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Are they just words?
I've spent the past several years writing short stories back and forth between friends and friends of friends. Now that I find myself retired and at times bored stiff (wink wink) I've decided to take the advice of one of favorite female friends who has promised me a night of "fantasy fulfillment" when and if I get them published. Let me know what you think, feel free comment, bad or good. How else am I gonna learn, (again wink wink).
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A work in progress
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
And so the story begins:

Have you ever taken a drive through a neighborhood of elegant pristine homes sitting on immaculately manicured lawns, and wonder how the other half lives?  Or maybe you watched an episode of “Desperate Housewives”, “Jersey Shore” or some other crappy reality show and laughed at the pure stupidity of it all.  I’m here to tell you things are never what they seem.  From the outside it may look quaint and innocent and perfect, but underneath that facade lays a deep dark truth.

People with money are far more deviant than any trailer trash park community you can dig up in back water America.  All the back stabbing, cheating and thieving that goes on there is just daily routine.  It’s all part of the game, part of the mystery and part of the reason why.  Because it all sums up to one thing, power.  The one with the power makes the rules, controls the weak, and owns it all.  Power is the ultimate drug, and aphrodisiac to sex, more compelling than cocaine.  Power brings out the darkest side, and more often than not, the true colors of a person.

I know, from experience, trust me on this.  The things I can tell you about the lives of the rich, the stories, the rumors, the truths. It would keep you up at night, always looking over your shoulder and always wondering…..who the hell are they?

The names have been changed, so has the location, more to protect my ass than theirs, but none the less, the stories are true, as true as can be told.

Mind you, some of what you will read will trouble you, may even entice you a little, you are only human.  But read on with the understanding that no one is responsible for your actions but you.

I am just an ordinary guy, from the blue collar side of the street.  I used my back more than my mind to earn a living, up and until that fateful day.  When the idea to write this book came to me, to tell the tales of what really goes on with rich bored housewives.

I’ll set this up for you, along the Great Lakes are small thriving communities, mostly summer homes for the rich that have either been passed down from generation to generation or bought up at estate auctions.  In either event few of these homes are owned by blue collar families, it just isn’t acceptable to the rich to have the poor so close by.  Each one of these homes is worth more than I would make in a life time at my job and the boats that sit at the docks about the same.


I use to work in the steel industry near the Pennsylvania and Ohio state line.  Just like my father, I entered into the labor intensive, hot, muscle aching profession at a young age.  But then times got rough, the foundry closed, not hundreds but thousands of blue collar workers got displaced.   Those that couldn’t or wouldn’t leave, remained behind, forced to watch as their home towns slowly decade and died. Not me though, I was young enough and dumb enough to think I could make it in Hollywood, and so I headed west, I got as far as Toledo.

First I landed a job as a bar tender, listening to all problems and dealing with all the baggage the clientele brought in daily.  After a while I began to understand some of them, while others just amazed me at how stupid and condescending they had become.  Funny thing about being a bar tender, you come to the realization that everyone has a reason to be out looking to get laid.  It could be from a lack of sex, or boredom with their current bed partner, or maybe a grudge hump it doesn’t matter, people go to a bar to find some one to fuck, and that is the bottom line.

As much as I enjoyed and basked in the shadows of that profession it didn’t take long for me to find a fuck buddy of my very own.  She was a married psychologist, and usually came in on Tuesdays and Thursdays for lunch.  Her marriage was on the rocks, and even though she specialized in marital counseling she couldn’t save her own marriage.  Not that she really wanted to, the guy was a total douche.  He worked the evening shift in a factory and spent his days screwing the women who worked for him.  She had caught him one night out in the plant parking lot, pants down to his knees and some blond whore bobbing up and down on his prick.

She was sick of this town, and I didn’t blame her, it was nasty and ugly.  The only good thing about her failing marriage was she was bound to get just about everything she wanted, and what she wanted was the property.  It was almost a sure thing thanks to her quick thinking and a new cell phone, she was able to snap a picture of the blond face down in her husbands lap that night of their shallow torrid little tryst.

About an hour or so east along the shores of Lake Erie was a vacation village built back in the 1950’s, which now had a year around population.  Her numb nuts soon to be ex had a family cottage there and she was determined to get it.  So she retained an attorney, a real man hater by any standards, to get it and was looking forward to starting all over again.

So when the time came to finally move out that way she asked me for help moving her junk.  Of course she had to entice me with a steak dinner and a few cold beers with the possibility of an after dinner soak in the hot tub.

When we got out to the place it wasn’t exactly in a livable condition.  It was in need of some work, so she made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.  Move in and help fix up the place, she would pay me what I made at the bar.  I thought about it for about a minute, then I told my boss at the bar what I thought of his people skills.

That was three years ago, since then she’s opened a new practice out there, works for the State as well.  I moved out, got my own place and landed a job at one of the yacht clubs. But I still see my fuck buddy every now and then, not as often as I would like, but I suppose that goes with the territory these days.

I spent most of my days working the docks, taking care of the grounds, generally the clubs handyman.  At night during the summer I would tend the patio bar, where the real money was to be had.  Of course along with the cash flow came the lewdness of drunken boaters and lonely housewives.  It’s totally amazing how many "Jagar Bombs" it takes for a girl to loose her inhibitions, and her bikini top.  Sex it would seem is no longer the taboo subject of the decades past.

Hell now a day you can’t turn on the television or the radio and not get bombarded with some type of advertising for “sexual pleasure”.  From “Viagra” to “His and Her” lotions, it’s all about improving the pleasure of sex for both you and your partner. 

But just how much of that is actually pleasure?



Chapter One


Janice ~ July 8th 2010


I was in the kitchen, putting the clean dishes away when he snuck into the house.  He waited, watching me, until I had put all of the dishes away.  It was mid morning, the kids where in school my husband was at work, I was all alone in the house.  I had no specific plans for the day, get the chores done then maybe do some shopping at Kohl’s before my daughter came home from high school.

She and I had been out over the weekend shopping, and I saw a skirt she liked but didn’t get.  Which sort of upset me, since I liked it too, and not just for her.  Back in the day, I had my way with the guys, with my short skirts and high heeled shoes.  That’s how I landed my husband, my oral skills finishing the deal.  But lately he was too involved with his work; the economy was killing everyone, half of our friends were unemployed now or working in a lower pay job.  Struggling to make ends meet, keeping their homes out of foreclosure.   Not that we were that far from being there ourselves. 

I closed the dishwasher and turned to leave the kitchen when I noticed the table center piece, flowers my son had brought home from his job at the grocery store.  They were on their last waning breath, it was time to let go and toss them out.  Bending over to reach the vase he seized the opportunity to attack me.

I felt his arms reach around me, one hand over my mouth the other arm wrapped around my neck.  “If you scream I will kill you” he whispered into my ear.  My heart was pounding in my chest, which was also heaving with each rapid breath I took.  He said nothing for a minute or two while he held me tightly, my back against his chest.  He wasn’t your average thief, I could smell his cologne, "Lagerfeld" and his breath was clean and fresh as well.  Part of me wanted to fight back, but I knew I would not win and he would more than likely kill me if I tried.  I searched my mind for those damn rape classes I had taken in my twenties.  Then I remembered I was standing in my stocking feet, my heels left by the front door.  I caught a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror of the china cabinet.


He was young, maybe in his twenties with a muscular build and black wavy hair.  He had bright blue eyes, which at the moment were transfixed on my cleavage.  I wore a button down dress with a scoped neck, so the tops of my breasts were exposed for his viewing.  The way he held me, forcing me back against him, they seemed to be exploding out.

It was then that I felt his hardness press against me.  The terror finally set in as I realize he wasn’t here to rob me, he was here to have his way with me.  He broke the silence with a deep whisper “I’m going to fuck you, then I’m going to leave, if you want to live you’ll do as I say.  If you try to escape or yell I will kill you.”  He shook me “Do you understand?”  I nodded yes, and began to cry.

“Unbutton your dress; I want to see those beautiful tits of yours.”  Although I heard him, with his mouth pressed against my ear my mind still couldn’t deal with the thought of being sexually assaulted in my own home.  He shook me once more “Do it”.

Slowly I lifted my hands up to the top button of my dress.  I fumbled with it for a second before it popped loose, then I undid the second then the third.  My dress was open enough now that my breasts where exposed, the cool air of the ceiling fan blew down on them and my nipples began to puff up from the sudden chill.  I wore a pair of pantyhose under my satin dress and nothing else; as he pressed his enlarging tool against me I felt a familiar sensation between my legs.  One I hadn’t felt in a long time.  “Remember if you make a sound I will kill you” he said, and then he removed his hand from my mouth.  It slid softly down my chin, then my neck until he found my left breast.  I gasped when the palm of his hand engulfed my hardened nipple.

He was rough, and gentle at the same time as he massaged my tit, the warmth of his hand sent shivers up my spine but when he pinched my rock hard bud between his thumb and forefinger my mind snapped back to the last time a man had made me feel that horny by just playing with my tits.  Unconsciously I pressed my ass against his cock so I could feel it continue to grow inside his jeans.  It was as long as a banana and still growing, getting harder and thicker.


When he spoke it no longer startled me, it provoked me into a state of elevated lust.  “Take my cock out” he demanded.  I started to turn around so I could face him but he stopped me. “No, reach behind you”.

It was as if I couldn’t stop myself, my own hands betraying me as they slid down over my hips and then across my ass searching for his belt.  My right palm pressed against him and found his cock, rigid and pulsing with lust as I gave it a firm squeeze.  Then I slide my hand down to his balls and then back up to the head of that monster prick of his.  It was longer than my hand from the base of my palm to the tip of my index finger and thick as well.  I searched for his belt but found none, only the button to his jeans which much to my surprise, and relief, easily snapped open.

Then I unzipped him, his fullness closer to me now, nearer to the ache I felt inside me.  I wanted him to take me, as wrong as that sounded I wanted it.  No I needed him inside me, it had been far too long since I had something warm and throbbing bore into my pussy.  A girl can get by on toys for only so long, nothing compares to the real McCoy.   I love my husband, he is a good man, and when he is up to it he can be a real lover.  But lately, far too often, he has neglected my womanly desires.

I was again caressing his manhood through the thin fabric of his underwear.  I felt the slimy wetness of pre-cum as it oozed out of his cock making a wet spot.  My thumbs hooked the waist band of his shorts one on each side of his now rock hard cock and set it free as I pulled them down as far as I could.

Releasing his shorts my hand immediately shot back to his throbbing prick, stroking him as best as I could in this awkward position.  His dick was thick, I could barely wrap my fingers around it, and it was so hot and so damn hard with bulging veins.  But the most startling thing about him was the complete absence of hair.  He was silky smooth, not a single pubic hair on his cock or his balls.

I kept stroking him, as slow as I could and with each upward motion I squeezed him harder forcing a thick stream of slime from his shaft.  With my palm I would use it to lubricate him, from what I could tell the whole head of his cock was wet and ready to pierce my moistening folds.

My pussy lips quivered as I imagined him taking me, thrusting his pipe deep inside me. My hands maneuvered him into position, sliding that glistening spear head along the crack of my ass, down to my waiting pussy.  I had to bend over to accommodate the movement, “That’s right, bend over and pull your dress up” he grunted, the lust in his voice made me even hotter and I eagerly obeyed.

My tits where pressed hard against the cold table top as I stood on my toes bent over for him.  I pulled my skirt up to my waist, his hands grasped at the backs of my legs, slowly running up my pantyhose, up to my ass and then between my legs.  I felt his finger press against the cotton panel of the pantyhose and instantly my butt began to shake in anticipation.  He was pushing his fingers into to me, pushing the nylon fabric into my pussy.  My clit jerked with each penetration, setting off another wave of blissfulness.


I have never had sex with anyone other than my husband, but now I had something to compare to and I was embarrassed to think I was enjoying it.

My hands still firmly grasped the hem of my dress around my waist, when I felt him rip open my pantyhose.  When the path to my aching pussy was open to him he seized the moment and with out any further fan fare plunged his engorged cock into me.  He pushed deep, then pulled out and thrust harder into me.  With each stroke I gasped as his cock bore deeper, spreading me, filling me.  By his third thrust I felt him against my ass and knew he was completely inside me.  It hurt and felt wonderful at the same time, and as the uncomfortable became comfortable I found myself pushing back against him, his naked skin against mine.


Then he grabbed my wrists, pulled my arms back and up.  I was immobilized, bent over, back arched, filled with another mans cock!  He fucked me with such force that I was afraid the table would buckle and break.  Deeper and harder he slammed into me, never slowing down, never relenting, he was enjoying my body and the feeling was mutual.  I gave into the moment, filled with lust I let him take me and for the first time in my life I cared not what the consequences would be.  His thrusts drove me over the top, my knees buckled as warm waves of release spread through me. I shoved my pussy back against his glorious cock, wanting all of him inside me as I came.  I lost all control of myself, my pussy began to milk his shaft, my ass shivered and shook and I found myself begging him to come as my mind raced with images of this stud taking me.  It was my voice now that startled me “Fuck Me, FUCK ME, FUCK ME!” I was on the verge of having another spell when with a low grunt he shoved himself deep inside me, his bulging throbbing manhood exploding with thick jets of cock cream.

I couldn’t believe how much of a load his balls held and I thought he would never stop shooting.  With each spurt of his throbbing prick he jerked inside me, increasing in size just for an instant, once, twice, three times. Then he let my arms drop as he fell on top of me, both of us spent and exhausted.

His cock slowly faded until it finally popped out of me, my unplugged pussy let his seed drain out, trickling down the inside of my leg.

He lifted me up, gently from the table, holding me against him.  “Get on your knees” he whispered into me ear.  I dropped down to my knees and then spun around to look at the beautiful cock that had just given me the best sex I had ever had.

I took him into my mouth, tasting myself on him, licking him, sucking him, cleaning him with my tongue and lips.

Then I looked up into my assailant’s eyes……

I opened my eyes and found myself back on the couch in Dr. Bo Shard’s office.  I wished I wasn’t, I wanted to be back there, in the kitchen, on my knees again.  I was obsessed with sex now, which was why I was seeing Dr. Bo Shard.   It just wasn’t normal for a woman to think so much about sex, or was it?  When ever I see a handsome man, I can’t help but wonder how big his penis is, or when then last time he had used it to his advantage.  Even the women I see give me thoughts.  Take Dr. Bo Shard for instance; with her puffy lips and slim figure, I wonder how many times she’s given lip service to her man and just how many cocks she has sucked in her life time?  Or if she’s ever found herself bent over that big desk of hers taking some young stud deep inside of her. Her voice is so inviting, soft and calming never rushed, but I bet she’s a moaner when she is getting the fucking she needs.


Her voice brought me back to reality yet again.

“Janice, are you ok?  Can you tell me more of that first time it happened?”

She sat there in a large black leather chair; her office was set off in a room of her home.  The walls held several photos of waterfalls and rock formations all in black and white.  I would guess they were all Ansel Adams, but then again I know nothing of photography.  There were several shelves loaded with various psychology books, and I believe she had read all of them.


Today she wore a desert tan skirt with a royal blue satin blouse.  The skirt was about mid thigh, she wore suntan nylons and heels that matched her skirt perfectly.  She wasn’t much younger than I possibly in her late 30’s. 

“Yes, that was the first time, the first time I felt the need to be satisfied like that.  Ever since that morning I have fought with the desire to screw every man I see.”


“Did you recognize him?” She asked.


“Yes, but I don’t wish to mention his name just yet.”  I said, pausing because I wasn’t sure how to explain it at that moment.  “Even though in legal terms he raped me, I can’t honestly say it was rape, I didn’t fight him and almost immediately into it I wanted him.”


“I see” she said, “But some time I will need to know who this man was, I am obligated to inform the authorities.”


Sure you will I thought to myself, I bet you just want to know who he is so you can fuck him too.


“Since that morning I have had sex with him many times, he’s become a lover, and I will not mention his name, I don’t want him to get into trouble.”

Dr. Evelyn Bo Shard

July 9th, 2010


My day did not start out well; I ruined my last pair of pantyhose leaving me with just my thigh highs.  Of course you can’t wear thigh highs with out thinking about sex, well at least for those who still wear nylons.  I try to look as professional as I can at my job, which means wearing dresses or skirt suits no matter how hot it gets outside.  Although I have nicely shaped legs, on more than one occasion I have been told that, I never wear a dress with out hosiery it just finishes the look, or it’s my OCD. 


When I got to the office I found my early morning appointment had yet again canceled on me. I was some what relieved that she had, even though this was the third time in the past eight weeks she had.  I do care about my patients, but with this one I get the feeling she really just needs someone to talk to and when she can’t find anyone she comes here.  So my morning was free to do as I please, but I was so back logged on notes that I just decided to sit and write until lunch.


About an hour later I began to notice a pattern to some of my patients’ disorders.  Of the thirty or so patients I had, almost all of them had some type of sexual dysfunction.  Individually they could be diagnosed with independent disorders, but grouped as they were they all seemed to be plagued with the desire to have sex at will.


These were housewives, teenagers, mothers, daughters and sons, not your typical sex addiction candidates.  It was strikingly odd that not a single male over the age of 30 was in the group.  In fact there were only three males, ages 19, 21 and 23 that were exhibiting the symptoms of this sexually assertive epidemic.


I began to compile each patient, their age, gender and disorder to get an over all picture.  There were some indicators that stood out.  Three women were mothers; of those two had children that were also patients.  There were twenty six women in all, twelve were currently married, and three were divorcées.  There were nine single women and all between the ages of 21 and 55, there were only two teenage girls exhibiting identical symptoms. 


The symptoms all seemed to have manifested within the past 18 months and all seemed to have come on suddenly.  I began to wonder if this had something to do with their geographical location.  Maybe something near were they were living or maybe something they were digesting was causing this epidemic.  I Googled their addresses, although most lived relatively near to each other, there were far too many inconsistencies to determine if it was something in the environment.  For instance on one street lived a single patient but a mile up the road three patients were neighbors.  Their residences were too sporadic to make any type of link.  I then checked on were they all worked, finding that more than half were unemployed, those that had jobs none of them worked together or for the same company. 


My mind was getting foggy trying to find the connection, I knew there had to be something there but I just couldn’t see it.  It was getting late in the day, I was hungry and to be honest reading through the patient histories was starting to have an effect on me.  It has been while since I was with a man and I really needed to get some.  So with that in mind I closed up the office and headed down to the club house for some lunch.


It was sunny, warm with a gentle breeze coming in from the lake.  As I pulled into the parking lot I could see a few sailboats heading out from the marina.  I always loved sailing, but I hadn’t been on a sailboat since my father passed away my senior year in college.  Mom sold the boat along with the dock space, after all she didn’t know how to sail and it was obvious the boat would have just rotted away.  I didn’t hold it against mom, but I always felt that dad and I had our best times as father and daughter on that boat and I wanted to hold onto it as long as I could.  I watched the two boats sail out and head west probably on their way to Catawba Island.
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