Bakers Dozen

At 6:00 p.m. Porker did not have the agreement of any of the home owners to change their house numbers. He spent the next 30 minutes composing a letter to the new residences to explain the change of house numbers, claiming that it was being ordered by the town. The form letter said nothing about Maggie Potash’s phobia.

At 7:00 p.m. he was on his way to number 13 Cornbramble Road with a pizza. It had stopped raining but he wore a raincoat, just in case.

Maggie, upon seeing the pizza box in his hands, beamed. “What kind is it?”

Porker had to think what topping he had ordered, “sausage,” he answered tentatively, hoping it would be acceptable.

“My favorite,” Maggie exclaimed, failing to tell him that she really did not care for it, she was thinking of the sausage in his trousers.

She produced a bottle of Merlot. They sat at the kitchen counter. She wanted to know about the town. He told her about the mill burning, the mass exodus of the mill workers, the hardships the small town had endured and the new highway being built which was rejuvenating the town. Even a pizza shop had recently opened in the town.

As the last slices of pizza were eaten and the last of the wine was poured they both relaxed and the conversation turned more personal. He told her how the mayor and the selectmen had delegated their duties and how they held him responsible for answering to the auditor.

He was infatuated with this woman. In a weak moment he even told her of his high school nickname.

“Porker? why would they give you a name like that?” Then she giggled, “Porker Hogg, oh, I get it.” She had not ‘gotten it.’ But much later, laying alone in her bed that night, she would ‘get it.’

As he was leaving she handed him a stack of envelopes to be mailed. “You’ll need to stop at the post office to pick up my mail anyway. They won’t deliver it here until I put my house number on the box, something I will not do.” He noted that none of the outgoing mail had a return address.

“Oh, and here’s a list of items you can pick up. I feel like pasta for tomorrow night, is that okay with you?”

Porker held his breath as he opened the Springfield Times the next morning. The Maggie Potash column was entitled: “City Vs Small Town, Bureaucrats in both are all the same.” The article said nothing about the house number being at the center of the conflict. Nor were any names mentioned. In the last paragraph there was a sentence that caught his attention: ‘Living in a small town does have its advantages. A very conscious streets commissioner cooked breakfast for me.’

All three town selectmen telephoned and the mayor sent Brenda Mae across the hall to see Porker personally. “What’s this all about?” they wanted to know. Porker explained how serious the situation was becoming. The selectmen all told him the same thing: “Handle it. Make sure there is no law suit.” Brenda Mae, having listened to what Porker told each of the selectmen, smiled. “You seem to have an affinity for getting yourself in tight places, don’t you Porker?” Brenda Mae had seen Maggie’s article, ‘he made breakfast for her, how interesting,’ she thought.

Porker had to agree, ‘he did like tight places,’ he thought when he watched the sway in Brenda Mae’s hips as she left his office. ‘This ‘tight place’ could have been averted if she had delivered the telephone message at 4:30 p.m. last Friday,’ he thought.

Porker visited each of the homes with house numbers 15 through 25, dropping off the letters to the same three housewives he had spoken to on the phone. One of them told him that the other three women worked outside the home. Mrs. Combs said she had discussed the number change with Mr. Combs. He had stated emphatically that their house number would not be changed.

“Did you see Maggie Potash’s column this morning, Mr. Hogg?” Mrs. Combs ask, a wry smile at the corner of her mouth.

Porker picked up Mrs. Potash’s mail, noticing one of the letters was from a Springfield law firm. The postmaster wanted to know when she would have a house number on her mailbox. “Soon,” Porker told him.

The grocery list was lengthy. Porker was glad to fill the order, hoping the items would last Mrs. Potash a few days. He picked up a bottle of wine to go with the pasta.

Maggie was amused when she opened the door for him. Despite it being a clear February day, he was wearing a raincoat.

While she opened her mail, Porker began making a salad and preparing the meal

Maggie was wearing a white knee length skirt and a black sweater, both tight fitting, displaying well formed tits and legs. Porker could see the panty line hug her ass. He tried not to notice, thinking of how he could explain why her house number had still not been changed.

By the time Maggie had finished reading her mail Porker had the table set and the meal well under way. She watched him work. Being cooped up in her own home was making her edgy. Although she did not want to admit it, she had looked forward to Porker’s visit. Why had this ‘mama’s boy’ remained single? Had she been the first women to notice the ‘asset’ between his legs.

She jumped when he turned to her and smiled to say that dinner was almost ready. ‘Damn, he had caught her looking at his skinny butt.’

During dinner they talked more about the town. She wanted to know about the mayor. She made mental notes of the people he mentioned. She knew Sally Scott who had recently taken over her father’s real estate business. Jeff Morgan ran the general store and was having a tough time staying abreast of the new resident’s tastes. Jeff had just installed a small bakery in his store, named ‘The Bakers Dozen.’

Maggie commented that she did not like the name of the bakery. Of course she knew Seth Tucker, the builder.

Nothing was mentioned about Maggie’s column in the morning newspaper, nor did she inquire about the progress Porker was making to rectify the house number mix up although it was dominating both of their lives.

Bored by being a prisoner in her own home, Maggie decided to have some fun. While clearing the table she accidentally bumped her butt against Porker’s arm. As he looked up at her in surprise she smiled at him.

“Mr. Hogg, would you mind if I call you Porker?”

“Why, no,” he answered. The nick name was very distasteful to him but what could he say, she had him by the balls, so to speak.

“Why don’t you call me Maggie,” she said when she returned to where he was sitting. “”I’ll need for you to go by the bank to make a deposit tomorrow, Porker.”

Leaning over, breasts near his face, she handed him an envelope. “This check came in the mail you picked up for me.”

“This is a Springfield bank,” Porker complained, not seeing how he could take time out of his busy day to drive there and back.

“It’s important that the deposit be made tomorrow, Porker. As you can see, it’s a rather large sum. It’s the final payment installment from my divorce settlement.”

Porker didn’t see how he could refuse this lady. The selectmen had been very specific. “Handle it,” they had said. Besides, her tits were still dangling in front of his face and her perfume captivated his mind.

“What time will you be here? I’ll have the steak ready for you to cook.”

“I’m sorry, Maggie. Tomorrow is Wednesday, the selectmen meet on Wednesday nights. I have to be there.”

“Then come after the meeting. We’ll have a late dinner. I’ll be anxious to hear what the selectmen discussed,” Maggie said, undaunted.

“It may be late, Maggie. There’s allot of business to discuss,” Porker said, thinking of the questions they would have for him about changing the house numbers.”

“That’s okay. I’ll be busy tomorrow, writing my Thursday column,” she said as she let him out the door. “Come anytime.”

“I’ll be here as soon as the meeting adjourns, Maggie,” he assured her.

Porker drove to the bank in Springfield to make the deposit. On the way back he cursed the new road. What a pain in the ass it had become to him. If it were not for the new road he would be free to relocate. His mind drifted to Maggie with the prominent panty line, very visible under the tight skirt. Was she teasing him?

That afternoon he had unfolded the plat plan for Cornbramble when his telephone rang. “Porker, can you bring me a copy of the notes from the selectmen meeting please?”

It wasn’t really a question. Maggie was just being polite. Her reporter’s voice was very sure and confident.

Porker was stunned. There had never been such a request before. What would the selectmen say? “I don’t think that will be possible, Maggie.”

“Why not? Porker, isn’t the meeting public?”

“Yes, I suppose but we never have visitors.”

“Porker, I’m certain those notes are a matter of public record. As a citizen of Two Rivers I’m entitled to attend the meeting. Since you have me squirreled up in my own home I can’t come to the meeting.”

Reluctantly, Porker agreed to bring a copy of the meeting notes.

“Oh, I’ll need a copy of the notes of the meeting when the selectmen voted themselves a raise.” Porker balked, saying he would need to get a reading.

“Bring the note Porker. Thank you.”

When the February 18, 2004 selectmen’s meeting came to order at 7:00 p.m. the small room was crowded with concerned townspeople. In the front row sat Sandy Scott, saying her curiosity had been peaked by the recent article in the Springfield Times. She was alert during the meeting, taking notes along with Porker.

At 10:10 p.m. Porker raced to his car with a folder containing the meeting notes Maggie wanted to see.

Maggie’s house was dark. Had she given up on him and gone to bed? But when he tried the doorknob it turned in his hand. Inside he heard her voice from someplace in the dark house. “Hang your coat on a hook.”

Complying with the voice from the dark, he hung up his coat and turned. A shadow appeared, making a swinging motion, something coming at him, a cold wet splash, followed by the realization that he was drenched. “What the fuck?” Porker screamed, dropping the folder of notes to the wet floor.

“Oh, Porker, I got you wet,” she said, throwing her arms around him. He felt the now empty bucket hit his back. She felt warm in his arms, pressing softly against him, her cheek against his.

“Your mustache tickles,” she laughed after they kissed for the first time.

This woman had lost her mind and it was his fault for leaving her cooped up in the house. He would go outside and remove the house number, to hell with by-laws. She released him and stepped back. In the darkened mud room they gazed at one another. He couldn’t help grinning at the crazed woman. Her clothes were almost as wet as his, her shirt and slacks having absorbed water as her body held him close.

“Mr. Hogg, get out of those wet clothes,” she commanded.

He protested, mumbling that he would go home and dry off.

“Mr. Hogg, it’s February, you’ll catch your death in this weather. I refuse to be responsible. Take off those clothes,” she said with the same commanding voice that he could not refuse. He reached into his pocket to retrieve a damp bank deposit slip and began to unbutton his shirt.

As his eyes became accustomed to the darkness he could see Maggie’s eyes watch as he removed his pants. He offered her his pants and shirt, then stood waiting for her to take them to the laundry. But she didn’t move.

“Shorts too,” she said, a hint of gaiety in her voice.

He flatly rejected the idea, saying his shorts were not wet.

“Do you want me to go fill this bucket again?” she ask, an edge to her voice.

He stalled, bending to untie his shoes. She waited. When he had removed his socks and shoes he looked at her, pleading.

“I’ll go fill the bucket,” she warned, turning.

“You wouldn’t dare,” he called after her, shivering with his bare feet on the damp tile floor. He bent down to pick up the folder of notes, deciding they were too wet to be readable.

She reappeared with the bucket. He held up his arms to protest but to no avail. Water was coming his way, most of it directed toward the only garment on his body, his already damp shorts. He held the folder up, trying, unsuccessfully, to deflect the water from hitting him in the face.

She dried his hair with a towel.

“You’re wet too,” he boasted, rubbing his wet hands down her back to her hips to mold her body to his.

“Mmmm,” she moaned as he kissed her, again tickling her nose.

“Let’s get these wet clothes off you,” he suggested, already slipping the blouse over her head.

“Mmmm,” she moaned as he kissed her while unfastening her bra. She didn’t complain when his mustache ticked both tits as his tongue traced the valley between them in an upward motion. At the same time he had released her belt, letting her pants fall to the floor. She stepped out of them as the handlebars of his mustache tickled her tits on the downward motion

He did not resist when she pulled down his shorts. In fact, he wiggled his slim ass as she stretched the waistband to slide it over his cock, aroused by the sight of her impressive breasts.

Short gasps of air left his lungs as she took his cock in both hands, squeezing its length while smiling up at him. She no longer seemed angry. She was just getting to know him, measuring him. The feeling made him grow in her hands. She was on her knees in front of him, kissing the end of his cock.

Porker shivered from the cold damp floor and from the warm damp feel of her mouth engulfing his cock. She held his balls in one hand and the base of his cock in the other, getting to know him. He made little hissing sounds as she moved the head of his cock to the back of her mouth and sucked as she pulled back. Porker rested his hand on her dark hair, gently resting it there as she moved up and down the length of his cock.

There was nearly an inch of water on the cold tile floor when Maggie coaxed Porker down on his back while continuing to suck his cock. The shock when his back met the wet tile floor was nothing compared to the overwhelming thrill of Maggie’s wet soft pussy surrounding his cock as she impaled herself upon him. From his place on the cold wet floor he watched the expression on her face go from anguish as she adjusted to his girth to determination as she struggled with his length to one of fulfillment as she begin to slowly move upon him. He watched her eyes glisten in the dark and gave her an encouraging smile as she buried about one half of his length deep within her tunnel. When she bent forward to kiss him he felt the walls of her pussy contract. He pushed upward to let his presence be known. She responded with another contraction and ended the kiss to resume the workout she was giving his cock.

He was still not in very far when she picked up the pace. He placed his hands on her hips to give her support and she cupped her tits to keep them from bouncing. Once a rhythm was established, he pushed upward to meet her downward thrust. Her tongue was in the corner of her open mouth and her breath was halted. As she slowed, he put his hands on her butt to help with the lifting motion.

She came to a stop, gasping for air, her inner walls choking the bulb of his cock, relaxing in a flurry of spasms. She leaned forward, her tits flattened against his chest, her cheek next to his. “This.... is........ wonderful,” she whispered haltingly in his ear, the muscles deep within her pussy walls speaking more loudly.

She teeth chattered when her back felt the cold wet floor. Still engaged, he watched her face closely as he made the first forward thrust, slowly, easing in, seeing her grimace backing out, easing forward again, backing out. Not until he felt her legs wrap around him did Porker really Pork Her.

Increasing his speed, he gradually increased the depth of his thrusts. Maggie loved it. She watched his lips move, mouthing something, what was it? She swung her head from side to side, getting her hair wetter and wetter in the cold water, hanging on to this thin man’s shoulders with her arms and her legs around his skinny ass. He fucked her deeper and deeper until she released her grip, dropping her arms to the floor. He felt the spasm deep within her. He waited until her head stopped moving from side to side and watched her lips move. He lowering his head to hear what she was saying. “This.....is....so...good....it’s.....wonderful.”

He took one of her nipples between his lips, waiting for her to regain her composure. When she raised her arms and clasped her hands behind his neck he resumed with short slow thrusts, watching Maggie’s lips mouth, ‘won....der...ful.’

When he felt her legs take their place, locked at the ankles, he increased the speed and depth of the thrusts. Their eyes were locked. She smiled when she saw him mouth, ‘I’m coming.’ She hung on to his neck, feeling the strong splats deep within her. They lay together on the cold wet floor, grinning, satisfied.

In her bedroom after a long hot shower he had to tell her about the proceedings at the selectmen’s meeting because the notes were ruined. An inordinate amount of time had been spent on the house number conflict. ‘How did this happen? Who was at fault? What was being done to rectify the situation? Was this woman crazy?’ The selectmen had been quite critical of Porker’s actions, telling him to take what ever action necessary to ‘handle it.’ The audience had listened to the discussion very attentively.

One of the selectmen had said that the fear of the number 13 was just a superstition.

“Which one said that? what is his name?” Maggie wanted to know.

“Huh?” Porker had been distracted by the bare thigh, un-hidden by the terry cloth robe that Maggie was wearing. His body was covered with a blanket.

Maggie covered her leg, then thought, ‘what the hell, how often do I have a chance at something that thick and that long in me?’ She leaped at him, covered them both with his blanket and kissed him, letting the handlebars tickle her nose.

After she had extracted the name of the guilty selectman, she ask him to move his car inside her garage, saying that his reputation was at stake, sleeping with a crazy woman.

When he came back inside he found her at the computer. “Just making a slight revision to my column,” she explained.

Both hungry, they made a sandwich and went back to bed to fuck, rough and tumble, greedily, the thin man Porked the crazy woman with abandon, with less concern that he would hurt her now that she had ‘measured’ him.

As they were going to sleep she asked, “I saw your lips moving when you were fucking me on the mud room floor, what were you saying?” She was running her finger nails through his fine chest hair.

Porker mumbled something.

“What did you say?”

He mumbled something again.

“WHAT?”

Feeling his chest hair being clumped in her fist, Porker answered, “PORK HER,” bracing himself for what was to follow. She pulled, hard.

By 7:30 the next morning there was not a single copy of the Springfield Times newspaper left for sale in Two Rivers. The Maggie Potash column was entitled, “City Vs Small Town, Bureaucrats in both are all the same.” Within the article it was claimed that the town selectmen had agreed to fine builders who had let residents move into newly built homes without an occupancy permit being issued. It went on to say that the selectmen had lamented the fact that certain builders had not filed applications for such occupancy permits. Naming the three town selectmen, Maggie gave the date they had unanimously voted to increase their pay. The article ended: ‘Living in a small town does have its advantages. A very conscious building inspector cooked breakfast for me.’

For the first time ever, Porker was late getting to work that Thursday morning. He had awaken to a very ambitious mouth locked to the end of his penis. Maggie achieved her goal in a very short time and was soon bouncing up and down, taking his huge member bit by bit. Still half asleep, Porker watched her ass move deliciously, feeling his cock being slowly encapsulated and her hands on his knees.