appreciated his gesture of goodwill.

“We need to talk,” Pamela snapped when Michael came into the house.

“No. We need to shower; I just finished cutting the grass,” Michael said. “Uh, hey, instead of just sitting around looking all constipated, how ’bout you try to make some breakfast, huh?”

In the shower, Michael thought of his two lesbian neighbors and stroked himself to a juicy climax. He dressed in shorts and tee shirt and returned to the kitchen.

“Uh, bacon? Eggs? Grits; what the fuck you been doing? Sitting around with your thumb up your fat ass?” Michael demanded, stomping into the kitchen.

“That sort of language will not be tolerated in this house!” Pamela screeched.

“Hey, uh Pammy? Fuck off. Sit around all God damned day, don’t do shit just because we’re married? Least you could do is every now and then get off your fat ass and make me breakfast, huh?” Michael said, rapidly filling the coffee pot. “Jesus Christ, couldn’t even bother make some coffee? God damned useless, useless, useless…”

Michael laughed happily when the bedroom door slammed shut. He made himself a scrambled egg and American cheese sandwich. Then he started on some of the Honey-Do chores around the house.

“Michael, I don’t know what’s gotten into you…” Pamela started as Michael was fixing the commode in the hall bathroom.

“You know, I really hate it when you let your God damned useless Daddy try to fix shit around here,” Michael cut her off. “That cock sucker’s about as useless as…”

“Damn. Don’t know how much more that door’s going be able to take,” Michael laughed as the bedroom door slammed again.

By dinner time, Pamela attempted a reconciliation of sorts; after all, she was in her peak fertile time. Michael took one bite of her supper and asked her why the food tasted like warmed up dog shit. Again, the bedroom door was slammed shut.

Their wedding was performed in the office of the used car lot that doubled as the church she and her parents attended. Their honeymoon cottage in Swift Falls, Tennessee was nestled among fragrant pine trees, a gloriously romantic hideaway for two newlyweds to get to know one another, get to know one another’s bodies. The crisp autumn air, the glorious colors, the crackling of fallen leaves underfoot was a romantic setting.

Michael wanted the lights on; he wanted to see his bride’s body. The lights were turned off, the curtains tightly drawn.

Michael wanted to fondle his wife’s 32D breasts. She huffed in disgust but allowed him to fondle them. When he put his lips to her left nipple, Pamela screeched in disgust.

“Should have run to the hills,” Michael thought as he chewed his supper.

Michael’s cock was of average length, roughly six inches. The girth was impressive, though. The five women that had handled Michael’s Big Boy called it ‘the Coke can’ because of the circumference.

Finding his wife’s vagina completely dry, Michael suggested oral sex to help lubricate her. Pamela declared he was a filthy pervert and leapt from the bed. Their first night as man and wife was spent with her sleeping on the lumpy couch of their cottage.

They did manage to consummate their marriage on the second night. Because of his girth, because she was unprepared for intercourse, their union was painful for her. She vetoed a second attempt; she was far too sore down there.

“Yep, should have run,” Michael thought, loading his dinner plate into the dishwasher.

On the third day of their honeymoon, Michael tried to initiate sex. Pamela fixed him with a haughty stare. Then, she informed him that sex was for procreation and procreation only.

“Uh, it’s also an expression of love and affection,” Michael snapped. “And, believe it or not? When it’s done right, it actually feels good.”

She was not interested in expressing love and affection. To her way of thinking, and her mother’s way of thinking, which was backed up by the Church of the Risen and Living Messiah, love and affection was expressed by Michael going to work and earning a living to support his family. Pamela’s love and affection was demonstrated by providing meals, cleaning the home, and giving birth to their children.

Three weeks after their wedding, Pamela was ovulating. For three days, Michael was allowed to penetrate her and hump until ejaculating into her. He’d learned from the honeymoon and brought a tube of lubricant to the bedroom.

After the fifth month, Michael had an epiphany of sorts. If he was indeed unfortunate enough to get his wife pregnant, he was stuck with her, stuck with providing for her and whatever progeny they may have. Since he was already quite used to whacking off for much needed sexual relief, it was no hardship avoiding her on her peak fertile days.

Michael simply began coming home ‘drunk’ and reeking of cigar smoke on her fertile days. He also began to be just as critical and judgmental as her and her parents. But, instead of criticizing the rest of the world, Michael began criticizing Pamela and Pamela’s parents, Pamela’s religion and Pamela’s God.

(In secret, Michael begged God’s forgiveness and understanding.)

“Michael, we, tonight, we need to have intercourse,” Pamela said frostily.

“Wow, that tone of voice sure does make me horny for you,” Michael said. “Your momma teach you that? No wonder your parents only had the one kid.”

Pamela did not respond. After a long glare, she led the way to the bedroom.

“Fine, fine, let’s get this shit done with,” Michael sighed, dropping his shorts to the floor.

Pamela hiked up her dress to just above her unruly thatch of pubic hair. Michael thought it ridiculous; he had been married to the beautiful red head for seven months and had no idea if the carpet matched the drapes.

Michael climbed onto the bed. Pamela spread her legs and stared up at the dark ceiling. Michael positioned himself between her spread legs.

“Oh, holy shit!” Michael coughed out in shock.

“What?” Pamela demanded, startled by Michael’s outburst. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, oh my God! Augh! AUGH! God damn! What the, Jesus, when, When’s the last time you scrubbed that pussy?” Michael coughed out, reeling from the bed.

“What? It, it doesn’t smell, I, I washed it last night,” Pamela protested.

“The fuck it doesn’t smell,” Michael declared, pulling his jeans on again. “Like hell I’m sticking my cock anywhere near that toxic landfill you call a twat. Augh! Oh my God, think I’m going puke…”

Michael left the bedroom, still complaining loudly. He slammed the door of the hall bathroom and almost fell to the floor laughing.

In the morning, Michael stated firmly, he was going to St. Patrick’s in Elgee. She and her parents could go to the Church of the living and risen hubcaps, but he was going to a real church.

After the Mass, Michael went to the Home Depot in Elgee and bought foam rubber stripping. While Pamela and Katherine and George were listening to the used car salesman butcher and twist the word of God, Michael was placing stripping around the door frame of his bedroom. As satisfying as it was to hear Pamela slam the door, he did not want the door frame splintering from the constant abuse.

“She breaks it, sure as shit, she’ll have her numb nuts father over here to break it even worse,” Michael muttered as he used fingers to smooth out the soft stripping.

Michael? Michael, we’re invited to my parents’ for lunch,” Pamela called out as she entered the house.

“Oh, thank God,” Michael said with false cheerfulness. “I mean, after you ruined whatever that was last night, I’m starving.”

That declaration did not make the car trip from his house to the house of George and Katherine a pleasant journey. The only music Pamela would allow, the only music that was not laced with sinful messages was Classical so Michael endured a Wagner piece from driveway to driveway.

“See? See,” Michael said, pointing to the fresh oil spot on George’s driveway. “That’s why I don’t want your Daddy parking his piece of shit on my clean driveway.”

“Pamela, wasn’t that just a powerful message today?” Katherine asked, a grotesque façade of a smile creasing her face.

“Oh my stars yes,” Pamela agreed.

“Oh, but I’m sure the message you received was um, adequate,” George said to Michael, his condescension apparent.

“Actually, yes it was. The first reading warned against false prophets, those that masquerade as messengers of God’s word,” Michael said. “The second reading declared that God shall bring justice to those that pay Him false homage while using His word to manipulate and use His children. Then the Gospel, the Good news told of Jesus driving the money changers from the temple, from the house of His Father.”

Katherine had George say an overly wrought blessing over the meal. Michael stared hard at George as he droned on and on, asking God to bless the meal, asking that it nourish their bodies as He nourished their souls.

“In fact,” Michael smiled as they chewed their way through Katherine’s overcooked pork chops,” “The last time I heard your minister, or whatever he is, I couldn’t help but think…”

He took a sip o Katherine’s weak, far too sweet iced tea. He made a face and put the glass down onto the table with a loud thump.

“Oh. Um. Never mind,” Michael smiled at the pinched faces of George, Katherine, and Pamela as they waited for him to finish his statement.

“But I am sure your minister, or whatever he is, is leading many to the gates of Heaven,” George sneered.

“Hmm? Oh, honestly, I wouldn’t know. Over the centuries, we haven’t really kept score,” Michael said. “But thank goodness for your minister, or whatever he is. Because, I am sure there is a shortage of self-righteous, sanctimonious horse’s asses in Heaven. Katherine, I see where Pamela learned her skills in the kitchen.”

“I’ve had just about enough of…” George thundered.

Michael smirked; he’d heard Katherine’s kick against George’s shin, nudging the man to assert himself, urging the man to defend their church against Michael’s scathing remarks, defend her cooking against Michael’s declaration. Michael pushed the dry pork chops and soggy green beans away and stood.

“Me too. I’ve had just about enough of poorly cooked food, self-aggrandizing braying and posturing, and ignorant conversations. Coming, wife?” Michael asked.

Michael did not wait to see if his wife was following him or not. He left the house, mentally flipping a coin between Taco Bell’s drive-through, and Popeye’s Fried Chicken.

“Popeye’s,” Michael said aloud as the front door of the Johnson’s home slammed shut.

“I have never been so embarrassed in all my life,” Pamela screamed, jerking her car door open.

“Really? You mean, no one else has ever told them just how fucking pathetic they are? What you want from Popeye’s?” Michael asked, switching the station to KLGE for Classic Country.

“We’re not listening to that,” Pamela snarled and turned the radio off.

Michael did too good a job with the weather stripping around the bedroom door. The moment they arrived home, Pamela slammed the bedroom door shut but it bounced open again and struck her in her still screaming face.

Michael hugged Pamela to himself as he held an ice pack to her bruised cheek. For that moment in time, her heavy breasts pressed against him, her slim back and long mane of hair under his fingertips, Michael remembered why he’d believed himself to be in love with the girl.

“Thank you, Michael,” she sniffled.

“No more slamming the door,” Michael said.

And, just like that, Pamela remembered why she had a bruised cheek. Pamela remembered why she’d slammed the door. Pamela again turned into a loudly complaining banshee.

“So, we still need to fuck? I mean, them eggs still dropping?” Michael asked and again, the door of the bedroom was firmly shut.

“Don’t be too proud of yourself, Chopin,” Michael told himself as he unlocked the refrigerator in the garage.

“You’d been really smart, never would have married the bitch in the first place,” Michael said, retrieving an ice cold Gratchley’s Beer from the refrigerator.

“Where did you get that?” Pamela gasped, horrified at the can of beer in his hand when Michael entered the home again.

“Those two lovely ladies next door,” Michael smiled. “Oh, they invited us over for supper tomorrow night. Clothing optional. Want to go?”

“I’d rather die,” Pamela screeched, scandalized.

“Oh. Okay. I know they’ll be disappointed,” Michael said.

Michael drank the rest of his beer. He rinsed the can then put the empty can into the recycling bin.

“So, ready to give up the pussy? I mean, you did wash it, right? Hmm; ever think of bleach? That might kill the smell,” Michael said, unzipping his pants.

Again, the door of the bedroom was shut. At nine that evening, Michael yelled through the door that he needed access to his clothing for work the following day. Sullenly, Pamela reminded him that, yet again, they’d somehow missed the opportune time to procreate.

“Yeah? It’s my fault you keep locking me out of my own bedroom?” Michael asked.

Pamela said nothing as Michael stripped down to his boxers. She looked away from his lewd display of hairy chest and muscled arms and thick, hairy legs.

“You know, maybe if we practiced fucking on days you’re not ovulating, maybe you wouldn’t be so God damned frigid,” Michael suggested. “God knows you need practice.”

Pamela stormed from the bedroom. Michael shrugged as he prepared for bed.

“We need to get a better mattress for the guest room,” Pamela ordered the following morning.

“No, you need to quit running out of our bedroom when I point out what a dead fuck you are,” Michael calmly said. “Seriously? Your Bible says you’re supposed to just lie there and wait for me to do all the work? Hey, Pam, how about shoving a few ice cubes up there so I can really feel like I’m fucking a corpse?”

“I, I cannot believe,” Pamela hissed hatefully. “I know, where, where is the Christian man I fell in love with?”

“You nailed him to the cross by being such a cold, hateful, controlling bitch,” Michael shrugged. “By the way, has your cooking gotten worse on purpose? You didn’t cook this bad when we first got married, did you?”

“And, hey, here’s an idea. While we’re waiting on you to get knocked up, how ’bout you maybe see about getting a job? That car of yours wasn’t free, you know. Neither is the gas or the insurance,” Michael suggested to his wife’s retreating back. “See if First Fidelity will give you your job back, huh?”

“Like clockwork,” Terry smiled as Michael Chopin entered the lounge four weeks later.

“Uh huh. Last time, that woman, um, Whitney?” Michael asked.

“Uh huh; she’s a beauty, huh?” Terry smiled. “But, I’m afraid she bats for a different team.”

“Hmm? Oh, oh, no, no, I know she’s gay,” Michael smiled.

“But she is nice to look at. And her girlfriend’s a real cutie too,” Terry said.

“Yep. Anyway, she came in last time and ordered an oak tree? What’s an oak tree? I’ve never heard of that drink,” Michael asked.

“An Oakleaf,” Terry laughed, pointing to the large decanter behind the bar. “Comes from a stash of whiskey some guy found in Oakleaf, Texas. Whiskey’s over a hundred years old. Twenty five dollars a shot.”

“Why not? Give me one,” Michael smiled.

“Sip it. Don’t just toss it back like the bar brand,” Terry suggested, pouring the whiskey for the customer.

“I, oh damn! Well, yes sir! This, this is unbelievable,” Michael said, tasting the aged whiskey.

“So, what’s going on?” Terry asked as Michael did his ritual of wetting his finger, then wetting his clothes with the residue of whiskey.

“‘Lips that touch wine shall never touch mine,'” Michael declared in a harsh and disdainful voice.

“Okay,” Terry said.

“So, come home reeking of whiskey, damn, that, that really is good whiskey,” Michael continued, pulling the cheap cigar out of his pocket. “Smelling like an ashtray…”

“Mm hmm,” Terry nodded.

“Then, spend the rest of the weekend, making sure she stays as pissed off as possible,” Michael laughed. “Which by the way, really isn’t very hard to do.”

“Had one like that,” Terry agreed. “God damn, bitch could spend money faster than they print it. Course, she didn’t work; that was beneath her.”

“Name wasn’t Katherine Johnson, by any chance?” Michael smiled.

“Hmm? No, no it was Bernice,” Terry laughed.

“So, what’d you do?” Michael asked.

“Took stock. Was busting my ass, I mean, really busting my ass at Prentiss Chevrolet, hustling, hustling, sell the next car, sell the next truck. Guy can’t afford it? Tough shit. Not my problem, sell the next car. Why? Just to keep her fat ass in the latest shit Abdul’s and Babbage’s sells.”

Terry shook his head. He looked around the deserted bar for a moment.

“Heard a bunch of guys saying how it was cheaper to keep her,” Terry said. “And, yeah, good God did I pay out the ass get rid of her. Quit that job; God damn, I hated sales. Started out as a bar tender, and guess what? Twenty five years later? I’m still just a bar tender.”

“But you’re happier,” Michael mused to himself.

“No comparison,” Terry agreed.

Arriving home, going through his drunkard routine, breathing his foul cigar breath in Pamela’s face had the desired results for Friday night. Michael almost felt bad on Saturday morning; he could tell Pamela was making an effort to improve her cooking. Her cooking had always been simple fare and she did tend to overcook much of the meat, but of late, she’d really been putting forth an effort.

“I, um, I, well, this, this is um, interesting,” Michael said as he made a show of forcing down a swallow of the bacon and cheddar omelet. “Um, what were you trying to make?”

Michael did feel bad as Pamela tearfully fled the kitchen. He got the jar of salsa from the refrigerator and dredged the omelet through the spicy condiment.

With a well-timed insult, a well-placed ‘God Damn’ and ‘Jesus Christ’ here and there, Michael managed to keep his seed from entering Pamela’s womb. On Monday morning, as he chewed his way through a can of ready-made cinnamon rolls, Pamela did broach the idea of marriage counseling.

“Yes, yes, and yes,” Michael agreed enthusiastically. “God damn, about fucking time.”

“Michael! Language!” Pamela chided him.

“But uh, when we got back from that shitty honeymoon; God damn, whoever heard of going on a fucking honeymoon and not fucking? I said we needed counseling and you were all like, ‘We don’t need that. We just need to pray.’ What happened?”

“Well, Reverend Smith said he can see us at…” Pamela said.

“No, not just no but fuck no,” Michael said. “That ignorant piece of shit is not a certified counselor and I will not waste one God damned minute of my precious time with that sanctimonious fraud.”

Through his insurance at work, Michael could arrange counseling with Dr. Sylvia Hooperstien, Dr. Melanie Leblanc, Dr. Gary St. Martin or Dr. Jackie Trahan. Michael sent this information to Pamela and got no response. He had not expected any response.

“We do not need to see any of these people,” Pamela snapped when Michael returned home that evening.

“You know, Pam, I hoped, I, I really had hope that you meant it,” Michael sighed.

“And quit calling me ‘Pam,’ you know I hate that,” Pamela shrilled.

“I thought, finally, she’s willing to work on this,” Michael said, stripping off his suit jacket.

“I am, I do want to…” Pamela protested as Michael continued removing his clothing.

“We have a problem, Pam. We have a problem. But it is not a spiritual problem,” Michael sighed stripping down to his boxers.

“All problems can be…” Pamela began to argue, averting her eyes from her husband’s near-nakedness.

“We do not have a spiritual problem. We do not have a Biblical problem. We do not have a prayer problem,” Michael sighed. “What we have is a fucking problem. And the problem is, you don’t know how to fuck.”

“Well, maybe you don’t know how to get me in the mood to, to, to…” Pamela snapped, but could not bring herself to say the vulgar word.

“And that’s what a counselor, a certified counselor, one that is trained to work with couples could assist us with,” Michael said, attempting to hug his wife.

Pamela stood, frozen stiff as her nearly nude husband wrapped his arms around her. She flinched at his touch. She closed her eyes against his nudity.

“I do love you. I married you because I truly believed we would, we could be happy together,” Michael begged, attempting to kiss her slack mouth.

“Well, how can we be happy, if you won’t even meet with Reverend…?” Pamela crowed, assuming she had the upper hand in the argument.

“”Fine, fine,” Michael sighed. “We’ll meet with Dr. Fraudkenstein. Now, I don’t smell anything burning; you’re not cooking tonight?”

“He is not a fraud,” Pamela snapped.

“The fuck he’s not. Now, come on, are you going to try to cook tonight or what?” Michael asked.

Michael paused in between bites of his frozen pizza to nod his agreement that they would meet with Reverend Smith in forty minutes. Before he could say anything else, Pamela beat a hasty retreat from the kitchen.

“Why do you have that?” Pamela asked when Michael carried a well-worn Bible into the sales office of Reverend Smith.

“What? A Bible? Uh, we’re meeting with a man of God, aren’t we?” Michael asked.

Before Reverend Smith could even wedge his bulk into his comfortable chair, Michael asked him for his credentials. Pamela blushed in anger and embarrassment and Reverend Smith tried to spread enough manure to cover his lack of credentials.

“So. None. You’ve no degree in counseling, no certification in psychology, nothing. Yet you somehow feel qualified to offer your services as a marital counselor?” Michael asked.

“All I have is what God has given me,” Reverend Smith intoned smugly.

“Fine, fine, let’s go, then. Let’s hear what God has to say about this marriage,” Michael said flatly.

Reverend Smith had a ‘cheat sheet’ of sorts and referred to the notes of certain Scriptures. After the second time Michael looked up the Bible’s chapter and verse and corrected Reverend Smith’s interpretations, Reverend Smith actually broke a sweat.

“Still think you’re qualified to offer marital advice?” Michael asked coldly. “Oh, and uh, what happened to your first marriage? Or your second marriage? How about your third? I know right now you’re separated from Clarissa; she went on back to Texas, didn’t she?”

Michael stood. He did not wait to see if Pamela stood; he just turned and left the sales office. He exited the mobile building and smiled as he waved a prospective customer away from his BMW.

“Sorry, folks, this one’s not for sale,” Michael said as he hit the key fob.

“Aw, damn,” the male customer said, smiling. “You sure?”

“‘Fraid so. Had to drive all the way up to Paulton’s certified BMW Dealership to get the Ruby Red color I wanted,” Michael said. “Landry’s in Hardinton didn’t have the red model.”

“Landry’s?” the woman said to her husband.

“Yes, Sweetheart,” the man said without argument.

Pamela got into the passenger seat. She sniffled as they pulled out of the parking lot. By the time they reached their house, she was sobbing uncontrollably. Michael sighed as he helped his wife from the car. He removed her shoes and lay her on their bed. Then he called Katherine to come and tend to her daughter.

“Why? What’d you do?” Katherine demanded.

“You mean, before or after I beat her?” Michael asked. “Believe it or not Katherine, not everything is my fault.”

“Move your oil dripping van off my driveway,” Michael ordered George. “Want a beer?”

“I would rather die than drink alcohol!” George declared haughtily.

“Well, I am sorry that that’s not one of the choices,” Michael said. “Now, go move your van off my driveway. I don’t want it dripping oil all over the place.”

At nine thirty, Michael shooed Katherine from his bedroom; Pamela and Katherine might not have work in the morning, but he did. George and Katherine left, leaving Pamela and Michael alone.

“So, you and your mother get anything straightened out?” Michael asked.

Pamela did not answer; just rolled away and faced the bathroom door. With a shrug, Michael lay down and fluffed up his pillow.

In the morning, Michael did not insult Pamela’s bland rendition of eggs, bacon, grits and whole wheat toast. He did wonder how Pamela managed to cook bacon and render it flavorless.

“Oh. I, let me guess,” Michael said as the bacon limply hung from his fork. “This, this is that turkey crap.”

Pamela did not answer, just stoically chewed her own breakfast. Michael sighed and finished his breakfast.

Getting to his feet, he asked, “So, now that I met with Dr. Fraudkenstein, you willing to meet with a real, licensed, certified counselor?”

“You did not meet with Reverend Smith,” Pamela snapped harshly. “You went into his office and insulted him. I’d hardly call that meeting with him.”

“I do love you,” Michael said as he prepared to leave for another day of work. “I would not have married you if I didn’t love you.”

Pamela said nothing. She wiped the stove, the counter, always keeping her back to him.

“I, I loved the man I believed you to be,” Pamela finally said.

“And I loved the woman I thought you would be,” Michael snapped. “The woman that fogged up the windows in my car. The woman that promised more, a whole lot more when we were married. Minute that ring went on your finger, what happened? Huh, Pam? What happened? We fog up any windows lately? We’re married now. Was all that fogging up the car, was that all a big act?”

Pamela slapped the dish towel on the counter and marched out of the kitchen. Michael left the house and drove to work.

Tom Thibodaux had sent out a company-wide email; the summer internship was coming to an end as of five thirty that afternoon. He requested that all employees that had anything to do with the intern program please be in the employee break room at five o’clock that afternoon.

“So, Faith, you glad to be getting out of this boring place?” Michael joked as the cute, bubbly girl sat at her cubicle.

“Are you kidding? I, Mr. Chopin, I wish y’all would hire me,” Faith Decker enthused, large brown eyes looking up into his eyes.

“You, you’ve got what? Two, three more semesters?” Michael asked.

“Two; I’m twenty hours short,” the girl agreed, flinging her thigh length brown hair back.

As he worked, Michael did muse, he would miss Faith’s bubbly nature. He would miss her cherubic face, with the smattering of freckles across her button nose, her Cupid’s bow lips, and her incredible flappable bubble butt. Her breasts were two cute apple sized breasts, begging to be gnawed on, but her butt, Michael had fantasized on a few occasions of slapping her butt, watching it bounce, then gripping it while he pounded her through a cheap motel mattress.

Tom thanked each intern and singled each one out for a few words about their skills and their accomplishments over the few weeks of their internship.

When Tom came to Faith, he read, word for word what Michael Chopin, Faith’s immediate supervisor had written the previous day. Michael’s cheeks flushed red as Faith never took her eyes from him.

“Michael, Mr. Chopin says he sees a bright future ahead for you,” Tom concluded. “He says he hopes that future is here, with Thibodaux Investments.”

“It would be my dream job,” Faith said, pulling her eyes from Michael’s face and looking at Tom.

“Oh, shoot,” Faith said to Michael as the others filed out of the break room. “I left my purse in my desk. Come with me?”

“I uh, yeah, sure,” Michael said, sending Pamela a text that he would be late getting home that evening.

“So don’t bother trying to cook anything for me,” Michael concluded his text as they stepped off of the elevator.

“I’m at Alpha Zeta Rho; we have our house on King Road,” Faith said, opening the bottom drawer of her temporary desk.

“Uh, okay,” Michael said, watching her sweet ass as she bent to retrieve her large, ugly purse.

“As the vice-chair, I have my own room,” Faith whispered, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“I, uh, okay,” Michael stammered as Faith pressed her young body against him.

“And I’d really, really, really like it if you’d come over,” Faith whispered, then thrust her tongue into his mouth.

Pamela used to kiss like that. Pamela used to press her luscious body against him. Pamela used to grind her chest against him, then pull away and claim they needed to stop before they went too far.

“We get started, you going tell me to stop?” Michael whispered, clutching Faith’s phenomenal ass through skirt and slip and panties.

“Nooo,” Faith whispered, large eyes peering into his eyes.

Michael followed Faith to the Alpha Zeta Rho house. He parked where Faith indicated and followed her into a large common area. The television was blaring The Prejean Hour and four girls were scattered about the room, loudly denouncing Rodney Prejean and his topic of the day. The girls ceased with their criticism when they spotted Michael.

“Y’all, I swear, y’all don’t like this, then why y’all watching it?” another girl asked, coming into the room from the kitchen.

“Hard to look away from a train wreck, am I right, ladies?” Michael asked as Faith pulled him toward the large staircase.

“Yeah!” two girls giggled.

“Ooh, Faith; he’s a cute one,” the girl that had entered the room commented in a stage whisper.

“No kidding. Like I’d be in love with a butt ugly guy?” Faith laughed, pulling Michael up the stairs.

“In love?” Michael asked as Faith used a key to unlock a door.

“In lust?” Faith suggested, pulling him into a frilly lacy room.

“Works for me,” Michael agreed.

“You, do you have to run straight home?” Faith asked, softly kissing Michael.

“I, uh, no, no, I…” Michael stammered, reluctant to talk about his wife with this semi-stranger.

“I mean, I’m all right with a quick and dirty fuck,” Faith breathed as she loosened Michael’s tie. “But if we can take our time…”

“We can take our time,” Michael agreed.

“Oh. We can definitely take our time,” Michael said when Faith’s hairless pussy came into view.

Michael feasted on Faith’s pussy for a few moments, bringing her to orgasm. Faith then swiveled and straddled his head for the ‘sixty nine’ position. Her hot mouth and small hand brought Michael to the brink very quickly. Thankfully, Michael also brought Faith to her brink quickly.

Michael was not surprised that Faith had managed to only fit the head of his cock into her mouth. But her hot tongue and forceful sucking had the desired results. When she tongued him to erection again, Faith insisted their first time be ‘cowgirl’ so she could control his penetration.

“I, augh, oh, oh God,” Faith whimpered as inch after inch of Michael’s thick cock stretched her tight pussy.

Michael amused himself by playing with her small, sensitive breasts. He smiled as she leaned forward, giving him easier access to her chest. When she’d managed to fit all of his cock into her snug pussy, Michael did what he’d wanted to do from the first moment Tom had introduced him to the intern. Michael delivered a stinging slap to her buttocks; first left, then right buttock.

“Mmng, augh, God yes!” Faith grunted and wiggled her crotch against his pubic bone.

Faith rose up a few inches, then settled down again. She barked out her pleasure when Michael again slapped her juicy rear end. She rose and fell, establishing a good rhythm. Suddenly, she froze, grimaced and cried out in orgasm. Michael felt his crotch grow very wet as she shuddered through her climax.

After her second orgasm, Michael took the initiative and rolled them until he was on top and Faith lay beneath him. After giving her sweet lips a few soft kisses, Michael rose to his knees and began to thrust in and out of her. Faith whimpered as Michael began to pound his thick cock in and out of her pussy.

“Oh yes, Oh God yes, O yes,” Faith grunted and groaned as Michael came closer and closer to his climax.

“Augh, I oh God, oh God damn yes,” Michael cried out, pumping a torrent of semen deep into Faith.

Their second fuck was done in the doggy position. Michael used Faith’s small breasts to pull and push her on his cock. She whimpered, whined and screamed her approval as he again bellowed and filled her pussy with semen.

The chairwoman’s suite had its own bathroom. Faith and three other residents of the third floor shared a bathroom. A cute blonde girl looked aghast when a nude man walked from Faith’s bedroom to the bathroom. Michael relieved his aching bladder, then put the toilet seat down again. He used a wad of toilet paper to clean his cock and balls and pubic hair of Faith’s essences, then left the bathroom. The blonde was now joined by another blonde. Michael smiled and grabbed his limp cock and shook it at the two gawking girls. Both girls gasped and ducked into another bedroom.

Michael dressed, kissed Faith several times, then finally left the bedroom. Softly closing the door, Michael saw that he once again had an audience. He said nothing to his four admirers as he trotted down the stairs.

His good mood continued until he turned off of Highway 52 onto Pitman Road. The closer he came to his house, the more sour the ball in his guts became.

“Know what? This? This is no way to live, Chopin,” Michael said to himself. “Just like any other bad investment? Cut your losses. Sell off the shares and cut your losses.”

Pamela greeted Michael with shrill complaints; she’d defrosted the chicken, she’d cooked the chicken and the green beans; she even bought the French cut green beans he liked so much. She’d had chicken in the oven and then what did she get? A text message telling her not to bother cooking. Well, by that time it was too late; she’d already cooked.

“Fine, fine, give me one fucking minute to change out of my clothes and I’ll try to choke it down,” Michael snarled at her.

“Oh, and next time? Won’t even bother texting you,” Michael continued as he walked down the hall. “I swear to God, not even in the house and you’re running your mouth, screeching at me. Hell of a fucking way to come home.”

Even though he’d cleaned himself somewhat in the bathroom of the Alpha Zeta Rho house, Michael could still smell Faith’s essences on himself. He could still taste her on his lips as he shrugged out of his suit. Pulling on shorts and tee shirt, Michael returned to the kitchen, grabbed a plate from the cabinet and scooped a heaping spoonful of chicken ala king onto his plate. He scooped some of the green beans onto his plate, then put the plate into the microwave.

“So, what was this supposed to be anyway?” Michael asked and smiled at the sight of Pamela’s back.

“Thought chicken ala king was supposed to have some flavor,” Michael commented as he ate the bland meal.

“Michael? I, why do I smell perfume on your clothes?” Pamela asked, beautiful eyes swimming.

Michael looked up from his plate and saw that Pamela was holding his dress shirt in her hands. The look of pain on her pretty face cut at him, the sight of her tears ready to spill stabbed at his heart.

“Uh, because I work with women?” Michael said. “Today was the last day of our internship; I guess a couple of the girls hugged me, got their perfume on me.”

“Is that it?” Pamela demanded.

“I don’t know, Pamela. Is that it?” Michael yelled. “Huh? Is that it? Is it?”

Guilt, and the image of his wife’s stricken face kept Michael from a restful sleep. Listening to his wife’s breathing in their darkened bedroom, Michael could tell she was not sleeping either.

The following afternoon, Michael debated calling Faith; she’d given him her phone number. He wanted another tumble in the bed with the sexy young woman. At three o’clock, he logged out of his computer, went down the hall to the bathroom and locked himself into a stall.

“Hey!” Faith gave a husky whisper.

“Hey, what are you doing?” Michael asked.

“Me? Nothing. Just playing with my little pussy,” Faith whispered. “Even though it’s pretty sore, I can’t quit thinking about you, about that great big dick of yours.”

Michael sent Pamela a text telling her don’t try to cook anything; he would grab Taco Bell. Her response that dinner was leftovers garnered the response that they’d had leftovers for a reason. He couldn’t stomach finishing it the first time she served whatever it had been.

Thankfully, Pamela did not respond; Michael just did not have the heart to continue the ugly volley of text messages. Returning to his desk, Michael again logged in and searched for currencies that were on the verge of devaluing in the next few days.

It was the first blonde, the young girl that had seen Michael’s nude journey from Faith’s bedroom to the bathroom that answered the door of Alpha Zeta Rho. She blushed hotly but allowed Michael entry into the common room. Another girl, this one a chubby girl with thick glasses was sent up to alert Faith that Michael Chopin was there. The blonde girl attempted to start a conversation, then lost her nerve and dashed into the kitchen.

“”She said I should take you up,” the bespectacled girl announced.

“Then what you waiting on?” Michael asked and the girl giggled.

Faith was nude when she answered her door. The bespectacled girl gave a squeak of surprise and beat a hasty retreat.

Sore or not, Faith managed to take two loads of semen in her hairless pussy. She also took a third load into her hot sucking mouth.

Michael smirked; he could see two bedroom doors slightly cracked as he sauntered from Faith’s door to the bathroom. In the bathroom, he jumped into the shower and used someone’s floral soap to scrub his cock clean. While in the stall, he also urinated; no reason to get out and use the toilet.

The two doors were still slightly cracked when he left the bathroom. Michael suddenly veered toward one of the doors and laughed out loud when there was a squeal and the door slammed shut. The other door also slammed shut, but there was no squeal.

“The usual?” Terry asked when Michael entered the lounge.

Michael tiredly nodded his agreement and took a stool. He had ended the affair a week earlier; Pamela wasn’t stupid. She could tell something was going on and Michael hated looking at her beautiful face, seeing the pain etched in those eyes.

Michael also had to face the fact; he was becoming far too attached to the cute, vivacious, sexy eighteen year old Faith Decker. After all, he was a married man. Faith smiled and kissed Michael softly. She then dressed and kicked him out of her bedroom.

“Love you,” she said as she stood in her doorway.

“I uh, I…” Michael stammered.

“Love you enough to let you go,” Faith said, a tear trickling down.

She then softly closed her bedroom door. Michael turned to the cracked door audience and smiled sadly. He gave a silent wave to his adoring fans and walked down the stairs.

Michael could still see Faith’s pretty ace in his mind’s eye as he settled on the comfortable bar stool. There were four men seated at a corner booth, arguing about some college baseball team. A tired looking woman sat near the wall, nursing a fruity looking drink. Every now and then, she would look at her cell phone, then put it down on the table top again.

“Or, you want that Oakleaf whiskey?” Terry offered.

“Bar brand,” Michael sighed. “I just, bar brand.”

“Dog died? Or, almost as bad, wife died?” Terry guessed, pouring the single shot of cheap whiskey.

“Nothing as life-shattering as that,” Michael smiled tightly. “Just, I just realized, I’m one more day older, one more day closer to death.”

“Sounds pretty life-shattering to me,” a customer said. “Terry, four drafts, hear?”

Somehow Michael managed to avoid sex with Pamela. He managed to drive her from their bedroom Friday, Saturday, and Sunday. He managed to get knee-walking nose-buking drunk Saturday and on Sunday he complained bitterly about her, about her parents, about her faith, about life in general.

Monday, Michael had an overwhelming compulsion to call Faith. He had an overwhelming compulsion to call down to Collections; there was a new hire, Cindy Breaux. He and Cindy had chatted briefly on their shared coffee break. The overly developed blonde had confessed to being a cheerleader in high school.

“St. Thomas Avengers, woo!” Cindy had laughed happily.

At lunchtime, Cindy told Michael she still fit into her high school cheerleader’s uniform. She whispered into Michael’s ear that she still knew how to do a somersault, how to do a back flip.

“And I can still do a split. Aaall the way down,” Cindy husked.

With a cheeky little smile, Cindy left the break room. A few moments later, his throbbing cock finally under control, Michael was able to leave the break room.

Thursday, Michael managed to dump a few million dollars’ worth of euros hours before they dropped. While they were artificially depressed, Michael picked up almost ten million dollars’ worth of the euros.

“Nine point seven million dollars. Nine point seven million and some change,” Tom Thibodaux congratulated Michael on his shrewd manipulation. “Pure profit. None point seven million.”

Then he grabbed Michael by his suit jacket lapels and hissed, “You got lucky. You got damned lucky. You ever fuck with ten million of my dollars again? I will bounce your pasty white ass out of here before the last euro gets counted, hear?”

“Yes sir,” Michael gulped; knowing the man meant his words.

“But my commission on nine point seven million is…” Michael thought to himself.

Michael was still in a good, a great mood when he arrived home. Pamela smiled, grateful for her husband’s good mood. Smelling his breath, there was no hint of alcohol. She kissed him the way they had kissed when they’d been dating, still in love.

Dinner was a frozen lasagna and Pamela followed the instructions carefully. After dinner had been cleared away, Pamela quietly admitted she’d talked with Reverend Smith about their bedroom ‘difficulties.’ Michael was about to declare they did not have any difficulties; Pamela had difficulties.

“And he said,” Pamela stammered, unable to meet Michael’s eyes. “He, uh, Reverend Smith uh said uh, maybe, maybe I, we’re trying too hard and maybe if we did it, you know…”

Pamela’s face was a bright red as she whispered the words, “…had sex, uh you know, when we’re not fertile…”

“First fucking thing that idiot’s ever said I agree with,” Michael said.

Pamela ignored Michael’s crude denouncement of the good Reverend. Quietly rising, she pulled her husband to his feet and again kissed him passionately.

In the bedroom, Pamela was grateful for the blackout curtains. She undressed fully, feeling her face burning with shame. Then she lay on their bed and waited for her husband.

In the dark, despite Pamela’s huff of indignation, Michael imagined he was squeezing Cindy’s large, bouncy breasts. In the dark, Michael imagined it was Faith’s snug pussy he was pushing his cock into. Michael ignored Pamela’s shudder of distaste as his fingers combed through her thatch of unruly pubic hair. Michael imagined Cindy would have an untamed bush of blonde pussy hair. Finding the woman’s fat little clitoris, Michael diddled her clitoris with his thumb.

“Oh!” Pamela grunted out, shuddering in a spasm of pleasure. “I, Michael, I don’t like, please, please don’t do that, that’s disgusting.”

Michael shut out his wife’s words. He tuned out her grating, demanding voice as he buried himself into Cindy, or Faith’s, or Pamela’s snug pussy. He wiggled from side to side, eliciting a squeak from his unseen partner.

“I Michael, Michael! What, what are you doing?” Pamela cried out as his thumb continued to diddle her clitoris, bringing unwanted pleasure.

Pamela’s legs instinctively wrapped around Michael’s hips. She thrust upward to meet his forceful thrusts. Suddenly, Pamela tensed and screamed out in orgasm.

“Aw fuck, fuck, fuck,” Michael complained, pumping a torrent of sperm into Pamela’s clutching, pulsing pussy.

“I, I cannot I cannot believe get off me get your get off me,” Pamela ordered, furious.

“God damn! What? What is wrong with you?” Michael bellowed, pulling his still spurting cock from her wet pussy. “God damn, God made fucking feel good on purpose! He gave you a clitty for a reason, Pam, so you’d want to fuck your husband, Jesus, get over it, huh?”

The slamming of the spare bedroom door was her response. Michael vowed to visit the Home Depot and get some stripping for the spare bedroom’s door.

They attempted another union a week later. Pamela absolutely refused to fully disrobe and slapped Michael’s hands away from her breasts. But, when Michael diddled her clitoris, Pamela again found herself giving in to the wanton, lustful feelings in her belly.

“I, this, this is wrong,” Pamela cried out as Michael spurted his semen into her depths.

“We need a better mattress for the guest room,” Pamela snapped the following morning.

“Then go get a job and buy it yourself,” Michael said tiredly. “Don’t see me sleeping in there, do you?”

‘I need you,’ Faith texted.

Michael swallowed the mouthful of far too sweet oatmeal as he read Faith’s text message. Washing down the lump in his throat with watery reconstituted orange juice, Michael looked at his unhappy wife’s tight face.

‘I can’t,’ Michael responded.

“You, I don’t like it when you bring business to the table,” Pamela said.

“No, but like spending the money that business brings to the table,” Michael replied, feeling his heart tug when Faith responded ‘Please?’ to his text message.

At 3:09 pm, when it was 7:09 AM in Taiwan, Michael bought up one hundred million dollars of the Taiwan Dollar. This time, he had Tom’s approval for such a large expenditure. Michael broke into a cold sweat as the minutes ticked by with no change in the Taiwan Dollar’s value.

At 4:42 PM, when it was 8:42 AM, the value surged and Michael sat, watching, watching, watching as the value rose. At 5:53, with Tom standing behind him, Michael dumped the one hundred million dollars and he and Tom laughed out loud at the seventeen million dollars Michael had made for Thibodaux Investments’ clients.

“Tomorrow is Saturday there; hey, take tomorrow off,” Tom said, finally noticing that they’d stayed an hour late.

In his car, Michael responded to Faith’s numerous text messages. Her last class was at one the following afternoon; she knew she had a test in that class so could not afford to miss it.

“You’re late,” Pamela greeted Michael when he came into the house.

“Blame Taiwan,” Michael shrugged.

“Well, blame Taiwan on your dinner being ruined,” Pamela snapped.

“Oh, I’m sure it was ruined before it even came off the stove,” Michael glibly replied. “Just out of curiosity, what was it supposed to be?”

In the morning, Michael dressed for another day’s work. A call to Polly Chastaine’s office was returned as Michael was sitting in front of St. Ann’s Public Library. The gang graffiti that marred the graceful stone building’s façade angered and depressed Michael and he felt a desire to retaliate against these thugs that so proudly defaced a public building.

“Hi neighbor,” Polly cheerfully said.

“Why do lawyers do that? Make you leave a message when you call them?” Michael asked.

“So we can get our meter ready; you know we charge by the minute, right?” Polly answered breezily.

When Michael told her why he was calling, she lost all cheerfulness. Polly then let him know she was in the middle of the Dublachon V the State of Louisiana case but referred him to Peter Neulin, a new hire with Banks, Chastaine, Greene.

Peter called Michael within three minutes and agreed he could see Michael in twenty minutes. Michael again looked at the thoughtless defacing of the public library and put his car in drive.

Michael did not like Peter Neulin from the moment the man introduced himself. The longer he spent in the man’s presence, the less he liked him. Peter had a fairly low opinion of Michael Chopin; he had a low opinion of most people. The fact that Michael did not want to go ‘scorched earth’ on Pamela Katherine Chopin lowered Michael’s standing in Peter’s eyes.

“She can have the house; yeah, I love the house, but when I have to make myself go home? It’s just not worth it,” Michael said. “And, shit, give her one year spousal support…”

“You’ve been married less than a year; I know I can get you out of any spousal support,” Peter interrupted.

“But I don’t want to get out of it,” Michael said, losing patience with the buffoon.

Lunch was at the Dead End bar. Watching some very attractive young women shimmy and shake while he enjoyed a spicy shrimp creole and a draft beer did buoy Michael’s spirits. At one fifty one, Michael followed his blonde admirer up two flights of stairs to Faith’s door.

Michael spent a very satisfying afternoon in Faith’s bed. She even attempted anal sex; Michael knew she’d never be able to accommodate his girth, but she certainly did try.

After Michael dressed, he again told Faith this was good-bye. She needed to focus on her schoolwork, he needed to focus on his job. Cheekily, Faith thrust two fingers into her depths. Then she smiled as she sucked her semen coated fingers clean.

Another stop at the Casual then Michael went home. It was not Pamela’s fertile time, so Michael asked her if they were going to try to fuck that night. Pamela slammed the oven door shut after pulling out the over-cooked chicken leg quarters and glared at him.

On Sunday, while Pamela and her parents were at the Church of the automobile salesman, Michael put his winter coats and clothes into the trunk of his automobile. Monday while on his lunch break, Michael went and rented an apartment at Queen’s Court Apartments. On Tuesday, he used his lunch break to turn on the utilities at his new apartment. Wednesday and Thursday, he bought furniture from consignment shops and hired Short Moves to move the new furniture into the one bedroom apartment.

Friday, Michael contacted his attorney, Peter Neulin and told him to file the papers with St. Elizabeth Parish, and arrange to have Pamela served on Monday.

Sunday, Michael surprised Pamela, and her parents as he attended their church with them. Then he took them to Side By Side Steakhouse for the Sunday brunch.

“God, I, I absolutely hate myself,” Michael confessed silently as he stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom Sunday night.

Next to him, his wife, his beautiful wife lay, happy and content. Her husband had gone to church with her and her parents. Her husband had taken them out for a very nice Sunday meal. Her husband had not uttered one profanity the entire time, had not even partaken of the alcoholic beverages that were readily available. And, upon arriving home, they’d again practiced procreation. Thankfully, the vile act was over, completed before Pamela’s base urges overtook her, caused her to feel that deep-seated shame.

Monday morning, Michael quietly peeled the burnt bottoms off of the biscuits. He ate the flavorless turkey bacon and runny eggs and lumpy grits. Then, he surprised and horrified Pamela when he hugged her tightly and gave her a loving kiss to her lips.

“I, ack, go, just go to work,” Pamela demanded, angrily shoving him away from her.

“Goodbye,” Michael said, taking the bulk of his suits in a dry cleaner’s bag.

Any mementos he’d wanted to bring were already at his new apartment or in the trunk of his car. Michael was depressed to see that there really had not been much he’d wanted to bring with him. He knew he would have to come back either tonight or tomorrow night, with a Sherriff’s deputy to retrieve the remainder of his clothing.

“Goodbye,” Michael said a second time as he closed the door between kitchen and garage.

At their morning coffee break, Cindy Breaux playfully ruffled Michael’s hair and opined he needed some cheering up. In a playful voice, she asked him if she could do anything to ‘cheer him up.’ Michael mutely shook his head and Cindy lost her smile.

“It’s really as bad as that?” Cindy quietly asked.

“Yes ma’am, I think it is,” Michael agreed.

Pamela’s phone call broke Michael’s heart. Her sobs and wails were genuine, her anguish was real. But, after he finally hung up on her tears, Michael realized, at no time did Pamela admit any fault. At no time did Pamela offer to change, to modify her behavior.

Immediately after work, Michael stopped at a PC Nation’s branch and requested a new cell number. Between Faith Decker and Pamela Chopin, his phone never ceased ‘dinging’ and ringing as both girls continuously texted and called him.

“Oh Lord, it’s hard to be humble,” Michael sang to himself while the young woman assisted him.

Arriving home to his apartment, Michael paused for a long moment in the courtyard. Three teenaged girls lay on the chaise lounges near the swimming pool. All three glistened with sunning lotion, all three girls wore little more than dental floss and postage stamps. The one nearest to Michael was wearing a strapless tiger print bikini and Michael enjoyed the vivid colors against her oily skin.

“hey, brought you a ‘housewarming’ gift,” Cindy Breaux giggled when Michael jumped.

Michael graciously accepted the large jar candle and invited Cindy into the cool dark interior of his apartment. She followed him into his bedroom where he placed the candle onto the well-worn tall dresser. When he turned, she greeted him with a scorching kiss.

“Oh dear God! Yes! Yes!” Cindy cried out as Michael tongued her very wet pussy to a screaming orgasm.

She let out some more cries and groans as Michael worked his fat cock into her. Just before he ejaculated, Cindy cried out for him to pull out, shoot on her belly.

Michael watched as she scooped his semen onto her fingers, then licked her fingers clean. She declined his invitation of supper and dressed.

“See you later, lover,” Cindy said, showing him that she was tucking her panties underneath his pillow.

At the Thibodaux Investments’ Labor Day picnic, Michael met Sonny Merchot, Cindy Breaux’s husband. The young man had been a high school athlete and behaved as if he were still in high school. Michael looked at Cindy as she stoically pasted a smile on her face.

“Dude, she’s married. And married equals trouble,” Michael thought and resolved to avoid any further exploits with the woman.

Looking around at his fellow employees, particularly the female employees, Michael thought, Pamela would have been scandalized, incensed at the flesh being displayed. Cindy was particulary risqué, the hem of her snug tee shirt not quite meeting the waistband of her extreme Daisy Duke shorts. It certainly did appear that her large breasts were unfettered as she allowed her brutish husband to drag her around the park.

Pamela would have also been outraged at the sight of Nina Crowder and her wife, Brooke Crowder pushing their daughter around. Michael did wonder if Pamela would have found fault with Billy and Sarah Stevens, or would she have been jealous of the four beautiful blonde haired, blue eyed children, as well as Sarah’s swollen belly?

Yvette Wooten, one of the Administrative Assistants also sported a very swollen belly; Michael heard someone say ‘twins.’ She was a very attractive blonde woman and her happiness shone in her radiant smile.

The real shocker to Michael was Yvette’s boyfriend. Michael knew Butch Everhart from the IT Department and had assumed that the young man was gay. On more than one occasion, Michael had observed Butch wearing eye liner and mascara. But the two stood together, Yvette leaning heavily against Butch, Butch’s hand lovingly pressed against Yvette’s distended belly.

Tom’s wife Kimberly was a bit of a surprise. For starters, she was significantly younger than Tom. And, she was not particularly attractive. But watching the homely young woman as she herded their two children, tended to her younger sisters, Michael began to understand, and appreciate what Tom saw in his wife. Kimberly’s beauty wasn’t on the outside; it shone through from the inside.

Food and drinks were provided; Cindy’s husband seemed determined that there would be no beer left for Tom’s caterers to take home. Like most high school boys, the more the volume of alcohol increased, the more Sonny’s volume increased. Cindy was highly embarrassed and Sonny was downright belligerent when Tom and a few male employees, Michael included quietly suggested that Sonny had more than enough to drink; maybe it was time for him to leave.

“And I’m sure Pamela would have enjoyed Cindy’s humiliation,” Michael thought as a tearful Cindy led a protesting Sonny toward a battered 2016 Camaro.

The workday after that Labor Day picnic, Michael was shocked, outraged when Cindy showed up for work with a hideous black eye. He heard her assure a female coworker that she was fine, and that Sonny was behind bars.

“Still, don’t need to be playing in that pool,” Michael thought and picked up his desk telephone.

“Mr. Chopin, this is Mindy Cohen with Childress, Couvillion and Cohen Accounting,” a pleasant sounding voice said.

“Yes ma’am?” Michael asked, rapidly typing out the name ‘Mindy Cohen’ and looking at ‘no match found’ on his computer screen. “And what can I do for you, Ms. Cohen?”

Mindy gave a brief description of Childress, Couvillion and Cohen Accounting then described their plans to branch out into investments as well as other services.

“I know, at present, we’re just a small accounting firm in a small Arkansas town,” Mindy cheerfully admitted.

“I, wait, how much?” Michael asked when Mindy finally made their pitch and named their offered salary.

“Plus, of course, your commission, and a percentage of any commissions your staff would earn,” Mindy quickly offered before Michael could turn the salary down.

Michael gave her his email address; he wanted it in writing. Michael verified receipt of her email and concluded his call.

Leaning back in his standard issue office chair, Michael took stock. He stared at his computer monitor without seeing the screen.

Michael had recognized Sonny’s 2016 Camaro; Charlie Welchen, his step-father had driven a very similar 1986 Dodge Aries. The same scrapes and dents and cracked windshield had adorned Charlie’s car.

Finally, Shelly, Michael’s mother had tired of living under the heavy hand of her drunken husband. Right now, Shelly was living in Lowridge, Texas, teaching at a public high school. Michael had no idea where Charlie was, if Charles Ivey Welchen was even alive. He did know his half-sister Mindy Welchen was living in Gratchley, Arkansas, dancing at Sugar Plums, a gentlemen’s’ club.

“Wonder how close Gratchley’s is to Myndee?” Michael asked himself.

Michelle, Tom Thibodaux’s executive assistant informed Michael that Tom did have some free time at two forty five that afternoon. In her crisp, clipped British accent, the harsh faced woman let Michael know that Tom had an urgent call scheduled for three pm with a concern in Costa Rica. Michael promised the woman he’d be done before three pm.

Looking over the paperwork from Childress, Couvillion & Cohen Accounting, Tom acknowledged he would not match their offer. He certainly would not promote Michael Chopin ahead of the two men already in the department; they had seniority over Michael.

“Sir, I do not want to burn any bridges behind me,” Michael stated.

“No? Gambling with ten million of my dollars on some euros? When we know how unstable the damned euro can be?” Tom asked.

The twinkle in his eye let Michael know the man was not serious. Michael gave the man a smile and handshake.

“So, next Friday the hmm, the seventeenth?” Tom affirmed, looking at his calendar.

“Yes sir,” Michael agreed.

Wednesday morning, Peter Neulin called and informed Michael he was about to pee in Michael’s cornflakes. Michael assured him, there was very little chance Peter Neulin could ruin his good mood.

Pamela Chopin’s got herself an attorney and Carter Fullilove’s a pretty good lawyer,” Peter said.

“Good. So we can move ahead with the divorce. How’s that going to pee…” Michael asked.

“She’s fighting the divorce. And Carter? Does not mind getting rich while you two go to the poorhouse fighting with each other,” Peter said.

“Oh. But you’re different. You have way too much integrity to do such a thing,” Michael suggested.

“So, let’s have a sit-down meeting with them, see what we can do to move forward,” Peter suggested, not answering Michael’s witticism.

“I’m pregnant,” Pamela informed Michael before he and Peter took their seats in the conference room of the law firm of Ferguson, Benoit, Fowler & Jones.

Michael thought to object; they’d not had intercourse on Pamela’s fertile days. But he remembered reading in a Biology textbook in his undergraduate days, stress and other factors can interfere with a woman’s menstrual cycle. He and Peter looked at each other as Carter Fullilove slapped the paperwork from Dr. Ellen Sweetman’s office onto the table’s surface.

“Know what? Mr. Neulin, the only reason to get a divorce is if I want to marry again,” Michael said as he and Peter left the squat, ugly building that housed the law firm of Ferguson, Benoit, Fowler & Jones.

“Uh huh. You want, we can order a DNA test,” Peter offered as he reached his Mercedes-Benz.

“As reluctant as she was to fuck me? I really doubt she went out and fucked anyone else,” Michael sighed. “Just, just retract the petition for divorce. I, I have no need of it.”

“Custody? Support? You going to want any visitation?” Peter asked, already swiping his finger across the screen of his cell phone.

“As of the eighteenth of this month? I’ll be living three hundred, three hundred and fifty miles away,” Michael smiled tightly. “So. No.”

“But, since we’re not getting a divorce? She’s not entitled to any spousal support, is she?” Michael continued.

“Now you’re thinking like a lawyer,” Peter laughed, opening his car door.

“Now that’s an ugly thing to say,” Michael said and located his own car in the crowded parking lot.

“I’ll be in touch,” Peter said and closed the door of his car.

Michael made arrangements to have his final paycheck from Thibodaux Investments deposited in his First National Bank of Arkansas bank account. Then he contacted First Credit Union in Bender, Louisiana and rearranged the mortgage pay schedule. With Thibodaux, Michael was paid every Friday. With CCC, he would be paid on the first and the fifteenth of each month. Michael had gotten into the habit of paying a mortgage payment every other Friday, in an attempt to have the home paid off before he was thirty years of age.

“It ain’t for you, Pam; it’s for my son or daughter,” Michael thought as he closed the First Credit Union’s bank accounts.

“Michael, Mr. Fullilove says you withdrew the petition for divorce?” Pamela’s breathy voice asked when Michael answered his office’s telephone on Friday.

“One more week, one more week,” Michael thought to himself. “Okay, God? Just one more week, okay?”

“Yes, that’s true,” Michael agreed and winced as Pamela let out a happy squeal.

“So, you, when are you coming home? I, I can do a meatloaf; you said you like my meatloaf, well, except for the red gravy, but I don’t have…” Pamela bubbled happily.

“No, Pam,” Michael cut off her happy prattling. “You and I? We’re through.”

“But, but, you, you stopped the divorce,” Pamela spluttered.

“Only reason to get a divorce? Is if I want to get married again,” Michael said. “So, Pam? You’re on your own. I’m paying on the house, I’m paying the utilities, but everything else? Food? Clothes? Your car? Nuh uh; that’s your problem.”

“But what about the baby? We, we’re having a baby,” Pamela spluttered.

“Uh huh. Ain’t love grand?” Michael said. “I’ve set some money aside in an escrow. Email me, yes, I still have the same email address, email me the bills and I will pay my half.”

“But, but we’re having a baby. Michael, we, we’re having a baby. We’re going to be parents,” Pamela sobbed.

“Yeah, God help that poor kid with Georgie and Kathy fucking it up,” Michael sighed. “I mean, look at the great job they did with you.”

“But we’re having a…” Pamela sobbed as Michael placed the handset onto the cradle.

“”You, sir, are a dick,” Michael said to himself as he logged onto the foreign exchanges.

“So, it true?” Cindy asked at four o’clock as Michael sat in the break room, sipping a cup of coffee.

“Mm hmm,” next Friday,” Michael agreed.

“Well, going miss you and that magic cock of yours,” Cindy said.

Michael wasn’t surprised when the attractive blonde showed up at his apartment. Cindy laughed, seeing that Michael had packed nothing.

“Typical man; you’re going to wait until the last minute, aren’t you?” Cindy said, already shedding her clothes. “And then you’ll be all like, ‘shit! Never get this done!'”

Cindy Breaux was not a morning person. Cindy did not like being thrown out of Michael’s apartment at six in the morning.

By nine that evening, Michael had his entire apartment packed up and ready to go. Sitting at the Dead End, enjoying a delicious hamburger and onion rings, Michael again thought of his half-sister Mindy. The girl on the stage looked nothing like Mindy, but Michael thought of his cute, chubby sister bouncing and gyrating to an insipid hip-hop song, dressed in lacy thong and pasties. Michael resolved to pay Mindy a visit, assuming she still lived in Gratchley. They’d not been particularly close growing up and that tenuous bond had snapped when Michael left home to attend Norwill University in Norwill, Tennessee.

“God, just two more days,” Michael thought as he put his second to last clean suit on. “Today and tomorrow.”

“No, no, no,” Michael thought as he saw his father-in-law’s minivan sitting next to his automobile. “Come on, God, no. I prayed. Doesn’t that count for something? I prayed.”

“Michael! Son!” George said, exuding false cheer as he stepped out of his minivan.

“George! Douchebag!” Michael replied. “How the fuck you been? Damned glad to see you, damned glad. Hey, want come on in, have a beer?”

George’s face reflected his feelings about being called ‘douchebag,’ Michael’s provanity and being offered alcohol, expecially at seven twenty on a Thursday morning. He moved to intercept Michael before Michael could get into his car.

“Now, what the fuck; what? You called the cops?” Michael asked and George turned to look where Michael pointed.

“Dumb ass,” Michael thought as he hopped into his car.

George tried to stand behind Michael’s car. George saw that Michael was determined to leave, whether or not George was in the way or not. He wisely jumped out of the way.

“Just two more days, God, then You can do whatever you want, okay?” Michael bargained with God as he drove to work.

Michael arrived to work with no incident. He logged onto his computer and saw that many of his files had already been reassigned. In truth, Michael was being paid to hold an office chair down for the next sixteen hours.

“Sorry, Mr. Chopin,” Butch Everhart simpered just before lunchtime as he wheeled a cart into the office.

“Butch, nothing to be sorry about,” Michael said cheerfully as he helped Butch load everything onto the cart. “How’s Yvette? Saw the memo; she’s out on maternity leave as of Monday?”

“Oh God, we, we’re both just so ready to get this over with,” Butch sighed dramatically.

Butch and Michael chatted for a few minutes while Butch strapped everything down. Just as Butch wheeled the cart toward the elevator, Michael’s office telephone jangled.

“Thibodaux Investments. This is Michael Chopin,” Michael answered his phone.

“I’m pregnant,” Faith Decker tearfully said. “Did one of them home kits and…”

“God, really? Two more days?” Michael said and believed he could actually hear the echo of laughter as he talked with Faith.

“You sir, are a dick,” Michael said to himself as he promised the tearful eighteen year old girl that they’d work together, they’d figure out a solution.

Despite his inner turmoil, Michael chatted pleasantly with his coworkers that crammed into the elevator at lunchtime. Flipping a mental coin, Michael decided to go to Clark’s Drive-In for lunch.

“You sir, are a dick,” Michael said to himself as he wrestled the bed into the small box U-Haul truck he’d rented from Huvall’s Texaco upon leaving Clark’s Drive-In that afternoon.

Michael ran the vacuum cleaner over the carpet in his now emptied apartment, checked his closets and refrigerator one last time, then dropped the keys to his apartment into the mail slot in front of the Manager’s office. The upright vacuum cleaner when into the back seat of his car. He then drove to the Motel Acadiana.

“Free movies in the room,” the bored clerk at the counter of the Motel Acadiana informed Michael as he paid for the room.

After a not so comfortable night’s sleep on a cheap flimsy mattress, Michael blearily turned off the anal pornographic movies and jumped into a tepid spray. He had started the evening out watching Asian porn; the web site for Childress, Vouvillion, & Cohen showed that Mindy Cohen was a very cute Asian-American woman. But after an hour of listening to butchered English by some haggard looking Asian women, Michael had switched over to anal pornography.

Michael used the threadbare towel to semi-dry himself. The anemic motel hair dryer did little to dry his wet hair. Then Michael put on his last clean clothes, double checked he was leaving nothing behind and labored to hitch his BMW to the box truck. Sweating from the exertion, Michael drove the cumbersome U-Haul to work. Sitting at his bare desk, Michael picked up the office telephone and called Faith’s cell phone.

“You sir, are a dick,” Michael said as he confirmed with Faith that they’d meet Saturday morning at his home at 2121 Pitman Road.

At work, he shook a few hands, said he’d miss the good friends he’d made there, and finally left Thibodaux Investments for the last time. His cell phone immediately started squawking turn by turn directions before he pulled out of the parking deck. Michael’s back already hurt as he thought about the six hour drive ahead of himself.

“Wonder how that went,” Michael asked himself when he woke up, still bleary from a long drive and an unfamiliar mattress in Myndee’s Home Comfort Inn.

Michael imagined Pamela’s outrage and Faith’s heartbreak at their meeting earlier this morning. In his mind’s eye, he could see the adorably cute Faith Decker knocking on the door of 2121 Pitman Road, and the beautiful, still sleepy face of Pamela Chopin opening the door.

Lori Knowles, his Gold Standard Real Estate agent sent him a text message that she’d be there in thirty minutes. Michael decided he didn’t need to shave, but he did need to have some coffee, did need to brush his teeth.

Lori Knowles was an attractive, vivacious blonde in her mid-twenties. She was smartly dressed and drove a brand new Lexus SUV. Her handshake was a firm one, though she did hold it a little too long, in Michael’s opinion. She also made sure to thrust her chest forward, or so Michael imagined this.

“Okay, I ran the numbers you gave me,” Lori said, her Texas twang coming out loud and proud. “This first one? On Kent Avenue? Has a fenced in back yard, has three bedrooms, two and a half baths; perfect for starting a family.”

“No plans to start a family just yet,” Michael smiled then wondered if he heard the echo of laughter.

The End.

**Author’s Note: I write these stories for my pleasure; I post them here for your enjoyment. I thank you sincerely for reading my stories.

I especially thank those that take the time to leave comments, good and bad. Likewise, I also thank those that take the time to rate my work, those that ‘Favorite’ my words.

This is in the ‘Loving Wives’ category because there is no ‘Loving Husbands’ category.

The Casual lounge, Joe Bob, and Terry are all introduced in ‘Is This Seat Taken?’ in the Lesbian Sex category.

Whitney, the beautiful blonde neighbor is first mentioned in ‘Vanity’ in the Loving Wives category. Polly Chastaine, Michael’s other neighbor is a reoccurring character in a few stories centered in and around the Greater DeGarde area. The romance between Whitney and Polly is introduced in is ‘Is This Seat Taken?’ in the Lesbian Sex category.

For those of you that may be concerned about Polly drinking while pregnant as was revealed in ‘Twist To Remove’ in the Loving Wives category, this story takes place just before she is artificially inseminated.

Thibodaux Investments,, Michael Chopin’s place of employment is introduced in ‘Kneel’ in the Mature category.

The Church Of The Risen And Living Messiah, as well as the Reverend Smith are first introduced in the ‘Oddball’ series in the First Time category.

Faith Decker is the youngest daughter of Angela and Duane Decker. Angela and Duane are mentioned in ‘Garden By The Front Door’ in the Loving Wives category. In that story, it is mentioned that Angela and Duane have four children. Their oldest daughter, Joy Decker is mentioned in ‘Goodman, Dorsey, Miller…’ in Loving Wives. Hope Decker is briefly mentioned in ‘Alana’s Playtime’ in the Lesbian Sex category.

Cindy Breaux, the flirty Collections agent is a minor character briefly mentioned in ‘Eyes like the Ocean’ in the Anal category.

Michael’s lawyer, Peter Neulin is a character first introduced in ‘1, 2, No 3rd Strike’ in the Loving Wives category.

Doug ‘Sonny’ Merchot, Cindy Breaux’s husband is briefly mentioned in ‘Five Trailers: Lot C’ in the Romance category.

Nina Crowder is first introduced in the ‘Tequila’ series. Her story, as well as the introduction of her wife Brooke Crowder and the conception of their daughter Christine are featured in “Am I?” in the Lesbian Sex category.

Billy Stevens and his ‘wife’ Sarah, as well as their gaggle of offspring are the primary characters of ‘Azalea’ in the Incest/Taboo category.

Yvette Wooten and Butch Everhart are the primary characters in ‘Vodka: Peppermint & Chocolate’ in the Transgender & Crossdressers category. At the end of that story, Yvette reveals that she is pregnant.

Kimberly, Tom’s wife is introduced in ‘Kneel’ in the Mature category.

The firm of Childress, Couvillion and Cohen Accounting is introduced in ‘Painting Pearls’ in the Lesbian Sex category. Mindy Cohen is introduced in ‘Bryce in the Park’s Bathroom’ in the Transgender & Crossdressers category. She is also mentioned in ‘Keeping Secrets’ in the Lesbian Sex category.

Michael’s half-sister Mindy Wellchen, and Sugar Plums Gentlemen’s Club, Mindy’s place of employment are mentioned in ‘Narcissus Smiled’ in the Loving Wives category.

Carter Fullilove, Pamela’s attorney is a character first introduced in ‘Nudge’ in the Loving Wives category.

Lori Knowles, Michael’s Gold Standard Real Estate agent is a very minor character in ‘Write It Down’ in the First Time category. Her position as a real estate agent is briefly mentioned in “Am I?” in the Lesbian Sex category.

Man plans and the gods laugh.

Have a swell day. And some of you, have a swollen day.