#coffeehouse quintet
Text
The Coffeehouse Quintet - Book 4: Bad Dad
Jeremy tapped his foot, trying to hide his impatience. He stood in line with Rebbecca, his daughter, at the coffeehouse just around the corner from the Roslyn Derkins Theater. Despite being late in the afternoon, the shop was still crowded. There was a long line of mostly men stretching back almost to the front door.
The single father rubbed his daughter’s back. Her navy wool sweater felt rough to his hand. There was no mistaking the couple’s relationship as father and child. They were a spitting image of each other. Jeremy’s strong features and trim body made him look dashing and athletic. The same build, however, made Rebbecca look boyish and wispy.
Checking his watch, Jeremy was glad to see they still had thirty minutes until Rebbecca’s audition. A drama girl throughout high school, she’d been the star in every production. Her supporting father’s small IT firm that he ran kept them happy and would have provided the financial resources needed to send her off to a large Arts school. Her grades and applications, on the other hand, hadn’t been enough to get her in.
She decided to take a shot and work her way into the industry, rather than study her way in. Today was her first major audition and she’d asked her dad to go with her for moral support. She’d been insistent that they arrive early for the audition and they’d arrived way too early. The theater hadn’t even opened yet. Rebbecca was a nervous wreck waiting outside so Jeremy suggested a cup of coffee or tea to calm her down.
“Do you really think I can get a part?” Rebbecca asked, not for the first time that day.
“Yes, honey. You’ll be terrific. You’ll do just fine. They won’t be able to stop from falling all over themselves just to get you to contract.”
Rebbecca beamed and hugged her father’s arm. “Thanks, Daddy. I’m just so nervous because I’m not beautiful or busty like those girls on TV.”
“You’re beautiful to me, sweetie, plus there’s more to acting than just looks, and you’ve got it. You’ll do just fine,” he answered and patted the hands hugging his arm.
The line in front of them was barely moving. Jeremy checked his watch. At this rate, they wouldn’t have time to drink their coffee. Jeremy wondered what was taking so long.
As if she’d read his mind, Rebbecca said, “I bet all of these people are here for the same reason we are. They’re here early and wanted a drink before auditioning. I’ll never get the part over all of these people!”
“Shhh,” Jeremy said and hugged her head to his chest. “You’ll do just fine. There’s lots of rolls to be had, plus most of the people here are men. They wouldn’t be going for the same parts you are. You’ll do just fine.”
“But...”
“You’ll do just fine. Just think of what you want to drink and don’t worry about the audition.”
The two stood in silence for several minutes and the line crept forward. They hadn’t made it half way through when Jeremy saw the reason for its sluggishness. The barista working the counter was topless and had the most massive breasts he’d ever seen. She was filling orders for cream by milking herself directly into the customers’ cups. The process in itself wasn’t slow, but the gawking patrons prevented the line from moving with any kind of speed.
The startled gasp from his daughter showed that she, too, had noticed the reason for their delay. “Oh my god, daddy! Look at her! If a girl like that can’t get a part, how could I ever imagine that I could?”
“It’s okay, honey. You’ll do just fine. Not everyone wants to be an actress.”
“This isn’t like auditioning for my school play. This is serious.”
“You’ll do just fine.”
A man reading a newspaper nearby folded it up and slammed it on the table. If it hadn’t been for his outburst, Jeremy would never have noticed him. He was too average looking, too ordinary. “That’s enough,” the man said. “You two, come sit down.” He pointed at the empty seats across from him.
“I’m sorry, we don’t really have time for...”
“Now!”
Against his will, Jeremy’s feet moved him forward. Rebbecca gave him a terrified look that let him know she’d gone over against her will as well. They each pulled a chair out and sat down. Jeremy gave his daughter a reassuring look and said, “Don’t worry. You’ll be just fine.”
The man let out a frustrated cry. “This is ridiculous! How many times do I have to hear you say, ‘You’ll do just fine’? I know, technically you just said, ‘be just fine’ but it’s still close enough to piss me off.”
“I’m sorry, mister. I didn’t know I was offending you...”
“It’s not just me. Anyone within earshot is probably wishing for bad things to happen to you.”
“No they...”
The man cut Jeremy off. “Hey, lady,” he said to a girl sitting nearby. She was dressed as if her natural habitat was a night club, not a coffeehouse. Her pink floral print halter top v-ed down to show every inch of her artificial looking breasts. Her long blond hair hid the strings tying her top on and draped down the sides of her body causing Jeremy’s eyes to focus even more on her exposed cleavage. Jeremy wondered what sort of upbringing could produce a girl like her. “What would you do if you heard this guy say, ‘You’ll do just fine’ one more time?”
The girl glared at Jeremy. “Probably kick him in the fucking balls.”
“See! It’s not just me.”
Hanging his head, Jeremy glanced over at Rebbecca. He couldn’t read her expression. “I’m sorry, I won’t say it anymore.”
“No, it’s too late for that now, Jeremy.”
“How did you...”
The man waved his question off. “Really, Rebbecca here is already 19 and if she doesn’t have the self confidence to make it on her own without you constantly saying, ‘You’ll do just fine’.” The man shuddered. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say those words again. Anyway, as I was saying, if she doesn’t have the confidence to make it on her own without...those words, then you really messed up as a parent.
“I think you have done a pretty crap job. Look at your daughter. She’s pathetic. She’s got this whole,” the guy waved his hand around in a small circle pointed at Rebbecca, “innocent girl next door thing going on, but it’s really quite annoying. You’re 19, girl! Grow up. You don’t need daddy around to hold your hand.
“’Aww, everyone’s so much prettier and better than me.’ Please. You only do it because you want the attention. You want the sympathy. You’ve got the confidence in you. Hell, there hasn’t been a single play you haven’t had the lead roll in. How you fucked up on your applications so bad, not even I know that. My only guess is you did it so Daddy here would feel sorry for you.”
Their host took a sip of his coffee and let the scared stew for a minute.
“Here’s the deal. Your daughter, like always, she’s going to get the lead in the audition and be wildly successful. I’m telling you this now. And you know it’s true that I can do this.”
Both Jeremy and Rebbecca nodded their heads. Jeremy didn’t know how he knew, but the core of his being radiated with the knowledge that the man was telling the truth.
“So, you see, there’s nothing to worry about. There’s no reason to say those words. If, for any reason you do happen to say them, there will be a punishment.” The man snapped his fingers and the huge breasted barista left the customers at the counter and came over.
“Are they going to help me remove whatever is stuck up my ass?”
“No. They disgust me. Get their orders so they can leave and I don’t have to look at them anymore.”
The woman turned to Rebbecca. “Well, aren’t you just so cute! Has anyone ever told you, you should be an actress?”
“Actually, I’m waiting for an audition to start.”
The man clapped his hands once. “No chitchat! Just orders.”
“Sorry, sir. What can I get for you, dear?”
“I’ll have an earl grey,” Rebbecca said.
“And you sir?” the waitress asked Jeremy.
“Just a black coffee.”
The woman looked downcast. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some cream? It’s homemade!”
“Okay, two creams.”
Jeremy and Rebbecca still hadn’t regained the free will to move about, so they sat in silence while they waited for their orders. The man sat back and started reading his paper again. Jeremy wondered what their table companion meant by “punishment”.
From the other side of the newspaper, the man said, “You know, this wasn’t my paper at first. Belonged to a guy not much older than you, Jeremy. I made a bet with him that he couldn’t resist fucking this slut.” The man let out a chuckle. “I kind of cheated, though. I took away his distaste for nasty skanks. It’s not like I made him like them, it’s just that he no longer hates them. Would have been too easy for him to pass on temptation otherwise. But don’t worry, I’m playing straight with you. Just guaranteed success and punishment for you-know-what.”
Not really having a clue what the man was talking about, Jeremy nodded. “What do you mean by punishment?”
“I mean, you will become an even worse parent than I think you are. I’m sorry, Rebbecca. You’ll probably have to suffer through it until things get better.”
A drop of sweat rolled down the side of Jeremy’s face despite the cool temperature. “What will happen? What do you mean?”
“Tsk tsk tsk. Now where would the fun be in telling you? You’ll just have to wait and see.”
At last the woman came back with their orders. She gave them their cups and then backed up. “Hold your cup up a little higher, mister,” she told Jeremy.
He held it up to shoulder height and then the woman grabbed one of her nipples. She tweaked it once, twice, sending two streams of milk flying towards his cup. Not a drop spilled outside of it. “There you are. Miss, would you like any cream in your tea?”
“No, thank you,” Rebbecca replied.
“Alright then. And since you’re special guests, it’s on the house. Have a nice day and come back soon!” The busty barista made her way back to the counter and started filling orders again.
Once they had received their orders, Jeremy and Rebbecca found they were free to leave. From behind the newspaper, their host said, “Don’t say it, Jeremy. Just don’t say it.”
* * *
The 40 year old father sat next to his brunette daughter. They sipped on their beverages while the auditorium filled. They hadn’t said a word to each other since they’d left the coffeehouse.
Rubbing a hand through his thick hair, Jeremy looked over the information about the comedic musical Rebbecca was auditioning for. Not being the biggest play goer, Jeremy hadn’t heard of it before, but apparently it was a huge success on Broadway. It was a modern day, musical rendition of Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew.
Rebbecca was hoping to land the role based off of Katherina. She and Jeremy agreed that she had a better shot at it. Even though he’d reassured her in the coffeehouse, her assessment of her looks was quite realistic. She wasn’t remarkable or beautiful enough to fit in the Bianca role.
The auditorium filled around them. Rebbecca twitched in her seat. His green eyed daughter pulled her pony tail over her knit sweater. It went well with the sensible blue jeans she was wearing. Letting go of her hair, she started to fiddle with the silver bracelet her daddy had given her for her 18th birthday. At the time she’d refused it, knowing how thin their budget was spread. The down turn in the economy had really hurt her dad’s private business.
Rebbecca’s mom had passed away while she was very young and Jeremy had raised her the best way he knew how. He had trouble running his IT company and being a single dad. The man at the coffeehouse’s insult about him being a bad father had cut deep.
Jeremy reached over and rubbed her shoulders. “You’ll do just fine,” he said. As soon as the words left his mouth, Jeremy flinched. What was going to happen?
“Daddy! That man told you not to say that!” his daughter admonished him. She flicked her golden ringlets off her shoulder and Jeremy withdrew his hand from her pink and gray diamond-checked sweater. She turned her crystal blue eyes up at him and gave him a smile.
His stunningly beautiful daughter put her hand on his chest. “It’s nice of you to come down with me and reassure me and stuff.” Her diamond laced, gold Tiffany’s bracelet sparkled in the light. “But what would really give me confidence would be some new Dior earrings. I know I could nail the Bianca part with some of them...”
She didn’t care that her father was juggling his debt on two mortgages and three credit cards. Rebbecca’s insatiable appetite for brand name clothing had run Jeremy into the ground. Without the jewelry, Jeremy knew his gorgeous daughter would be a shoe in for the part of the beautiful and spoiled Bianca. She wouldn’t even have to act the part. Being her father didn’t spare him from her charms. “I’m sorry, honey. There’s no time to get them before the auditions start.”
The punishment! Jeremy cried in his head. Did Rebbecca notice it, too? The daughter he’d so lovingly raised was gone. In her place was a beautiful, spoiled brat that he felt no connection to. This version of his daughter would never be caught in something as plain and simple as the navy sweater she used to be wearing.
Memories of his plain daughter refusing the simple silver bracelet were joined side by side with his new glamorous daughter throwing a tantrum because he’d bought her a Tiffany’s bracelet and not the Chanel one she’d wanted.
He looked at the alluring creature next to him. Questions ran through his mind. Was the old her still inside there? When she looked at him, did she see the old him? The him who ran a floundering, but viable IT company, or did she just see the new him, the low level, underpaid IT clerk and a soon to be bankrupt security firm?
If the old her was still in there, she must be crying out about how her new lust for name brand items had done to her father. It’d driven him into massive credit card debt, taking a third mortgage out on their house and finally forcing him to get a graveyard shift just to have enough money to eat. She looked up at him and her sky blue eyes sparkled at him. “Do you promise to get me some after?”
On the outside, there was no hint if she was still there or not. As far as Jeremy could tell, the insecure girl he’d comforted in line at the coffeehouse had been completely replaced by the new Rebbecca. This version of her had tried to flirt her way up to the front of the line at the coffeehouse. After she hadn’t gotten any where with her attempts, he’d reassured her to try to keep her calm and his reassurances had angered that man. Jeremy tried to picture him in his head but came up blank.
“I’m sorry, honey. I don’t have the cash today. I get paid next Wednesday. I’ll get you some then.” Even if his old daughter was in there, she probably couldn’t see the old him inside his new beer-bellied, thinning haired body. The loser persona that had come as a punishment to his words masked the former father.
Pouting her full lips, Rebbecca looked down. “You’ll be just fine without them,” Jeremy told her. He couldn’t believe what he’d just said. Even after tasting the punishment for the first time. He winced. He couldn’t look. He didn’t want to know how he’d changed them.
A man stood up on the stage. Jeremy focused on him so he wouldn’t have to know what he’d done to them. The man tapped on the mike once and the auditorium went silent. “Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming out today to audition for a Women’s Network original movie, Trouble Daughter.
“We’ve gone through the applications that you handed in this morning. We’re going to be calling out parts and then those who we’d like to have audition for that role. If you don’t get called, it’s because we’re not looking for someone with your particular talents and we wish you luck in your future endeavors.”
The play had changed. It wasn’t even a play anymore. It’d turned into a tryout for a bad movie on a cable channel Jeremy had never even heard of. Unable to control his curiosity, the nervous father glanced over at his daughter to see what had happened to her. Neither the pink and gray sweater vest she wore nor the unbuttoned pink dress shirt underneath it did anything to cover her new, full cleavage.
Thick makeup adorned her features. On the previous incarnation of her, those features were delicate and cute. The only words that Jeremy could find to describe them now were “sexy” and “tease”. Long gone were the plain features that she’d once fretted over so much.
Her taste in clothing matched her taste in jewelry now: gaudy, revealing, and above all name brand. He could count his meager paychecks by counting the articles that adorned her. High stockings stretched up from her black heels and stopped bellow her knee. Just like her enlarged breasts, her now well toned, creamy white thighs were put on display as the black lace DKNY skirt she wore only covered her legs to mid thigh. Or was it a Banana Republic skirt? No, Jeremy didn’t think this new girl would touch something as cheap as Banana Republic, let alone wear it.
Jeremy’s once athletic form was nowhere near to be found. While his daughter was getting sexier, he was getting fatter. The IT company that he’d once owned was now his employer. His old business was now more successful than anything he could have ever dreamed of. It had become a major player in the technology industry. Jeremy had nothing to do with it, though. He was just the parking lot security guard. All day he sat in his booth and ate donuts while watching the little portable TV he’d put in. Former friends and employees now sneered at him as he checked their ID badges and let them into the lot.
Today, he hadn’t come down to be moral support for his daughter. In this changed reality, he was here to make sure she actually came to the audition. The new him hoped that she’d get the lead part of the troubled daughter, not for her success, but so she could start paying for some things on her own.
“You should cover up some,” he told her.
“Relax, dad. I’m looking the part.”
Jeremy rolled his eyes at that. He knew this edition of his daughter wasn’t dressed any different today than normal. She took any opportunity to flaunt her ample chest and toned legs. In this life, he was never strict with his daughter. She was beyond control. Even if he tried to lay down rules of some sort, he was constantly working to keep one step ahead of the nonstop collection agencies and was never around to enforce them. As a result, Rebbecca didn’t even pretend to obey him.
“...Next is for the part of Bianca, the daughter. Please go up to the second floor and wait in room 203. Clair Abraham, Alexandra Douglas, Fran Driver, Rebbecca Elman, Tracy...”
“That’s me!” Rebbecca bounced up out of her seat. She handed her drink to her dad. “Go on up and wait for me. I wanna go out and get a quick smoke before my audition.”
“Rebbecca Elman! I thought I told you to quit smoking.”
“Dad, I’m 19 and if I want to smoke, I’ll smoke all I want.”
She walked off and left him to stare at her back. Her expensive skirt swayed back and forth with her steps in her three inch heels. The motion called attention to the bit of creamy white flesh visible just below the short hem down to the knee high stockings.
Having finished his drink long ago, Jeremy took a sip of his daughter’s tea. He sputtered and spit most of it out. There was more bourbon in it than tea. It explained why she still had some left when he’d finished his coffee, but he couldn’t figure out what the hell was she thinking getting drunk before her audition. Things were getting too far out of hand.
He knew as part of his punishment, he couldn’t change who they were, but maybe he could stop them from getting worse. Maybe he could fight it somehow and make them better in the future.
Jeremy went into the men’s bathroom to dispose of her drink. He started to pour her drink out, but his hand froze as memories of the most recent Rebbecca came to him. To put it simply, she was a pain.
This daughter had never been in a play at school. This daughter hardly ever went to school. She’d been suspended numerous times for smoking in the girl’s bathroom, or being drunk during class. He didn’t know how she had heard about this audition, but the movie seemed like a parallel to her life story. This version of her’s life story.
The balding factory worker looked at himself in the mirror. Bags were permanently sketched under his eyes. In this world, he couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t worked a double shift. The job as parking lot guard was no more. It’d gone the way of his base level IT position and his career running his own company. His real self seemed forever away.
All that was here for him in this world was overworking, beer and TV. Yesterday, he’d pulled the late night shift and then the morning shift. For the first time in a week he’d gone home before 11PM. He’d been planning a nice night with a six pack and sleeping in front of the TV. His plans had been dashed by finding Rebbecca topless and making out with her boyfriend on the sofa. No, it was worse than that. It wasn’t her boyfriend, it was just some kid she’d brought over to pass the time.
It was too much for Jeremy. He couldn’t handle the changes. He’d come into the bathroom to try to revert them back to how they used to be. He’d come in to dump the drink down the drain. Instead, he bottomed the cup and gave a satisfied “Ahh”. Glancing back in the mirror, he gave his pudgy cheeks two quick pats. His five o’clock shadow felt rough on his hands. “You’ll be just fine,” he told his reflection.
Shit! Jeremy thought. He wondered if it counted if he said it to himself. The guy hadn’t said anything about that. He hoped it didn’t count.
Jeremy shook the empty flask in his hand. He couldn’t focus. He was too drunk. Dropping the useless flask into the sink, it clattered and came to a stop on top of the drain. Jeremy put his hands on the side of sink and banged his comb over into the mirror.
He’d been punished again. The job at the factory hadn’t lasted five minutes. To that last Jeremy, it had lasted a life time. Just like the Jeremy before that had been a glorified crossbar for a life time. Just like the Jeremy before that had been a glorified computer janitor. Somewhere he’d started out owning his own business.
So many lives in his head combined with ample amounts of alcohol made it impossible for Jeremy to think. The world was a dream to him. He had to take stock of who he was now. At some point he’d been athletically built. Now Jeremy couldn’t remember a time when he hadn’t been called some variant of “fat”. When he’d turned fourteen, he’d doubled in size as he’d started drinking heavily.
The thoughts of him owning a company were comical to him now. He’d never even graduated high school. The closest thing he had to a job was losing what little cash he had at the dog track.
Food stamps and TV had raised Becca. Jeremy hadn’t cared about what she did until she’d turned 16 and could start working. Now he skimmed her paycheck to take care of himself. He hiccuped. Memories muddled even more in his mind. He couldn’t remember if he was skimming of Becca for booze money or if she was skimming off him for brand name clothing.
Alcohol was the answer he decided. Drowning the memories was his only recourse, but his flask was empty. The unemployed dad stumbled out of the toilet and hoped Becca had some more.
She was off hiding. His daughter had begged him not to come to the audition with her, but he wasn’t going to miss this for the world because he loved her and wanted to support her. That thought belonged to some other him. He didn’t know which one. Maybe it was the original, but he couldn’t even tell which version that was any more. It definitely wasn’t the reason this version of him was here. The most recent Jeremy had a different aim.
He stumbled into the audition room for the background dancers in Holly Molly’s new music video, Trouble Daughter. That’s why he came. Auditions for that tasty tart’s newest pop tune’s video meant young fit women, young fit women who were scantily clad.
The lecherous fat man licked his lips and scanned the ample amount of cleavage displayed in the room. He wondered if Holly herself would show up. He loved the teen sensation and a picture with her could replace all his rag mags.
Jeremy’s erection poked out the front of his pants and he winked at one of the waiting girls as he stuck his hand in his pocket to adjust himself. The girl glowered at him. He looked up her fishnet stocking leg to her small tight black shorts. He could have spent hours staring at her flat stomach, but didn’t want to waste the time when he could be looking at her large tits in their black bra shirt. If asked, Jeremy couldn’t have described her face.
One of the men working on the lighting came over to Jeremy. He looked around nervously for someone to support him, but no one looked his way. “Sorry, sir. You’re not allowed in here.”
“My daughter’s up next and I’m gonna watch her.”
The man reeled from the alcoholic reek of Jeremy. Before he could protest again, Becca came back in, stinking of tobacco and pot. She was dressed in an outfit identical to the other girls. “Shit, pop, why the fuck didn’t you tell me I was up next?”
She handed him her purse and he dug out her flask. He sipped on it while he watched his daughter perform. Jeremy wasn’t ashamed to admit that watching his own daughter shake her ass and large natural boobs got him even harder. The way she squatted down and shook her rear like she was actually riding a cock drove him wild.
Those other girls didn’t have a chance. Becca had gotten pointers from the girls at the strip club where she waited tables. He was so proud of his girl. She was going on to bigger and better paychecks for her deadbeat dad to leach off of.
He looked at his platinum haired daughter finish her set and his eyes went crossed. She wasn’t how he remembered her, the busty girl who made her way around to all the boys in the trailer park where they lived. Rather, she was a mousy reserved brunette that cowered in front of all these people.
She was his sweetheart. He took care of her and seeing her dressed like that made his heart break. He wanted to cry. He’d done this to them. He’d kept saying those words even though he knew they’d be punished.
Jeremy took another sip from the flask. Drown it out, he thought. Tossing his head back caused him to lose his balance and stumble back into one of the waiting girls.
“Oops. Sorry about that,” he said.
“You ripped my stockings, asshole.”
“No need to get all huffy. Put some new ones on and you’ll be just fine.”
Jeremy cursed himself. He wanted never to speak again. He was afraid if he opened his mouth again it would be those four words and he didn’t know how much more degrading things could get. His old selves drowned themselves in the alcohol. Not one of them could bear to see what the most recent change would bring.
The stripper he’d bumped into glared at him for a long second then walked off. The alcoholic trailer trash looked up in time to see his tramp of a daughter finish her audition.
She clasped her bra back on over her artificial chest. Jeremy didn’t know where she’d gotten the money to get a tit job. When she came home with them, he’d hit her something fierce. Bitch holding out on him. He brought her into this fucking world and she owed him god dammit.
It’d turned out to be a blessing, her tips from stripping had doubled after she got them done. As fiercely as he’d hit her, Jeremy apologized and took her money for booze.
Word of a softcore documentary about strippers flew through the club one night and visions of Beka breaking into the world of softcore and him rolling in the profits flashed through Jeremy’s mind.
Stripper Trouble, a look into the troubled lives and tribulations of exotic dancers. Whatever the fuck that meant, so long as Jeremy got cash from his daughter’s ass, he didn’t care.
Beka sashayed over to her shit head father and pushed him back into an empty chair. “Jesus Christ, Jeremy. I fuckin’ told you not to come down here. You’re gonna fuck it all up.”
Raging out of the chair Jeremy raised his hand to slap his impudent daughter down. He stopped well short but she ducked anyway and her cheap bleached hair went sailing. Everyone was looking at them.
“The fuck you lookin’ at? Mind yer own god damn business!” Jeremy yelled at them.
Shaking, Beka grabbed her purse from Jeremy and took out a small pink vile. She unscrewed the cap and snorted two nostrils full of the white powder inside.
“Damn junky,” Jeremy said. “I ain’t gonna hitcha. You’ll be just fine.”
“Mr Elman,” someone said.
Jeremy looked up. Two large muscular men were walking about naked. Their johnson’s were bigger than Jeremy even imagined existed. They swung back and forth as the porn studs made their way off the set.
The dolled up starlets prancing around really took Jeremy’s attention. He was so glad he came down to this porn audition with his daughter. He recognized so many of the girls from his tapes. It was only a matter of time before his slut of a daughter was one of them.
“Mr Elman.”
“Fuckin’ what?” Jeremy looked at the guy talking to him. “Hey, you’re that prick from the coffeehouse with that big titty chick.”
The man blinked once, twice. “Yes, I am. I see you’ve become quite elegant.”
“I don’t care for none of yer college words. What do you want? I wanna get me some more signs from the girls before they get outa here.”
“If you would, sir. I have the contract ready for you.”
Jeremy glowered at the man. “Contract? What are you on about?”
The man pulled Beka up by her arm. She didn’t resist, but didn’t make an effort to stand either. He grabbed her father with his other arm and led the two of them over to a table. “Please, have a seat, Mr Elman.”
Sliding out a chair, Jeremy slouched down in it. His mysterious companion drug his coked up daughter around to the other side of the table. The man left her standing as he sat down.
He pulled out a piece of paper, a pen and a check for two million dollars. The man slid the paper and pen across the tabletop and leaned back. The original Jeremy read the paper.
“I, Jeremy Elman, do hear by swear under pains greater than I can imagine that I will never utter the words ‘You’ll be/do just fine.’ again. In accords with this, I shall give away all rights to my daughter having proven to be the worst parent possible. For compensation, I shall receive a check for two million dollars.
“Having suitably received punishment for her false innocence which caused me to incessantly utter the aforementioned words, Rebbecca Elman shall live happily as she is now with no recollection of my existence.
“In the event of my death, she shall still receive all of my worldly goods as is her right.”
The Jeremy that he’d become couldn’t read it. He could make out his name and his daughter’s name. The rest was chicken scratch to him. “What’s all this mean?”
“It means you’ve got a choice, Jeremy,” he said. “Sign the paper and you can have this,” he held up the check, “or stand up and take this home,” he pointed to Jeremy’s daughter, Rebbecca.
She wasn’t the trashy stripper the worthless father knew so well. She was the Rebbecca the loving dad had come to support. The frail girl stood covering her shapeless form with her sweater. She hugged it tightly to her chest. Her white, functional underwear clashed with the nudity and risque surrounding her. Her dull brown hair was pulled up in a pony tail that limply hung down her back. On her left wrist there was a silver bracelet with a heart charm dangling off it. In the heart was the word “Daddy”.
She shifted her weight from foot to foot. Tears welled up in her eyes. “Daddy, please. I want to go home,” she said.
Somewhere inside him, the caring dad cried out for the poor girl. He wanted to protect her, to coddle her. The alcoholic trailer trash sneered at the worthless girl. He wanted to put her to work to make him some money.
Jeremy looked from her to the check. The two of him battled in his head.
Protect her!
That worthless whore?
She’s my baby! She’s going to be an actress!
She’s my meal ticket! She’s gonna be a porn star!
Jeremy’s hand shot out and picked up the pen. He made his mark on the paper. His former selves disappeared, leaving only the new Jeremy. Reaching across the table, he snatched the check out of the man’s hand. He looked up at his daughter. “Shit, bitch. You are home.”
Rebbecca’s arms fell to her sides and she dropped her sweater. She started shaking. Her mouth fell open and a constant moan escaped her lips. The pony tail dangling down her back exploded in a wind storm of platinum blond. Her giant hair framed her face. Makeup appeared in heavier and heavier coats across her lips, eyes, lashes and lids. Her white functional underwear morphed into black decorative and revealing lingerie.
As her garments changed, her hips widened out and her ass expanded. Her breasts filled and inflated, stretching her new bra to its limits. Steadily, she grew in height to match her 6 inch stilettos. Lacy stockings snaked their way up her calves, stopping on her thighs just above the knee.
Her shaking got more violent and finally she screamed out. “FUCK! That was the god damn best orgasm I’ve ever had in my life.” She set her eyes on Jeremy. “I think it’s because I’ll never have to see your sorry ass excuse for a father again.”
Jeremy sneered at the woman he’d just sold to the porn industry. He stumbled back away from the table.
“Mr Elman, thank you for your business. If anything should happen to you, don’t worry. The money will be transferred to your next of kin here.”
“That whore ain’t gettin shit from me.”
“Very well. And remember, you just signed a contract swearing that you’ll never say that phrase again.”
Jeremy waved his hand at the man once or twice and then staggered away. He bumped into the door and spun into the hall. “The fuck?” he muttered.
Drunk and exhilarated, he exited the theater and out into the bustling street. Grinning deliriously, he pulled out his check. “Two fucking million. Yeah, Jeremy my boy, you’ll be just fine.”
He held the check up and looked at it as he walked. Not even the sound of a bus’s horn and screeching tires couldn’t tear Jeremy’s eyes off it.
0 notes
Text
Meet Barbara Dane and Her Proud Tradition of Singing Truth to Power
https://sciencespies.com/history/meet-barbara-dane-and-her-proud-tradition-of-singing-truth-to-power/
Meet Barbara Dane and Her Proud Tradition of Singing Truth to Power
Smithsonian Voices Smithsonian Center For Folklife & Cultural Heritage
How Barbara Dane Carries a Proud Tradition of Singing Truth to Power
March 8th, 2021, 12:00AM
/ BY
Theodore S. Gonzalves
Barbara Dane with the Chambers Brothers at the 1965 Newport Folk Festival. (Photo by Diana Davies, Ralph Rinzler Folklife Archives)
There are times when a songwriter, a song, and a moment come together to make an impact beyond anyone’s expectations. That’s precisely what happened when Los Angeles-based songwriter Connie Kim (on stage, she’s MILCK) performed “Quiet” during the Women’s March in Washington, D.C, on January 21, 2017.
Originally written a year before the march with Adrian Gonzalez to address Kim’s personal trauma from an abusive relationship, they turned pain into power: “I can’t keep quiet / A one-woman riot.” A year later, the song served a wider purpose and a much larger audience.
Starting with smaller groups of women singing a cappella in different locations throughout the country, and without the benefit of in-person, live rehearsals, Kim found herself on the National Mall. She’s heard of choirs in Ghana, Sweden, Australia, Philadelphia, New York City, and Los Angeles singing “Quiet.” Her “one-woman riot” grew to millions: “Let it out now / There’ll be someone who understands.”
Kim concedes, “It’s not my song. It’s our song.”
Today on International Women’s Day, it’s time to connect the newest generation of songwriters like MILCK to a long and proud tradition of singing truth to power.
Since the 2016 presidential election, millions of people have found themselves in the streets, holding signs, chanting, singing, occasionally braving inclement weather, and probably meeting others they never expected to know. “I never thought I’d be out here, for hours,” many have said, some taking to protest for the first time in their lives. Maybe it was what was said on the campaign trail, how it was said, or simply who was saying it. For all the first-timers out there, no matter how they feel about the politics of the day, people finding connection in the streets should know that singer-agitator Barbara Dane has been connecting audiences and marchers for years, decades even.
Barbara Dane (left) at the 1966 Newport Folk Festival. (Photo by Diana Davies, Ralph Rinzler Folklife Archives)
As a teen, Dane sang for striking autoworkers in her hometown of Detroit. She attended the Prague Youth Festival in 1947 and connected local protest with stories of young people from around the world. With a natural gift for swinging and singing the blues, she launched a career in jazz that caught the attention of some of the greatest on the scene, like Louis Armstrong. By the end of the 1950s, Dane was featured in Ebony magazine, the first white woman to be featured in those pages and photographed with blues greats.
Forget about the sublime images of suburban life on TV from the 1950s. The postwar years saw millions taking up the banner of decolonization and national liberation. Americans couldn’t ignore those tides and neither could Barbara Dane. Her protest music took her to Mississippi Freedom Schools, free speech rallies at UC Berkeley, and in the coffeehouses where active-duty men and women steered clear of military police and regulations forbidding protests on bases. Dane was seemingly everywhere, leading chants, reinterpreting songs by Woody Guthrie, Pete Seeger, and Sara Ogan Gunning.
By the late 1960s, Dane took up an invitation to visit Cuba, where she was greeted warmly. Did she care about the U.S. State Department’s admonition against making the visit? Her response was sharp and clear: “We’re a country that promotes freedom, so why can’t this free person go where she wants to go?”
It’s no accident that Dane found kindred spirits among the ranks of singers and songwriters working in the nueva canción genre. This was a popular music that celebrated a constellation of impulses and influences, ranging from local, indigenous, folk, and ethnic instrumentation, stylizing, and vocalizing, to lyrics that were political, socially aware, defiant, or even comedic at times. Her Havana trip not only gave her a strong anchor in nueva canción for reference, but she also found singer-songwriters from Europe and Asia who shared those passions and interests.
Album art from Paredon Records (Ralph Rinzler Folklife Archives)
These connections formed the basis of Paredon Records, the recording label she founded with Irwin Silber, a skilled critic and record producer. From 1970 to 1985, Dane and Silber released fifty albums that documented protest music from around the world. The musical messages reflected the stakes and the hopeful dreams of millions trying to make sense of a world dominated by superpowers with world-ending weaponry.
The songs and the writers came from every corner: students from Thailand and the Dominican Republic. Activists from Chile. Mass-party workers from the Philippines and Italy. Working-class rock by Brooklynite Bev Grant, anti-imperialist folk by Berkeley’s Red Star Singers, and anti-patriarchal songs by the New Harmony Sisterhood Band. But don’t think you can reduce Dane’s Paredon collection to merely strident messaging.
Throughout the catalog, you feel Dane’s attention to what it can mean to link the songwriter, the song, and the moment into something soulful and personal. Many of the musicians featured on Paredon trusted Dane because she was also an experienced singer in addition to being the label’s co-founder, writer of dozens of liner notes, and producer. She had the practical experience of knowing life as a working musician in an industry and in social movements dominated by men. She more than held her own. Audiences trusted her politics and attitude. And fellow musicians heard in Dane’s voice the hard life of singing for your living.
Getting out on the road and performing kept her vital and engaged. For Dane, as she explained in the liner notes to Barbara Dane Sings the Blues, the road taught her
what it means to be alive, to value life above anything and rage like a tiger to keep it… to spend it with care instead of trading it for a new car or a fur coat… to treasure the moments that are real between human beings without counting the cost or trying to bargain, because there’s no price on that beauty. The only thing we have, really, is our time alive, and I don’t think they’ve printed enough to buy mine. How about yours?
Folk musician Len Chandler talks with Barbara Dane at a major rally for the Poor People’s Campaign in Washington, D.C., 1968. (Photo by Diana Davies, Ralph Rinzler Folklife Archives)
It’s not too late for MILCK to meet up with Dane. I had the chance to catch Dane’s eighty-fifth birthday concert, where she sold out the Freight and Salvage in Berkeley, California. For the first set, her quintet backed her as she delivered a slate of jazz and blues standards. After the intermission, members of her family performed—her daughter, Nina, singing flamenco; her two sons, Jesse and Pablo, and her grandson on guitar. Toward the very end of the evening, she brought up her entire family, spanning four generations, and had her great-granddaughter step up to the mic to sing.
It was getting late into the evening, and I was going to miss my train back into the city. I left just as Dane led the crowd through chorus after rousing chorus of “We Shall Not Be Moved.” I could hear her strong voice fade as I hit the street and descended into the subway station.
I hope MILCK gets a chance to see Dane, now ninety, perform live. Or maybe they could teach each other their favorite songs. Both of them, so much more than a one-woman riot.
youtube
Above, watch Barbara Dane sing and share stories during the 2020 Smithsonian Folklife Festival’s Sisterfire SongTalk.
Find the two-disc retrospective of Barbara Dane’s recordings, Hot Jazz, Cool Blues & Hard-Hitting Songs, and a vinyl reissue of Barbara Dane and the Chambers Brothers for sale from Smithsonian Folkways Recordings. You can also explore the history, messages, and art of Paredon Records in a new online exhibition.
Theodore S. Gonzalves is curator of Asian Pacific American history at Smithsonian’s National Museum of American History. He is currently writing a cultural history of Paredon Records.
#History
0 notes
Text
“Up Close and Personal - That’s What Sharing Music is All About.” An Interview with Dennis Taylor
An Interview With Dennis Taylor, North Country Primitive, 20th April 2015
New age music is a much maligned beast. By and large, it has still to receive the critical reappraisal given to other styles and genres that developed in the 1970s. Maybe this is because its peak followed the year zero swagger of punk, and its expansive, meditative soundscape was the diametric opposite of punk’s short, sharp shock; or maybe because it was seen as the final swansong of the old hippies and baby boomers – mellow music for mellow people; or maybe because at its most soporific, it always contained within it the risk of moving a little too close to elevator music. Of course, such sweeping statements are patently unfair – the new age movement contained within its ranks many questing, exploratory musicians who were willing to incorporate the influences of Indian and world music, folk and minimalist composition into their sonic palettes. And by the early 80s, the new age movement was the natural home – in many ways, the only home - for fingerstyle guitarists influenced by Fahey, Kottke, Basho and the Takoma school of players.
Whilst John Fahey noisily denounced any attempts to include him as part of the new age movement, Robbie Basho found a home on Windham Hill, the leading new age label. The label’s founder, William Ackerman, was a fingerstyle guitarist whose debut album, In Search of the Turtle’s Navel, slyly acknowledges Fahey’s influence in its title. By the early 80s, American Primitive guitar was part of the new age pantheon, even if, as another Takoma alumnus, Peter Lang, has observed, the style was too folk for new age and too new age for folk. In any case, you only need to listen to the 2008 Numero Group compilation, Wayfaring Strangers: Guitar Soli, where many of the featured artist were associated with or influenced by Windham Hill, to understand that the new age movement, or at the very least the acoustic guitar aspect of it, is ripe for re-evaluation.
All of which brings us to Dennis Taylor, whose sole album, 1983’s Dayspring, was released on CD for the first time earlier this year by Grass Top Recording, who have also brought us new editions of two of Robbie Basho’s later albums, as well as showcasing contemporary players with their roots in the American Primitive tradition. Dennis is unabashedly a graduate of the new age movement and over the years his music has incorporated many of the diverse strands that make up the new age sound, which is, after all, less a genre and more a statement of intent – he has incorporated fingerstyle guitar, wind synths, looping, Indian classical music and world fusion into his oeuvre. Dayspring, however, is a solo acoustic guitar album, and although it is clearly at one with the new age, it is also steeped in the Takoma tradition Dennis had been drawn to at the start of the 70s.
Dennis’s musical journey began in typical fashion for many young Americans growing up in the late 50s and early 60s, even in such far-flung corners of the States as small town Nebraska. “Like a lot of kids my age,” he recalls, “I first became aware of the guitar through the singing cowboys on TV and the early rock ‘n’ rollers. The Everly Brothers, with their twin acoustics, come to mind. I also saw Johnny Cash at my first big time concert when I was 8 years old. I think it was about that time that I asked my folks for a guitar and lessons.” By the time he was entering his teenage years, The Beach Boys and The Beatles were riding high, and he was caught up in the swell of excitement they generated. He adds, “I also had a love of pop guitar instrumentals, which meant The Ventures and surf guitar music were big for me. My friend and I taught ourselves to play with the help of a record and book set, Play Guitar with The Ventures. We learned the popular surf guitar tunes and moved on from there to starting a band and learning the rock songs of the era. I was also taking drum lessons, so I started in the band on drums, but then switched to rhythm guitar when we got a drummer with a full drum set. My main function throughout most of the eight years we had the band was lead vocalist. Instrumentally, I switched between guitar and bass, as members came and went.”
By the time Dennis was starting college, he was developing what was to become an enduring interest in acoustic guitar. “I became aware of the acoustic side of artists like Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Paul Simon, Crosby, Stills and Nash and the newer artists like James Taylor and Cat Stevens. So by now, I was splitting my time between playing electric music with the rock band and acoustic rock with my trio or sometimes solo.”
A pivotal moment came when he became involved in sing-a-longs at a local church youth group. He remembers, “It was there that an older friend taught me the basic ‘Travis-picking’ that got me started on fingerstyle guitar, although at this stage it was still as an accompaniment to vocals. I also had started listening to the acoustic guitar soloists I had discovered at a local record store, the Takoma guitarists - John Fahey, Leo Kottke and Robbie Basho. I learned a couple of their instrumental songs and started writing my own first guitar instrumental, the song that evolved into Reflection of the Dayspring. But mostly I was still writing singer-songwriter acoustic music with vocals.”
His rock band, The People, had folded by the time Dennis finished college. By now, he was married and had a child on the way. In order make enough of a living to support his new family, he began to seek restaurant gigs as a solo singer and guitarist, whilst playing in Top 40 club bands and teaching guitar at a local music store. “As it was, the only real steady money to be made was by going on the road with a band every weekend. I ended up doing that full time for the next few years. At the same time, I continued to pursue my acoustic music on the side and did occasional park and downtown outdoor concerts, keeping a hand in on the acoustic side, both solo and with a couple of friends.”
Life on the road became increasingly incompatible with family life. ”I quit the road band business in the mid-late 70s to be able to stay at home. I tried to do this by taking on guitar students at home and also teaching and working at music store. By now, I was seriously writing solo guitar instrumentals and I was starting to get enough original guitar pieces to perform solo at a few coffeehouses and concerts.”
Around this time, Dennis and his family moved out of the city for a quieter life in a small Nebraskan town, where he continued to teach guitar and work in a music store. It was whilst living in this community that several of the pieces that found their way onto Dayspring first emerged. “We had a small artist’s community,” Dennis recalls, “And I lived right across the street from a good friend, Ernie Ochsner, who was a visual artist. He was painting giant murals for a local museum and other landscape pieces, as he was getting pretty well known across the country through art shows and such. Ernie and I would hang out every day in his studio on the third floor of a downtown building in the town square - he would paint, while I would play the guitar. Many of the early Dayspring pieces evolved from those sessions. Before I moved back to Lincoln, I played my first official solo guitar concerts at the local art museum and the following year, I played my guitar pieces live on the radio for the first time.”
By 1979, following a spell developing his fretless bass chops with a jazz-rock band and by now living back in Lincoln and still working at a music store, Dennis joined The Spencer Ward Quintet, a band playing a hybrid of jazz fusion, world music, folk and semi-classical music. “It was all original music, written primarily by the leader, who was a nylon-string guitarist. The band consisted of classical guitar, vibes, flute, violin and drums. I sat in with them on fretless bass and convinced them that it would really fill out the sound of the music. At the same time, I was still pursuing my now all-instrumental solo guitar music, doing solo guitar gigs in many of the same clubs in Lincoln where the band would play. I was also still doing park concerts and outdoor downtown lunchtime concerts as a solo guitarist.”
The bandleader had visited Portland, Oregon in the Pacific Northwest, where some of the local musicians convinced him that their acoustic/electric fusion would find an appreciative audience. As they had already built a large and loyal following in Lincoln, the move seemed like the next logical step in the band’s evolution. “The band moved to Oregon in the spring of 1980. A couple of months later, in the summer, I joined them out there, but I was uncomfortable with the big city aspect. The other members all had day jobs, but so far, gigs were not happening. I made a quick decision to move down to Eugene, Oregon, a small college town that was more the size of city I was used to. As it turned out, there were a lot good musicians in Eugene, but work was very scarce, both musically and even for day jobs. Within a few months, my money had run out and I was not even close to gaining any kind of musical foothold. So, I packed up and headed back to Lincoln, a place where I had already established my self as a solo guitarist through clubs concerts and doing live radio at a local station. I came home to Nebraska determined to not get distracted musically again from my solo guitar work and to make a record of my solo guitar music before I turned 30 years old.”
“I started putting the music of Dayspring together, started teaching guitar at a music store again, played my solo gigs and also took the opportunity to put a jazz piano trio together with two friends, with me on fretless bass, working a lot of the same clubs and concerts I was playing as an acoustic guitarist.”
Encouraged by Terry Moore, the owner of Dirt Cheap Records, the foremost independent record store in Lincoln, Dennis went into the studio to record Dayspring. “Terry was an alternative icon in Lincoln,” he recalls. “He had also helped to start and mostly funded our local whole food co-op store and KZUM, our listener-owned, volunteer programmed radio station. He so loved and believed in the music I was doing for Dayspring, that after it was recorded and I had got to the point where I’d decided to release it independently, he offered to pay for a small pressing of LPs himself, which I would repay through sales. As it turned out, I was able to pay for the records on my own, but he helped promote Dayspring through his record shop and in fact had me do a release debut by playing live all afternoon in the front window of the store - a truly fun event for everyone!”
Spectrum, the studio Dennis used, turned out to be owned by musicians he knew from his garage band days, one of whom, his childhood friend Tommy Alesio, engineered the recordings. “They’d just opened the studio and because they were competing with the older established studios, their rates were very reasonable. I believe it was something like $30 an hour for recording, mixing and master tapes. Since I was doing a fairly simple project recording-wise and I was totally ready by the time I got into the studio, we were able to do the whole record in one session, mostly first takes. Once the session was set up, I had rehearsed and polished the songs at home non-stop for weeks, using my home cassette recorder to make sure the songs were ready to record, with the arrangements and song orders pretty much planned out. In the studio, we basically set up the mikes and let the tape roll. It was a long day, but we got the songs down in just one long afternoon session. The total cost was $150 and I had ready to press quarter-inch master tapes.”
Initially, Dennis attempted to get his music out by following the tried and tested route of sending a demo to the record company he felt was most likely to want to produce the album; in this case, William Ackerman’s Windham Hill, which by this time was the pre-eminent record label for new age and solo acoustic guitar releases. However, as he recalls, “It took several months for Windham to receive the tape, then it was lost for a while, then it was found, then it was listened to. I wasn’t that patient or that hopeful after reading about the glut of demos they had been receiving – up to 200 a month.”
Dennis decided the way forward was to put the album out himself in a limited local edition, with the help of How to Make and Sell Your Own Record, an illustrated step-by-step guide from Guitar Player Magazine. “I got so impatient, not getting a response on my demo tape, that by the time I finally got a ‘thanks, but no thanks and good luck’ letter back from Windham Hill, it was August of 1983, my own pressing had arrived five months earlier and was already selling in the local record stores and playing on local radio. I’m glad I didn’t wait to hear back before I went ahead on my own!”
Dennis called upon the talents of his friends in Lincoln to bring the album to fruition. The photos for the album cover were shot at a local park concert by his friend Lisa Paulsen, who was a photographer for the University newspaper. Another friend, Lauren Weisberg-Norris, worked as a commercial artist and took Dennis’s basic layout ideas for the cover and made them camera ready. He also took note of the experience of local musician friends who had pressed records of their bands. “I looked into the cost of using the same standard national pressing plants they had used. I was not happy with what I saw. Most of those plants were very expensive, wanted at least a thousand copies to get a decent price and the vinyl they were using was that cheap, thin, floppy vinyl: snap, crackle and pop. This was not at all what I wanted. I had audiophile pressings from Germany and Japan in my own record collection and I knew what good, quiet, heavy vinyl sounded like.”
Poring through the small ads in the back of music magazines, he came across a tiny advert for a small pressing plant in Cheyenne, Wyoming, Rocky Mt. Recording. “I thought, what the heck and I gave them a call. They were really nice people and they were really excited about the idea. Even better, their prices were half what the nationals wanted, with a very small minimum of 300 records. So I said sure, send me some samples. The album cover artwork sample was a little antiquated and hokey looking, but the cardboard quality was good. My artwork was camera ready, so no worries there. The music they sent was local country bands and not all that impressive musically, but the quality of the vinyl… heavy, virgin vinyl, like I hadn’t seen since the sixties. It seemed about three times the weight of what the other pressing plants were putting out and it was quiet, like a good audiophile pressing. Their little pressing machines were from the sixties. I had found my answer. The whole ticket for the 300 records, covers and even cardboard mailers and shipping was going to be $794.75. I would be bringing the whole project in for around $950.”
“The couple that ran the pressing plant loved my high quality masters and the artwork,” Dennis continues. “They said, ‘The tapes sounded so good, we didn’t have to do anything with them!’ They were used to local country bands in Cheyenne bringing cassette tapes, usually recorded live at a bar and then wanting the Rocky Mt. folks to make hit sounding records out of them.”
He reflects: “Comparatively, it’s a breeze to put out your own music these days, but of course there are also many more people with that easy access, so it’s a flooded market. A guy playing solo acoustic guitar, while there were quite a few of us, at least nationwide, was still a fairly unique entity in the recording world back in the early 80s. You just had to somehow get that music out there to the people who loved it. And for me that was on a local level, without huge life changing investments and with lots of immediate feedback from the fans of the music. For me, that was a better way to go.”
The local reaction to Dayspring led to an unexpected new venture for Dennis. “Shortly after it was released, I walked into a Radio Shack to buy a part for a speaker. As I was writing the cheque, the cashier’s eyes got big and he asked me, ‘Are you the Dennis Taylor? The guitar player?’ 'Uh, yeah. I guess so.’ 'Wow! I play your record on my radio show all the time!’ He then asked me to come and play live on the show, Green Fields, which featured new age and jazz-fusion music. After I played, my new friend, Clyde Adams, who was also a drummer and like me was into Indian classical and fusion music, asked me if I wanted to come back and co-host the weekly program. I ended up doing this for the next six years. We were the only program in Lincoln at the time playing those kinds of music and the show was very well received.”
Around the same time, Dennis was also working on a local public access TV talk show, for which he had provided the theme music. The director, Doug Boyd, invited him to play some live performances of the Dayspring music for public access viewing. “I said sure, so using our same crew, we created two half hour programmes, Dennis Taylor Guitar Solos I & II. At the time, these were the only public access programs that were all music and no talk, the opposite of most of what was on the air on that channel. The shows were so popular, that they ran almost daily from 1984 to 1988. All of these things, along with downtown gigs, my yearly park concerts, various appearances at the University of Nebraska and sales at local record stores helped the original pressing of Dayspring to sell out locally in just the first few years. I couldn’t afford to repress the album, so essentially it became a limited edition. I was one of only two solo acoustic guitarists in the Lincoln and Omaha area that I know of, along with my friend Chris Griffith, who was pretty strictly a non-writer and a Leo Kottke 12-string disciple. It was pretty much me if you wanted that kind of music either for your club or park concert or wedding or whatever.”
The reception to Dayspring locally and the steady rise in stock of new age music nationally left Dennis with high hopes. “Being invited to the steady onslaught of Windham Hill and other new age artists coming to perform in Lincoln and Omaha, it seemed like the golden era for our kind of music had come. In our small group of musician, DJs, store owners and so on, we started to feel like we were definitely the happening thing in music. We thought that with the flood of national recognition, with major labels jumping on the bandwagon and signing new age artists and the emergence of the new age Grammy and even our local rock and oldies station, KLMS, switching to a new age and smooth jazz format, our time had come. That we were about to become the new rock 'n’ roll - the mainstream pop music. I became the go-to guy for downtown outdoor concerts, park concerts, the new separate quiet new age and folk area at annual Holmes Lake 4th of July event…a safe distance away from the main stage, where the classic rock acts were playing.”
As early as 1984, Dennis had intended to make a follow up to Dayspring. His idea was to expand the scope of the music – 6 & 12 string guitar pieces with the addition of fretless bass and tabla and percussion. He even started demoing new material, but the project never came to fruition. In the late 80s, he started working on a solo guitar album made up of a few new pieces and some of the Dayspring material slowed down to a meditative level. This project was abandoned when he concluded he didn’t really like the results of changing the mood of the Dayspring pieces.
Meanwhile, by the mid 80s, in order to make ends meet Dennis returned to playing in top 40 house bands churning out the classic rock anthems of the day, despite not being particularly attached to what was happening in the rock and pop worlds. In terms of his own musical interests, he had dived head-first into the new age. He explains, “I had already made my personal leap from popular music to what I liked to call un-pop music by the mid 70s. On the electric side, jazz-fusion… Takoma and Indian and world-based acoustic fusion on the acoustic side. When the 80s hit, I discovered labels like Windham Hill, Narada and Private Music and I jumped into the new age movement with both feet. I’d found the music that I most resonated with of all the genres I had been involved in or listened to up to then, whilst also maintaining a kinship with the funkier and less experimental end of jazz-fusion. I was in a world where new age was really starting to happen on a local level, with myself and a friend doing a new age and jazz fusion weekly radio program and my old rock band mate and childhood friend, opening a new age record and bookstore and doing a Hearts of Space type radio show on our local NPR affiliated University radio station.”
The high watermark of the new age began to recede by the start of the 90s. The major labels had oversold the movement: they had come to realise that the new age artists were generally not going to sell at the levels of major pop acts and had started dropping those artists from their labels. What remained, however, was a solid niche audience, both nationally and locally, which for a while kept Dennis and his musical fellow travellers working a few times a year at local concerts. He recalls, “In the end, the park and downtown concerts started to drop off. By a stroke of luck for my tabla playing musical partner, Dave Novak and myself, we came across the owners of the two Indian restaurants, one in Lincoln and then a second one that opened a couple years later in Omaha. Those owners loved the new age world fusion music Dave and I were doing and felt it was exactly right for the ambience of their 'classy’ dining establishments. It ended up that we were playing every Sunday in one restaurant or the other from 1992 until the Omaha restaurant changed hands and ended live music in 2003. Then it went back to once a month at the one in Lincoln until they ended live music at the end of 2013.”
He continues: “I actually did some live recordings at the restaurant, although these were not concise album-type pieces. Our job there was to stretch out and jam for three hours and many of the pieces stretched to ten, fifteen or twenty minutes each. Also whenever it was with Dave, he was miked, which allowed all the restaurant noise to come into the recordings. We joked about Kenny the Bartender doing his famous ice dump solo at the exact moment when the music got very quiet and meditative. Or the inevitable singing baby who would go on and on and never stop!”
From the mid 90s, Dennis began pursuing a new direction in his writing and instrumentation, acquiring a keyboard synthesizer/sequencer workstation, electronic hand drums, a midi-bass guitar synth controller and an electronic wind synth. The result of this new palette of sounds was a short series of concerts of pre-programmed synthesizer pieces around 1996-1997, where he used the bass synth controller for the melody and improvised element of the performances. When an inheritance from his parents meant he was finally able to give up the top 40 house band gig at the turn of the century, Dennis began to focus on melding his older acoustic guitar and tabla based approach with the newer electronic sounds he had been experimenting with. This in turn led him into the writing of new songs, using the acoustic guitar as the centre-point, but augmented with electronics and fretless bass, using live looping and on some pieces, Dave Novak’s tablas and percussion.
In 2006, the same Doug Boyd who had directed Dennis Taylor Guitar Solos I & II was asked to produce a feature length documentary of a five year Lincoln Arts Council programme he had been filming. He turned to Dennis to write and perform the soundtrack for the film, which was premiered at Lincoln University Movie Theatre in January 2007. Stories of Home paired twelve families in Lincoln with twelve visual artists, who created artworks based on each family’s story. Denis explains: “It involved families who had come to Lincoln from Africa, Vietnam and Mexico; a Native American family; a woman who had grown up in cattle country and was now marketing vegetarian desserts; a lesbian couple and a family that had escaped Iraq. All of them were families with a background story different to the usual home-grown families in Lincoln. I did the soundtrack with acoustic guitar, wind synth and electronic hand drum and recorded it in my home studio. The project was intended to be a model for other city’s arts councils, bringing diverse peoples together by sharing there personal stories of home and getting to know each other on a one to one basis, through art and music. It was a project I am incredibly proud to have been a part of.”
Dennis admits he was getting ready to call time on the more complex approach he had been taking to music making. “Around 2011-2012, I got the strong urge to quit doing the new set up. There was always a lot of preparation involved. I constantly felt like mission control - time to push this button, time to step on this pedal, time to switch to this instrument. I decided to just go back to where I started – live acoustic guitar, with or without Dave on tabla and percussion, as the occasion required. It was so relaxing, after all that experimentation and brain work, to just be able to float away in the sound of the acoustic guitar for the evening. And although people liked the new music, some of the fans and friends from the Dayspring era used to say 'That’s really nice, but do you still play the guitar?’ Or in the guitar and looping era, 'Do you still play any of the old guitar songs?’ Don’t get me wrong. A lot of people loved the combination of the guitar and looped instruments - it was not all that electronic. The wind synth was mainly used for melodies and improvisations, with very close to real sounding flute, sax, oboe and cello samples and the electronic hand drums were mainly used to get ethnic drum and percussion sounds. The Handsonic drum pads - essentially advanced steering wheel tapping - gave me access to nearly 600 wind and drums samples, without having to spend the many years Dave had spent learning real tabla technique. With all the sounds I wanted, several lifetimes of learning would have been needed to learn the real instrumental techniques for each instrument. Anyway, I eventually put those aside, except for the rare occasion, and went back to the simplicity of getting lost in the sound of the acoustic guitar.”
With Dennis rediscovering his solo guitar approach of thirty years before, the series of fortunate events leading to the reissue of Dayspring were as serendipitous as any new age musician worth his salt could desire. Record collector Michael Klausman found an old vinyl copy of the album in a record store in Denver and loved it. Dennis takes up the story: “I had no idea Dayspring had travelled out of state, other than to friends and family. Michael contacted me via Facebook for permission to post about it and use some of the Soundcloud clips I’d put up the previous year for the 30th Anniversary of its release. He told some friends about the album, who told some more friends, who brought it the attention of Kyle Fosburgh, guitarist and owner of Grass-Tops Recording in Minneapolis. Just two days after Michael posted about the record, Kyle contacted me wanting to know if I would be interested in having him release the album on CD. That happened the last week in July 2014 and it has now been reissued in a new deluxe package, remastered from the 1981 master tapes in high-resolution digital for CD and download. The tapes had been stored in my closet, sealed in vinyl bags, since 1981! The album was released on March 3rd this year. It really is a miracle rediscovery for me and my music.”
He continues, “Coincidently, my friend Benjy, from Lincoln group The Millions, messaged me that his nephew in Brooklyn was a big fan of my record and he knew someone there who would be interested in reissuing it! What a weekend! I had already started negotiations with Kyle at Grass-Tops and was very happy with what we were working out, so I had to say to Benjy, 'Man, had you told me this a few days ago, I would been on my knees bowing to you for such incredible news, but as it is, I’m already in negotiations to do just that with a company in Minneapolis, so I’m going to have go with that offer.’ Benjy was cool with that and very happy for me.”
It seems the relationship with Grass-Tops is far from over. “Nothing is set in stone, but Kyle and I have discussed the possibility of making a new record. At the time it we discussed it, we were both pretty excited about doing the simplest thing first - a solo guitar follow-up to Dayspring. It would focus more on the quieter, newer pieces I’ve written since then, and would tentatively be entitled Nightfall. Dayspring was a brighter, daytime type of record – Nightfall would be its late evening companion. There are no solid plans as yet, but what swayed me towards a solo guitar album, after all these years of promising a new record, was a combination of my recent rediscovery of the joys of the solo guitar as a complete entity in itself and the chance to give the fans what I’ve been promising them since Dayspring came out - more of the same thing they came for in the first place.”
He adds, “We’ve also had lots of requests from our vinyl-oriented fans for a new vinyl edition of Dayspring. There is also the possibly a DVD of my two half-hour solo guitar concerts that I taped for access television back in 1983-84, Dennis Taylor - Guitar Solos I & II: Music from the Dayspring Album. Kyle has copies of those shows, which I transferred to DVD from the old, almost gone, big videotape masters 10 years ago with great fragile babying of the old tapes. With weeks of meticulous work the shows were saved pretty much intact, with good quality video and decent quality sound. Anyway, these are all tentative future plans at this time.”
Dennis has given some thought to the place where Dayspring sits in his musical journey. “It’s an odd time trip for me, listening to this record by this 28 year old guy, thirty some years ago. I’ve noticed that my writing style hasn’t really changed that much over the years – melodically and harmonically, at least. I’ve changed more rhythmically - away from the 4/4 double-thumbing style of Fahey and Kottke and more towards the 6/8 ambient, floating style of classical North Indian music or the softer, jazzier styles of Ralph Towner, Pat Metheny and the European ECM jazz guys. The Windham Hill/new age guitar styles of Will Ackerman, Alex de Grassi and Michael Hedges had an impact on me, too. Dayspring was actually sort of a transitional record for me. The older songs were more in that traditional, folky style and the new songs were more influenced by Windham Hill guitarists, acoustic fusion like Oregon, Shakti and Ancient Future and the minimalist music of Steve Reich and Philip Glass.”
Reflecting back on his life in music so far, Dennis is contented with how things have turned out. “I never really tried for the big time with the record or with my career. From my road band days, I didn’t particularly like endless driving and staying in big cities. I was much more comfortable at home, working on a local level where I actually knew the people who loved and appreciated the music and were happy to come see me play and buy my record at a coffeehouse or a restaurant or a park concert. I really don’t think it gets any better than that. The artist and the listener on a real person, one-to-one basis. That’s really what the music is all about to me - that one-to-one communication. I’ve said before, but music cuts through all the crap and brings people together in a meaningful way. And it’s so much easier and enjoyable for all involved when you can do that on a small, personal level.”
He emphasises his perspective with an example. “In 1973, at our local auditorium, opening for Fleetwood Mac and Wishbone Ash, I sat on that big stage, the stage where I had seen most of my heroes perform, the stage that was my childhood dream to play a big-time concert on. I sat on that stage and when the lights went down, all I could see of the 3,000 people out there were the few that were hanging on the stage and all I could hear was the sound of my own voice and guitar whooshing through the huge auditorium. It was the most isolated sensation I had ever felt in my life, as if I was on some faraway planet playing into an empty void in space. It was a once in a lifetime experience that I’ll always remember fondly and a childhood dream come true, but give me the small audience and the personal sharing of the music every time. I knew that after that first night - and I was only twenty years old then. Forty years have gone by and I’ve never regretted not trying to go big-time once. Up close and personal - that’s what sharing music is all about.”
A big thank you to Dennis Taylor for the time, energy and enthusiasm he put into this interview. Dayspring is available now from Grass-Tops Recording.
0 notes
Text
"Up Close and Personal - That's What Sharing Music is All About.” An Interview with Dennis Taylor
An Interview With Dennis Taylor, North Country Primitive, 20th April 2015
New age music is a much maligned beast. By and large, it has still to receive the critical reappraisal given to other styles and genres that developed in the 1970s. Maybe this is because its peak followed the year zero swagger of punk, and its expansive, meditative soundscape was the diametric opposite of punk’s short, sharp shock; or maybe because it was seen as the final swansong of the old hippies and baby boomers – mellow music for mellow people; or maybe because at its most soporific, it always contained within it the risk of moving a little too close to elevator music. Of course, such sweeping statements are patently unfair – the new age movement contained within its ranks many questing, exploratory musicians who were willing to incorporate the influences of Indian and world music, folk and minimalist composition into their sonic palettes. And by the early 80s, the new age movement was the natural home – in many ways, the only home - for fingerstyle guitarists influenced by Fahey, Kottke, Basho and the Takoma school of players.
Whilst John Fahey noisily denounced any attempts to include him as part of the new age movement, Robbie Basho found a home on Windham Hill, the leading new age label. The label’s founder, William Ackerman, was a fingerstyle guitarist whose debut album, In Search of the Turtle’s Navel, slyly acknowledges Fahey’s influence in its title. By the early 80s, American Primitive guitar was part of the new age pantheon, even if, as another Takoma alumnus, Peter Lang, has observed, the style was too folk for new age and too new age for folk. In any case, you only need to listen to the 2008 Numero Group compilation, Wayfaring Strangers: Guitar Soli, where many of the featured artist were associated with or influenced by Windham Hill, to understand that the new age movement, or at the very least the acoustic guitar aspect of it, is ripe for re-evaluation.
All of which brings us to Dennis Taylor, whose sole album, 1983’s Dayspring, was released on CD for the first time earlier this year by Grass Top Recording, who have also brought us new editions of two of Robbie Basho’s later albums, as well as showcasing contemporary players with their roots in the American Primitive tradition. Dennis is unabashedly a graduate of the new age movement and over the years his music has incorporated many of the diverse strands that make up the new age sound, which is, after all, less a genre and more a statement of intent – he has incorporated fingerstyle guitar, wind synths, looping, Indian classical music and world fusion into his oeuvre. Dayspring, however, is a solo acoustic guitar album, and although it is clearly at one with the new age, it is also steeped in the Takoma tradition Dennis had been drawn to at the start of the 70s.
Dennis’s musical journey began in typical fashion for many young Americans growing up in the late 50s and early 60s, even in such far-flung corners of the States as small town Nebraska. “Like a lot of kids my age,” he recalls, “I first became aware of the guitar through the singing cowboys on TV and the early rock ‘n’ rollers. The Everly Brothers, with their twin acoustics, come to mind. I also saw Johnny Cash at my first big time concert when I was 8 years old. I think it was about that time that I asked my folks for a guitar and lessons.” By the time he was entering his teenage years, The Beach Boys and The Beatles were riding high, and he was caught up in the swell of excitement they generated. He adds, “I also had a love of pop guitar instrumentals, which meant The Ventures and surf guitar music were big for me. My friend and I taught ourselves to play with the help of a record and book set, Play Guitar with The Ventures. We learned the popular surf guitar tunes and moved on from there to starting a band and learning the rock songs of the era. I was also taking drum lessons, so I started in the band on drums, but then switched to rhythm guitar when we got a drummer with a full drum set. My main function throughout most of the eight years we had the band was lead vocalist. Instrumentally, I switched between guitar and bass, as members came and went.”
By the time Dennis was starting college, he was developing what was to become an enduring interest in acoustic guitar. “I became aware of the acoustic side of artists like Bob Dylan, Neil Young, Paul Simon, Crosby, Stills and Nash and the newer artists like James Taylor and Cat Stevens. So by now, I was splitting my time between playing electric music with the rock band and acoustic rock with my trio or sometimes solo.”
A pivotal moment came when he became involved in sing-a-longs at a local church youth group. He remembers, “It was there that an older friend taught me the basic ‘Travis-picking’ that got me started on fingerstyle guitar, although at this stage it was still as an accompaniment to vocals. I also had started listening to the acoustic guitar soloists I had discovered at a local record store, the Takoma guitarists - John Fahey, Leo Kottke and Robbie Basho. I learned a couple of their instrumental songs and started writing my own first guitar instrumental, the song that evolved into Reflection of the Dayspring. But mostly I was still writing singer-songwriter acoustic music with vocals.”
His rock band, The People, had folded by the time Dennis finished college. By now, he was married and had a child on the way. In order make enough of a living to support his new family, he began to seek restaurant gigs as a solo singer and guitarist, whilst playing in Top 40 club bands and teaching guitar at a local music store. “As it was, the only real steady money to be made was by going on the road with a band every weekend. I ended up doing that full time for the next few years. At the same time, I continued to pursue my acoustic music on the side and did occasional park and downtown outdoor concerts, keeping a hand in on the acoustic side, both solo and with a couple of friends.”
Life on the road became increasingly incompatible with family life. ”I quit the road band business in the mid-late 70s to be able to stay at home. I tried to do this by taking on guitar students at home and also teaching and working at music store. By now, I was seriously writing solo guitar instrumentals and I was starting to get enough original guitar pieces to perform solo at a few coffeehouses and concerts.”
Around this time, Dennis and his family moved out of the city for a quieter life in a small Nebraskan town, where he continued to teach guitar and work in a music store. It was whilst living in this community that several of the pieces that found their way onto Dayspring first emerged. “We had a small artist’s community,” Dennis recalls, “And I lived right across the street from a good friend, Ernie Ochsner, who was a visual artist. He was painting giant murals for a local museum and other landscape pieces, as he was getting pretty well known across the country through art shows and such. Ernie and I would hang out every day in his studio on the third floor of a downtown building in the town square - he would paint, while I would play the guitar. Many of the early Dayspring pieces evolved from those sessions. Before I moved back to Lincoln, I played my first official solo guitar concerts at the local art museum and the following year, I played my guitar pieces live on the radio for the first time.”
By 1979, following a spell developing his fretless bass chops with a jazz-rock band and by now living back in Lincoln and still working at a music store, Dennis joined The Spencer Ward Quintet, a band playing a hybrid of jazz fusion, world music, folk and semi-classical music. “It was all original music, written primarily by the leader, who was a nylon-string guitarist. The band consisted of classical guitar, vibes, flute, violin and drums. I sat in with them on fretless bass and convinced them that it would really fill out the sound of the music. At the same time, I was still pursuing my now all-instrumental solo guitar music, doing solo guitar gigs in many of the same clubs in Lincoln where the band would play. I was also still doing park concerts and outdoor downtown lunchtime concerts as a solo guitarist.”
The bandleader had visited Portland, Oregon in the Pacific Northwest, where some of the local musicians convinced him that their acoustic/electric fusion would find an appreciative audience. As they had already built a large and loyal following in Lincoln, the move seemed like the next logical step in the band’s evolution. “The band moved to Oregon in the spring of 1980. A couple of months later, in the summer, I joined them out there, but I was uncomfortable with the big city aspect. The other members all had day jobs, but so far, gigs were not happening. I made a quick decision to move down to Eugene, Oregon, a small college town that was more the size of city I was used to. As it turned out, there were a lot good musicians in Eugene, but work was very scarce, both musically and even for day jobs. Within a few months, my money had run out and I was not even close to gaining any kind of musical foothold. So, I packed up and headed back to Lincoln, a place where I had already established my self as a solo guitarist through clubs concerts and doing live radio at a local station. I came home to Nebraska determined to not get distracted musically again from my solo guitar work and to make a record of my solo guitar music before I turned 30 years old.”
“I started putting the music of Dayspring together, started teaching guitar at a music store again, played my solo gigs and also took the opportunity to put a jazz piano trio together with two friends, with me on fretless bass, working a lot of the same clubs and concerts I was playing as an acoustic guitarist.”
Encouraged by Terry Moore, the owner of Dirt Cheap Records, the foremost independent record store in Lincoln, Dennis went into the studio to record Dayspring. “Terry was an alternative icon in Lincoln,” he recalls. “He had also helped to start and mostly funded our local whole food co-op store and KZUM, our listener-owned, volunteer programmed radio station. He so loved and believed in the music I was doing for Dayspring, that after it was recorded and I had got to the point where I’d decided to release it independently, he offered to pay for a small pressing of LPs himself, which I would repay through sales. As it turned out, I was able to pay for the records on my own, but he helped promote Dayspring through his record shop and in fact had me do a release debut by playing live all afternoon in the front window of the store - a truly fun event for everyone!”
Spectrum, the studio Dennis used, turned out to be owned by musicians he knew from his garage band days, one of whom, his childhood friend Tommy Alesio, engineered the recordings. “They’d just opened the studio and because they were competing with the older established studios, their rates were very reasonable. I believe it was something like $30 an hour for recording, mixing and master tapes. Since I was doing a fairly simple project recording-wise and I was totally ready by the time I got into the studio, we were able to do the whole record in one session, mostly first takes. Once the session was set up, I had rehearsed and polished the songs at home non-stop for weeks, using my home cassette recorder to make sure the songs were ready to record, with the arrangements and song orders pretty much planned out. In the studio, we basically set up the mikes and let the tape roll. It was a long day, but we got the songs down in just one long afternoon session. The total cost was $150 and I had ready to press quarter-inch master tapes.”
Initially, Dennis attempted to get his music out by following the tried and tested route of sending a demo to the record company he felt was most likely to want to produce the album; in this case, William Ackerman’s Windham Hill, which by this time was the pre-eminent record label for new age and solo acoustic guitar releases. However, as he recalls, “It took several months for Windham to receive the tape, then it was lost for a while, then it was found, then it was listened to. I wasn’t that patient or that hopeful after reading about the glut of demos they had been receiving – up to 200 a month.”
Dennis decided the way forward was to put the album out himself in a limited local edition, with the help of How to Make and Sell Your Own Record, an illustrated step-by-step guide from Guitar Player Magazine. “I got so impatient, not getting a response on my demo tape, that by the time I finally got a ‘thanks, but no thanks and good luck’ letter back from Windham Hill, it was August of 1983, my own pressing had arrived five months earlier and was already selling in the local record stores and playing on local radio. I’m glad I didn’t wait to hear back before I went ahead on my own!”
Dennis called upon the talents of his friends in Lincoln to bring the album to fruition. The photos for the album cover were shot at a local park concert by his friend Lisa Paulsen, who was a photographer for the University newspaper. Another friend, Lauren Weisberg-Norris, worked as a commercial artist and took Dennis’s basic layout ideas for the cover and made them camera ready. He also took note of the experience of local musician friends who had pressed records of their bands. “I looked into the cost of using the same standard national pressing plants they had used. I was not happy with what I saw. Most of those plants were very expensive, wanted at least a thousand copies to get a decent price and the vinyl they were using was that cheap, thin, floppy vinyl: snap, crackle and pop. This was not at all what I wanted. I had audiophile pressings from Germany and Japan in my own record collection and I knew what good, quiet, heavy vinyl sounded like.”
Poring through the small ads in the back of music magazines, he came across a tiny advert for a small pressing plant in Cheyenne, Wyoming, Rocky Mt. Recording. “I thought, what the heck and I gave them a call. They were really nice people and they were really excited about the idea. Even better, their prices were half what the nationals wanted, with a very small minimum of 300 records. So I said sure, send me some samples. The album cover artwork sample was a little antiquated and hokey looking, but the cardboard quality was good. My artwork was camera ready, so no worries there. The music they sent was local country bands and not all that impressive musically, but the quality of the vinyl… heavy, virgin vinyl, like I hadn’t seen since the sixties. It seemed about three times the weight of what the other pressing plants were putting out and it was quiet, like a good audiophile pressing. Their little pressing machines were from the sixties. I had found my answer. The whole ticket for the 300 records, covers and even cardboard mailers and shipping was going to be $794.75. I would be bringing the whole project in for around $950.”
“The couple that ran the pressing plant loved my high quality masters and the artwork,” Dennis continues. “They said, ‘The tapes sounded so good, we didn’t have to do anything with them!’ They were used to local country bands in Cheyenne bringing cassette tapes, usually recorded live at a bar and then wanting the Rocky Mt. folks to make hit sounding records out of them.”
He reflects: “Comparatively, it’s a breeze to put out your own music these days, but of course there are also many more people with that easy access, so it’s a flooded market. A guy playing solo acoustic guitar, while there were quite a few of us, at least nationwide, was still a fairly unique entity in the recording world back in the early 80s. You just had to somehow get that music out there to the people who loved it. And for me that was on a local level, without huge life changing investments and with lots of immediate feedback from the fans of the music. For me, that was a better way to go.”
The local reaction to Dayspring led to an unexpected new venture for Dennis. “Shortly after it was released, I walked into a Radio Shack to buy a part for a speaker. As I was writing the cheque, the cashier’s eyes got big and he asked me, 'Are you the Dennis Taylor? The guitar player?’ 'Uh, yeah. I guess so.’ 'Wow! I play your record on my radio show all the time!’ He then asked me to come and play live on the show, Green Fields, which featured new age and jazz-fusion music. After I played, my new friend, Clyde Adams, who was also a drummer and like me was into Indian classical and fusion music, asked me if I wanted to come back and co-host the weekly program. I ended up doing this for the next six years. We were the only program in Lincoln at the time playing those kinds of music and the show was very well received.”
Around the same time, Dennis was also working on a local public access TV talk show, for which he had provided the theme music. The director, Doug Boyd, invited him to play some live performances of the Dayspring music for public access viewing. “I said sure, so using our same crew, we created two half hour programmes, Dennis Taylor Guitar Solos I & II. At the time, these were the only public access programs that were all music and no talk, the opposite of most of what was on the air on that channel. The shows were so popular, that they ran almost daily from 1984 to 1988. All of these things, along with downtown gigs, my yearly park concerts, various appearances at the University of Nebraska and sales at local record stores helped the original pressing of Dayspring to sell out locally in just the first few years. I couldn’t afford to repress the album, so essentially it became a limited edition. I was one of only two solo acoustic guitarists in the Lincoln and Omaha area that I know of, along with my friend Chris Griffith, who was pretty strictly a non-writer and a Leo Kottke 12-string disciple. It was pretty much me if you wanted that kind of music either for your club or park concert or wedding or whatever.”
The reception to Dayspring locally and the steady rise in stock of new age music nationally left Dennis with high hopes. “Being invited to the steady onslaught of Windham Hill and other new age artists coming to perform in Lincoln and Omaha, it seemed like the golden era for our kind of music had come. In our small group of musician, DJs, store owners and so on, we started to feel like we were definitely the happening thing in music. We thought that with the flood of national recognition, with major labels jumping on the bandwagon and signing new age artists and the emergence of the new age Grammy and even our local rock and oldies station, KLMS, switching to a new age and smooth jazz format, our time had come. That we were about to become the new rock 'n’ roll - the mainstream pop music. I became the go-to guy for downtown outdoor concerts, park concerts, the new separate quiet new age and folk area at annual Holmes Lake 4th of July event…a safe distance away from the main stage, where the classic rock acts were playing.”
As early as 1984, Dennis had intended to make a follow up to Dayspring. His idea was to expand the scope of the music – 6 & 12 string guitar pieces with the addition of fretless bass and tabla and percussion. He even started demoing new material, but the project never came to fruition. In the late 80s, he started working on a solo guitar album made up of a few new pieces and some of the Dayspring material slowed down to a meditative level. This project was abandoned when he concluded he didn’t really like the results of changing the mood of the Dayspring pieces.
Meanwhile, by the mid 80s, in order to make ends meet Dennis returned to playing in top 40 house bands churning out the classic rock anthems of the day, despite not being particularly attached to what was happening in the rock and pop worlds. In terms of his own musical interests, he had dived head-first into the new age. He explains, “I had already made my personal leap from popular music to what I liked to call un-pop music by the mid 70s. On the electric side, jazz-fusion… Takoma and Indian and world-based acoustic fusion on the acoustic side. When the 80s hit, I discovered labels like Windham Hill, Narada and Private Music and I jumped into the new age movement with both feet. I’d found the music that I most resonated with of all the genres I had been involved in or listened to up to then, whilst also maintaining a kinship with the funkier and less experimental end of jazz-fusion. I was in a world where new age was really starting to happen on a local level, with myself and a friend doing a new age and jazz fusion weekly radio program and my old rock band mate and childhood friend, opening a new age record and bookstore and doing a Hearts of Space type radio show on our local NPR affiliated University radio station.”
The high watermark of the new age began to recede by the start of the 90s. The major labels had oversold the movement: they had come to realise that the new age artists were generally not going to sell at the levels of major pop acts and had started dropping those artists from their labels. What remained, however, was a solid niche audience, both nationally and locally, which for a while kept Dennis and his musical fellow travellers working a few times a year at local concerts. He recalls, “In the end, the park and downtown concerts started to drop off. By a stroke of luck for my tabla playing musical partner, Dave Novak and myself, we came across the owners of the two Indian restaurants, one in Lincoln and then a second one that opened a couple years later in Omaha. Those owners loved the new age world fusion music Dave and I were doing and felt it was exactly right for the ambience of their 'classy’ dining establishments. It ended up that we were playing every Sunday in one restaurant or the other from 1992 until the Omaha restaurant changed hands and ended live music in 2003. Then it went back to once a month at the one in Lincoln until they ended live music at the end of 2013.”
He continues: “I actually did some live recordings at the restaurant, although these were not concise album-type pieces. Our job there was to stretch out and jam for three hours and many of the pieces stretched to ten, fifteen or twenty minutes each. Also whenever it was with Dave, he was miked, which allowed all the restaurant noise to come into the recordings. We joked about Kenny the Bartender doing his famous ice dump solo at the exact moment when the music got very quiet and meditative. Or the inevitable singing baby who would go on and on and never stop!”
From the mid 90s, Dennis began pursuing a new direction in his writing and instrumentation, acquiring a keyboard synthesizer/sequencer workstation, electronic hand drums, a midi-bass guitar synth controller and an electronic wind synth. The result of this new palette of sounds was a short series of concerts of pre-programmed synthesizer pieces around 1996-1997, where he used the bass synth controller for the melody and improvised element of the performances. When an inheritance from his parents meant he was finally able to give up the top 40 house band gig at the turn of the century, Dennis began to focus on melding his older acoustic guitar and tabla based approach with the newer electronic sounds he had been experimenting with. This in turn led him into the writing of new songs, using the acoustic guitar as the centre-point, but augmented with electronics and fretless bass, using live looping and on some pieces, Dave Novak’s tablas and percussion.
In 2006, the same Doug Boyd who had directed Dennis Taylor Guitar Solos I & II was asked to produce a feature length documentary of a five year Lincoln Arts Council programme he had been filming. He turned to Dennis to write and perform the soundtrack for the film, which was premiered at Lincoln University Movie Theatre in January 2007. Stories of Home paired twelve families in Lincoln with twelve visual artists, who created artworks based on each family’s story. Denis explains: “It involved families who had come to Lincoln from Africa, Vietnam and Mexico; a Native American family; a woman who had grown up in cattle country and was now marketing vegetarian desserts; a lesbian couple and a family that had escaped Iraq. All of them were families with a background story different to the usual home-grown families in Lincoln. I did the soundtrack with acoustic guitar, wind synth and electronic hand drum and recorded it in my home studio. The project was intended to be a model for other city’s arts councils, bringing diverse peoples together by sharing there personal stories of home and getting to know each other on a one to one basis, through art and music. It was a project I am incredibly proud to have been a part of.”
Dennis admits he was getting ready to call time on the more complex approach he had been taking to music making. “Around 2011-2012, I got the strong urge to quit doing the new set up. There was always a lot of preparation involved. I constantly felt like mission control - time to push this button, time to step on this pedal, time to switch to this instrument. I decided to just go back to where I started – live acoustic guitar, with or without Dave on tabla and percussion, as the occasion required. It was so relaxing, after all that experimentation and brain work, to just be able to float away in the sound of the acoustic guitar for the evening. And although people liked the new music, some of the fans and friends from the Dayspring era used to say 'That’s really nice, but do you still play the guitar?’ Or in the guitar and looping era, 'Do you still play any of the old guitar songs?’ Don’t get me wrong. A lot of people loved the combination of the guitar and looped instruments - it was not all that electronic. The wind synth was mainly used for melodies and improvisations, with very close to real sounding flute, sax, oboe and cello samples and the electronic hand drums were mainly used to get ethnic drum and percussion sounds. The Handsonic drum pads - essentially advanced steering wheel tapping - gave me access to nearly 600 wind and drums samples, without having to spend the many years Dave had spent learning real tabla technique. With all the sounds I wanted, several lifetimes of learning would have been needed to learn the real instrumental techniques for each instrument. Anyway, I eventually put those aside, except for the rare occasion, and went back to the simplicity of getting lost in the sound of the acoustic guitar.”
With Dennis rediscovering his solo guitar approach of thirty years before, the series of fortunate events leading to the reissue of Dayspring were as serendipitous as any new age musician worth his salt could desire. Record collector Michael Klausman found an old vinyl copy of the album in a record store in Denver and loved it. Dennis takes up the story: “I had no idea Dayspring had travelled out of state, other than to friends and family. Michael contacted me via Facebook for permission to post about it and use some of the Soundcloud clips I’d put up the previous year for the 30th Anniversary of its release. He told some friends about the album, who told some more friends, who brought it the attention of Kyle Fosburgh, guitarist and owner of Grass-Tops Recording in Minneapolis. Just two days after Michael posted about the record, Kyle contacted me wanting to know if I would be interested in having him release the album on CD. That happened the last week in July 2014 and it has now been reissued in a new deluxe package, remastered from the 1981 master tapes in high-resolution digital for CD and download. The tapes had been stored in my closet, sealed in vinyl bags, since 1981! The album was released on March 3rd this year. It really is a miracle rediscovery for me and my music.”
He continues, “Coincidently, my friend Benjy, from Lincoln group The Millions, messaged me that his nephew in Brooklyn was a big fan of my record and he knew someone there who would be interested in reissuing it! What a weekend! I had already started negotiations with Kyle at Grass-Tops and was very happy with what we were working out, so I had to say to Benjy, 'Man, had you told me this a few days ago, I would been on my knees bowing to you for such incredible news, but as it is, I’m already in negotiations to do just that with a company in Minneapolis, so I’m going to have go with that offer.’ Benjy was cool with that and very happy for me.”
It seems the relationship with Grass-Tops is far from over. “Nothing is set in stone, but Kyle and I have discussed the possibility of making a new record. At the time it we discussed it, we were both pretty excited about doing the simplest thing first - a solo guitar follow-up to Dayspring. It would focus more on the quieter, newer pieces I’ve written since then, and would tentatively be entitled Nightfall. Dayspring was a brighter, daytime type of record – Nightfall would be its late evening companion. There are no solid plans as yet, but what swayed me towards a solo guitar album, after all these years of promising a new record, was a combination of my recent rediscovery of the joys of the solo guitar as a complete entity in itself and the chance to give the fans what I’ve been promising them since Dayspring came out - more of the same thing they came for in the first place.”
He adds, “We’ve also had lots of requests from our vinyl-oriented fans for a new vinyl edition of Dayspring. There is also the possibly a DVD of my two half-hour solo guitar concerts that I taped for access television back in 1983-84, Dennis Taylor - Guitar Solos I & II: Music from the Dayspring Album. Kyle has copies of those shows, which I transferred to DVD from the old, almost gone, big videotape masters 10 years ago with great fragile babying of the old tapes. With weeks of meticulous work the shows were saved pretty much intact, with good quality video and decent quality sound. Anyway, these are all tentative future plans at this time.”
Dennis has given some thought to the place where Dayspring sits in his musical journey. “It’s an odd time trip for me, listening to this record by this 28 year old guy, thirty some years ago. I’ve noticed that my writing style hasn’t really changed that much over the years – melodically and harmonically, at least. I’ve changed more rhythmically - away from the 4/4 double-thumbing style of Fahey and Kottke and more towards the 6/8 ambient, floating style of classical North Indian music or the softer, jazzier styles of Ralph Towner, Pat Metheny and the European ECM jazz guys. The Windham Hill/new age guitar styles of Will Ackerman, Alex de Grassi and Michael Hedges had an impact on me, too. Dayspring was actually sort of a transitional record for me. The older songs were more in that traditional, folky style and the new songs were more influenced by Windham Hill guitarists, acoustic fusion like Oregon, Shakti and Ancient Future and the minimalist music of Steve Reich and Philip Glass.”
Reflecting back on his life in music so far, Dennis is contented with how things have turned out. “I never really tried for the big time with the record or with my career. From my road band days, I didn’t particularly like endless driving and staying in big cities. I was much more comfortable at home, working on a local level where I actually knew the people who loved and appreciated the music and were happy to come see me play and buy my record at a coffeehouse or a restaurant or a park concert. I really don’t think it gets any better than that. The artist and the listener on a real person, one-to-one basis. That’s really what the music is all about to me - that one-to-one communication. I’ve said before, but music cuts through all the crap and brings people together in a meaningful way. And it’s so much easier and enjoyable for all involved when you can do that on a small, personal level.”
He emphasises his perspective with an example. “In 1973, at our local auditorium, opening for Fleetwood Mac and Wishbone Ash, I sat on that big stage, the stage where I had seen most of my heroes perform, the stage that was my childhood dream to play a big-time concert on. I sat on that stage and when the lights went down, all I could see of the 3,000 people out there were the few that were hanging on the stage and all I could hear was the sound of my own voice and guitar whooshing through the huge auditorium. It was the most isolated sensation I had ever felt in my life, as if I was on some faraway planet playing into an empty void in space. It was a once in a lifetime experience that I’ll always remember fondly and a childhood dream come true, but give me the small audience and the personal sharing of the music every time. I knew that after that first night - and I was only twenty years old then. Forty years have gone by and I’ve never regretted not trying to go big-time once. Up close and personal - that’s what sharing music is all about.”
A big thank you to Dennis Taylor for the time, energy and enthusiasm he put into this interview. Dayspring is available now from Grass-Tops Recording.
1 note
·
View note
Text
Chamomile and Whiskey — Red Clay Heart (County Wide Records)
youtube
Chamomile and Whiskey have picked up a reputation for their generally high-energy approach to music. Given that half the band's name comes from liquor, their raucous performances and casual manner shouldn't be too surprising to anyone, but apparently they've met some resistance (maybe it's a folk music thing). The country-rock band responds with good cheer on “Best of the Worst,” but the entirety of new album Red Clay Heart should end any idea that they don't take their art seriously. Led by Koda Kerl's songwriting, the band has moved into a more mature era (in the not-pejorative sense of that word) with a record that should also push them beyond just local celebrity.
Despite the group's demeanor, Chamomile and Whiskey have never been just a good times band. Here, though, the songs take on a heavier tone. The era has pushed some of that change; “Another Wake” comes directly from Kerl's experience in Charlottesville in 2017 after the infamous white nationalist rally. “I don't know the sidewalks of my town,” Kerl sings, the centrifugal damage of the event and this time apparent in his tired voice.
Moments like that show Kerl progressing in his songwriting, but the whole album marks a jump for the band. The quintet recorded Red Clay Heart in Nashville with producer Ken Coomer (the former drummer for Wilco and Uncle Tupelo). Coomer helped the band fill out their vision as they moved into more of a Southern rock sound. Tracks like “Way Back” and “Triumph” push into that direction while fiddler Marie Borgman and lead guitarist Drew Kimball give the band its distinctive tone. Much of the production gives these songs the necessary space. The group might have a sound ready for big stages, but keeping a sense of intimacy – whether that of a quiet club or a rural coffeehouse – stays true to the C&W identity.
That intimacy allows the slower, melancholy songs to have their proper weight. “Way Back” gives Kerl's concerns a smirk, but tracks like “Alright” come with a more open heart. The song starts with just Kerl, a folk singer struggling with his state of mind. The band builds the track to a rock ballad and Kerl's vocal changes to match, even as the dismay persists. “You carry on, you make it through,” he sings. “Unless you don’t.” Chamomile and Whiskey still have as much fun as anyone, but there's a particular reckoning in their music now.
After a well-sequenced mix of light and dark, the album closes on “Heartbreak (Luke's Song),” a track that revisits loss. Kerl rejects the idea that he's suffering more than everyone else. There's no tortured artist pose here, just a simple acknowledgment of how much we lose as we age. A few years ago, it would have felt like an unlikely conclusion to a Chamomile and Whiskey album. The preceding tracks on Red Clay Heart, though, position it as an ideal closer. As much the group holds on to its affability, it takes a full look around now, lyrically and sonically, and it's led to the musicians' best music.
Justin Cober-Lake
#chamomile and whiskey#red clay heart#country wide records#justin cober-lake#albumreview#dusted magazine#country#country rock
0 notes
Text
Salty Mouth Shows Offers Utahans a Unique Community Experience
Reading time: 5 minutes
In an old mechanic’s shop in Provo, Utah, Zack Green of Nashville croons over and over into a microphone, “In love there are no arrivals, in love there are no goodbyes.” Yellow plywood lines the shop. It looks like flaky gold under the dangling bistro lights. The space is threadbare, but the atmosphere ethereal. A hundred people are in the cavernous room, seated in secondhand folding chairs and wooden benches and brocade lounges and recliners. They listen intently, sway to the music. Green sings for Americana quintet Birdtalker, and the band is headlining the first official production by Salty Mouth Shows, a Utah venue that promises to spontaneously combust when moved by the spirit for intimate community gatherings. “In love there are no arrivals, in love there are no goodbyes.”
But there are beginnings, and for Salty Mouth Shows it began like this.
Joshua James, Jake Buntjer, and Nate Draschil have for the past several years savored music and community throughout Utah. From rooftop concerts to band battles to art galas, the three have not only basked in the warmth of a spreading cultural flame, they’ve contributed to it.
James, of American Fork, is an acclaimed singer-songwriter who, when not touring nationally, continues to play impromptu backyard gatherings. He’s also a producer, and he’s helped illumine the talent of Utah musicians Timmy The Teeth, Desert Noises, The Aces, and others. Buntjer, of Springville, is a sculptor and founder of The Boxcar Studios, a Provo community events center, atelier, coffeehouse, and barbershop. Draschil, of Orem, has spent the past seven years ensuring that the Rooftop Concert Series is the elevating experience Utahans hope for when they descend on Provo’s Center Street the first Friday of each summer month. The trio, you might say, is anxiously engaged in a good cause. Yet despite their existing workload, the three friends can’t stop dreaming. And about a year ago they began discussing how they might further fuel the community fire.
Last October, James and wife Emma wanted to throw a cozy backyard soirée. This marked an opportune moment, James realized, so he, Buntjer, and Draschil went to work. They dubbed the gathering The Harvest Dinner, invited 35 guests, as well as a band to take to a tiny stage. James’ garden supplied a cornucopia of food, and Fresh Melissa Chappell prepared it. What ensued was a magical evening of good conversation, high spirits, and delicious music. The afterglow from that evening, all agree, persisted for days.
“It wasn’t about putting on a rock or folk or singer-songwriter show,” James says. “It was about bringing common-minded people together and rejoicing in the unknown of being alive.”
Rejoicing in humanity and community underscores Salty Mouth’s aim, and the success of that Harvest Dinner led the hosts to believe the experience could be replicated. But they wanted subsequent iterations to be original and organic, to unroll similarly. So when the trio learned in early July that Birdtalker would be touring from Colorado to Idaho, they made a phone call, convinced the band to detour through Provo, and began spreading word via Instagram and Facebook. Friends and acquaintances came together to modify The Boxcar Studios, design flyers, and create an Eventbrite page. Local folk ensemble Hollering Pines signed on, as did Fresh Melissa again. Seven days later, a community gathering materialized on a sultry summer night in an undercooled workshop. Sparks flew.
So what did it feel like, sitting on a folding chair next to a Salt Lake City couple who shared their drink while a hundred-some-odd folk listened to a band of Tennesseans croon and strike chords?
Possibility. Like we can do this, that our efforts aren’t in vain, that they matter even, that they make a difference, small though it may be.
Draschill says that Salty Mouth is, at the core, “about creating an opportunity where people can come together and have their hearts opened up. Not just be shoulder to shoulder, but face to face.”
Buntjer explains that he and his cohorts have been inspired and fed by their artistic progenitors and that they want to fan the flame so to speak, carry the torch, pass it on. “As people get together during these events and see that it’s working,” he says, “they then take their own passion, their own craft, and try other things. Then we can go experience that. This is our version of the next step in life. It’s what we want with life, what we want from culture and community.”
Salty Mouth exemplifies a broader cultural shift in The Beehive State. Over the past decade, as secularism has spread and access to information increased, hordes have migrated away from Mormonism, which has previously been the arbiter of culture in Utah. Millennials, especially, have joined the exodus, and in the absence of a prescribed Weltanschauung they've sought to fill their cups with art, music, food, and togetherness. Salty Mouth’s engaged trio is no exception. Ever do commoners and nonconformists beget counterculture—the truest expression of nonviolent protest.
Hence “Salty Mouth.” For the salt of the earth has always given lip. It turns the other cheek not in submission but defiance, and its defiance invariably bears a beauty mark. And how can it not, for defiance of the prevailing way looks exactly like allegiance to one’s own way.
After the show, folks enjoyed collations from Fresh Melissa. They huddled in clusters as their conversations melded into a low hum. Bottles clinked. A baby raccoon crawled across the laps of partygoers. Yes, a baby raccoon. The air and heads were abuzz.
Mark Smith of Hollering Pines called the venue “unique,” while Birdtalker stood as much in awe of us as we did of them; with a circuit of mostly raucous bars, they aren’t accustomed to a captive audience seated under celestial lighting.
It remains to be seen, though, whether Salty Mouth can continually reach its romantic ideals. Can it remain a community experience rather than a consumer experience? In our material world, souls are starved for genuine community, and when we find it we often falter toward engagement through a monetary transaction or digital interface. If Salty Mouth should ignite the fire it wishes to, it risks becoming a commodity rather than a community. If it doesn't, then those few who regularly stoke the effort end up singing only to each other.
Maybe that's the point.
Whatever happens with Salty Mouth in the end, one thing is certain: it began in love. And in love there are no arrivals. In love there are no goodbyes.
Oh, as for the next show... it'll happen when it happens. And if you know, you know.
0 notes
Text
The Coffeehouse Quintet - Book 2: Lessons Infidelity
DAY 1
Ben set his cup down on the last empty table at the crowded coffeehouse. He plopped himself down in the cushy seat and scanned the room. He probably stared a second or two longer than was polite at the cute college girl sitting at the table next to him before moving on. As much as he tired to not let his gaze wander to other women sometimes he just couldn’t help it.
The coed had her text books out and was looking at one notebook while she jotted more notes in another. Her sandy blond hair was pulled up in a pony tail and held there with a frilly white scrunchy. Despite the warm spring day, she wore a pullover with the local university’s logo on it and capri pants. Her soft features weren’t covered in makeup. In fact, the little makeup she had on was poorly applied, as if she’d just started wearing it recently. She reminded Ben a lot of his wife of 15 years, Ellen, which is why he forgave himself of the slight transgression.
Putting the girl out of mind, he unfolded his newspaper and started to read. The coffeehouse’s muzak and ambient noise faded into a calming murmur. Ben came to the coffeehouse just for that; he found total silence off-putting and anything more than background noise would steal his attention. Taking a sip of his coffee, he searched through the section for the continuation of his article.
A woman sitting at one of the window seats yelled something at her boyfriend. Her high pitched squeal pierced Ben’s ears. He folded his newspaper down and shot her a disapproving glare. Couldn’t people have the decency to breakup in private? What was with the fad of dumping people or firing them in a crowded place? Yes! It makes a scene, no matter what they thought.
Turning back to his paper, Ben started reading again. The soothing chatter of the coffeehouse helped him regain his focus but it was lost when the woman cried out again. He glowered at her. The serenity of the place was gone, his attention was shot. Ben tried to get back into his paper, but they’d ruined it for him.
Now just pretending to read, Ben glanced back up at the arguing couple. The woman was pointing out the window at a whorish looking girl who was adjusting her rather large, fake breasts in the store window. She was probably pissed that her boyfriend was staring at the slut. The way the guy was grinning, Ben figured they had that argument a lot.
It was hard for Ben to find fault with either of them. He couldn’t blame the guy for looking, the way the girl had displayed herself and had been hefting her tits around right in front of him, it was inevitable. Ben wasn’t really into that type of girl, but had he been in the other guy’s place, there’s no way he could have looked away. It would have been like watching a traffic accident unfold in front of him. But the angry woman was well with in her rights. They were in a relationship. Relationships were sacred. Relationships were monogamous and should be, as The Flamingos sang, “I only have eyes for you.”
He stole a second glance at the studious coed at the table next to him. Not that Ben knew her, but he could tell she’d be the faithful type when she at last found the right man. She looked so much like his love, Ellen, so angelic and innocent. Ben was the first person Ellen had even kissed. Most of his friends had thought her overly gullible, Ben felt it was just her purity and the faith she had in her fellow man. He idly wondered if the coed would blush at profanity in the cute way Ellen did.
“Fine!” The woman by the window yelled. This time, the college girl joined Ben in his glare. The couple’s argument seemed to becoming to a climax. Ben hoped that one or both of them would leave and he could concentrate again. He took a glance at the coed and their eyes met. Hurriedly, he ducked behind his newspaper and hid.
Pretending to read his paper, Ben shielded himself from his embarrassment until a nondescript voice spoke to him. “Ben, mind if I sit with you?”
Ben looked over the top of his paper. The man from the arguing couple was peering over it at him. Ben raised an eyebrow. “I’m sorry. Do I know you?”
Without waiting for Ben’s approval, the average looking man plopped down into the empty seat across from him. “You do now, Ben.”
“I’m sorry. I come here to read. Would you mind...”
“Don’t lie, Ben. We both know you come here just to check out the girls.”
“I most certainly do not!”
The man grinned. “There’s no use denying it, Ben. You’ve been drooling over that coed ever since you sat down.”
Slamming his paper down on the table, he glowered at the man. “’Ben. Ben. Ben.’ Look, if you’re going to constantly name me while you insult me, you could at least have the decency to give me yours.”
The mysterious man waved his hand. “You don’t want to know my name.”
“No? What do I want then?”
“That.” He pointed at the college girl.
True, she was the type of girl he liked, he could admit that much. but he didn’t want her. He already had Ellen. But there was something about the girl; her unevenly applied makeup seemed more professional and thicker, a lot thicker. Foundation was liberally applied to hide every blemish, and grayish-blue eye shadow accentuated the bright blue colored contacts she wore.
She lifted her pencil to her mouth and it transformed into a stick of dark red lipstick, which she applied to her collagen enhanced lips. Slowly, her pullover started to lift up as implants grew into her tits. It wasn’t long before the pullover itself started to change. The neck line fell lower and lower, exposing more and more of her plastic chest. The sleeves fell away, exposing several tattoos fading in on her arms. The pullover was now a tank top so tight, it could have been painted on and done more to conceal her flesh.
Not to be out done, her jeans retreated up her well toned legs. They finally stopped at the point where the term “short Daisy Dukes” would have been too modest to describe how little material was left. Her now overly exposed legs darkened until they were a deep tan of a girl who spent more hours sunning than anything else. Her socks started to climb up the curve of her leg thinning themselves out into a pair of cross-patterned stockings that stopped just above her knees, leaving her smooth thighs completely exposed. Her red sneakers fell apart as the heel grew into large spikes. The college slut’s new red heels were bright enough that they’d call attention to them, making sure anyone looking would drink in her legs down to her toes.
The text books and notebooks she had been using were gone. In their place was some nail polish and makeup. Her attitude and aurora radiated, “I’ve got more important things to do than school.” Ben didn’t know what was happening to the former coed, but he instinctively knew that that girl hadn’t even graduated high school let alone made it into the prestigious local university. She was geared to making a living off her body, not her brain. The coed ceased to exist, even in Ben’s mind.
Ben looked away from the slut. “You must be crazy. I’ve never been interested in girls like that.”
“Don’t be shy, Ben. It’s only natural. She presents herself for the taking. I bet if you asked, she’d do you on the table, you and your massive cock.”
“I’m a married man, how dare you suggest I would even consider doing such a thing.”
“Lots of men have extramarital affairs.”
“I believe in the sanctity of monogamy.”
The girl had pulled a dildo out of her purse and was fucking her exposed cunt. Ben looked around, but no one but him and the barista had seemed to notice. The other woman was glowering at the tramp.
“I bet you wish that was your dick she was fucking,” the mystery man said.
“No, I was thinking whether I should call the cops or not.”
“I don’t know why you deny your manhood. You should just fuck her. Take her to the bathroom and do her up the ass if you’re to shy about taking her right here and now.”
Ben couldn’t understand why he didn’t just get up and leave the vulgar man. Every impulse he had screamed for him to do just that, but he sat there and engaged him in conversation.
“I don’t because I have a wife.”
“I know, it’s the classic ‘married my high school sweetheart.’ Look, after you fuck that girl, fuck your wife when you get home. She’ll never know.”
“I’m not going to fuck...screw her.”
“I was trying to be nice. I was trying to lighten your life up, but I see you just want to be a prick. Alright, I’ll make you a bet. I bet you that you can’t resist fucking that girl four times in the next four days.”
Ben grinned. “That’ll be the easiest bet I’ve ever won.”
The nondescript man leaned forward and stared Ben in the eyes. “Alright then, here are the terms. If you win, you and your monster meat will be forever successful. If you play the lotto, you’ll win. If you start a new business, it’ll go national with in the first month.”
Doubt was creeping into Ben’s mind. There was no way that man could make that promise come true. No one had that power.
“However, every time you fuck that nasty slut you’re drooling over, you’ll lose an inch off your cock, and you’ll go home and fuck your wife. Your wife will pick up a trait of the slut until she could be a mirror image.”
Ben looked at the skank dildoing herself in public, only this time, he saw the cute coed with a bright future. His eyes told him she was a whore that would fuck anyone for anything, but his mind told him she used to be sweet and innocent, like Ellen. That was impossible.
He turned his attention back to the man. Ben knew in his soul that his table companion was responsible for the changes. Getting in a bet with someone who could do that... “No bet,” Ben said.
The man put his hand to his cheek and in mock sympathy said, “Aww, Ben, you’ve already accepted. ‘That’ll be the easiest bet I’ve ever won.’ It’s really simple. Just don’t fuck that girl four times in four days.”
It’ll be easy. Ben looked at the girl. Her bulbous tits shook with her furious thrusting. Her free hand massaged her pierced clit and she squirmed in her seat. Ben felt no attraction for women like that, but his cock said otherwise. He could feel himself hardening, his nine inch monster snaked its way down his thigh.
A glance around the room told him no one was paying attention to the girl except for him and the baristra. She was still frowning at the display. Someone’s gotta say something and put a stop to this.
Lurching up out of his seat because of his raging hard-on, Ben walked over to the slut. “Excuse me.”
She looked up at him. “Bout fucking time! I was wondering how long you’d just stare. Let’s get your little guy out to play.”
Before he could say anything or do anything, the slut had his fly open and fished out his giant penis. Not prepared for its size, it flicked out and hit her cheek. She cooed “Wow. I should have said big guy! You’re huge!” Then, she plunged every inch of him into her mouth.
Ben shuddered with the sensation. He’d never been deep throated before. Warmth and pleasure spread from his groin up. He didn’t want the sensation to stop. He wanted this skank to slurp him forever, but then again, if her mouth was this good, what would it be like to fuck her fake tits or loose cunt?
He pulled the straps of her tank top down and freed her melons. They had no sag as they proudly stuck off her chest. Pulling his member out of her mouth, the girl put it in her cleavage and started to rub. Ben was again blown away by the experience. He felt like he’d been cheating himself his entire life.
Not caring if anyone was watching their pornographic performance, Ben picked the slut up and threw her on the table. Coffee went spilling everywhere. He moved the thin material covering her crotch and shoved his shaft in her.
“Oh, God! You’re so fucking big. I’d fuck you any time,” she said. The girls screams and moans filled the coffeehouse, yet still no one seemed to notice. As Ben pounded into her, her moans turned into a stream of “Fuck me!“s.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw the barista finally make her way over with a stern look, but some man Ben felt he’d seen somewhere before led her away by her arm. He focused on the whore’s massive rack wobbling back and forth with his thrusts. He could feel his orgasm building up, so could the girl, who rolled off the table and put him back in her mouth. Just like a porn star, she jacked him and sucked him until he exploded in her mouth.
“You were fantastic,” she told him.
“Thanks. How much do I owe you?” What?
“For a fuck like that, I should be paying you. No charge, honey.”
What was he thinking about paying her for? He’d betrayed his vows to Ellen! Ben zipped his fly up and ran out of the coffeehouse, leaving his paper behind.
By the time Ben got home that night, he convinced himself he’d fallen asleep at the coffeehouse and dreamed the whole ordeal. How could he fuck someone in public without anyone noticing? How could a coed morph into a whore? The thing he found most incredulous was how could he have been unfaithful? There was no doubt in his mind that it was all a dream.
Ellen was in the kitchen, putting the finishing touches on dinner when Ben walked up behind her and hugged her. Her shoulder length brown hair was tied up in a ponytail and it tickled Ben’s nose. She wore a loose fitting orange shirt with the logo of their alma mater on it and a pair of black jeans over her slim athletic figure.
He pressed his hard dick into her skinny ass and wiggled his hips back and forth while moving hers in the opposite direction. “Honey, I’m home,” he said.
“Someone sure is.” She slapped his hands away. “But after dinner. It’ll get cold.”
Disappointed, Ben turned away and headed into the dining room. Thanks to Ben being rather successful, they were financially stable enough that Ellen didn’t need to work. That was the way Ben preferred it, having his wife at home to cook and clean for him. It gave him a sense of satisfaction knowing he’d always come home to an immaculately clean house, and delicious homemade meals perfectly on time. Ben was without want whenever he was home.
Ben sat down at the already set table and drank from the glass of wine Ellen had left out for him. It was a Malbec, which meant Ellen was preparing her lamb dish. Ben wondered if she had time to go to the gym today like she normally did.
She made idle chitchat as she put a salad down in front of Ben. He grunted his responses and dug in. Ellen sat across from him and started to eat in a more graceful manner. He wasn’t in the mood for talking. He wasn’t in the mood for eating either. There was only one thing on his mind and his erection agreed with him. He’d been hard the second he walked in the door, but if Ellen wanted to eat before they fu...made love, Ben was willing to agree. It didn’t mean he wouldn’t scarf his food down to hurry the process up, however.
Something beeped in the kitchen and Ellen got up to go check on whatever it was. As soon as she left, Ben took the opportunity to eat half her salad, hoping to speed her up as well. He was able to get back in his seat just as Ellen came back with a rack of lamb with rosemary. As she served some to Ben, he looked at her non-existent chest and wondered what she’d look like with implants. An extra surge of blood rushed to his penis. Where the hell did that thought come from?
Unhappy with how he was acting, Ben determined to deny himself. He would eat slower than normal, wait until Ellen had finished the dishes, then they would watch TV together and right before they went to sleep, he’d fuck Ellen’s brains out. No! They would make tender love.
Ellen glanced at her salad. ��Wow, did I really eat that much already?”
Through a mouthful of lamb, Ben said, “Uhh, yeah. You seemed pretty hungry.”
“That’s weird.” Ellen sat back down and continued talking about various things. Ben usually enjoyed talking with her, but tonight he just kept staring, waiting for her to finish. When she got to the point where Ben considered her done, he stood up and walked over to her. He felt obsessed, compelled to take his wife. There was no denying his lust.
He took her hand and pulled her away from the table.
“What are you doing, Ben? What’s gotten into you?”
Ben didn’t answer, he just led her into the bedroom and pushed her down on the bed.
“Get the light,” Ellen said.
Ben turned the light off and threw his clothes off. In the faint glow coming in from outside, he could see that Ellen was doing the same. Her formless body shifted in the shadows and Ben had a flash back to his daydream from lunch, giant tits with pierced nipples, vulgar sex, and cum drinking. His cock throbbed and pre-cum appeared on the tip.
None of that would happen with his wife. She considered oral sex dirty, didn’t like her breasts to be fondled, and never made a peep. When Ben heard women complaining about the lack of foreplay, he often joined in.
“Are you wet?” he asked.
Ellen touched herself. “Yes.” She grabbed his penis and aimed it at her vagina. “Wow, you’re really hard tonight.”
Ben grunted and thrust into her. She was wet. She was more than wet; Ellen was practically overflowing. For the first time ever, Ellen moaned as he entered her. Her cries of passion didn’t stop there, rather, they escalated as he pumped into her. Her moans soon turned into “Harder!” and “Yes!” and got progressively lewder until she was crying out “Fuck my cunt!”
Whether it was how wet his wife was or how vulgar she was, Ben couldn’t tell, but he could no longer hold back and shot his load deep into her pussy. She let out a long “fuuuuck” and came with him. Then, what surprised him even more than her profanity, she got up and started cleaning his cock off. The sight of his wife’s lips wrapped around his dick made Ben get hard again.
Several hours later, the couple laid side by side. Ben was groping the small 175cc implants Ellen had gotten some time a go to give her boyish form nice B cup breasts. Sperm was leaking out of her well used pussy.
“That was fucking incredible. In-fucking-credible. Why haven’t you ever fucked me like that before?”
Ben didn’t respond. He was deep in thought. After his last orgasm, his penis had seemed smaller. It had looked a good inch shorter than normal. Maybe it was because he was tired after cumming so many times. Even if it was lost, that would have put him at eight inches, which was still quite large.
“Shit. We can never ‘make love’ again. You’ve gotta fuck me from now on.” Ellen got out of bed and walked naked out of the room. Somewhere in the back of Ben’s mind it struck him as odd that she hadn’t gotten dressed.
He followed her out into the kitchen, also nude. Ellen was standing in front of the sink, looking at the dishes. “I don’t feel like doing this shit now. I’ll do it tomorrow.”
“You’ve, uuh got something there.” Ben pointed at some cum dribbling down her thigh.
“Oh wow, I do.” Ellen ran her finger up her thigh, scooping it up and then licked her hand clean. Despite their numerous couplings in the bedroom, Ben started to get hard. Ellen noticed it. “You better put that cock away, or I’ll find a place to fucking stick it.”
Unable to contain himself, Ben pushed her against the counter and entered her from behind. It didn’t occur to Ben that not only was it the first time for him to have sex with the lights on, it was also their first time outside of the bedroom. The dishes didn’t get done that night.
DAY 2
The next morning, Ben woke up and ate some cereal. Ellen was still passed out from their activities the night before and he didn’t want to wake her just so she could make him breakfast. He was reading the paper and on his second bowl when she came in the kitchen.
Ellen was still naked and her hair was knotted up behind her head.
“Morning, sleepyhead.”
She mumbled in response. Even though she was five years younger, Ben had always been the better morning person.
“Have some coffee.” Ben poured her a glass and she leaned against the counter and slowly sipped on it.
He went back to his paper and the two stayed in silence for several minutes. Ellen finally broke it. “I’ve been thinking of getting a job.”
Ben looked up. “Oh?”
“Yeah, I know we don’t need the money, but it’s just fucking boring during the day here.”
“What type would you been looking for?”
“I dunno. Something easy, like a secretary or receptionist. I don’t have the degree for anything else.” Ellen had never finished college. She dropped out after the two got married.
Nodding, Ben smiled at his wife. “I’ll ask around, see if anyone has an opening.”
“Thanks, my love. My fucking machine.”
Ben got up and put his dishes in the cluttered sink. He turned and looked at Ellen. He reached out and tweaked one of her nipples. “Don’t forget, I’ve got Carl’s bachelor party on Friday.”
“Oh, it’s this Friday? Oh...”
He could hear the unasked question. “Don’t worry, Saturday night will be our greatest anniversary. It’s our tenth after all.”
Ellen beamed. “You remembered! I was so worried you’d forget. 10 wonderful years since we met and married in college.”
Still rubbing her nipple, Ben said, “I’ve got quite a day in store for us.”
“Mmm... I can’t wait. You better stop that unless you want to take it somewhere.” She said, referring to his manipulations.
“I wish I could, but I’ve got to run to work.” Reluctantly letting go of her breast, Ben headed out the door.
* * *
It was an uneventful day for Ben at work. Normally, he enjoyed his work, but all he could think about was the various positions he would enjoy Ellen in when he got home. Despite their ten year marriage, they still enjoyed sex multiple times a day. Not only had they vowed to never stray from one another, they vowed to keep that part of their life together active.
His day at the office wasn’t the only boring thing, even his trip to the coffeehouse was rather bland. He had been hoping to see another slutty looking girl, like the one he had a faint recollection of from the day before. He loved going to that coffee shop and checking out the local coeds while he pretended to read his paper. Usually there were quite a few lookers, but he couldn’t tell if it was his desire to see the whore again, but he was disappointed in the offerings.
Ellen knew of his daily “sightseeing” trips as they called them. Some days she would even join him there and do a little looking of her own. They had taken vows saying their genitals wouldn’t stray, not their eyes. They even found it helpful; they gleaned fashion tips and ideas to keep each of them attractive to one another. Ben wholeheartedly believed it was the secret to their passionate sex and loving marriage.
At 4:30, Ben decided to cut out of work a little early and go home to surprise Ellen. He was pulling his car out of the company lot, when he saw a coed wondering the street. She looked rather lost and Ben felt he should be the good Samaritan and offer to give her directions. Plus, he figured, she might be cute.
He pulled his car up to the curb next to her and rolled the passenger window down. “You lost?” he asked.
The coed leaned forward and her appearance changed; it was the slut from the day before. Ben’s dick got hard as he stared at her exposed cleavage in her low cut top.
“Yeah, I’m fucking lost. Are you man enough to show me my way?”
Even Ben knew how cheesy he was being when he responded, “I can show you the way to heaven, doll. Hop on in.”
The girl opened the door and slid in next to him. He looked at her massive chest contained in a shirt that was more of a bra with sleeves. It covered her breasts from the nipples down to just under their curve, leaving all of her tanned tone stomach exposed. Around her waist, she wore a black belt with a large silver hoop buckle. Her torn low rise jeans were cut so low, that when she sat down and leaned over to close the door, he could see almost a quarter of her ass.
She leaned back and looked at Ben. “So, it’s $25 for a BJ, $50 for a fuck, and $75 to do me in the ass.”
Ben pulled out his wallet and tossed her a $100. “We’ll start with the blow job while I take us some where a little more private.”
Pulling his dick out of his pants, the whore leaned over and started sucking. Ben put his right hand on her head and drove them down several back alleys until he pulled up behind a closed grocery store. He pulled her off his crotch and slid his seat back.
“Mount me,” he told her.
Angling herself so she could fit all of his large dick in her pussy, she slid down on him. He pulled her top down and fondled her tits, perfect in their roundness. She bounced up and down on him and he timed his thrusts to meet her on the up and down.
She was wild and passionate, Ben could tell she was enjoying herself, but not to the lengths he’d pleasured her in his dream yesterday. Through her moans, she said, “It’s an extra $100 to cum in me.”
Not wanting to fork over the extra cash, he threw her into the passenger seat and did his best to shoot his load on her chest. “Fucker! You got my shirt dirty. I’m not giving you your change from that $100.”
“Eh, it was worth it,” Ben said. “Thanks for joining me in my ride.”
Pulling her top back up, the girl opened the door and got out. She leaned back into the window. “Except for the cum on my shirt, I’d ride with you anytime.” She stood up and wandered off.
The sexual glow Ben was feeling soon faded out. What had he done? How could he have cheated on his wife with a hooker? He had no reason to. He knew Ellen would be ready to jump him when he got home, that was one thing he loved about their relationship. She was ready to fuck above all else.
And the girl he was chosen. Sure, Ellen had small implants, but they still looked real. That girl’s balloons would never be confused with anything natural. The sex had been fantastic, but now the come down was tearing him apart. He’d never be able to face his love.
Hanging his head in shame, Ben started his car and headed home. He rode in silence reflecting on his mistake and wondering if he would be able to hide his infidelity from Ellen. They had taken a vow and he had betrayed it.
Opening the door to his place, Ben sighed. “I’m home.”
Ellen came running to the door naked and jumped on him. She wrapped her legs around his waist and deeply kissed him. “Welcome back. Now fucking take me!”
Ben didn’t think it was possible, but his member got stiff again and he dropped Ellen on the kitchen table. He pulled her close to the edge so that her cunt was almost hanging over. He squatted down and dove into her with his mouth.
Almost immediately, Ellen started moaning. “Oh, god! You’re tongue is so good. Yes! Lick me there.” It didn’t occur to either of them that this was Ben’s first time with oral sex.
He stood up and let his pants fall to the floor. Ben rubbed his stiff eight inch erection against her moist lips.
“Come on! Stick the cock in me and fuck me hard!”
The table violently shook as Ben gave all his worth. Already he was justifying his betrayal of Ellen earlier in the day. Her tits: they were too small. He wanted her to get at least 700cc implants, but she’d refused and only gotten 400cc. They were the size of baseballs, but they still looked too real. He wanted her to have those tits that screamed “I’m fake!” Her clit: it still wasn’t pierced. Sure, she had agreed and gotten her tongue done (which felt great when she gave him one of her legendary blow jobs), but he wanted something down south. And her tramp stamp: he’d begged for her to get “slut” done down there, but she’d gone with some swoopy pattern.
Ellen reached a taloned hand down and started rubbing her clit. “Fuck your dick fills me up! Pound me! Fuck me! Make me your bitch!” She was always vocal during sex. “I’m cumming!” A little bit of ejaculation squeezed out around Ben’s dick. He couldn’t take it any more.
“I’m coming, too!”
“Cum on my tits! Cream me!”
Obeying her commands, Ben pulled out and shot rope after rope up jizz on her chest. She rubbed it in to her knockers and then licked her fingers clean. Rolling over, she picked up the pack of cigarettes on the table, took one out and lit it. “You’re fucking brilliant. A sex god,” she told Ben.
He smiled at her. “I wanna watch your video.”
“Oh, your pervert! Okay. You go set it up and I’ll order us a pizza for dinner.”
Ben walked into the living room and Ellen headed the other way to the kitchen. Sitting down at the entertainment system, he opened the cabinet and pulled out a “Girls Gone Wild” tape. Shortly after Ellen had her tits done, they had taken a trip to New Orleans for Mardi Gras and she’d flashed anyone and everyone with a camera. They’d fucked like bunnies for hours in their hotel afterwards.
Then, one eventful late sex-filled night, they’d turned the TV on and low and behold, she was one of the main girls displayed in the commercial. They’d ordered several copies and had worn threw a couple already. Those tapes were the only reason they still had a VCR.
Ellen came bounding into the room in a T-shirt that cut off at her mid riff and a pair of short shorts. “It’ll be here in 30,” she said.
Sitting down next to him, she started stroking his deflated cock. He pushed play on the remote and they watched all the rowdy party girls flashing the cameras. Ben soon got hard again and Ellen continued to stroke him. Something was off about his cock. It didn’t look big enough in her hands.
Pulling the coffee table drawer open, where they kept their stationary supplies, Ben grabbed the ruler. He put it to the base of his cock and measured. Seven inches.
“What’s the mater, babe?” Ellen asked.
“I don’t know, I have this feeling that up to two days ago I had a nine inch dick.”
“Nine fucking inches?! No, if you had one that massive, I’d never take it out of my cunt.” Seeing Ben’s disappointed look, she quickly added, “Seven inches is still quite a lot for me. Bigger than average and it feels so good in my tight pussy.” As if to change the conversation, Ellen took Ben in her mouth and started blowing him.
She expertly used her tongue and piercing, stroking the stud up the sensitive side of his shaft. She was still giving him head when the doorbell rang. Lifting her head up with a pop, she whipped her lips. “That’s the pizza. I’ll go get it.”
When she came back, the bottom of her shirt was resting on the top of her exposed tits. A pang of jealousy shot through him. It was one thing to flash strangers in a town far away, it was another to flash delivery guys on your doorstep for a discount. They had taken vows, vows that he had broken earlier. He stuffed his jealousy down.
“How much did you get off?”
“Just half. He said it’d be free if I blew him, but I just paid and sent him on his way.” She brought the pizza over and sat on the couch. Ben pulled her shirt off and stripped her of her shorts. The pizza was cold by the time they got to it.
DAY 3
Thursday morning, Ben quickly silenced his alarm and got up before he disturbed his sleeping wife. Her bleached cum crusted hair framed her overly made up face. With all the fucking they’d done last night, neither of them had had time to take a shower.
Ben was still amazed that after five years of marriage that the two of them were still so passionate about each other. His buddies said marrying the bar tender at their favorite hole was a mistake and they’d be divorced within the year. Sure, she was a bit of a gold digger, but they loved each other and the sex was phenomenal; it helped that she was ten years his junior and had an overly active libido.
When he went back into the bedroom after his shower, Ellen was sitting up in bed smoking. Her knees were pulled up into her chest with the sheets draped over them. She ashed her cigarette and waved at Ben.
“Morning, sexy.”
“Morning, stud.”
Opening a dresser drawer, Ben pulled out some underwear and socks. “How’d your job search go yesterday?”
“So, so. No one’s really looking for an ex bar-tending high school grad.”
“Sorry to hear that. I asked around but none of my firm’s clients are looking either.”
Ellen stubbed her cigarette out and climbed out of bed. “It figures. I’ll find something.”
Fully dressed, Ben headed out to the kitchen and Ellen, still covered in sex, followed him. After grabbing a bagel and pouring a glass of orange juice, Ben handed his wife the bottle of juice and she filled a glass half full. Then, she topped it off with vodka.
While Ben munched on his breakfast, Ellen slowly drank hers. “You know,” she said, “I was wanting some new shoes today. Would you mind if I went down to the mall and did some shopping?”
Ben brushed his hands off in the sink, then pulled out his wallet. He only had a couple hundred in cash, so he pulled out his platinum American Express card and handed it to her. “Try to keep it under a thousand.”
“A thousand? I can’t get anything for that.” Ellen pouted and rubbed her breast against his arm.
“Okay, fine. But no more than two.”
She gave him her best puppy dog eyes.
“OK! Five. No more than $5,000.”
Ellen beamed. “Thanks sweetie.” She kissed his cheek and adjusted his tie. “Go get ‘em, tiger!”
“Thanks. Oh, and if you have time, would you mind cleaning up around the house a bit?” he asked, then gave her a peck on her cheek and headed out to work. With his back turned, he missed the glare she gave him in response.
After his dismal performance at work the day before, Ben was determined to put in good billing hours, especially since he knew Ellen was probably going to blow seven grand shopping today. Since marrying Ellen, he hadn’t put as much effort into his work and the backlog was getting to him. By the time lunch rolled around, his hands and eyes were almost useless from exhaustion.
As he drove off in his luxury car, he headed in the opposite direction of his normal haunt. He needed more stimuli than the coffeehouse would provide. Ten minutes later, Ben pulled into the closest strip joint to his office and parked his car in back, out of sight.
The place had just opened and aside from Ben, only a few alcoholics littered the place. They all hung out in the shadows, avoiding eye contact. Ben ordered a sandwich from the bar girl and sat back in his dark booth. The girl who was on was just finishing her routine and it was obvious why she had been given the day shift.
No one had thrown any money on the stage for her so she the only thing she had to gather up was her clothes. The DJ asked everyone to give it up for Taylor, but no one clapped. The next girl who came out looked like she would be just as miserable. She was wearing a pullover for the local university and had a deer in headlight look about her. There was no hint of sexuality about her: her body had no shape, no form, and she bumbled about the stage. She did have an innocent feel, something that seemed familiar to Ben. Despite the lack luster performance he knew he was about to witness, he was interested.
When the girl ripped her pullover off to reveal a giant pair of implants in a shelf bra, Ben’s dick sprang to life. Her whole performance changed. She oozed sexuality. Every step she took looked like she was slowly stalking her lover. She swung and dry humped the pole like she was actually having sex with it.
Leaving his sandwich, Ben went down to the stage and started tossing bills at her. The only things the stripper had left on were her g-string panties and her platform heels. She gracefully strutted over to dance in front of him and he tossed some more ones on the stage for her. The girl scissored her legs opened and close in front of him and he could see her moist lips poking out around the thin string of her underwear. She was getting sexual excitement out of dancing.
Ben pulled a $100 out of his wallet and she went spread eagle in front of him. He slid the bill into her panties on top of her cunt and as he did so, stuck a couple of fingers into her slit. He pulled them out and the stripper leaned forward and wrapped her collagen enhanced lips around his fingers and licked her juices off of them.
Her song ended and Ben went back to his sandwich. He’d never consider cheating on Ellen, but if there were any girl that he would, that stripper would be her. Ben checked his watch to see if he could figure out if he’d have time to catch another one of her shows. It didn’t look good.
Just then, someone sat down next to him.
“Hey, stranger,” she said.
Little Ben rose to attention. “Hi,” he stumbled.
“Thanks for the great tip.”
“My pleasure. A show that hot deserves its rewards.”
The stripper reached over and massaged his erection through his pants. “If you think that’s hot, how about a private show?”
Ben gulped. “A private show?”
“Yeah, we’ve got some rooms in the back. How’s $300 sound?”
Did Ben really want to do that? Could he cheat on his love and actually pay for it? He looked at the stripper in her scant clothing. She was still rubbing his leg. He had to have her. “Let’s go.”
Smiling, the girl got up and Ben followed her through the club, past a big bouncer, and down a dark hallway. She sat him in a chair placed in the middle of an otherwise empty room.
“Got the cash?”
Ben pulled out three bills and gave them to the girl.
She looked up at the video camera in the corner and walked around so that she was standing under it. “For an extra $100, you can do anything to me.”
There was no hesitation as Ben pulled his last hundred out of his wallet and gave it to her. The red light on the camera went off, and so did Ben. There was no strip show. There was no lap dance or foreplay. There was just Ben’s seven inches buried into her.
He was mesmerized by the dirtiness of it, cheating on his wife with a strange girl, fucking her on the floor of a strip club for $400, the way her artificial body and piercings shook with his thrusts. Men who believed in monogamy were fools. Fucking around was heaven.
As the girl cleaned his shaft off from his cum and her juices, Ben looked at his watch. It was already 1:30. He needed to get back to the office and put in some more hours. He got dressed and thanked the cum covered stripper for the good time.
Unlike that morning, Ben didn’t have the motivation to do any real work all afternoon. He had a desire, a hunger, to fuck his wife with his dirty philandering cock. He checked the clock every five minutes, hoping that it would tell him it was five o’clock. Like the day before, by the time it was 4:30, Ben was already heading out the door.
He pulled into his driveway then entered his messy house. Dishes were piled high in the sink and the laundry overflowed from the bathroom. As Ben made his way through the various items scattered on the floor to the living room, he could hear the sound of fucking. His heart dropped. Was Ellen having an affair?
Ben was both relieved and excited by what greeted him. Ellen was spread out nude on the couch, working a large dildo in and out of her pussy. A home video they had made together was playing on the TV. Ben’s cock was working in and out of his young wife’s snatch while one of her expensively manicured nails worked her clit, much like she was doing now with the dildo.
She hadn’t noticed him come in, so he dropped his pants, threw off his shirt, and walked over with his stiff member leading the way. When she finally caught sight of him, she jumped then cooed. She let the dildo fall out of her slit and took her man in her mouth. Ben wondered if she could taste his betrayal. He hoped she could.
“Get on the couch,” he told her.
She laid back and played with herself while he positioned himself over her. Ben pressed the head of his dick against her lower lips and slid himself up and forward, so that his head rubbed up the length of her, over her enlarged clit and onto her stomach. With his balls pressed against her pussy, his dick extended well past her belly button.
“Are you ready?” he asked.
“I’ve been read since I woke up.”
Ben put himself inside of her and started pumping. He wasn’t thinking of his wife, he was thinking of his afternoon tryst. He imagined Ellen with that girl’s giant tits. As if his imagination was effecting reality, Ellen’s breasts started inflating. They looked like someone had roughly stuffed softballs under her flesh. The sight made Ben lose control and he pulled out and came on her new tits.
Ellen opened her eyes and squirmed under him. “You can’t be fucking serious. I need more than that.”
“Your tits, they just grew!”
Reaching up and massaging one of her jugs, Ellen said. “I’ve had these things since right after I dropped out of high school. I had them when we met at the strip club four years ago and they’re the same ones from when we got married three years ago.”
The memories of meeting Ellen while she waited tables at the strip joint he regularly visited came floating up to him. He’d fallen in love with her fake D cup tits, sex with her, and then her personality in that order. She’d fallen in love with his steady stream of cash. His friends said he shouldn’t marry a gold digger twelve years his younger, but he was happy he ignored them.
The Ellen on the TV moaned as one of her exes pounded into her with his massive cock. Ben started getting hard again. He grew out to just below her belly button. “Do you ever miss fucking dicks that big?”
Grabbing her husband back and aiming his shaft at her still hungry hole, Ellen shook her head. “No, you’re enough. I just need you to fucking last longer.”
She was referring to Ben’s recent lack of stamina. As if to put an exclamation point on it, she rocked back and forth a couple of times and he exploded into her. Ellen sighed and dismounted him. Cum was drooling down her leg.
“I’m sorry, sweetie.”
She picked up her smokes and lit one up. She exhaled and said, “Fucking whatever. Wanna see some of the new outfits I got?”
“Sure.” He watched her ass waggle out of the room. Just above it in the tramp stamp spot was her calligraphic tattoo that read “Sex!”
While he waited for her, he watched the amateur porn that she’d made with all of her boyfriends until Ben and she had met. The Ellen on the screen was raving about which ever boyfriend it was filling her with his giant cock.
Several minutes later, Ellen came back in a leopard print dress. The top tied behind her neck, leaving her arms and most of her torso bear. Two thin straps of cloth hung loosely down the middle of her tits, leaving plenty of flesh available for ogling. The fabric covered about an inch on each side of her nipples, and too much movement (like dancing) would cause the fabric to shift and expose them. The artificial curve of her cleavage was plainly visible, even the round curve of the outside of her tits was left available for viewing.
The bottom half of the dress stopped just below the curve of her ass. She spun around to show Ben the back, or rather the lack there of. In the back, the bottom part of the dress didn’t start until just below her tattoo. In all, the dress hid enough to be tantalizing, but exposed way to much to be close to decent wear.
She accessorized with a diamond necklace that sparkled in the light, making sure attention was properly focused on her chest. Her feet were encased in ankle high cream boots. They had to have been at least one inch platforms with six inch spikes. The lift accentuated the muscle definition in her thin, bare legs.
“Damn! You look hot.”
Some how, she managed to do a twirl on those heels. “Don’t I, though? Go get dressed. I wanna go clubbing!”
Ben walked past his young wife and squeezed her ass. He ran to the bed room and squeezed into a designer shirt and slacks, his expanding gut rested on top of his belt. He styled his thinning hair then went and joined Ellen. “Let’s go,” he said and leaned in to kiss her.
Ellen ducked him. “Don’t you’ll smear my makeup.”
Even though it was a Thursday night, there was a line outside the door of the club they went to. Ellen confidently strutted up to the bouncer. He opened the rope for her and put up his hand to stop Ben. Ben put a folded up $100 in the man’s breast pocket and patted it. “I’m with her.” The bouncer waved him through.
The couple walked over to the bar and the bar tender came running over when he saw Ellen. Ben held up two fingers and said, “Two martinis and a beer.” He soon came back with them. Ellen drank the martinis like she was doing shots, and Ben ordered her a third before the keep could wander away.
“After I finish my next drink,” Ellen yelled over the pounding music, “let’s go dance!”
Ellen finished her third drink and Ben downed the remainder of his beer. He let his wife lead him out to the dance floor and they started to move. Half way through their second song, a large muscular black man shoved Ben out of the way. “I’m cutting in,” he told Ben.
What Ellen and her new dance partner started doing couldn’t be called dancing. The strange man’s hands roved her body groping her everywhere, while she melted in his touch and dry humped him. Ben just stood and watched.
After the song ended, the black man took Ellen’s hand and lead her off to the stairs leading up to the VIP room. Ben followed behind them. Once they got to the stairwell, the stranger put his hand on Ellen’s ass and pushed her up.
They walked past the bouncer at the door and let it shut past them. The bouncer stepped in front of Ben and put his hand up. Ben pulled a folded $100 out of his pocket and said, “I’m with them.”
The bouncer didn’t move. “No, you’re not.”
Ben added another $100. “Yes, I am.”
The large man gave the money in Ben’s hand a disdainful look. “You can keep adding all night, but you’re not going to get in there.”
Two well built white guys came up the stairs behind Ben and the bouncer shoved him to the side to make way for them. He opened the door and let them pass through. While it was open, Ben could see into the luxurious VIP room. It was mostly empty except for a couple of men and his wife.
Her top had been undone and she was deep in a passionate kiss with the man she’d been dancing with. He was roughly fondling one of her tits while she stroked the outline of his large cock. Then, the door closed shut.
“That’s my wife!” Ben cried.
“I don’t fucking care if it’s your mom, sister, and Jesus. Get the fuck out of here.” The bouncer spun Ben around and pushed him towards the stairs.
Defeated, Ben slowly lumbered down them. His wife was cheating on him. She was going to fuck that black guy and possibly several others. The image of them filling her with their cocks projected across his mind. A mix of emotions ran though him. What hurt most was Ben was helpless to stop it. When he reached the bottom of the stairs, he went and did the only thing he could do. He went to the men’s room and masturbated.
For several hours, Ben sat at the bar alone, drinking beer. He could see the stairs to the VIP room from where he sat. All night various men went up and down the stairs, some times alone, other times leading scantily clad women up. He hadn’t seen Ellen come down once. The bar tender came over to tell Ben it was last call when she finally did reappear.
Ellen came down the stairs on wobbly legs. She had a drug and alcohol induced glazed look on her face. Her bleached hair was tangled and matted together. Her makeup was smeared across her face. When Ben got to her, he could smell the sex and dried cum on her through the smoke. He put her arm on his shoulder and helped her down.
“My fucking pussy is so sore! But damn was that fun.”
Ben didn’t respond, he just took her to the exit. Before they reached the door, the black man that had taken her to the VIP room caught up with them and grabbed Ellen.
“El-sluto! Here’s that shit for the road.” He handed her a bag of white powder, then grinned at Ben and mauled one of her tits before going in for a kiss.
Ellen giggled when the man returned her to Ben. “Get it?” she asked in her stupor. “My name’s Ellen and I’m a slut, so they all like called me El-sluto like I’m a Mexican.”
Again, Ben said nothing. He didn’t correct the bad Spanish, he didn’t comment on her being called a slut, he just got them to their car and plopped Ellen in the passenger seat. He got in the driver side and started the car.
“Thanks for being so fucking cool,” she slurred. She leaned over and fumbled with his zipper and pulled out his stiff dick. As inebriated as she was, her blow job was sloppy and uncoordinated. It still didn’t take long before Ben shot his load into her mouth. Ellen passed out with her head in his lap, drooling his semen back out on to his cock and into his pants.
DAY 4
Ellen was sprawled out on the bed when Ben woke up. Her fake breasts were twin mountains and a valley under the sheets. He thought about last night. The shame of knowing that his wife had pleasured numerous men in the VIP room strangely excited him. He wanted to be angry, but what right did he have? First, he’d cheated on Ellen earlier in the day, then he’d failed to sexually satisfy her. Plus, hadn’t he married her for her looks and wild spirit?
Instead of getting angry, he threw the covers off her and buried himself in her. Even asleep she was moist and wet. He rutted in and out of her a few times and the pulled out and came on her chest. Ellen didn’t wake up once.
Ben got dressed and headed into the kitchen. He sighed at the dirty mess and fished out a bowl. He washed it and dried it then poured himself some cereal. After finishing, he put the dish back in the sink and got a pad of paper. He wrote Ellen a note:
Ellen, won’t be home till late to night, I have that bachelor’s party tonight. Feel free to go out shopping with some friends or something. Just use the Visa, the Amex is maxed out. We’re still on for out big 3rd anniversary tomorrow night. I’ve got something really special planned. Can’t wait to see you when I get home.
PS. If you don’t mind, would you clean up around the house some?
He left it under her cigarettes, the one place he knew for sure she would see it and headed out the door.
Work that morning sped through. Maybe it was sexually sating himself that morning, or the ever amounting debt Ellen pilled on him, but he worked with a determination he hadn’t felt in awhile.
At noon, he went to his usual lunch spot. He pulled his car into the front lot and strolled into the strip joint. Michelle was on the pole and Steph and Heather were working the floor. They were some of his favorite girls, but not the ones he was looking for. Ben headed over to the bar.
“Hey, Ben,” Doug said. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll go with a beer.”
Doug pulled a bottle out and pulled the top off. “I’ll add it to your tab.”
“Thanks. Hey, Doug. Is that new girl from yesterday in today?”
“Nah, she’s got the day off.”
“That’s a shame, she’s a hot one.”
“I’ll say.”
Ben ordered a sandwich and watched the girls perform. He didn’t approach the stage or pay any of the girls for a lap dance. He knew Ellen wasn’t going to cut back on expenses, so he figured he would have to start.
After finishing eating, Ben headed back to the office and started working. Unlike the last couple of days, he was focused in the afternoon. He worked through five o’clock and up till seven. His friend Jeremy calling finally broke him out of his trance.
“Hey, Ben! Where the hell are you?”
“Jer. Sorry, man. Just in the zone at work and completely lost track of time.”
“Work? Lame-o!”
“Ha, some of us have bills to pay.”
“Yeah, and some of us don’t have gold digging harpies for wives. Quit that boring shit and get your ass down to CW Hotel.”
“Aight, man. On my way.” Ben hung up his phone, turned off the lights and headed to his car. Alex’s bachelor party was being held in the penthouse of CW Hotel, the nicest hotel in town. Having it there would allow them to be wilder without disturbing anyone, and they could all stay there and wouldn’t have to worry about drunk driving.
Jeremy greeted Ben at the door when he finally arrived. His girthy framed slightly swayed back and forth. “Bout Goddamn time!” Ben’s balding friend slurred.
“Yeah? If you’re so happy to see me, where’s my beer?”
“Aw, fuck, thought you was the strippers.”
“Thanks for the loving welcome,” Ben said as he pushed past his doughy friend.
Most of the guys there were pretty drunk. It looked like a scene from their college days. Various groups were playing all sorts of drinking games, and whether he wanted to be or not, the man of honor, Alex, was the central figure in all of them. Those that noticed Ben’s arrival ragged on him for being late and forced him to down a beer before he could even give Alex a hug and congratulate him on his marriage.
Alex had glazed look in his eyes and couldn’t even keep them open for more than a couple of seconds. In the best of times he was a light weight, and tonight, before he could even finish one drink, it was replaced by four others. Ben was on his third beer when Alex disappeared into the bedroom and passed out.
Even though the main man was long passed out when the stripper showed up, those still standing quit their games and gathered in the main room for the show. She came dressed as a college student in a pullover. There were a few tsks of disappointment that she was too innocent, to kind looking to really put on a good show. Ben’s eyes were glued to her.
“So, who’s the lucky man?” she mumbled.
Jeremy immediately responded. “Him! This guy here!” he said, pointing at Ben.
The girl looked at him like she was Bambi and he was a semi hurling towards her. “Well, get ready to graduate!” the girl gripped the bottom of her shirt and pulled it over her head, exposing her gargantuan rack that should have been impossible to hide under her pullover. The only thing natural about them was the tight skin pulled over the saline implants. Little Ben sprang to attention as the stripper gave him hers.
She was giving Ben a lap dance when a second stripper appeared in a dainty vinyl police uniform. The large pilot sunglasses hid her face, but the outfit hugged her curves and accented them. She ripped her sunglasses off; it was Ellen. “What the hell is going on here?”
Ben’s stomach did flips; he was getting busted for getting a lap dance. How pissed would Ellen be? But could she really be pissed if she was here to strip? She stamped over to Ben and the stripper. She grabbed the stripper’s arm and pulled her off her husband. Ellen unzipped Ben’s pants and fished his six inches out. She then removed the other girl’s panties and said, “You were in violation of code!” Ellen pushed the girl’s wet pussy down onto her husband’s cock. “Proceed!”
Now that the dance had turned into full on sex, the girl started bouncing and moaning in earnest. It didn’t take long for Ellen to remove her plastic uniform to reveal her plastic figure underneath. “What’s a girl gotta do to get fucked around here?”
As Ben cheated on his wife, he watched as his friends took turns with her. Where the first stripper was only attending to Ben, Ellen was taking multiple men at once. Jeremy, Ben’s best friend, fucked his wife from behind while she blew someone else and jacked off a third guy. It was too much for Ben to take and he pushed the girl riding him off and cummed in her face. Rodger, one of Ben’s stronger and more athletic friends, picked her up and threw her on the sofa. He started having his way with her and a couple more guys waiting around went and joined him.
Despite having just blown his load, Ben was still erect and felt like he was posessed. He needed to stick his wet cock in he wife’s cunt. Jeremy unloaded inside of her and Ben shoved the waiting people away and pulled Ellen into the bedroom.
He threw her down next to the unconscious body of Alex and proceeded to enter her. He could feel Jeremy’s sperm gushing out around his dick. Maybe it was the sloppy seconds or the fact he knew after he was done with her, she’d go back to fucking his friends, but Ben soon shot his load into her. He pulled out and a large piercing appeared going through her clit. It matched the new nipple rings she had. Above her shaven pussy a tattoo that read, “Also available in brown eye” appeared.
“God dammit, Ben. And you wonder why I cheat. I bet this passed out dude could outlast you.” As if to prove her point, she undid his pants and sucked him hard. She mounted him and started counting. “One, two, three, you just came, four, five, six, seven, eiiight! I just came! Nine...”
“You should probably leave Alex out of this. He’s getting married and you know Saori is the jealous type.”
“The fuck do I care about that uptight cunt? I’m probably giving Alex the ride of his life. Too bad he’s not awake to enjoy it. Look little dick, why don’t you run off and tell some other guys to come in here. This guy’s finished.” Ellen stood up and a lot of the accumulated cum from her pussy drooled out onto Alex’s soft furry stomach. “Now!” she barked.
Ben headed out into the other room, “That one’s open!” He yelled and pointed to the bed room. Several guys who had finished or hadn’t had a turn yet went in to make use of Ben’s wife. Jeremy came over to Ben and handed him a fresh drink.
Putting his are around Ben, Jeremy said, “This is going to be one fucking great night.”
DAY 5
The next morning, Ben woke up alone in his bed. His head was pounding and he tried to recall some of the previous night’s events but came up blank. He rolled out of bed and got up. He waded through impractically tall high heels, overly revealing dresses, and bras that could have doubled as parachutes had they been less frilly.
He rubbed his bleary eyes and walked through the living room. It was as much of a disaster area as the bedroom. Porn DVDs and drug paraphernalia littered the room. Ben had a vague memory of coming home alone and smoking some pot while watching one of his wife’s pornos.
Today was their one year anniversary. Ben loved his wife even though she openly hated him and readily let it be known that she was only with him for the money. He felt that through perseverance she would finally come around to loving him as much as he loved her. He was hoping that today would help his cause.
The first surprise that he had planned for her was a spotless house. He hoped that he could get the place clean before she showed back up from whatever, or whoever, it was she was doing. As efficient in cleaning as he was at his job that afforded him the luxury of getting Ellen in the first place, within two hours, Ben had the entire house cleaned.
He laid out the jewelry case that contained the second part of his anniversary surprise. It was a diamond studded necklace with a bunny charm. The ears twisted off the head and had a small spoon attached to them. The head itself was hallow so Ellen could keep her coke supply around her neck and be able to take a hit whenever she wanted.
Ben showered and shaved and sat in the kitchen waiting. It was close to noon. Would she even be awake yet? He gave her cell phone a ring, but it went to her voice mail. There was something wrong with her message though. Her normal message, “Leave your number and I’ll fuck you later,” had been replaced by a sweet sounding girl who said, “Hi there. This is Ellen. I can’t come to the phone right now, so please leave your name and number and I’ll get back to you.”
The last five days off Ben’s life came crashing down on him. He remembered his demure wife of 20 years as she was, not as the now 20 year old whore that treated him like shit. He remembered his affairs and the changes it brought about her, making her younger and sluttier until she was nothing but a living fuck doll. He had to find her. He had to do something to save her.
Bolting from the kitchen, Ben ran out the door and flew over to his friend Jeremy’s place. Hoping that Jeremy would have some idea where Ellen had gone to after the party, he banged on the door. There was no answer. Ben banged again. He could hear the sounds of high heels on tile, then the door opened revealing a woman as fake and trashy looking as Ellen now was. Her prosthetic tits and smooth skin where hidden by a see-through teddy that went down to her pierced belly button. She wasn’t wearing any panties.
Ben somehow recognized her cosmetically enhanced face. “Amber?” he asked Jeremy’s wife.
“Bennie? Oh my god! Jeremy’s like going to be so glad you’re here. He was saying we needed another dick to shut my fucking mouth. Jeremy! Bennie’s here!”
Ben was too shocked to say anything. The Amber he remembered was a journalism professor at the university. Now she looked like she couldn’t read a newspaper even if it was a book on tape. He didn’t think he cold be anymore shocked, then the male Adonis that was Jeremy stepped into the doorway.
He was completely naked and his sweaty muscles shimmered in the light. Below his rippling six pack, his mammoth cock hung like an elephant’s trunk between his legs. “Hey! LD! What’re you doin’ here?”
“I...uhhh...”
Jeremy turned to his tart wife. “You don’t want this guy, you bimbo. I don’t know if you’d be able to find his little dick. That’s why we call him ‘LD’.”
“But it must be so cute! I love little things. It’d be like a mini cock.”
Ben ignored the insults. “Did you see where Ellen went after the party?”
Jeremy snapped his fingers and Amber obediently knelt down and started pleasuring Jeremy’s manhood. “Nah, the fine slut of yours was still there when I left. Ask that other geek, you know that loser you can never go with out, what’s his face...starts with an R...Ropert?”
“You mean Rodger?”
“Yeah, that queer fuck. He was still there filming shit when I left. He really seemed to have the hots for that fine piece of ass that’s waisting herself on you.”
Not bothering to close the do or to wonder what had happened to his former best friend, Ben headed over to Rodger’s place. He rang the door bell and an old lady came to the door.
“What do you want? We ain’t buying.”
“Umm, is Rodger here?”
The old woman glared at Ben. “Rodger! One of your nerdy fat friends is here.”
A couple of seconds later, a much shorter and 100 pounds heavier than Ben remembered Rodger came to the door. He was wearing a Star Wars T-shirt that stretched over his man boobs and belly. “Hey, Ben! Man, that was some party last night! I got it all on tape if you wanna come in and watch. I’m uploading it to the net now.”
The old woman who’d answered the door screamed, “Close the goddamn door, Rodger! I’m not paying to cool the fucking outside.”
“Shut up, Ma!” Rodger yelled, but stepped outside and closed the door anyway.
“Rodger, did you see my wife leave the party?”
“Aw man, you’re wife is so fucking hot! I’ve downloaded all of her movies. I can’t believed you’re married to that! Think you could arrange for me to have her again? After I did that one girl then your wife, I was so busy filming that I totally missed out on the chance of doing either of them again.”
Ben hoped Rodger wouldn’t have the chance. He wanted to get his old wife back, which would make Rodger’s request impossible. “I don’t know,” he lied,“but it’s really important that I find her. Did you see her leave?”
“Oh, yeah, she took Alex home. She was pretty pissed at you and was going on about showing that cunt of a fiance that he has what a real woman was good for.”
“Thanks,” Ben said and turned and ran off.
Alex’s place wasn’t too far from Rodger’s. He didn’t hope to find Ellen at Alex’s but he hoped he’d be able to find a clue. He knocked on the door and Soari answered it. The petite Japanese girl was wearing some loose jeans and a yellow camisole. When she saw Ben, she immediately smacked his face.
“Keep that fucking slut wife of yours away from my man.”
Ben’s eyes brightened. “She was here?”
“Yes, she brought Alex home and said she’d show me how to fuck him proper. I kicked her ass out of here and I’m going to do the same to you.”
“Did she say where she’s going? Does Alex know?”
“Alex is still passed out from whatever you asshole gave him at the party last night. Now fuck off.”
Not wanting to upset Saori any more, Ben turned and walked away. That was his last lead and he had no idea where to go. Wracking his brain for anything, he kept going back to the day in the coffee shop with the arguing couple. There was something about it that seemed important. It came to him in a flash; that man had made a bet with him.
As fast as he could, Ben drove downtown to the coffeehouse. It was pretty crowded and he had to fight his way to the counter. When he got there, he could see why. The large busted barista had her shirt open and was adding cream to coffee by milking her right tit.
“Excuse me, I’m looking for a guy that was in here a few days ago.”
“What’s he look like?” the coffee girl asked without looking up.
Ben paused. He had no idea. All he could think of was it was a man. “I don’t know.”
“Well, if you don’t know, then it’s gonna be hard for me to know who you’re talking about. What color hair did he have?”
“I don’t know.”
“What color was he?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look buddy, 99% of people in line for my homemade coffee and milk are male. If you can’t remember anything, order some coffee and tit milk or wait for me to go on break in 5 and fuck me in the ass to help get whatever stick was shoved up it out. Until then sod off and let me work.”
Ben backed away from the counter and his phone rang. His heart raced. Was it Ellen calling him back? No, it was Alex.
“Hey, Alex. What’s up?”
“Hey, Ben. Mind coming over for a bit? Saori has something she wants to tell you.”
“Does she know where Ellen is?”
“No, but come on over. It’s important.”
Ben hung up his phone and headed back to Alex’s. He rang the doorbell and the engaged couple came to the door. Gone were Saori’s shirt and jeans. She now wore a child’s size kimono. The front couldn’t properly close over the implants she didn’t have just 30 minutes ago. The kimono exposed more of her tit flesh than it hid. The bottom of it stopped just below her crotch line.
Alex was no longer the hairy, pudgy man Ben remembered. He was shirtless and his well toned body could have rivaled that of Jeremy’s. The only thing he wore was a pair of boxer-briefs that left the impression he was packing some serious meat. His bulging arms were crossed over his chest.
When she saw Ben, Saori sank to her knees and prostrated herself in front of him. The hem of the kimono rode up, exposing her pantie-less ass. “I’m so terribly sorry for how poor I treated you after how much honor you blessed on my master at your party.”
“Hey, Ben. I’m sorry, too, about how my bimbo treated you. That was a fucking awesome party. I told her no matter how geeky my friends are she’s to treat them with respect.”
“Alex? What happened?”
“Dude? You mean you don’t remember the party either? All I remember was a great time and occasionally waking up with that killer wife of yours riding my johnson every now and then. I was so hot from it that when I woke up, I took my little bimbo here and fucked her right good. Then she told me what she did to you and I just had to have her apologize.”
“Do you know where Ellen went?”
“Nah, sorry, LD. I don’t. You better keep that cash flowing though or she’s gonna dump you for a better cock or someone with the green. You’ll never be able to replace a hot piece of ass like that, especially with your little dick and balding head.”
Still in her crouched position, Saori said, “Master, do I blow him now?”
“Nah, you’re talents would be wasted on him.”
Saori stood up. The act of bowing to Ben had caused the arms of the kimono to slip down and her chest was now exposed. Alex licked his lips and started fondling his fiance. Without so much as a goodbye, he closed the door in Ben’s face.
Without any other leads or ideas, Ben headed home. He had been so cocksure that he could keep his dick out of that coed turned slut, but not only had he failed to not fuck her four times in four days, he’d fucked her six. Through the fog of alcohol from the previous night, he could remember taking her and his wife alternatively three times each.
He didn’t know what good it would do to find his wife, who he really should have been looking for was that man, but when the only thing Ben could remember about him was that he was male, it became an impossible task.
Ben wasn’t entirely surprised to come home to the sound of sex. Ellen’s skirt, if it was long enough to be called that, laid on top of a pair of sneakers. Soon after that was a light tan cardigan and the matching tan bra-shirt that Ellen would have worn underneath it. A little ways after that was a pair of large baggy jeans, an equally large T-shirt, and a pair of boxers.
Stepping into the living room, Ben found Ellen being fucked in the ass by the guy from the club. She was completely unrecognizable as the introverted shy girl he’d met and married in college twenty years ago.
First was the fact that she couldn’t have been more than twenty. The vibrancy of youth radiated under her heavily made up face. Her soft, kind eyes now had a hard predator’s look in them, as if ever man she saw was prey for her sexual appetite. Her hair, which she’d never done more than get cut, was bleached a bright blond and her roots were coming in.
The only time she’d ever worn more than sneakers was at their wedding, and even then she’d only warn one inch heels. Now her feet were encased in clear soled platform shoes with at least a seven inch heel. Her once formless legs were still in knee high stockings with a crisscrossing diamond pattern. They were toned and shaped as if she’d spent hours at the gym or dancing in clubs.
Her once blemish-free creamy white skin was now a deep tan and covered in provocative tattoos and piercings. Her natural beauty had been replaced by a surgeon’s touch. Her lips, nose, and chin weren’t the original one’s he’d fallen in love with. And her breasts. The monstrous things that shook on her chest as the black man’s rod smoothly plunged in and out of her ass left no doubt in their artificiality.
As Ben watched the scene in horror, someone clasped him on the back. “Damn, you did one fucking bang up job on that slut wife of yours.”
Looking next to him, Ben saw a man he didn’t recognize at first. Then, that fate-less day in the coffeehouse came back to him. “Please! You’ve proven your point! Change us back.”
“Ben. It was a bet, there’s no going back. I’m just impressed you lost so miserably. I haven’t seen someone do so poorly in ages.”
“I beg you!”
The man ignored Ben. “You even got your friends caught in it. Did you notice that the guys who fucked the coed first wound up like you, small dicked nerds? You friends who fucked your wife fist came out like you used to be, well with the loose moral exception and the fact I wouldn’t really call them your friends anymore, more like jocks that use you to fuck your wife.”
“It’s not too late.”
“But it is, Ben. The four days are officially up...” The guy looked at his watch. “Now!”
“I can’t live like this.”
“But you can and you will, Ben. In fact, as a consolation prize on failing so miserably, I’ll let you be successful enough that you’ll keep just ahead of your debt that Ellen there will pile up in surgery and shopping. Until you die of old age, or she dies of an OD. Enjoy.”
The man walked away, but he might as well have disappeared, taking away Ben’s memories of the bet and his old life. All Ben remembered was this reality. This was all he knew.
Picking up the video camera off the counter, he started recording and walked around the fucking couple.
“Fuck, little dick, at least knock before you come in. Ah shit. Put that fucking camera away.”
Ben ignored her and zoomed in on the large dick stretching her back door.
“Sorry about this, the fucking perv loves to film.”
“Not a problem,” her partner said, then filled her with his load. He pulled out of her and she licked him clean.
Smacking his ass, Ellen said, “Thanks for the fuck. Tell your friends.”
“Anytime, bitch.” The black man left the married couple alone.
Ben set the video camera down but didn’t stop recording. He got up and handed Ellen the box containing her anniversary present.
“The fuck’s this?”
“Happy one year wedding anniversary!”
“You’re such a girl.”
“I was hoping that maybe we could spend a romantic night together or something.”
Ellen opened the box and looked at the necklace. She tossed it aside without comment. “I’ll tell you what. For our anniversary, you can clear the fuck out tonight. I want to have an orgy here. Oh and for your present, you can clean my ass out.”
Elated that she was allowing him to touch her for free, Ben dove in. He glanced at the camera and smiled. Rodger would definitely trade him some good stuff for this video. Life was good.
0 notes
Text
The Coffeehouse Quintet — Book 1:Don’t Be So Serious
The bustling coffeehouse was almost full and Tracey couldn’t believe her luck with her seat. It was her favorite one, the one with two big plush chairs and an unobstructed view outside. Nothing made coffee taste better than to be comfortable and people watching. The beautiful spring day enhanced her high spirits and the number of passersby.
Most people were breaking out their shorts and T-shirts for the first warm day of the year. Tracey herself was was wearing a light blouse and a black knee length skirt, her unshaven legs hidden by stalkings. Since she didn’t have a man in her life, Tracey was usually pretty lax about keeping them smooth (much to her daughter’s chagrin).
April was the light in Tracey’s life. Of course, when she’d first gotten pregnant at 18, she’d thought her life was over, but after having April everything changed. The once carefree Tracey got serious and worked her way from being an at-best C student to becoming a magna cum-laude university graduate. While all the other girls were partying, Tracey was at home studying and raising April.
Now that April herself was 18, Tracey was earning close to 6 figures a year, well more than enough to make sure that her daughter went to the best private school in the area. Tracey was terrified that April would repeat some of the same mistakes she herself had made. Tracey was thrilled that April was in her life, but she didn’t wish that hardship on her daughter.
Tracey checked the clock on her phone. She still had half an hour left on her lunch break. A young couple crossed the street in front of her. They looked so happy. Tracey wasn’t jealous though, she had April and that’s all she needed. After leaving her immature boyfriend who had impregnated her, she’d never felt the need for that type of intimacy.
“Mind if I sit next to you?” a male voice said to her.
Tracey looked up at the nondescript man standing next to her. He wasn’t tall, but he wasn’t short. He wasn’t fat, nor was he really skinny. He wasn’t ugly, but neither was her really remarkably good looking. Tracey had the feeling that if she were to look away for more than a second she’d be completely forget what he looked like.
Before answering his question, she looked around the coffee shop. It wasn’t crowded enough that he couldn’t find a table of his own, but any other table he sat at wouldn’t have had a decent view outside. Moving her purse out of the other chair, she said, “Not at all. Go ahead.”
He plopped down next to her. “Thanks.”
Tracey dropped her phone in her purse and stared at the people wondering around outside. Maybe tomorrow she’d buy a sandwich and go to the park. She loved spring, which is why she’d named her daughter April.
“Nice weather, huh?” the man asked her.
Not really wanting to get into a conversation, Tracey nodded and gave a polite “yeah”.
“Man, if I were 18 again, I’d definitely be skipping school today. Go hang out at the beach or something, anything other than slaving away for the Man.” He gave a nervous laugh.
Tracey looked at him harder. She’d done exactly that most of her high school days until she got pregnant, but then again, a lot of people did. She ignored his friendly comment, though, and resumed looking out the window.
“I wish I could turn back time, see if everything would turn out differently if I hadn’t become so serious. Don’t you, Tracey?”
She whipped her head towards him. How did he know her name? Did she know him?
He continued on. “Maybe I would have wound up making it with the band or maybe I’d be some carefree button masher somewhere living paycheck to paycheck.”
Unable to place the man, Tracey asked, “Do I know you?”
“No, Tracey, you don’t.”
“Then how do you know my name?”
He took a sip of his coffee and set it down. He ignored her question. “Things turned out the way they did. I am who I am and you are who you are. For what it’s worth, you did a bang up job raising April. If I’d just known the 18 year old you, I never would have guessed.”
“How do you know all of this?” Tracey asked in a louder voice than she should have. A guy across the room reading a newspaper shot her a dirty look.
“Back then, I’d have put money on you winding up working as some mom and daughter porn star or stripper tag team.”
Tracey stood up to leave. “I don’t have to put up with this.”
“Sit down.”
Despite herself, Tracey sat back down. Adrenaline pumped through her. “What are you doing to me?” There was another glare from the newspaper man.
“I want to see what would have happened if you weren’t so serious after April was born. What if you hadn’t changed at all, or what if you’d gotten even worse?”
Tracey calmed herself. She made sure she answered in an even tone. “No one can know those things. Like you said, ‘I am who I am.’”
For the fist time since he’d started talking to her, she looked at him. If she’d been asked to describe him now, she’d only need one word: terror. He frightened Tracey to her core. “I can find out,” he said. He turned back to the window.
The calm Tracey had forced on herself was gone. Sweat beaded her brow and her heart raced. No, he can’t. People can’t do things like that.
“Yes, Tracey, I can.”
The two sat in silence. Tracey grasped the sides of her chair. She desperately wanted to shove it out from under her and flee the shop.
“Tracey, choose someone.” The man gestured out into the busy street.
“Ch...choose?”
“Choose someone.”
A young girl, probably some intern at one of the law firms, was waiting at the light to cross. Tracey lifted a shaky finger and pointed at the girl.
The man held out his hand and crooked his index finger in a “come here” motion. The girl did an about face from the light and walked over to the coffee shop. She stopped in front of Tracey and the mysterious man. She looked directly at them. Then she looked at her reflection in the glass.
Tracey and the girl watched as the girl morphed from law office intern into a whore. Her office attire shrank and twisted it’s way into fishnet stockings and a tight white and blue dress. It only qualified as a dress as the top and bottom parts were connected together by two thin strips of fabric. A large hole in the middle exposed the girl’s pierced belly button, and her sides were exposed as well. That, added in with the deep cut neck line, and there was barely any material to cover up her massive chest.
The newly created streetwalker dropped her cigarette and stuffed it out with her 8 inch platform shoes. She fluffed out her dyed hair and turned to go. That’s when she changed again. She shrank down in size until she had turned into a 60 year old homeless woman.
She wiped her dirty face with her hand, which only smeared more grime down her cheek. She noticed Tracey staring at her through the glass. She gave Tracey a toothless grin and held up a paper cup. She jingled it as if to say, “Give me some money.”
The old woman morphed back into the hooker then back into the original girl. There was still something different about her though, and it wasn’t just the fact that Tracey could see her black bra through her thin white shirt. The girl’s aura had changed.
“She’s blowing all the partners at the firm. They pass her around like an Applebee’s appetizer. She’s hoping that it will help her land a paralegal position there, but at best she’ll wind up a coke addicted secretary.”
Tracey had to leave. She had to, but she couldn’t. Her body wouldn’t listen to her.
“You know, Tracey. I like to play games. Sure, I could just walk up to you and turn you into some dumb slut, but where’s the fun in that? When I first got my ability, that’s all I was about. Slut, slut, slut.
But I’ve evolved since then. I’ve realized, it’s more fun to watch someone fight the fate I’m trying to bestow on them. You know, give them some sort of incentive and just watch them. Am I making any sense?”
Tracey wasn’t even really listening anymore. She’d lost the capacity to. “Please, let me go.”
Her turned his face of terror towards her again and put his hand on her leg. “I will.”
Relief shot through Tracey. “Thank you.”
“Oh, don’t thank me yet. The game hasn’t started yet.”
“I don’t want to play.”
“Oh come now, sure you do. Here, look at this.”
All of a sudden, Tracey was thirty years in to the future. A little girl she knew to be her granddaughter was screaming and throwing things across the room. A haggard looking April viciously yelled at the little girl and went back to cussing her ex over the phone. There was a pounding at the door. Tracey knew it was some sort of collection agency coming to take something else away.
Just as suddenly, Tracey was back in the present. “That’s your daughter’s current future,” the man said.
Once again, Tracey found herself thirty years in the future. This time, she was at her granddaughter’s eleventh birthday. April, all grown up, was standing behind her daughter clapping her hands. April’s loving husband sang with them. Her daughter had married a wonderful man. She was happy and successful. Tracey’s heart leaped with joy.
The man brought Tracey back again. “That’s the future I’ll give her if you win.”
“What if I lose?”
“Oh, now Tracey, don’t you ruin the fun. That’s something you’ll have to discover as we go along. Now, are you ready to hear the rules?”
No, she wasn’t. After seeing what he had done to that poor girl on the street, Tracey knew she didn’t want to play. Even the bleak future that she’d seen, that wasn’t nearly as bad as what she knew this man was capable of. In fact, now that she’d seen a glimpse of the future, maybe she could stave it off some how. Maybe she could...
“Hello? Tracey?” The man was waving his hand in front of her zoned out face. “You’re playing no matter what. I’d think you’d like to at least know the rules so you have some chance of winning.”
“Fine!” she screamed. More people than just the guy reading the newspaper shot her evil glares. “Fine. Tell me the rules.”
“That’s the spirit! They’re really simple. All you have to do is not leave the sight of your daughter once you get home. If you can make it to midnight mentally intact as you are now, I’ll reverse any changes that occur to you and give you the shiny happy future.
However, every time you leave her sight, whether you go somewhere else or she does, the you in your past will have been slightly less serious and the present will change to reflect that. Understand?”
Tracey thought she got it. It was simple enough, all she had to do was to stay in the same room as her daughter. They did that practically every night as it was anyway. “Wait, what if we fall asleep before midnight? I mean we’re usually in bed by 10.”
The guy spread his hands in the ���I’ve got nothing up my sleeves” gesture. “If you fall asleep in the same room, I’ll give you that.”
Tracey felt good. She could do this. It wasn’t like he’d asked her to do something truly hard. As she thought about it, the better she felt. She was going to have a guarantee that he baby girl was going to have a happy future.
Just then, Tracey’s phone rang. It was Tom Allen, one of her underlings.
The guy smiled at her. “Take the call. Oh, and good luck tonight.” He got up and walked away. He looked at a college aged girl in a pullover who was studying near by, then went and sat with the guy reading the newspaper.
Finally answering her phone, Tracey stood up and headed out the door. Tom needed her back early for a sudden conference call from the Tokyo branch. As she walked back to her office, she tried to remember the strange man that had sat with her at the coffee shop. She couldn’t remember what he looked like at all. She couldn’t even remember if he was black or white. The only thing she could remember about him was terror.
* * *
Tracey pulled her Mercedes into the garage next to her daughter’s Audi and hit the button to close the garage door. The rattling of the shutter announced to her Saint Bernard, Max, that she was home. As soon as she walked through the door, he jumped up and showered her with kisses.
“Down, boy,” Tracey laughed. “Go find April!” Max turned and ran off towards the living room.
Hanging her keys on the hook by the entrance, Tracey flipped through the mail that April had left for her in the mail slot below the keys. There was a bill from Saks Fifth for a suit she’d bought the other week and a letter from her alumni group. Thanks to her daughter, Tracey hadn’t seen a piece of junk mail in years, she’d almost forgotten that it existed.
Heading through the breakfast nook and into the pristine white kitchen, Tracey picked up the watering can off the marble counter top, and filled it up in the kitchen sink. She watered the the plants on the kitchen windowsill, then went back into the breakfast nook and watered the flowers sitting in the middle of the table. A couple of leaves had started to brown and Tracey delicately pulled them off.
She glanced at Max’s water dish to make sure he still had some. There was a couple of hairs floating on the surface, so Tracey took it into the kitchen with her and dumped it out. She rinsed the dish in tap water a couple of times, then opened her refrigerator and got out the pitcher of filtered water. She filled Max’s dish and returned it to its spot, then put everything else away.
Her chores finished, Tracey headed into the living room, where she found her daughter, April, doing her homework. She was sitting on the floor and using the coffee table as a desk. Max was laying next to her with his head in her lap. The 50″ plasma screen TV was off as usual. Tracey wasn’t even sure why she had bought it. The two of them so rarely used it.
April was still in her school uniform, her legs were folded up inside of the long skirt. She had undone the buttons on her cuffs and rolled up the sleeves some. Her brown hair was tied up behind her head with a black scrunchy. She looked so studious.
As if she sensed Tracey’s presence, April greeted her mother without looking up. “How was you day, mom?”
“Not bad, lunch was a little weird.”
April put her pencil down and looked up. “Oh?”
“Yeah, the Asia branch had a horrible mishap and thousands of orders got mixed up. They’re usually the best branch. I don’t know what happened.” Tracey had a weird feeling that that wasn’t what was so troublesome about lunch.
“I’m surprised you made it home on time.”
“Well, I left my other projects half finished. I was just so tired from the whole Asia deal that once we got everything sorted, I just headed home. I’ll go in early tomorrow to finish the other stuff up.”
“You left something unfinished?”
Maybe that’s what was eating at her. Tracey hated the thought of tasks left being half done. “Well, I just wanted to get home to my baby.”
“Aww, thanks mom.”
“I wasn’t talking about you, I was talking about Max.” The two women laughed at Tracey’s joke. “How was your day?”
April pulled out several pieces of paper and handed them to her mom. “Another biology test, another 100.”
“That’s my girl!” Tracey handed the test back. “What are you working on now?”
“I’ve got a calculus test in two weeks and I’m studying up on it.”
“Good luck. Let me know if you need any help. Is there anything in particular you want for dinner?”
“Whatever you feel like making is fine with me.”
“Okay, I’ll think of something. I’m going to go change.” With that, Tracey turned and headed down the hall towards he bedroom. As she passed around the corner, out of April’s sight, a pang ran through her head. She stopped and rubbed her temples. As soon as it had come, it disappeared.
Giving it no thought, Tracey went into her room. She sat on the corner of her neatly made bed and put her head in her hands. She’d really screwed up today. How could she have sent the Europe orders out to the Asia branch? They’re on opposite sides of the world.
She plopped back on to the bed. She felt like she should care that she was getting wrinkles in her suit jacket, but put it out of her mind. She had bigger things to worry about. She felt like she was in over her head at work. After finally getting everything straightened out with her mix up, her coworker Tom had chewed her out for screwing up again. She probably should have stayed late to make up for everything, but she felt too bad to even be there and had run home with her tail between her legs.
Tracey sat up and took her jacket off. She tossed it on the floor, then kicked off her one inch pumps. She left them where they laid, even though they were the only things on the floor and her closet was a foot away. She just couldn’t be bothered.
Soon after, her shirt, bra, skirt, and pantyhose joined them on the floor. Tracey stood in her closet wearing only her panties. She looked through the designer dresses and suits for something to put on, but couldn’t find anything with a bit of flair.
She tossed a couple of options out on to her bed but turned them down for various reasons. One was just too drab, another too formal for house wear, and another because it was just too stuffy looking. Leaving them where they lay, she attacked her drawers next.
Shirts, rejected one after another, went flying out of the drawers. Tracey finally settled on a white T-shirt with a pink heart on it. The word “mom” was written inside of it. The shirt had been a mothers day present from April years ago. Even at the time, it had been a bit small, but after several washings, it had shrunk to the point that Tracey couldn’t wear it anymore.
She couldn’t reason out why she wouldn’t have worn it now that it had become the perfect tightness, fitting to her decent sized breasts well enough that her dark areolae could be made out through the thin fabric. Tracey put on a pair of black slacks to complete her outfit.
Looking over the mess she’d made of her room, Tracey sighed. In a matter of seconds, it had gone from tidy to disheveled. The neatly made bed looked juxtaposed to the blizzard of clothes that had piled up around it. She should have cleaned it up, but just couldn’t be bothered.
In her flurry, she’d knocked over her framed diploma with one of her shirts. She tossed the shirt on to the floor, then set the frame back up. She was so proud of it. Again she read the “Sum magna cum-laude.” She couldn’t believe she had pulled it off. It felt more like a fluke than anything that she could have graduated with that high of a GPA. The fact she’d made sure to enroll in the easiest classes probably helped.
Once again, Tracey found herself thinking back to lunch. She shook her head about how stupid of a mistake she had made, but felt that something else was bothering her. Something had happened at the coffee shop, but what was it? Why had she suddenly gotten the feeling that she should check on April?
Heading back to the living room, Tracey passed by April’s room. The door was open and she could see inside. It was like a mirror image of Tracey’s redecorated room; clothes and papers were strewn haphazardly around the room. Her school uniform was balled up by the bed. Tracey sighed. On numerous occasions she’d tried to get April to clean up, but when April had the comeback, “It’s no worse than yours,” Tracey didn’t have the ground to fight on.
April was still at the table studying when Tracey came back into the living room. She had apparently gotten up to change as she was now wearing some soccer shorts and a tank top.
“Decide to get a little more comfortable?” Tracey asked.
“What are you...? Oh, yeah. Mom I love you, but I wish you’d sent me to a public school. I can’t stand that uniform.”
“What? I thought you liked it.”
“As if. Oh, hey. Since you’re here, would you mind helping me with this calculus homework. It’s not making any sense to me.”
Tracey gulped. She hated when April asked for help with homework. Tracey had done it before, but that was long ago and she always had some help along the way. She sat down next to her daughter and looked at the biology test sitting on the table. 93. April was already past Tracey’s ability.
“What seems to be the trouble?”
April pointed at the textbook. “It’s this limit problem.”
Tracey looked at it for what she felt was an appropriate amount of time. “42?”
April rolled her eyes. “It’s going to come out as an equation.”
“Oh. I don’t know, dear. Math wasn’t ever really my thing.”
“It’s OK, mom. I’ll ask one of the geeks tomorrow.”
Tracey stood up. She noticed the TV was on, but the sound was muted. It was on one of the 24 hour news networks. Occasionally, April would look up and read the scrolling captions. Tracey thought about sitting on the couch when her golden retriever, Max, started barking.
“Did you let him out?”
“No.”
“Oh, April, I asked you to let him out if you get home first.”
“Sorry, mom. It’s just I’ve got all this stuff to do because you sent me to that school.”
Tracey put her hand on her daughter’s shoulders. “No, I’m sorry. I just thought if you went there you’d have a better chance to go to a good college. I’ll go let him out.”
She headed back to the sliding glass door and let Max out. He bolted out and took off running towards the woods behind the house. “Max!” Tracey yelled and took off after him. It was no use as he was long gone, running after some squirrel.
Treading along after him on the freshly mowed grass, Tracey paused as a migraine washed over her. After it past, she had a feeling that she should be near April. Shaking the feeling and migraine off, she followed Max into the woods.
When she finally caught up to her boarder collie, he was sitting beneath a tree, barking up at a cat. A flash of anger hit Tracey. “Get over here, you stupid mutt!” she yelled.
Max ducked his head and slunk over next to Tracey. She grabbed him by the collar and lead him back through the gate. She closed it behind her and then let go of Max’s collar. He ran over the overgrown grass and started digging up one of the dead rose bushes. Tracey would have cared if she’d bothered to keep them up.
After doing his business, Max went over and sat by the back door. Tracey opened it up and he ran inside. Tracey slammed the door and walked into the living room.
“How many times have I told you to close the damn gate?”
April was watching some show on E! about some pop star Tracey hadn’t heard of. Her feet were propped up on the coffee table. They were resting on her half-hearted attempt to actually do her homework for a change. She was idly sipping on a cola.
“Well, if you actually bought me a car, then I wouldn’t have to walk home and I wouldn’t forget to close the stupid gate.” Tracey couldn’t see her daughter’s face, but she could hear the sneer in her tone.
“I told you, I can’t afford two cars on my salary. If you want a car, you get a job.” Tracey walked around to where her daughter was sitting. She smacked her feet. “And how many times do I have to tell you not to put your feet on the table?”
April groaned and put her feet down. Tracey looked at the papers they’d been resting on. “What’s this?” she asked and picked up her daughter’s biology test.
“It’s my bio test, duh.”
“An 81? You told me you studied for it.”
“I did study for it.”
Tracey sat down next to her daughter. “April, honey, would you like me to get you a tutor?”
“If you’re gonna waste money on something, get me a car.”
Not having a reply April hadn’t heard 1,000 times over, Tracey just sat back and started to watch the show with her daughter. She felt right, like she was important that she not leave April’s side. At first, it was that feeling that kept her there, then it was because she was wrapped up in the cute pop star’s rough life.
After awhile, Tracey started to get thirsty. “I’m going to get a Diet Coke,” she said and stood up. “Can I get you anything? Want me to microwave you something for dinner?”
“No.”
“No?”
April tsked. “No, thank you.”
Tracey turned to walk into the kitchen. Something nagged at her though. Something told her not to leave April. Putting the feeling aside, she headed into the kitchen.
Like almost every other room in the small house, it was a disaster. Pizza boxes and Chinese take-out cartons littered the counter tops. There was a long dead plant on the windowsill behind the sink and another on the dilapidated card table that April referred to as “the breakfast nook”. Even if the table could support everyday use, it would have been hard to find a place to sit down at with all of the junk mail and overdue notices and bills that were piled on top of it.
Tracey blamed her headache on the thought of the ever amassing debt she and April were piling up. It wasn’t going to get any better. She was pretty sure Mr. Allen was going to fire her after her massive fuck up today. How could she have sent those orders out to the wrong branches? She could picture his response, “What, is sticking fucking mailing labels on correctly too much for a simple community college grad?” Tracey had ducked out and run home right at 5:00, before Mr. Allen noticed.
She was sure she’d find another job somewhere, but without a recommendation from Mr. Allen, there was little chance the pay would be good enough to handle all her debt. Maybe she shouldn’t have gone to college.
Opening the fridge, she navigated her way around the leftover take-out and condiments and grabbed a can of soda. She pulled out a bottle of rum and looked for a glass to mix her drink in, but couldn’t find anything. She looked through the pile of dirty dishes in the sink and found all the glasses in there. She’d have to buy some more glasses soon.
Taking one of the cleaner looking glasses, she rinsed it with water and filed a third of it with rum then the rest with the cola. The alcohol washed down her worries. She poured herself a second glass, this time half and half.
A clicking noise and then the smell of smoke came into the kitchen from the living room. The combined effects of the alcohol and the three inch heels she was wearing made Tracey stumble around the corner. April was sitting with her feet up on the coffee table again. Her backpack laid on the floor, its contents untouched. Mary, their poodle, had her head in April’s lap. The thing that pissed Tracey off the most was her daughter was smoking.
“Are you fucking smoking?”
April exhaled a plume. “Yeah? What of it?”
“Don’t you dare smoke in my house.”
“Like you’re one to talk.”
Tracey looked where April was pointing. She had her own cigarette lit between her fingers. As she took a puff, it all came back to her. Tracey had desperately tried quitting when she first got pregnant, but like most things in life, Tracey lacked the will power to stick with it. April stole her first cigarette from Tracey’s purse when she was 12. By 14 Tracey had given up punishing April when she caught her, and by 16 she was buying packs for her. “We’ve got to quit this shit” was like an inside joke mantra for them.
Joining her daughter on the couch, Tracey threw her feet up on the coffee table next to April’s. Mary gave her an annoyed look for causing the balance on the couch to change and hopped down onto the floor. She wandered over to a relatively clean area and laid down.
“Whatcha drinking?”
“Rum and coke. Want some?”
April stuck out her tongue. “Bleh. Rum makes me sick ever since Jason Witmore’s kegger.”
“Suit yourself.” Tracey was happy that she’d stop being so hung up on things. Ever since she’d relaxed and stopped trying to force social laws onto her daughter, their relationship was much more open and friendly.
“What’s with the pants, anyway, mom? Expecting company?”
“You know, I don’t know why I put these on. Did you get anything new at the mall today?”
April rolled her eyes. “Just because you fit my clothes doesn’t mean I want you wearing them.”
“Aw come one, the least I can get for letting you ditch school and go shopping is to wear them from time to time.”
“OK, OK. I gotta go to the bathroom. They’re in my room. I’ll met you in there.”
The two got up off the couch and went down the hall. April disappeared into the toilet and Tracey went into her daughter’s room. Another pain hit her in the head. Tracey blamed it on the smell of pot and tobacco that lingered in April’s room. Picking up April’s bong, Tracey looked in the bedside table for her daughter’s stash. She was out.
Putting it back down, Tracey stood up and slid out of the tacky pants she’d put on. As she was rummaging around, looking for April’s new buys, her cellphone went off. Her heart plummeted. It had to be that fuck Mr.Allen. He was probably texting to bitch about her being a stupid secretary that he only kept around because she’d blow him on occasion. That’s why she purposely mailed the Europe orders to Asia. Dumb prick, that’ll show him.
She flipped open her phone. It wasn’t from her boss, it was from her daughter. She must have sent it to the wrong person, why would she text her when they were home together? Out of curiosity, Tracey opened up the text. She laughed at what she saw. Her daughter had taken a picture of her pierced clit and mailed it out.
Just then, her daughter came into the room followed by their Pekingese, Maggie. Tracey smiled. “Loved your sext.”
April blushed. “Shit, I sent that to you?”
“Ha! Yeah. When’d you get you clit pierced?”
“Tracey, how drunk are you? You took me when you got yours done for the second time.”
Struggling to recall, Tracey had a vague memory of a drunken night at the tattoo parlor on April’s 18th birthday. The two were high and drunk and decided to get matching tramp stamps. Tracey had bet the little she’d saved up for April’s college fund that April couldn’t stand to get her clit pierced. April said she’d do it only if Tracey got a second. Tracey had gotten her first to celebrate April’s birth.
Naturally, April blew through the money in less than 24 hours. Tracey didn’t mind, like mother like daughter, neither of them would be confused with a college prospect. Tracey was more amazed that she had been able to save up that much in the first place.
“So, what’d you get?” Tracey asked.
“Some great new club wear. Here try this on.” April tossed a green shirt over to Tracey. She caught it and looked at it. It was basically a bib. It tied around the neck and waist so that the back was completely exposed. That meant she couldn’t wear a bra and anyone looking would be able to see her pierced nipples. Tracey love the shirt instantly.
Taking off her old “mom” shirt that April had bought her for a practical joke (Tracey demanded that April call her by her name. “’Mom’s are old people I’m still young,” she always said). Standing in only her panties, April looked at her.
“Nice granny panties,” she laughed.
Tracey looked down at the black silk undies. Shrugging, she slid them off and threw them out into the hall way. Rifling through April’s bags, she found a g-string and slid it on. Then, Tracey heft her breasts in her hands.
“You, know, I’ve been thinking about getting the girls done.”
“With what money?’
“I don’t know, what money do we have for anything?” Tracey said and put the green shirt on. She completed it with a pleated black skirt that stopped at mid-thigh. If she were actually going to go out, she’d have completed it with a loose knight fishnet stocking and some seven inch platform heels. But since it was just for around the house, she slipped into some lime green four inch stilettos.
April had gone for the naughty private school girl look with a checked skirt and a button down shirt that she’d tied together under her tits. She completed her outfit with a pair of five inch heels that looked like someone had glued the soles of club heels onto the bottom some sneakers. Tracey was jealous, they were so cute.
“Wow, those are great!” Tracey said.
April did a little twirl. “Aren’t they, though?”
Tracey picked up the bong again. “Hey, I wanna smoke some, but you’re out.”
“Why don’t you smoke some of yours?”
“It’s all the way out in the car. I was doing a little baking before work today.”
“Well, you better go get it, Tracey. That’s all the shit we got.”
“It’s not going to last long. Call Doug and have him bring us some more.” Tracey left the room and headed towards the garage. Another headache came over her. She figured it was because she hadn’t smoked a bowl since that morning. Something else inside her screamed that she was supposed to stay with April, to never leave her side.
Searching through her knock-off purse, she pulled out her key to her Geo Metro. It sat parked outside the house in the little car lot. The paint was sun faded and chipping all over the place. It was loud and and half of the time it wouldn’t start, but a car was a car.
She opened the door and pulled her baggy out of the glove box. There was enough left for a few smokes, but they were definitely going to run out tonight, unless Doug came through. Then again, he always came through for them.
Heading back inside, Trixie, her little Pomeranian, came up and yapped at her. “Aww, Trixie babe! Give Tracey some kisses.” Tracey bent down and scooped the fur-ball up. Trixie licked her face and then Tracey nestled her dog in the crook of her arms.
When she got back into the living room, April was spread out on the couch, fucking herself with a dildo while watching porn on the giant TV. What caught Tracey’s attention though was April was mauling a massively fake tit.
“Whoa, when’d you get those things done?”
“Gnnnh, dammit Tracey, I was so close. Next time you ask a stupid question like that, I’m going to make you lick me off. Don’t you remember, we went and got them done a year ago. There was the whole ordeal about the doctor refusing to put tits this big into a 17 year old, then you fucked him and convinced him otherwise. You had your implants redone the same day, too.”
Tracey looked down. She couldn’t see her feet. She put Trixie down and untied her shirt. Giant plastic melons stood proudly off her chest. She’d first gotten implants when April was born. She’d had a whirlwind of surgeries to get her body back in shape after passing a baby through her. Tits, ass, tummy. She’d asked the doctor if there was anything to make her cunt tighter, but he had just frowned at her.
Time and drugs had taken their toll on the party girl’s body and not caring about all the bills she was racking up decided to get everything touched up. Of course she’d taken April along with her. Tracey was actually a bit disappointed April had gotten slightly smaller implants that she had. She was planning on telling people they were twins.
Not bothering to put her top back on, Tracey sat down on the couch. April was still working the dildo in and out of her cunt. “Did you call Doug?”
“God damn it, Tracey! What did I just say?”
“Fine, if it will get you to talk to me and to smoke a bowl with me, get that fucking fake cock out of your whorish snatch.”
April obeyed her mother and dumped the dildo on the ground. Tracey dove in between her daughters legs and started licking. Her tongue darted in and out, knowing exactly where to hit after years of experience. April grabbed Tracey’s head and shoved her face further into her dripping hole. She cried out and went limp.
“You’re so fucking good at that. I wish that was something I had inherited from you.”
“Me, too.”
April playfully slapped Tracey. “Hey!”
“So are you ready to smoke a bowl?”
“Yeah.”
“Good, cause I had the worst day at work today.” Tracey lit the bowl and greened it. She held the lighter over just half of the bowl, making sure there would be fresh green leaf left for April.
Tracey held the smoke in for a long time then let it bellow out of her lungs. She passed the pipe to April. “Man, did I have a shitty day today.”
Her daughter exhaled. “Yeah?”
Taking the pipe back, Tracey took a hit. “Yeah. That creep Tom Anderson or Allen or whatever came in to the coffee shop at lunch. Fucker comes in just to ogle me.” The bowl came back, she took another hit and passed it. “He ordered something different today. I think he did it just to fuck with me. I made him the usual shit that he drinks and he got all pissy because he wanted this new-fangled thing.
When I went to take it back, I accidental spilled it on all these papers he had set out. He got even more pissed and started saying he wanted to talk to the manager.”
April emptied the cashed bowl into an ash tray and set it on the table. She pulled on one of her nipple rings and watched the starlet on TV being fucked. “That’s not good.”
“No joke. She said if another customer complained she’d have to fire me.”
“Dammit, Tracey, I thought you were in line for a raise.”
“I know. How can you be one step from axe-dome and the same time be one step away from more cash. Anyway, I begged him not to and said I’d do anything if he wouldn’t. Do you know what he said?”
“No.”
“He said we’d be cool if I gave him a bj.”
April looked away from the porn. “Eww. So what’d you do?”
“Well, what choice did I have? I took him into the bathroom and blew him. But that’s not even the worse part.”
“What happened?”
“I thought Tom had locked the door, but he didn’t and some random dude walked in. He got all huffy about prostitution this and prostitution that, that I had no choice but to blow him, too.”
“Ha! You should have charged him for the wonderful experience that is your mouth. How’d you ever get a guy to knock you up? I’m surprised he didn’t want to just go to town on your face.”
Tracey slapped April. “Hey, you only say that cause you don’t have a cock. My cunt’s like velvet.”
“Stretched velvet.”
“No thanks to you!” The two girls burst into laughter.
The doorbell rang. Tracey looked at the clock. It was 11:55. That meant it was Doug coming by with some more dope. Something inside Tracey screamed for her to make him wait five more minutes. The empty pot bag on the table convinced her otherwise.
Grabbing a discarded negligee, Tracey slipped it on. She plodded through the kitchen in her seven inch platform heels. Yet another migraine came over her. She rubbed her temples and continued onto the door.
She opened it up and, as expected, Doug was on the other side. Unexpectedly, one of Tracey’s best customers, Tom Allen, was behind Doug.
“Hey, Dougie, you got the shit?”
He held up a quarter of pot. “Just what you ordered.”
“Sweet. Head on in and April will settle up with you. I’ll be in in a sec.”
Doug took the liberty to grab Tracey’s ass as he passed by. She just giggled.
With Doug out of the way, Tom came up to Tracey and presented her with a bouquet of roses.
“The fuck’s this?” Tracey asked.
“We���re.... I, uhh, put in a request for you tonight.”
“You did? Shit, Tom, I’m off tonight. The service must have fucked your order up.”
Tom looked dejected. “Does that mean nothing tonight?”
“Well, my dealer’s here. I guess it’s cool if you don’t mind a threesome.” Tom took a step forward, but Tracey held up her hand to stop him. “It’ll still cost you though.”
“Of course, of course. But since I’m sharing, do I get a discount?”
“Only if you want me to call your wife.”
Tom laughed.
“No, I’m serious. No discount. It’s my night off.”
Tracey let Tom in and threw his roses on the card table by the door, the bounced off the accumulated garbage and rolled onto the floor. She left them there and headed into the living room. Her client followed her.
Doug was sitting in the arm chair, packing up a bowl for everyone to smoke. The TV was playing a DVD of “The Best of the Darling Sisters”. The Darling sisters was Tracey’s and April’s screen name. On the screen, Tracey was going down on April who was sucking a cock. A second man was wiping his stiff dick on Tracey’s wet snatch. With Doug and Tom here, Tracey felt that that scene would be acted out again tonight.
April popped up from behind the couch. Her large belly was stretched out with the baby inside. Memories of finding out her daughter was pregnant came floating back to Tracey. She’d gotten so pissed when April told her. They had been able to make quite a bit on prego-porn, but Tracey was obsessed with how much surgery it was going to cost to get April’s figure back. While the doctors were in there, Tracey was going to make sure they tied her tubes up.
The pregnant girl put her hands on the back of the sofa. A man Tracey hadn’t seen enter the house stood up and started fucking April from behind. Her giant inorganic orbs shook with each thrust. He reached around and pet her large belly.
Tracey was having trouble placing his face. She felt like she’d seen it somewhere before, but couldn’t quite recall where. Even though she didn’t recognize him, Tracey was filled with terror. She knew being near him would bring nothing good. Tracey turned to run, but smacked into Tom, who was standing behind her. He mistook her actions and started to play with Tracey’s snatch.
Slowly, a fog lifted from her mind. She pushed away from Tom and looked at the appalling debauchery going around her. Drugs, porn, prostitution, and group sex it was all so wonderful. Was she a tattooed, pierced porn star/ escort girl with fake tits. Or was she a successful business woman? Her underling Tom, who was married to a loving wife that her dearly cared for was her best customer. She’d fucked Tom raw many times, always threatening to tell his wife, which got him off even more.
Her beautiful daughter who had such a bright future was a drug addled slut who hadn’t even made it through the ninth grade. Their close relationship was reduced to incestuous porn. Tracey tried to make sense of all her memories in her head. She remembered getting pregnant and becoming studious and serious and graduating at the top of her university class. She also remembered dropping out after getting pregnant and her fall into sex and drugs escalating.
Tracey was terrified. She looked at the man plowing into her pregnant daughter. “What did you do to us?”
He answered with out breaking stride. “Well, looks like I won our little game. You two are pretty much new people.”
“That’s not fair! You never said anything about me forgetting about it all.”
“Well, now that’d be boring if you remembered. You would have just sat on the couch with her until midnight. If you forgot, everything would be more natural.”
“Please! Change us back.”
“Sure thing, Tracey Darling.”
Tracey’s eyes blurred. She felt a voice inside of her screaming; it got quieter and quieter until she couldn’t hear it anymore. “Hey April. This guy paying you?”
“Yeah, Trace. I made him pay up front just like you told me to.”
“Alright then. Doug, Tom, looks like my ‘sister’ is occupied for the time being, think you two boys can handle me by yourselves?”
The two men grinned at each other, wordlessly saying to each other that they’d do their best. As Tracey took the men in both her lower holes, the guy who had been fucking her daughter came over and made her suck his dick clean.
“Tracey, it’s been fun. I hope you enjoy your new life. You should. You’re built and wired for it. Anyway, I’ve got to be moving on.” With that, he vanished from Tracey’s life.
0 notes
Text
The Coffeehouse Quintet — Book 3.0: Mother Knows Best
Lilly sat in her seat and ignored everything around her. She ignored her half-drunk coffee. She ignored background chatter as well as the arguing couple by the windows. She ignored the fake titted slut masturbating in her seat. She even ignored it when some guy with a giant penis started fucking the slut on the table.
The text that she received from her daughter dominated Lilly’s world. You’re too old. You don’t understand. You couldn’t even face the decisions I have to make everyday. I hate you.
Her phone sat like dead weight in her hands. Lilly’s eyes scanned the text over and over, not really reading each individual word, but absorbing them as a whole. She was afraid to focus on a single word as each one would have been a nail in her dying heart.
Casandra and her relationship had never really been a close one, but now that she was 18 it seemed as if she resented even the slightest bit of advice from her mother. She and her husband, Mark, were at a loss as to what to do. They could see their daughter slip away with poor decision after poor decision, but when they actively did something and tried to be an influence on their daughter’s life, like throwing out all her trashy clothes and makeup, they were answered by things like the text message.
Not only handsome and smart, Mark provided a good life for them. If she hadn’t wanted to work, they could have easily afforded for Lilly to stay home. Work was important to them, yet as many times as Casandra had been caught skipping school, it didn’t seem like any of their values had rubbed off on their daughter.
Lilly was still staring at the message when the stranger banged his hand on the table in front of her. In her shock, Lilly dropped her phone. She glared at the man that had drug her out of her reverie.
He wasn’t tall, nor was he particularly short, just average. He had brownish blond hair and nondescript eyes. He wasn’t handsome, nor ugly. He was average. Lilly doubted she could have picked him out of a lineup.
“You know it’s rude to ignore people when they’re talking to you,” he told her.
“I’m sorry, I was just lost...Excuse me, but who are you?” Lilly said as her look of surprise slowly faded to an apologetic one then finally settling on a look of annoyance.
“I’m the man who can help you with your daughter.”
Lilly was distracted by the busty barista as she pulled off her shirt, exposing the largest breasts Lilly had every seen. The girl proceeded to fill all her orders by milking herself into the customer’s glasses. How original she thought.
“Lilly, focus.”
Turning back to her unwanted companion, Lilly furrowed her brow. Had she told him her name? “What do you mean you can help me? Are you a shrink?”
“Not exactly.”
“Then what good are you?”
Now the man furrowed his brow at Lilly. “There’s no need to get snarky.”
“Okay, fine. Then what can you do?”
The man leaned back and grinned. A chill ran down Lilly’s spine. “I can give you control.”
“What do you mean?”
Reaching forward, her companion leaned on the table, took her coffee and drank a sip. “That’s gotten quite cold.”
Lilly leaned forward and put her face in his. “I said, ‘What do you mean?’”
Still holding her cup, the man leaned back and placed both hands on it. Steam started rising out of it and he took another sip. “Much better.”
“You told me earlier it’s rude to ignore people.” Lilly frowned at him. “Tell me, what do you mean.”
“Exactly what I said. Whenever your daughter faces a...monumental decision, one where you’d like influence, you get to make the decision for her.”
“What, you mean like tell her what she should do?”
“Not exactly. More like, you’ll be in the driver’s seat.”
Throwing her hands up in disgust, Lilly snarled, “I don’t understand what you’re saying at all.” Her movement caused her naturally large chest to jiggle and she noticed her companion’s stare.
“Why don’t I show you?” he asked.
Lilly blinked her eyes a couple of time and looked around. Gone were the chesty milk server and her table mate. Gone were the ambient noise and smell of coffee. She sat in a classroom surrounded by teenage kids. In her right hand was a pencil and a small folded piece of paper was in her left. “Where am I?” she asked aloud, breaking the silence in the room. Her voice wasn’t her voice. It was her daughter’s.
The kids around her laughed and the teacher in the front of the room scowled at her. “Cassy, you’re in the middle of your History final. Now please be quiet and work.”
Ducking her head, Lilly looked at the paper on the desk in front of her. Casandra had written “Cassy” on the top in big loopy letters. Lilly hated that her daughter called herself that. Lilly erased the name and rewrote “Casandra” on the test in neat letters.
Turning her attention to the small piece of paper in her other hand, Lilly gasped. It was the answers to the test in front of her. Her daughter was planning on cheating. Lilly had to do something to stop her. The only thing she could think to do was to eat the paper. Crumpling it up, Lilly threw it in her mouth, chewed it, then swallowed it. Blinking again, Lilly looked around the bustling coffee shop.
“What did you think?” The man asked her.
“Was that real?” Even as she asked it, Lilly knew in her soul that it was.
“It was as real as your big ol’ titties.”
Lilly frowned at the man’s vulgarity.
“So, I take it you liked it.”
Liked it? Lilly loved it. Her daughter would turn out just the way she wanted her to, without arguments and without hateful texts. “I couldn’t dream of anything better.”
“Good, well then. Good luck with it.” The man stood up to leave. Lilly put out her hand to stop him, but came a few inches short of actually touching him.
“That’s it? ‘Here’s a power to control your daughter’s decisions. Have a good day’? Really? What’s the catch. What do you want?”
Spreading his hands out in a “nothing up my sleeves” gesture, the man stood in front of her. “Normally, I like to make bets or some such, but you acquiesced so kindly that I ask of nothing in return. Maybe I’ll just leave you with this one warning. The decisions you make for your daughter can affect you, too.”
“What does that mean?”
The man just smiled. Sweat peppered Lilly’s forehead. She was terrified. She didn’t want him to answer the question. Lilly’s racing heartbeat slowed as the man walked away from her and out of the coffeehouse.
Lilly sat in her chair for awhile. She wondered what he meant. She wondered how long she’d have her power. She wondered if it was wise to have accepted it.
Putting her worries behind her, Lilly wiped her table clean for the next person and took her empty cup to the counter. Without looking up from milking her left breast into a waiting customer’s cup, the massively endowed barista thanked Lilly for her patronage.
* * *
Returning to her office, Lilly sneered at Amber, the front receptionist. “Amber, how many times do you have to be told? This is a place of business, not a strip club.”
Surprised by the fact Lilly had even talked to her, the receptionist made a bumbling effort to pull her low cut top over her ample chest which rivaled Lilly’s own. Where Lilly’s was natural, however, Amber’s had the look of a surgeon’s touch. “I’m sorry, Ms Smith.”
Without replying, Lilly walked past the person of her contempt, headed to her cubicle and threw her purse down on her desk. She shook her computer’s mouse and typed in the password for the screen saver. The documents and spreadsheets she’d left up before heading out for lunch reappeared on the screen. Putting her personal life aside, Lilly attacked her work with the gusto that she felt would lead her to becoming a branch manager within the year.
She was making excellent progress when her computer and cubicle walls disappeared. She blinked and looked around. Lilly was back in Casandra’s school. The teacher in the front of the room was handing out some papers.
The geeky looking boy sitting next to Lilly leaned over. “Remember, I’ll let you see my answers if you go out with me this Saturday.”
Too shocked by the arrangement her daughter had made to cheat, all Lilly could do was mutter okay. “Wait...”
“Quiet, Cassy!” The teacher said. “The test’s started.”
Lilly looked at the paper in front of her daughter’s body: physics. Unlike the history exam, the cheat sheet wasn’t paper. Lilly couldn’t exactly eat the boy next to her. The only option she had was to do the test herself. Lilly had been terrible at physics when she was in school, now over twenty years later she had no hope.
She flipped through the pages and tried to find a problem she could understand. She thought about writing E=mc^2 here and there, but left most of the problems blank. What good did it do her daughter to fail this test? Had her daughter actually tried, surely she would have scored better than Lilly. As it was, almost an hour of the allotted ninety minutes had passed and Lilly hadn’t written anything.
Allowing her daughter to cheat was wrong, but causing her daughter to fail was almost as bad. Good to his word, the boy next to her had left his finished work on the edge of his desk. The answers were clearly visible, if only Lilly would allow herself to look.
What if her daughter wasn’t the one who cheated? What if Lilly quickly copied for her daughter? The idea sprang into Lilly’s head so quick, she almost laughed out loud. That had to work! Turning back to the first page, she looked at the boy’s test and then was back in her cubicle.
The cursor on her monitor flashed, waiting for her input. How boring. Enter number, output number. Numbers, number, numbers. Work sucked. Sighing, Lilly pushed herself away from the computer and stretched. She’d only been back from lunch for an hour and she was already bored.
No, that wasn’t right. She distinctly remembered loving her job. She could feel just below the surface of boredom that she had drive and ambition. There was something blocking it, a desire that she’d never felt before, the desire to take the easy way out of things.
Was this what the stranger had meant when he said she could be affected, too? She had taken the easy path for her daughter by cheating, and new memories of taking the path of least resistance throughout her life came to Lilly. She’d lead a life of barely passing grades, purely average performance reviews, and married the first man that had came along.
As her new reality set in, Lilly could still feel and remember the old one. Even in her mind it existed as a faint memory of a pleasant dream. The remaining her in the dream screamed that she couldn’t handle this power, that she wanted it gone. But the woman that she was couldn’t be bothered to worry about it. It would sort itself out eventually.
Getting up, Lilly headed into the break room and emptied the last of the coffee into her cup. She put the empty pot back onto the burner and left the task of making the next batch to the person after her.
Pulling out her phone, she texted her husband. Hey, babe. Bored at work again. Can’t wait to see ya. Be ready for some tonight. Love Lilly. She pushed send and started drinking her coffee. She idly daydreamed about taking her well toned husband and his large penis when she got home while she drank.
Only after a couple of sips, Amber came in. “Hey Amber,” Lilly said. A strange sense, not quite like deja vu but similar, came over Lilly that she despised Amber. It was an odd feeling to have for her best friend.
“Oh, hey, Lills. Taking a break?” Amber picked up the empty pot and looked at it.
“Yeah. Sorry about that. I was planning on brewing another before I left,” Lilly lied.
“Sure you were,” Amber laughed as she busied herself making the next batch. “You catch Idol last night?”
“You bet I did.”
“Man, that 16 year old is so cute! What I wouldn’t give to be the girl to pop his cherry.”
Lilly frowned. She loved Amber because she was the only person in the office who slacked off more than she did, but at the same time, she wasn’t that fond of Amber’s loose ways. Ignoring the comment, Lilly went on. “Who do you think’s gonna win? My money’s on one of the girls.”
“My eyes are only on the boys, if you get what I mean?”
She got it. Swirling the dregs of her coffee around in the cup before she downed it, Lilly rinsed the cup and set it to dry. “Well, I guess I’d better get back to work.”
“So soon? I was going to step out for a smoke. I was hoping you wouldn’t mind keeping me company.”
Though she didn’t smoke, Lilly often went outside to keep Amber company while she did. Lilly didn’t think it was fair that smokers got to skip out on work because they had a disgusting habit and she didn’t. Going outside with Amber killed two birds with one stone; she got to slack off and gossip.
“You should have said so sooner. Let’s go!”
Twenty minutes later, Lilly was back at her desk. She was trying her best to concentrate on work when her phone went off. She picked it up and read the text from her daughter. Mom, going to the mall with friends to blow off post exam steam. Home before dinner.
Lilly wished her girl would go home and study, but instead texted back Have fun. As long as she got some studying in after dinner, Lilly didn’t care. Like work, school had never been too much of a priority for her. Her wish was mostly a half hearted “wishing for a better life” for her daughter.
Having been distracted, Lilly opened a browser page and started scanning through the Land’s End online summer catalog. If her daughter got to go shopping, why couldn’t she? She got another cup of coffee, but instead of drinking it in the break room, she brought it back to her desk and continued her shopping.
Bringing the cup up to her mouth to take a sip of coffee, Lilly’s empty hand smacked her face. Looking around, Lilly saw she was standing in her daughter’s underwear clad body in a dressing room. Casandra had inherited her mother’s impressive bust line. The years hadn’t gotten to them yet and they stood more proudly off her chest than Lilly’s own.
Hormones raced through Casandra’s body. The vibrancy of youth overwhelmed Lilly’s mind. Is this what Casandra felt like when not taking a test? No wonder she was so surly at Lilly’s strict dress and boy code. It took all of her strength just to not breakdown and masturbate.
Through the mental fog, Lilly tried to determine what decision she was supposed to make for her daughter. It couldn’t be shoplifting, could it? Casandra’s body jiggled as Lilly rummaged through her daughter’s bag. No, it wasn’t shoplifting.
Looking for her daughter’s clothes to get dressed, she found what her daughter had brought in to try on. The shear blouse might have been respectable if it had been a longer cut and thick enough to hide anything underneath it. The skirt on the other hand, never had a chance to be decent.
What was Casandra doing with such trashy clothes? Even Amber would have thought twice about them. Lilly looked at her daughter’s trim figure in the mirror. Cassy...Casandra did work hard to keep herself in shape. Lilly was reminded of herself in her youth, she could have been looking at herself 20 years ago. Maybe it was the hormones, or maybe it was a secret desire to see what she would have looked like if she’d been more risque, but Lilly decided to try the clothes on. She could try them on, but make sure her daughter didn’t actually buy them.
Slipping on the skirt first, Lilly found it was no more than an ass wrap. With the right pair of heels, it would have been stunning. Putting on the top, Lilly saw that her daughter had picked out a size too small. The shirt strained at holding in Cassy’s large tits. Lilly felt a blush of pride infuse with the non-stop bombardment of horniness. Her little girl had definitely gotten her best features.
Not being able to do up the top buttons, Lilly left them open and twirled in front of the mirror. There was no doubt about it, she would have looked so hot.
“How’s it going in there, Cassy?” A voice asked from outside the changing room.
“Uhh, fine.”
“Come on out and let me see how you look.”
Lilly hesitated with her hand on the door. She could turn back now, change and say they didn’t fit, but that would mean a lot of work and it would be easier just to step out.... Lilly opened the door and Susan, her daughter’s best friend, was waiting outside. “Damn, you look good. To bad your mom would kill you if she saw you like that.”
Lilly laughed. “Oh, I dunno. I think she might like it.” Which was true. She loved the way she looked in the outfit. It didn’t mean she was going to let Cassy buy it, though.
“What are you talking about? The bitch would flip.”
“You’d be surprised. Come on, let’s go get me some heels.” Lilly turned and headed for the shoe department and screamed as hot coffee scalded her chest. She set her coffee cup down and looked at her ruined blouse. It was her favorite. Her favorite? This piece of crap? Why had she done up so many buttons?
Undoing the buttons down to the downward curve of her breasts, Lilly opened the top to expose her ample flesh. Again, she got the not-quite-deja-vu feeling. She shouldn’t be parading around like some sort of tramp, but exposing the soft flesh of her bosom felt natural, like she’d done it her entire life.
That was ridiculous, of course she’d done it her entire life. Someone as lazy as she was didn’t make it as far as she did without showing off a little bit of flesh every now and then. There was nothing wrong with it. She’d made the right choice for her daughter. As much as she was cheating and ditching school, Cassy wasn’t going to get anywhere without showing a bit.
Yet, at the same time, a movie played in Lilly’s head of her scolding Amber for her revealing attire. Lilly knew that was a real memory, but one that no one else shared with her. It was a memory of a life led by her in a different universe, a different dimension. Again, she’d made a decision for her daughter that had changed herself.
The actress in her memory screamed at her to stop, to button up, to never use the power again. She yelled at Lilly to get back to work, to get serious, that she was blowing her chance for the big promotion. She ranted and raved around in Lilly’s mind. Instead of listening, Lilly got up and headed over to her best friend’s desk. The woman in her mind faded like a memory of a boring sitcom from the night before.
Arriving at the receptionist’s desk, Lilly admired Amber’s low cut top and artificial cleavage. If she could have stomached the thought of surgery, she wouldn’t have minded reviving her figure to its youth, especially since she had just experienced her daughter’s body.
“Ahhh, Lills! You got coffee on your crusty old-lady shirt,” Amber said, looking up from whatever menial task she was pretending to do.
“I know! That’s why I’m here. You got an extra top I can borrow?”
Amber turned around and pulled out a neatly folded shirt and mini-skirt from her bag. She handed them over. “I was going to wear these to happy hour tonight, but since you woke up this morning and put on your schoolmarm outfit, something’s gotta save you from your fashion crisis.”
Happily taking the outfit, Lilly gave Amber a smile. “What say we ditch early and go get started?”
“You read my mind!”
“I’ll go get changed.”
Lilly went into the bathroom and stripped down to her undies. She examined herself in the mirror and compared her body to her daughter’s. The years had taken their toll on her once marvelous breasts. She should have them fixed up, and while the doctor was in there, she could have him up them a size or two.
In her mind, Lilly rolled her eyes. Her husband would love that, more men drooling over his wife. She didn’t understand why he hated her fashion sense so much. It’s not like it had changed over the years. So what if other men looked? Lilly wasn’t about to go off and fuck any of them. Maybe if he worked out more she wouldn’t look back. But when ever she nagged him about his growing belly, he just got angry.
Unable to fathom why she hadn’t worn a thong, Lilly pulled her grannie panties off and chucked them in the trash with her ruined shirt and drab slacks. She gave her hairy friend a pat and joy seared her nerves. She was still raging from her daughter’s sex drive.
Biting her lower lip, Lilly peeked around to make sure no one was there. She headed into a stall and leaned against the wall, then reached between her legs and started rubbing herself.
The thrill of pleasuring herself at work where anyone could come in and hear her slight whimpers fed her flames. Her hand stroked faster until the stall’s walls shook with her vibrations. Finally, they rocked back and forth as her orgasm crashed into her.
Still wearing only her bra and shoes, Lilly stepped out of the stall. To her horror, Margarette from accounting was washing her hands. She gave Lilly a disdainful look in the mirror.
“I...uhh.. spilt some coffee on my blouse and Amber gave me something to change into, so I...uhh...”
Margarette didn’t respond. She just flicked her wrists twice to dry her hands and left the bathroom. Lilly went back into the stall to give its walls another good shaking. Fifteen minutes later, a satisfied Lilly walked out of the bathroom wearing a tight, shear, low cut top and a skirt barely longer than the one she’d put on as her daughter.
She liked the top, but it wasn’t one she’d have bought for herself. She couldn’t wear her bra with it since it could have been seen through the thin fabric. One of her lacy black bras would have been perfect, but she’d worn some functional boring thing today that had followed her old outfit into the garbage. Being bra-less and in a tight and shear shirt meant her dark areolae were plainly visible, an effect she liked, but it wasn’t tight enough to support her breasts and hide their sag, an effect she decidedly did not like.
“Bit nipply in here isn’t it?” Amber laughed when Lilly finally came out of the bathroom.
“Like you’ve got a right to talk. I think there’s more tit out of your shirt than in.” The two laughed and headed out of their office. They hopped in a cab and joked and giggled as the driver took them to their favorite watering hole.
More to the point, it was Amber’s favorite watering hole. Lilly wasn’t crazy about it. Since it was near the local university, most of the clientele was barely older than her daughter. Lilly preferred eye candy closer to her own age.
Sitting down at the bar, they ordered two martinis and continued their chitchat. Lilly had just finished her drink when two twenty-somethings came and sat on either side of them.
“Need another one?” the guy who sat next to her asked.
This was another reason Lilly hated coming here. At a more upstanding place, they could make it through the entire night without being bothered. Here, she had to shoot boys down every twenty minutes or so. However, it was for that reason that Amber drug her here every night. “Free drinks and hot studs. What the hell you bitching about?” she’d always say when Lilly complained.
“What? You draw the short straw?” Lilly asked her new companion.
“Pardon?”
“You know, you had to be the wing-man and hit on the older broad so your friend could get the young hot one?”
“Never crossed your mind that maybe I like older women?”
“Yeah, work on your lines, pal.” Lilly snapped at the bartender, pointed at her empty glass, and gestured for him to make another. The first one was already giving her a pleasant buzz.
“Well...” the boy started.
Lilly looked at him for the first time and glowered at him in a manner only a mother of a teenager could. “Move along.”
The boy stood up and muttered “bitch” under his breath. He caught his friend’s attention and thumbed at the bathroom, then headed off for it. Lilly watched him go and took a sip of her freshly made martini.
The cola tingled as it slid down her throat; it had a hint of rum. The low mumble of an early hour bar was replaced by the loud buzz of a teenager-filled food court. She blinked as she adjusted her eyes from the bar’s dark ambiance to the mall’s fluorescent glow. She was Cassy again.
She was eating a hamburger with Susan, more precisely, she was watching Susan eat a hamburger while sipping on the diet cola that the meal came with. “I still don’t see how you can eat that greasy crap,” Lilly’s mouth said.
That was all she had time to process before the hormones racing through her daughter’s body hit her. She slammed the cup on the table and grabbed the front of her seat with her left hand. Pretending to adjust her seat, Lilly leaned back and rubbed her pussy up and down her arm. How was her daughter not constantly masturbating?
“You okay, girl?” Susan asked.
“Yeah, I’s fine,” Lilly slurred. “Oh my gawd, like am I drunk?”
Susan giggled. “You should be after all that rum I put in there. Stop hogging it.” Susan took the drink back and took a huge sip.
Her daughter was drunk in public. How had Lilly not taken over for that? Well, considering she herself spent more time drunk at home than sober, Lilly realized she didn’t actually care. It was all in the process of growing up.
If she wasn’t here to prevent her daughter from getting drunk, why was she here? It obviously wasn’t to prevent her daughter from masturbating in public. She was failing at that as well. Her left hand had let go of the chair and snaked its way up the short skirt she’d tried on earlier (apparently her daughter had bought it). Her finger slowly slid up and down her thong covered snatch.
Two boys from across the food court made their way over to Lilly and Susan’s table. The pulled out the extra chairs and sat down. Lilly reluctantly pulled her hand out of her skirt and sat up straight, presenting her chest for viewing.
“Hey,” one of them said. They were roughly the same age as most of the boys in the bar Lilly’s body was in, which made them older than Cassy, but still too young for Lilly.
“Hey, yourself,” Susan giggled.
The hormones racing through her daughters body responded to the pheromones of the muscular boys. Lilly wanted to fuck them like she’d never fucked before. Fuck that she was married. Fuck that she was in her daughters body. No! This is why she was in control. This was her challenge. This is where her daughter would fail.
The four of them sat in silence. The boys alternatively looking at Susan, then at Cassy’s tits. Just sit here. Say nothing. What would her daughter do? What did the boys want to do? Whatever it was, Lilly decided the best thing to do would to get out of there.
Standing up from the table, the boys’ eyes followed her chest. “I uhhh, need to get home,” Lilly said. Susan looked at her in surprise.
“Need a ride?” one of the boys asked.
“Yeah, that’d be great,” Lilly responded without thinking. Wait no she didn’t.... Her eyes had trouble adjusting to the darkness of the bar. Even though her body had never moved, her mind told her eyes to adjust to the bright lights of the food court before realizing she was back where she belonged.
Like her eyes, Lilly’s mind needed a second or two to catch up with what happened. What decision had she made for her daughter? She had tried to get out of the situation and wound up getting a ride home from some strange guys. She’d gotten her daughter picked up at the mall. It made perfect sense, Lilly herself went out every night to get picked up by guys at bars. After all, that’s why she insisted she and Amber come to this place.
Her husband hadn’t satisfied her in years, not since Cassy was really young. Not that she could expect him to, with his less than average dick. She shuddered as she remembered him slapping his fatty stomach and proudly proclaiming that it’s not the size but the motion in the ocean that counted. That wouldn’t have bothered Lilly if he hadn’t resembled the USS Minnow, small and soon to crash. She didn’t go so far as to cheat on Mark, but she didn’t feel some heavy petting and free drinks had to be out of the question.
No, she was being affected again. Amber dragged her here. It was her choice because she liked the younger men, not that Lilly could blame her, they were a lot more fun. Stop it! She didn’t go chasing after boys barely older than her daughter. She didn’t have to, they willingly came to her, like that last boy. What had she done? She’d been so rude.
Lilly glanced up and saw him head down the hall towards the restrooms. Leaving her martini half drunk on the counter, she bounded through the bar and down the hall after him. The height of her heels caused her chest to bounce, which caused more eyes to follow her through the early evening crowd. Lilly loved it.
The boy she was chasing down was just about to step through the door when she called out to him. “Wait!”
He turned around and Lilly crashed into him, her weight pushing the two of them off balanced through the door. Lilly braced herself for the fall, which never came. The low vibrations of a moving car buzzed through her daughter’s hormone crazed body.
When would this stop? It was getting too hard to do anything. She couldn’t make any sort of decision now. No matter who she was, she was too drunk and horny to think clearly. Had she been making the right decisions for her daughter? Possibly, she hadn’t made her do anything she wouldn’t have done herself.
She could feel the boy in the back seat’s eyes on her daughter’s large tits. Cassy’s sexy outfit was as revealing as anything she herself would wear. She’d picked out a rather nice one Lilly thought. Great decision there.
Sure, she’d made her daughter cheat on one of her tests, but like mother like daughter, both of them were dependant on their bodies to do anything in life, nothing wrong with that choice. Lilly had always thought school was a waste of time. Now, she was being taken somewhere by two cute boys who couldn’t have picked up a hotter piece of ass unless they’d gotten Lilly herself. And her daughter had thought making decisions was hard.
But still, something seemed off. There was a nagging feeling in her mind that she should be home, reading a book while her daughter, Casandra, studied and her loving husband relaxed on the sofa next to her. That wasn’t it though. Lilly wouldn’t pick up a book, she might chip one of her expensively manicured nails. She didn’t think she’d ever seen Cassy hold a textbook. Lastly, her limp dick husband couldn’t satisfy her even if she’d let him try.
The problem was she was horny as fuck. She was here as her daughter because she had to make a decision. Having no clue as to what was going on in the car around her, Lilly was at a loss as to what she was supposed to decide. Was it drugs? Cassy was still a bit young for drugs, wasn’t she? Fuck it Lilly thought, I just need to do something.
Reaching over, she unzipped the boy’s pants next to her and fished his cock out. He let out a startled noise. Ignoring him, Lilly opened her mouth wide and leaned forward. She readied herself to take him in her mouth when her head smacked into a hard body and she went crashing to the ground.
Not fair! she cried in her mind. Her little slut of a daughter was on her way to being fucked in a car right now and where was she? In some bar bathroom? There was a stunned boy on the floor. It came back to Lilly, the playing hard to get so she could chase him into the bathroom, where she could lock the door and have her way with him.
She undid the boy’s pants and pulled his member out. At times like these, Lilly was glad she did’nt wear underwear. She pulled her top off, exposing her large rack. In her youth, they’d been natural, but years and child birth had taken their toll and now her orbs stood off her chest in inorganic glory. It was the one thing she knew for sure she’d gotten from her loser husband. Lilly had told him Cassy was his, but truth be told, she didn’t know.
Cassy could have been anyone’s. Well, not the kid she was riding now. He pounded up into her as she rocked back and forth on top of him. He was too young. Lilly shook as a small orgasm over took her. God she loved young boys.
His inexperienced hands clumsily roamed her surgically enhanced body. His technique was severely lacking, but he had the drive and stamina that Lilly craved. She leaned forward and he power thrusted up into her. She could feel it coming. Thoughts of such a young boy barely old enough to vote pounding her, using her sent her over the edge and she screamed as she came. Her orgasm sent him over and he came inside of her. Lilly was glad she’d tied her tubes off when she’d gotten her new tits.
“Wow,” the boy said.
“Mmmm, yeah.”
“We’re, umm, having a party back at the house, you know, if you want to come?”
Lilly cleaned her inner thigh off and looked at the boy. “What’re you doing here then?”
“Pete, my friend at the bar, he and I were sent to get some women.”
Putting her top back on as the boy got up and pulled his pants up, Lilly smiled at him. “I’m all the woman you boys will need. Let’s go.”
Turning, she led the boy out of the bathroom. His friend Pete was at the bar getting nowhere with some fake titted skank (not that Lilly had room to talk). Sliding in between the slut and frat kid, Lilly said, “Why don’t you ditch this floozy and I’ll make you and your friend real men tonight?” She ran her finger up and down his well toned chest.
“Damn!” Pete laughed and looked over at the boy Lilly had used in the bathroom.
“Hey!” the other girl cried.
“Sorry, bitch. You snooze, you lose. Come on, stud.”
The two boys lead Lilly out of the bar and stuffed her in their car. She insisted Pete ride in the back with her since he hadn’t had his turn yet. As the boy whose name she’d never learned drove them to the frat house, Lilly played out the scene she could only imagine she’d set in motion for her daughter.
Having the ability to make decisions for her daughter was the greatest. Lilly doubted Cassy would have blossomed into the slut she was on her own. A mother really did know best.
When the three finally walked into the frat house, the party was well under way. A young girl swayed topless in the living room while a crowd of boys cheered her on. Lilly smiled as she recognized Cassy. Lilly could see she still had a thing or two to show her daughter.
* * *
Mark pulled the patrol car up to the curb outside the Omega Chi house. Another weekend, another party, and yet another disturbance call. When would these retarded frat boys grow up? Probably never. It was an unending cycle of horny boys out on their own for the first time. Mark remembered his frat days.
Back then, he would have slid out of the car, but having a job where he sat around and pretty much ate donuts all day, Mark now had to roll out of the cruiser. The car raised up off the ground as his weight lifted off of it. He huffed his way up to the door and pounded on it.
“You’re going to have to bang louder than that to get them to hear you in there,” a man standing on the porch said.
Mark glanced at the man. He was completely unremarkable in every way. He was definitely too old to be a student, but he could have been anywhere from his late twenties to early forties. He had a completely average and forgettable face. There was nothing remarkable about his dress or the way he carried himself that would have left a lingering impression longer than the time it would take him to walk away.
“Hmph,” Mark said and banged on the door with all his weight. Being that fat did have one advantage.
“Hey Mark,” the man said. “Tell Lilly she doesn’t have to make anymore decisions for as long as she lives. Tell her to just go with the flow.”
Mark whipped his head towards the stranger. How did he know his name? How did he know his wife’s name? Mark opened his mouth to ask, when the door in front of him swung open. Instinctively, Mark turned towards it. When he turned back, the man was gone.
“Who ordered the male stripper?” the kid holding the door open laughed, yelling at his friends inside.
“Campus security, dickwad.”
“No shit, fat-ass.”
Just then, a woman screamed inside the house. “What the hell was that?” Mark asked and pushed his way past the kid. He headed into the living room, the source of the scream. His heart missed a beat when he saw what was going on.
His wife was being fucked from behind while she sucked on another boy’s cock. Next to her on the couch, his daughter was being penetrated in all three holes while guys waited for their turn around her. Lilly let the dick in her mouth pop out and let out another blood curdling scream as she came.
“Lilly! Cassy!”
Lilly looked up at him. “Shit, Mark,” she panted in rhythm with the thrusts of the kid behind her. “I don’t bother you at work. If you fucking leave now, I’ll fuck you when I get home.”
Mark worked his mouth opened and closed. Shame burned in his cheeks. His wife and daughter were.... Then he realized what she’d said. She’d fuck him! He didn’t have to just masturbate while looking at a picture of her. He could have the real thing.
Turning, he hurried out of the house, ignoring the remarks and laughs that he got as he waddled out. Through it all he failed to hear Lilly add, “Just don’t wait up though.”
0 notes
Last Seen Blogs
sohnki
i love you
sadcannibal-madcannibal
hannigram
sadcannibal-madcannibal
hannigram
foxy-pawsy
Foxy-Pawsy
ask-the-ladies-of-dragonball
Ask the DBZ ladies~