Bean Counter Ch. 15byCreamer©
I'm sure y'all were wondering what took me so long. Well, in addition to deadlines and other RL stuff, a funny thing happened on the way to the bean jar: my brother's wife left him for another man. Some of the parallels to BC were eerie, and I had to get a grip on things before I felt I could continue. Thanks for your patience -- never have I had a story generate 10+ private messages of encouragement EVERY DAY. Creamer
The next morning Mary showed up late and looking like hell. I guess getting ruthlessly sodomized by your baby's daddy doesn't make for a restful night's sleep. She was, however, wearing one of the outfits I bought her yesterday, and it looked nice on her. Clean. Wholesome.
"Good morning, sleepyhead!" I said with exaggerated cheerfulness.
"Coffee," she barked, her eyes bleary.
"In the pot. Relax and have a cup."
For about ten minutes it was like old times again. It recalled the thousands of times we lazed over breakfast, making small talk, gossiping, and reading the paper. Good married times, until they went away. Then the wave of nostalgia passed when she set her empty mug down with a thud and looked me unsteadily in the eye.
"Where do you wanna do this? Here?" she asked, wearily.
"Hmmm," I said, stalling for a moment to think. "Why don't you go get changed and meet me in the den."
"Okay," she grunted, and got up. I made myself another cup and went to the den, where I had no less than three cameras set up. She only could see one of them. I took a seat and popped a Viagra.
"You want me to wear . . . this?" she asked from outside the room.
"Yep!" I answered, eagerly.
"It's pretty trashy," she said, doubtfully.
"So is sleeping around with guys you meet in the mall. Shake a leg."
"It will take me a minute to do my hair."
I waited and watched porn to get in the mood. The Viagra helped. Remarkable stuff, that. I was going to need it.
You see, my goal today was to make Mary cum as many times as possible.
She had always been shy about that. One, maybe two climaxes and she was pretty much done for the evening. Sometimes the week. But not today. I planned on making her cum so hard her ancestors would need a cigarette afterwards. And repeatedly. I knew for a fact she was multi-orgasmic, although she denied it was a common occurrence. I'd always suspected she held back as part of some sick control issue. I planned on testing that theory. Her clit would get no mercy from me today.
A few minutes later she came into the den in a whimsical version of the traditional Catholic School Girl's Outfit, Pregnant Lady Size. She looked hot – her hair was in twin braids, even. It was nice to see she made the effort.
"This feels . . . really wrong," she said, blushing. "I wore one of these things for years. Before I had boobs. I never felt less sexy."
"And now you do," I commented with a smile. "Sorry if makes you uncomfortable, but . . . tough. I've always had a thing for school girls. It's not uncommon."
"I know," she said, distastefully. "I used to get hit on by dirty old men all the time when I was at school. Creepy."
"Deal with it. And come over here in front of the desk, where the light is better."
"What – Bill, no! Oh my God! You can't tape this!"
"Deny me nothing. On your knees, pretty."
"C'mon, Bill, this is just . . . it's kinda sick!" She made a face.
"Get used to it. It's harmless fun. And I want to remember one of the last times I had sex with my wife." That seemed to strike her like a blow in the gut, and she looked pained for a moment. She sighed heavily a couple of times, then came to some determination.
"All right. Why the fuck not? It's not like my life hasn't gone massively in the toilet anyway," she said, bitterly. "A little more depravity one way or another shouldn't make me any more damned."
"Now, now, naughty girl, that's hardly a proper attitude. You rally should be more repentant. Don't make me spank you. Yet."
"This is why you shaved my crotch, isn't it?" she demanded.
"It was a pleasant confluence of circumstance," I agreed with a chuckle.
"So, what? You want to fuck a little girl?" she said, an edge to her voice.
"No, I want to fuck my wife who is pretending to be a little girl. It's about the pretension of sexual innocence, not a desire for under-aged sex. It's a fantasy, Mary. Nothing more. Would you prefer I had you dress as a nun?"
"That's just . . . that's just wrong. Fine. As long as you know this isn't my idea. I think it's sick. But it's your money, so I guess . . . I guess I'm your innocent little filthy slut." She walked around the couch, affecting a girlish manner, until she saw the array of toys I had laid out.
"What the fuck?"
"Here, why don't you sit here on the floor in front of me? And start playing with yourself through your panties." She shot me a look, but did as I asked. She balked when I set up the camera, but it only took a single look to make her back down.
I made her masturbate. She didn't want to, but the shear depravity of it all – and the fact that she had surrendered control of the situation – compelled her to do it. When we were happily married, in our horny newlywed phase, Mary had indulged my whim a few times with all-too-brief displays of masturbation. She had been shy, she claimed, and didn't do it very often.
As the years had gone by, and her inhibitions grew, such idle amusements had long ago disappeared. But today she would once again indulge me, and I'd enjoy every delicious moment of her discomfort. And her ecstasy.
She was red with embarrassment as she got on the floor and brazenly spread her knees wide. She looked me dead in the eye, steadfastly trying to ignore the camera, and breathing hard – with lust or embarrassment, it was hard to tell which. She slowly pulled her short little skirt up her thighs and exposed the pristine white cotton panties I had provided. Her right hand cupped her mound through them, and she began.
It took her a little while to heat up, of course, but within ten minutes she was starting to get into it. Her finger was making increasingly rapid circles around her clit, and her white panties were growing more and more damp by the moment. Another five minutes and she was cumming, her eyes never leaving mine as her hips gyrated and her fingers flashed. When her climax passed, she exhaled sharply and sat back on her haunches.
"Enjoy the show?" she asked, her voice a defiant mixture of sultriness and bitterness.
"The first act, yeah," I agreed, nodding towards my boner. I pulled a powerful little battery-powered "pocket rocket" out of my pants and tossed it to her. "Continue."
Her eyebrows rose sharply, but she took the thing without comment, but with a heaving sigh, and began again. She held it dead-on her clit, making small circles with it. This time her whole body was wracked with spasms as she ground the little plastic pal into her clit and squeezed off an even more powerful orgasm.
"Whew!" she sighed, more sweat on her brow, as she turned off her little buddy with a twist of her fingers. "Shall I suck you, now, then mister?" she said, affecting the childish tones of a schoolgirl and tilting her head charmingly.
"Oh, not quite yet," I said, this time tossing her a large phallic-shaped vibrator. "You can even take your panties off, this time."
Her eyes were wide this time. She took the vibe and began again, the low hum filling the room until her sighs and moans overtook her. She looked ragged, and a little frightened at her own response. When I gave her a Rabbit I thought I heard her whimper, but still no complaint; she hit three orgasms with that, sawing the plastic fiend in and out of her rabbit hole with abandon, her head thrashing around as her central nervous system strove to content with simultaneous G-spot and clitoral stimulation.
She sheepishly admitted her clit was over-sensitive, so I agreed to let her rest for a moment – with my cock in her mouth. I stood over her and fucked her face for a good ten minutes, careful not to blow my load, while she expressed her arousal with enthusiastic fellatio. She groaned in disappointment when I pulled my rampant prick from her lips with an audible pop.
"What?" she asked, dazed, her hand flying to her mouth. "Did I graze you with my teeth?" She sounded genuinely worried.
"Nope," I said, pulling her to her feet. "I just thought you'd be more comfortable . . . here," I said, pushing her down onto the couch playfully. Before she could recover I dropped to my own knees and attacked her soaking pussy with my lips.
I was merciless, ignoring her wordless protests as my tongue found the engorged head of her clit and flicked it passionately. Eight thousand nerve endings in the clitoris, and by the time she left I planned on tripping the breakers on each and every one of them. The climaxes were coming in waves, now, waves she was powerless to stop. When an exceptionally large orgasm hit, she grabbed my ears with both hands and tried – unsuccessfully – to tear me away from her dripping cunt. I waited for it to pass and then relented, allowing her to rest.
"Oh . . . my . . . God . . ." she panted, her entire face soaked with sweat, now. Her hair was wet with it. "What . . . did . . . you . . . do . . . to . . . me?"
I smiled knowingly, and stood. Before she could stop me I picked her up in my arms and carried her to the guest room. Her head lolled on mine like a child's and I tenderly laid her upon the bed.
"Oh, thank God," she whispered. "I need a nap."
"You just think you do," I answered, not bothering to hide the patronizing tone in my voice. "But you can stretch out a moment while I get ready."
"'Kay," she murmured, here eyes closing.
They opened again with a snap two minutes later, when I handcuffed her to the bedframe.
"Bill," she asked, her voice filled with anxiety and trepidation. "What . . . are you doing?"
"Indulging in a little bondage play. You liked bondage, remember? The one and only time we did it?" I chided.
"Yeah, I know, but—"
" 'Deny me nothing.' Includes handcuffs," I advised. "Look it up. Later."
"You want to fuck me while I'm handcuffed," she said, dully, as if she was trying to convince herself.
"Yep," I said, getting undressed. "Among other things."
"Oh, God. Okay, just . . . I'm a little tender there," she admitted, shyly.
"Oh, that's too bad, then," I said, getting on the bed between her knees. I flipped her cute little skirt up and looked at her deliciously bare twat (under a belly that was already showing it carried a passenger). Her pussy was already red and visibly wet.
"Why?" she asked. I didn't answer her. Or, rather, I answered her rubbing some lotion on her clit. She had a quick intake of breath and an alarmed expression on her face. "What the hell was that?" she demanded.
"Special sauce," I teased. In actuality, it was a combination of three different "clit creams", incorporating everything from L-Argenine to menthol to nicotine. Yes, nicotine. Susan had recommended it. Something about the vasculature of the capillaries in the clit – hey, I'm an accountant. Mary writhed around and made little mewing sounds as the chemicals worked their magick on the tender tissue of her already-abused clit. Her naked twat was literally dripping juices.
"Feeling in the mood?" I teased, penetrating her soaking slit with my ring finger.
"Ahhh! Bill . . . Ohgod . . . What was that?"
"Remember back in the days when we were happily married?" I asked, ignoring her exquisite torture. "Remember all those nights when I crawled into bed after a long day's work and wanted to enjoy the comfort of my wife?"
"Bill . . . it's . . . it's burning . . . no, it's cold . . . ohgod . . ."
"Let's run down the list of excuses you gave me . . . hmm . . . you mind if I consult my notes?" I asked, politely. Not waiting for a response, I pulled a spiral note pad off of the dressed and leafed through it, until I found the page I was looking for.
"Oh, Jesus! Bill! I can't . . ."
"Yes, that was one of them: 'I can't, no reason submitted'. That was a respectable Number Six on the list of your excuses, used fifty-four times during the course of our marriage."
"Bill! You kept track of that shit? Jesus, what a—"
"The word is 'bean counter'," I reminded. "And those were some precious beans, to me, well worth the trouble of counting. But I suggest you adjust your attitude and listen attentively, young lady!" I said, stuffing my tone with mocking officiousness.
"Oh, fuck you! It burns, baby!"
"Let's start at Number Eight – you did have eight main excuses, you know. Plenty of others, of course – your inventiveness was one of the things that attracted me to you – but there were eight major excuses you gave for not engaging in sex. Number Eight was . . . 'I have an early morning, tomorrow.' Thirty-eight times. Upon review, you really did have an early morning exactly . . . twice. So even though your 'job' doesn't start until 9:30 am, you preferred sleep to sex. So while I was hauling myself out of bed at 6:30 every morning to go to the bean countery and pay for your luxurious existence, you just had to have that extra hour-and-a-half beauty sleep.
She groaned, but didn't say anything. I continued.
"Number Seven: 'let's just cuddle, no reason given.' Forty two times. That's a request for non-sexual physical affection – which, I concede, is a worthy and respectable aspect of any good marriage. I like a good cuddle myself, upon occasion. And I respect the need for a woman to desire that, especially in light of a particularly dramatic day's events. It's healthy. But while I'm not privy to the inner details of your mind – obviously, or I would have known you were contemplating adultery – I could only find seven overt instances where I felt the day's events were compelling enough to justify the request. Still, I can give you the benefit of the doubt on that one, mostly."
"You're such an asshole!" she spat. "Sometimes a woman just . . . just wants to be held!"
"Which I performed, upon request, nearly every time," I pointed out. "Only four times in the entire course of our marriage did I feel resentful enough about the situation to refuse. A resentment, I must confess, I feel reflected at this very moment." I removed my finger from pumping her wet hole and stabbed it into my clit cocktail, coating it liberally. Then I re-invaded her pussy, smearing the substance around her sensitive parts with gay abandon. She started moaning deeply as the menthol hit.
"We've covered Number Six already. Number . . . Five," I continued as she squirmed. "An oldie but a goody: 'I have a headache!'" I said with mocking enthusiasm. "Despite pristine healthcare, a cabinet full of state-of-the-art pain relievers, and access to God knows how many funky new-age meditation techniques, your headaches were of sufficient potency to completely preclude any sort of intimate physical activity. For convenience sake, I've added in 'I have a backache, muscle spasm, and/or Charlie horse' to the tally – although I gave you a 'by' each time you were legitimately sick or recovering from sickness. I'm not an ogre, after all. But I cannot believe that any woman is plagued with as many as . . . drum roll . . . Seventy-eight times! I think that's likely to be enough to warrant a CAT scan."
"You're a bastard," she hissed, her breath coming raggedly as I methodically pumped her pussy with my finger. I withdrew it, again, and dipped into the magic potion. This time her labia and asshole got coated. She went wild with that, and for a moment I was concerned she might dislocate something. When she calmed down, I continued.
"We're down to the last four – can you stand the excitement? I think you'll be familiar with Number Four, one of your faves from waaaaaay back, used a whopping ninety three times . . . any guesses? Any?" She continued to writhe on my finger and grit her teeth. "You can take all the time you want . . . I have all day . . ."
"You're . . . hurting . . . me," she gasped.
"I'm afraid that wasn't the answer we were looking for," I said sadly, adding a second finger to the mix. My middle finger was all tingly and numb already – I could only imagine how her pussy must feel. "No, we were looking for . . . 'I'm just not in the mood! At a hundred and thirty-three times – including twice on our anniversary! – you 'just weren't in the mood' for sex, well past the point of even considering enhancing your mood through the use of external stimuli!"
"Can't . . . can't . . . a woman . . . not be in the mood?" she panted. "It happens, sometimes, you know. You aren't always in . . . the mood!"
"Four times," I said, flipping to another page. "Four times I've turned down sex when offered in six years. And while technically correct, statistically that number is insignificant as to be equated to 'zero'. But what do we have for her, Johnny?" I asked, gleefully. I changed the tone and pitch of my voice slightly. "We have a wonderful consolation nipple molestation," I said, unfastening her wholesome yet pretty white cotton bra and releasing her growing titties. Her nipples were rock-hard. I dipped into the jar and smeared her right nipple with the stuff. I worked it in good, too, and she cringed as I did it, her face contorted with fear and dread, her eyes shut against the waves of sensation. This would be rough for her, I knew. Her nipples had become orders of magnitude more sensitive since her pregnancy.
"SHIT! Oh, Jesus! Bill, you're a fucking psychopath!" she screamed as the nerves in her nipples went apeshit. There were tears forming in the corner of her eyes.
"What's your guess for Number Three?" I asked. "Any idea?"
"I'm not playing your fucking game, asswad!"
"No, we were looking for 'not feeling fresh'. That's 'Not Feeling Fresh'," I repeated. "That one weighs in at a whopping hundred and fifty nine times. Aparently you thought your pussy stank – despite the immense amount of money you spent on various lotions, potions and deodorants designed to counteract those sorts of aromas, you 'didn't feel fresh' enough to fuck me. Or even suck my dick. Heh. ESPECIALLY not to suck my dick. Hell, you didn't even offer me a consolation handjob. Just 'Not Fresh', then roll over and go to sleep. Luckily for you, I'm not as miserly with my affections," I said, scooping up the last dollop of cream and spackling her left nipple with it. "I want my sweet little wife to enjoy herself to the fullest."
"AAAAHHHH!" she squealed, her titties waving wildly in the air as her body unconsciously fought to find some way to remove the offending substance. "Yeah, you're a real fucking PRINCE!" she screamed, heatedly. Her hips were gyrating wildly as her sensitive pussy maintained a continuous explosion of sensation and her boobs were burning.
"Oh, I tried. Especially in light of Number Two: 'I have cramps/period/I'm premenstrual.' That's at a very healthy two hundred and twenty one. Two hundred twenty one nights where your monthly cycle was so severe that you were unable to become aroused. Not even to pleasure me. And, very gallantly, I conceded the point to you. Hell, I didn't bother to even approach the subject most of the time . . . even when your period had been over for days. Now, considering the hell-bitch you could be around your period, it was easy to see why I was so accommodating. It would be safer to stick my dick in a garbage disposal. But still, I asked two hundred and twenty one times, and that's the excuse you gave, two hundred and twenty one times."
"I just don't feel like it when I'm on the rag!" she said, bitterly.
"Oh, you made that abundantly clear. Aren't you glad you won't have to suffer thorough the inconvenience of a period for the next eight months in your quaint cottage in the country?