by Peter Sacco
It was the moment Ryan dreaded. He had to be in control. He had to fight it. She hadn’t had it in so long, she was hornier than a cat in heat. She rhythmically swayed her hips against his crotch. As dog ugly as she was, she was turning him on. He tried fighting it. He kept picturing dead rotting flesh and his old pal, Downing. These two things were enough to turn anyone off. It was working, but she kept pressing harder. She made sure to rub her large firm breasts against his chest. Being relatively the same height with her heels on, she had easy access to his ears. He could feel the tip of her tongue tickling his lobes. This was the biggest turn on he knew.
Son of a bitch! Dead animals. Rotting flesh. Downing! It wasn’t working. He tried to push her away, but she clung like Velcro. He even tried to get Thome’s attention but he was too busy with his receptionist. Ryan could feel it growing now. It was getting bigger and bigger. It was throbbing like a smashed finger. She could feel it. She looked at him and smiled. He tried to push her away, but she gripped tighter. He pushed harder and she clung. He was going to explode. He really was. This had to be the worst one yet; an eleven on the old Richter! He tried more of the cognitive behavioral crap, but it didn’t work. All he could think about was the mutant crotch which had a life of its own. The most frightening thing was, he was beginning to feed into the arousal.
The macho, stud-like image he always dreamed of having was feeding into the frenzy. He was turning on this dog-ugly woman and it made him harder. Wow! She was all over him and she wanted it. “It,” he thought to himself. He now had his own private frat brother who wanted to play. Yes, it felt so great. The thought of Thome popped into his mind and he tried to shut down the urges. He couldn’t. All he could think about was mounting her. He tried to pull away one last time but it was too late. He heard the scream from the pit of her stomach. He speared her like Moby Dick, no pun intended. It was like an out-of-body experience. Quickly, he ripped himself away from her and ran for the men’s room. Without even thinking, he began dousing his face with cold water. He collected several deep breaths and stared at himself in the mirror. He felt his crotch, and yes, his mutant frat buddy was still gleaming, still itching to be released.
Glancing about the men’s room, he noticed he was alone. He breathed a large sigh of relief. Before he could finish his macho thought of what a great stud he was, the door burst open. He dashed into the stall closest to him and shut the door. He heard a few sharp footsteps which echoed off the restroom walls.
The steps appeared to come to an abrupt halt in front of his stall. What the hell was going on? Don’t tell me there was some queer trying to peek in through the crack, he thought. Perhaps some guy wanted to have a look at his mutant. Why not? It was the stud of studs. The thought had actually started to turn him on,
but he stopped it. Why the hell does it work now, but not around the chicks, he thought.
There was silence in the restroom. Perhaps they were looking in the mirror and he had imagined the whole thing. He leaned forward to steal a peek through the crack in the door and nearly jumped out of his pants. He could see an eyeball staring right back at him. It was her. She had followed after him.
“I see you Ryan, you big stud. I know you’re in there.”
He let out a sigh and tried to pretend he wasn’t there.
“Why don’t you let the horse out of the stall so we can get into some nasty horse play?”
“I can’t!” He whispered hoarsely. “Your husband will fire me, not to mention kill me.”
She slowly began to drag her long nails along the door of the stall as she made purring sounds. “Come on, Ryan. Don’t you want to bring out the feline in me?”
“Please, I’m trying to be nice. You don’t understand.”
He heard her chuckle. It really turned him on. He wanted her more than ever. He slowly began to stroke himself. Man it felt good!
“Gee, Ryan, I thought that naughty was nice.”
That made him swallow. He was going to do her. He had to. He was a stud and that is what studs did in his mind. He slowly reached forward and undid the latch on the door. He stepped back and sat on the toilet seat then waited for the door to swing open. There she was, gown straps slung over her arms and cleavage screaming. He felt so good. He was the man. She was going to enjoy him and he was going to enjoy giving it to her. He was going to please both of them because that is what studs did.
“Let the games begin,” she sighed.
She crept toward him in a slow, melodic thrust, her breasts bouncing to the rhythm. Face to face with him, she licked his face like a cat lapping up sour cream. She slowly raised her torso in order to polish his face with her large, dangling, exposed breasts. Before he had a chance to take in the sights, smells, touch and tastes, he felt her hands grasp his tool. This brought a huge smile to his face. Her hands slowly, but roughly grasped it tighter. This is what it is all about, he thought to himself. He was going to lay his first broad since having the surgery. He was going to break the mutant in. He was going to bring her to naughty-naughty land.
She had his tool in her hands. She groped at it and drooled over it. She had never seen one so big and so hard. Her hubby had made her go without for so long, and this was the crème de la crème. She was going to get what she had not received and then some. She was dripping wet and wanted it inside of her.
She didn’t give a damn about a rubber either. She just wanted flesh. Pulling her gown up around her hips, she slowly slid her underwear down. He watched this, licking his lips. He could feel his unharnessed tool pound against his thighs.
Suddenly, that last observation startled him. “Against the thighs!” He was losing his erection. It was going away. What the hell was happening? Ryan began to think about hot, nasty, and sexy thoughts, but nothing was happening. He was going soft. He could not believe it. As she finished her little number, she turned to him and offered him the thumbs up sign with her greasy smile. He grimaced back. She grabbed for his tool and he pulled away. She thought that he was playing a game with her.
Before the game could go any further, she flung herself onto him resting her crotch on top of his. Something was wrong though. She had expected the excruciating pleasurable pain of him going inside of her, but there was blank. Nothing. He had turned soft. She could not believe it. She grabbed at him as he looked away in embarrassment. He tried desperately to get hard, but could not.
She began squeezing him tightly, nearly choking off his blood supply.
“Don’t do this to me, Ryan. Get hard, you bastard!”
“I’m trying,” he whimpered.
“Try harder.”
It just wouldn’t work. He was getting more and more frustrated, as she was growing more and more annoyed. She squeezed his tool with all her might and he screamed in agony. Finally, she gave up and started to dress herself.
“Little prick,” she murmured.
Ryan was experiencing both shock and embarrassment. This wasn’t supposed to be happening to him. Not now! “The damn lotion must be working,” he thought to himself. “Of all the bloody times.”
He read the disgust and anger in her frown. “I’m sorry.”
“Save it you little prick. My husband’s been giving me that same line for years.”
That really cut into him. How dare someone call him a little prick? Especially after all the money and pain he had spent. He watched her tuck away her amazing breasts. He would not have the opportunity to enjoy them. It wasn’t fair. He tried to arouse himself again, but nothing. She was done dressing and left the stall, stopping in front of the mirror to check her face.
He stared after her. She saw him through the mirror. “You know, Ryan, I really thought you were some kind of stud. You sure had me fooled.”
He remained silent as she continued fussing with her face and hair.
“You should get that checked out, kiddo. What a wa
ste.”
She finally finished with her hair and turned to him. “You know, if I’m not mistaken, I think there is a medical procedure to fix that. Some sort of implant.
You should think about it, little boy,” she said sarcastically as she turned to leave the restroom.
Ryan angrily choked his penis before picking himself up to leave. Just as she was about to leave the restroom, her husband entered. They ran into each other at the door and he stared at her dumbfounded. “What are you doing in here?” he asked.
She looked at him and shook her head. “A whole lot of nothing.”
Thome noticed Ryan’s reflection in the mirror as he tried to duck back in the stall. “Ryan, get out here!”
Ryan sheepishly crept from the stall and stared at both of them. The fly on his pants was wide open, as his shirt hung out through the hole. Thome noticed this and glared at his wife. “What’s going on here? Are you two...”
“Save it dear, nothing happened and no, we’re not fooling around.”
She offered Thome a little smile and gave him a peck on the cheek before leaving the men’s room. Thome gave Ryan a very disgruntled glare.
“What did happen here?” Ryan sighed and shook his head. “Absolutely nothing, sir. Absolutely nothing.”
Thome stared at Ryan still very much perplexed. “If I find out, Ryan...”
Ryan nodded to him as he went to the sink and washed his hands. Ryan stood at attention like a mannequin. Thome dried his hands and walked to the door. “Fix yourself up Ryan, and for heaven’s sake, do that fly up.”
Within the next few weeks, Ryan had the implant removed. He still had his job which was good. He lost whatever self-esteem, not to mention self-respect he had, a heap of money in the process, and his zest to be the macho man he always dreamed of being.
He wouldn’t have to worry about performing in the bedroom in the near future. This came as somewhat of a relief for him. Not being able to get it up was worse than any night terror one could imagine. This very thought made most men fearful... perhaps even more than death!
Chapter Five
The Closet
Jean Thomas winced in pain as the wooden screen door grazed her fingertips when it blew shut. She dropped the box of pots and pans she was holding and they clanged loudly against the wooden banister at the base of the stairs. There was a moment of silence before two teenage children came running down the stairs. Billy Thomas, Jean’s twelve year old son was the first to reach the bottom. Clair, his seventeen-year old sister, was not far behind.
“Are you okay, mom?” asked a concerned Clair.
Jean managed to shake the numbness from her fingertips.
“What happened?” asked a smiling Billy.
“The damn door blew shut and got my hand.”
“Oh, mom. You really should be more careful. Isn’t that what you are always telling us?” quipped Clair.
“What’s going on upstairs?” asked Jean.
“Well, we’ve got most of the stuff put in the proper rooms. We’re going to need some help moving the wardrobe,” responded Clair with a sigh.
Jean picked the box of pots and pans off the floor and carried them into the kitchen. The hallway leading to the kitchen was quite narrow. Strips of old wallpaper, dangling from walls, brushed Jean’s hair as she went into the kitchen. Billy followed close behind, ripping the shreds of paper from the walls.
“Don’t do that!” objected Clair slapping Billy’s arm.
“Why? It’s all coming down anyway,” snapped Billy.
“Mom, will you tell him to stop it?”
Jean removed one of the pans from the box and placed it on the stove. “Will you kids cool it. I thought we promised no arguing for a while.” Jean took a couple of eggs from the tray in the refrigerator and scrambled them in a bowl. “Are the two of you hungry yet?”
“Eggs again?” winced Billy.
“Just shut up and eat what you’re given,” rejoined Clair.
Jean offered Billy a dissatisfied look and he smiled. “Eggs will be just fine, mom.”
Jean began to prepare the meal, as Clair prepared a tomato salad. Billy sat down at the table, which was surrounded by a fortress of boxes. He took a comic book from one of the boxes and began to read it. Pleasantly, Jean hummed to herself as she fried the omelet. Clair peered out the kitchen window as she prepared her salad and noticed a boy about Billy’s age playing at the end of their driveway. The boy was almost knee deep in the neglected, meadow-deep grass. Clair glanced at her mother. She still appeared very young for a thirty-seven-year old mother of two. She had kept herself very fit and trim and her curly blonde hair hid any hints of gray that may have tried to break through. The sadness which dominated her baby blues for so long following the long, drawn-out divorce from Clair’s father, now seemed far removed. Perhaps it was the move from Boston to Santa Barbara that had been the true healer. Even though it was less than a week, their lives felt fresh and new. Clair still missed her father. Even though Billy did not say anything, she knew he too missed his dad and their friends back home.
Jean Thomas had the chance for a job transfer to either Santa Barbara, or Georgia; and she chose Santa Barbara in an instant. The decision was an easy one, although the kids were against it throughout the entire process; but she figured they would adjust once they were moved. Besides, what kid, or adult for that matter, did not dream about living in California at least once?
Jean’s job with the computer programming company in Boston was by no means in jeopardy even though the divorce had waged on for nearly two years and had started to drain her. It was very visible to her boss, Mr. Harnish and co-workers. It was Mr. Harnish who had suggested she take some time off from work and get away for a while. Jokingly, she had asked if he could transfer her to the other side of the planet, with seniority and full benefits intact. He said the best he could do was Santa Barbara. At first she thought he was kidding. Later she found out he was quite serious. He said he wished she wouldn’t consider the transfer, as with over fourteen years service, she was one of his best programmers. He said he would understand if she left, given the trying pressures which were overwhelming her mentally, emotionally and physically.
Her soon-to-be ex-husband, Bob, had been trying to get custody of the kids. She knew, and her lawyer knew, he didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell. Bob, however, the asshole he truly was, thought he would make things difficult by not co-operating in doing what was best for the children. Jean thought he was the lowest form of scum on the earth.
Bob was a salesman, and to this very day, she still did not know what the hell he sold. He was very good at selling himself though. At forty-two, Bob thought he was still God’s gift to women and why not let the babes enjoy his youth while he still had it? Bob was balling several of his female clients in between appointments. Jean lost count after she caught him the fourth time. She thought the third time was always the charm. How he ever conned her again into giving him another chance was still a mystery. He used the children to manipulate her. She had enough of his shit. Her job at work was enough stress, let alone having to deal with the ego of her adolescent husband. She told him and the kids she had had enough. She told Bob she was filing for a divorce and getting on with her life. The kids cried as expected, but not for long, as they had somehow expected it was for real this time. Bob had pleaded once more in his groveling, childish manner, but it didn’t work. When he realized it was for real, he said the kids were going to stay with him. Not! Eventually, the courts, including his own lawyer saw what an ass he was and the case was closed. A real estate agent for the company Jean worked for found her an older, smaller house, in the suburbs of Santa Barbara. It was then “California or bust?” for the Thomas clan.
The house was a century old and two-levels. Even though it appeared very rough around the edges, it had amazing potential. Th
e house reminded Jean of the house she had lived in as a little girl. The exterior of the house was surprisingly well kept. The red bricks preserved their deep richness throughout the years. The yard outside was on the verge of becoming a weed field with a variety of litter blowing through thick, matted growth. Jean figured if she were especially nice to the kids, they might have it cleaned up in a week or so. The inside of the house was another matter. Most of the walls either had to be re-plastered or repainted. To Jean’s surprise, some of the paint and wallpaper in the house was original.
The original wood floors were somewhat dull from years of living, although nothing a bottle of wax could not fix. The ceiling in one of the bedrooms leaked during periods of heavy rain. Some of the black shingles on the roof had begun to curl and needed replacing. Wooden supports in the attic had started to rot from the persistent rains throughout the years. And of course, the house had its fair share of rodents. Nothing an exterminator could not fix. Other than that, the house was a real gem. Jean honestly thought the house was great and their lives here would flourish.
An older lady, Sarah Miller, now deceased, had owned the house as far back as anyone could remember. One of the stories Jean had heard was Miller had been a very respected artist and after she had moved into the house her career came to an abrupt end. She was quite renowned for her flower and fruit bowl paintings. When the house became the state’s property following her death, they found paintings which were very disturbing and bordered on the grotesque.
In many of the paintings, a man holding an ax was depicted. It was the same man in all of her paintings. Most of the paintings showed the man cutting the heads off chickens. In one very disturbing painting, the man appeared to have chopped the head off a woman tied to a tree stump. Several art critics found Miller’s work very bizarre and out of character. They could not believe she would paint such pictures. It was later revealed the man in the paintings greatly resembled her father. He had been a chicken farmer in the early nineteen hundreds, but was killed in the line of duty during the first World War.