Snowed In Ch. 01

No, the real crusher had come when he admitted to feeling “bored” with her. Feeling trapped is conditional, it is circumstantial. You can change those conditions, alter those circumstances, get beyond it. But being bored? How do you counter that? How do you tell someone “No, you’re not bored with me”?

Above all, how could he possibly feel that way?

Okay -- putting sex aside for the moment. They shared everything, and enthusiastically. Neal had gotten her interested in history, and computers, and British Invasion rock. Mystery novels and science fiction. Cooking, gardening, travel -- these were things she had shared with him. She got him hooked on her old movies, so that Saturday had long been a ritual with them: dinner at a restaurant, back home for a classic film, and sometimes, up to bed for fun. It was all cozy, steady, and (she had thought) happy. It wasn’t boring -- surely not so tedious that he needed to hook up with some little tramp at work, to lie and pretend just so he could fuck her.

And speaking of fucking, what the hell was wrong with their sex life? Okay, so she wasn’t a teenager -- her body was older and plumper. Her skin wasn’t tight as a drum, her breasts sagged a little. But damn it, she wasn’t some old slug either! When she had stopped working a year ago, she had determined not to take it easy, not to allow herself to slide, physically or mentally. She power-walked or rode her bike. She treadmilled. She did sit-ups, every day. Okay, so she didn’t have a 22 inch waist, but she had a waist! She had big, glorious tits and a nice, rounded ass. She kept her hair long like Neal liked it.

And in bed? She was a tiger in bed. No, they didn’t fuck every night like honeymooners, but they did it often and it was good. Keeping the noise down was a fairly frequent concern in their bedroom, even though Sherry was sometimes tempted to let her kids hear them at it -- just to let them know that sex doesn’t have to be dirty, cheap and illicit. It could be nothing short of fantastic, even (especially!) between two old married people who loved each other. She liked sex, liked being fucked, liked Neal’s big dick and what he did with it, and how much spunk he shot when he came. She actually enjoyed going down on him, feeling that big man buck and hearing him cry when she made him cum. Honestly, the man had nothing to complain about. He had no reason to go wandering for fresh fields, no cause -- certainly no sexual cause! -- to find some other outlet for his passion.

Another line:I’m your wife, dammit! And if you can’t work up a little passion for me, then the least I require is respect and allegiance!

Broadcast News, was it? No, it wasNetwork, with Bill Holden.

“Oh fuck it,” she muttered, sitting up and reaching for her cigarettes.

She may as well watch an old movie now, rather than lying there awake, remembering lines. Maybe there would be some much too long, big budget saga on -- something to get sucked into, or at worst, something so boring it would lull her to sleep.

She turned on the TV and huddled the coverlet around her as the eerie gray light filled the room. The sterile light made the room seem even more empty and cold; she flicked through the channels quickly. It was nice, this -- not having to fight over the remote control, just watching what interested her. Ah, the little freedoms of a manless bed.

Trouble was, nothing interested her. Sitcoms from the seventies, infomercials, the utterly depressing shopping channels. A black-and-white movie caught her eye briefly, making her pause and sit up. But it was a silent film, and she quickly became frustrated with the actors’ broad histrionics. They reminded her of evil circus clowns.

Almost at the end of the dial, she stopped. A man and a woman, grinning a bit stupidly at each other. He was forty or more; she couldn’t have been twenty-five. Dreadful fashion from the eighties: multicolored sweatsuit and headband on the girl, big open-collared shirt on the guy. Her blonde hair was teased and frosted, the man had a mullet. They were grouped closely in the shot, standing in a nondescript set that might well have been a hotel room.

Sherry smirked. She had never been a fan, but even she knew this was Reagan era, straight-to-video porn at its worst. And this was what her cable dollar got her.

Nevertheless, she edged up the volume curiously.

HER: --said he’d be gone for a few hours.

HIM:Hmm, okay. Well, did he tell you exactly what your new job is?

HER:No, he didn’t say. He just told me to wait here. With you.

HIM: I see. Well, maybe we can find something to do . . . while we’re waiting.

That was it. Big shit-licking smile from the guy, they moved in close to kiss. Awful lounge jazz swelled up behind them.

So much for classic lines, Sherry thought, smiling. If that was what passed for dialogue, the script must have been three pages long. Good thing too, since the girl couldn’t act to save her life. She couldn’t have ad-libbed a cough, for Christ’s sake. And this was male fantasy: smile and say hello, and the beautiful girl wants to fuck you. Amazing.

Still, the girl had lovely tanned boobs -- real ones, no silicone -- which Mullet Guy didn’t hesitate to pull out for her. She was moaning ridiculously and biting her lip, watching the guy fondling and sucking on her nipples. Between the noise she was making and the sleazy soundtrack, Sherry was forced to lower the volume. But she kept it on, kept watching. There was something so raw about sex that even the poorest example of it had power enough to draw her attention. And though she personally wouldn’t have let Mullet Guy near her on her worst day, what he was doing to Headband Girl’s big pink nipples did look like fun.

Within seconds of first contact the girl was completely naked and on her knees. Sherry was intrigued by her natural curves and her all-over tan -- she wasn’t “perfect,” but she did look real, and gloriously sexy. Sherry didn’t think she’d ever looked that good herself. The girl’s expression as she fumbled with the man’s belt and zipper was one of giddy amusement, her face seeming to indicate her joy at getting her hands on his cock, although really, Sherry thought, she was probably just glad she didn’t have to deliver any more lines.

Sherry actually gasped a little when Mullet Guy’s cock popped out of his pants. He had a thick, fat dick rather like Neal’s. Even longer, perhaps. But it had that same lazy heaviness to it, bigger and thicker when flaccid than lots of guys were when hard. The girl put its ridged head between her cherry lips and sucked inexpertly; the fleshy rod throbbed and surged into life. No wonder Mullet Guy was a porn star, she thought. His dick just kept on going.

Along with the acting, the script, the set, the make up and the music, the editing was awful too: they cut to the guy’s face briefly, and then back to the sucking, which had obviously been going on a while. Someone had apparently told the girl she wasn’t taking him in enough, and now she had so much dick in her mouth her eyes were bugging out. She still made the occasional supposedly ecstatic moan, but she was clearly struggling to swallow inches of cock without gagging. Sherry shook her head disgustedly, knowing that she could have managed it perfectly. Stupid men and their young girl fixation.

Still, she couldn’t deny that the porn, crappy as it was, was having its effect: she was getting warm, and wet. Her nipples, already firm in the chilly air, were growing into solid, tingling points. She hated to succumb to such amateurish junk, but hell, it had been six weeks or so since she had any sex.

Sherry leaned back against the wall, untied her nightgown, took out her breasts. Yes, she had nice, pretty tits -- pearly white and glowing in the faint light. Powdery smooth to the touch, and intensely warm. She toyed with her nipples carelessly and sighed, watching the poor girl smearing her spit and her lipstick all over that gigantic dick. What a dipshit -- all that to play with and she doesn’t know what to do with it. No finesse, no rhythm. She was making a blowjob look like work.

Now if it was her . . . oh it was so easy to close her eyes and imagine it was her, servicing that big, swelling piece of meat. She licked her palms and ran them lightly over her nipples, thinking about how hot and electric that dick skin would feel against her lips, how it would throb on her tongue, the closeness of the tight brown curls, the scent of sex filling her nostrils. The soft, heavy balls brushing against her chin. The little jerks and spasms of the man as she worked her magic. And always, that delicious indecision -- should she take him all the way, suck and lick and coax until he shuddered and groaned, flooding her mouth? or should she pull off when he got close, when she felt his head grow tight and rock solid -- should she use all her oral skills merely to prep him for her pussy? She always lingered interminably between these two pleasant options, never knowing which she would opt for until the glorious moment came.

She had a hand in her panties now, was decisively and unabashedly pleasuring herself. If Neal were to come to bed now he’d find himself superfluous. The thought made her smile -- what would the poor man do? If he had been surprised to glimpse Vanessa’s tits that afternoon, how would he react to finding his “boring” little wife watching sleazy porn and jilling herself crazy?

What a lovely, satisfying message to send him.Go away, you cheating mother fucker -- I’m managing well enough on my own.

She opened her eyes only occasionally to watch the screen, using what she saw there as fuel for her own rapid, spinning fantasy. Now they were fucking on the sofa -- Headband on top, facing away, Mullet thrusting upward into her. If that big dick had looked good in the girl’s mouth, it looked fucking marvelous barreling into her neatly coifed cunt. It was wide and thick, looking as big and round as her own wrist in the close up. Again and again it plunged deep into her as she thrust her hips back to envelop it. The hairs on his inner thighs were plastered down with sweat and sticky juice; the base of his enormous cock glistened with her moisture . . .

Oh god, if that was her she’d fuck herself crazy. She’d impale herself on that fat dick until she couldn’t stand it anymore, until she flooded his lap with her cream. Then she’d have to pull off him slowly and clean him up, just bury her face in his lap and lick him clean, driving him out of his mind in the process . . . ooohhh she could be such a dirty little slut when she wanted to be, and she wanted to be now.

She opened her eyes again, just a peek: they were still at it, fucking their lives away. How did they do it, those porno guys? How did they just keep drilling away, endlessly, with such hot little tramps servicing them, and not lose their control? Were they just that disciplined -- true sexual athletes? or were there many many takes, or even (she shivered at the thought) many many cocks on hand? On and on Mullet Guy plowed, showing no signs of slackness, while the girl’s pussy had become a funky, frothy mess . . . Sherry’s own cunt began aching with every thrust. She burned to feel all of that magnificent prick inside of her, cupped her pussy and burrowed fingers between her wet lips. Oh God, the ache, the emptiness . . . For one weak instant she was desperately tempted to go find Neal -- not to make up or to please him, just to use him, just to exploit his big cock and scratch her itch. No, never . . . she wouldn’t do that. But oh shit, how she wished she had something -- a dildo, a vibrator, carrot, cucumber, anything.

Now the camera angle changed -- she watched the man’s fingers kneading into the girl’s descending butt, leaving bloodless white handprints when he let go. God damn it to hell, it all looked so damned good. So good. Her fingers were strained and tired, cramping even -- but she couldn’t stop.

To have a man like that -- oh not Mullet Guy with his medallions and his sleazy grin -- but to have a man equipped like that, with that much control. To have him right now, with her, in her. Better: to have him with her, fucking seven bells out of her, and to have Neal know it. Now that was a fantasy. Now every thrust, every penetration had new delight as she imagined his powerless, anxious face . . . Perhaps he’d be just outside the door, listening, unable to interfere . . . Or maybe he’d be watching, his puzzled and desperate expression only spurring her on as this other man, this giant stranger stabbed her relentlessly with his huge tool, while she moaned and sighed and wriggled against him, loving his heated breath against her back, and his possessive hands on her ass, and the heat of his immense dick filling her belly . . .

Eyes open: now he was on top. It was incredible, just in-fucking-credible. The camera was in way, way close, and he was pulling his length and girth almost completely out of her sopping pussy, and then slowly sliding all the way back in. All the way, every single inch of him, up to his balls. He was disappearing in her, the lucky little bitch.

Sherry whimpered and looked at the night stand. Oh why the hell didn’t she get with it? Why couldn’t she be a proper twenty-first century woman and own a damned dildo? Vanessa probably had one, probably had several.

Cigarettes. Lighter. Can of Coke -- better not try that.

Remote control?

Yes. It was long and narrow and it was there, in her grasp. She snatched it up, turned her eyes back to the screen in time to see the man’s pace increasing, his big balls slamming against the girl, his ramrodding cock bathed in clinging girl cum. Sherry gasped aloud as the slender instrument touched her pussy; her breathing came in fits and starts as she shifted downward on the bed, trying to raise her cunt to accommodate the makeshift dildo. An inch of it in -- lovely. Another inch, oh so nice -- the little rubber buttons rubbed her clit!

All the way in, all the way in, yes just like him, just like his monstrous, merciless cock was sliding all the way into her . . . ooohhh Jesus Mary and Joseph . . . all of it, every last bit, you son-of-a-bitch! Oh god yes, every fucking inch!

Mullet had pulled out now, he was jacking in the girl’s face. Every vestige of delicacy, femininity, prettiness was drained from her -- she shuddered and grimaced before his tremendous cockhead, her hair a mess, her make up smudged, mascara running, lipstick smeared all around her gaping mouth . . . His hand wrenched a tangle of her hair, held her head still, made her look, forced her to want it. It was absurd, preposterous, thoroughly sexist -- the girl waiting in the office, responding to the pathetic advances of a slimeball, now being humiliated, subjugated, facially raped. But oh god, it looked good, and Sherry couldn’t stop plunging the device, in and out, in and out.

She came like a freight train: long and slow and steady. Chills swept over her whole body just seconds before the man’s cock spat its thick spume onto the girl’s cheeks and lips. Her pussy clenched and contracted around the remote and a fire spread through her chest as the girl accidentally caught a huge spurt of cum in her mouth. Her weary, cramped fingers were bathed in a surge of juice, while the man slapped the girl with his deflating dick, and wiped its slimy head against her cheeks. She shivered and sighed, long and unsteadily, the last gut-wrenching spasms resounding through her from head to toe, while the shaken girl took the dying monster between her untidy lips, to milk out its last drops.

She lay there a long time, trying to decide whether to be relieved or ashamed. When the ticklish process of extracting the remote control was completed, she decided that -- however weird that had been -- she had nothing to be ashamed of. If there was a real willing dick in the house she would have fucked it instead. If Neal wasn’t man enough to provide her with pleasure, then damn it, she’d provide her own. Hell, she’d find someone whowould provide it -- every single fucking inch of it.

At the very least, she’d never have to fight him for the remote again. It was now unquestionably hers, she thought, as she casually touched its sweet little buttons to her tongue.

***

The soft pads of footsteps in the chilly hallway. A groaning creak; he winced. He’d forgotten about that board.

He tried the knob gingerly: locked. He frowned, tapped the door with only his fingernail, but steadily.

“What?” came a harsh whisper, eventually.

“Open up,” he whispered back.

“What do you want?”

“Come on, open up!”

Footfalls within. The door opened a crease, painfully slowly.

“What?”

“Christ, did you hear her?”

“Yes, I heard her. You shouldn’t be listening -- go back to bed!”

“Lemme come in a while.”

“No.”

“Aw come on, you said no last night!”

“Josh! It’s too quiet tonight! Dad’s not in there snoring, Mom might hear us --”

“Just for a little while. Come on, please?”

She sighed, opened the door wider. He passed into her room silently. It was crazy, but she had the toughest time saying no to him.

December Twenty-fourth

Everyone in the Ford home arose late the next day. Even Neal, the proverbial early bird, did not awaken until nine thirty, though the couch was horribly uncomfortable and his neck painfully stiff.

One reason for the tranquilized condition of the family was that they had all enjoyed gratifying and powerful orgasms the night before.

Sherry of course was completely spent after her solo flight: beyond doubt, the most fun she had ever had with a piece of video equipment.

Neal recovered sufficiently from his furtive wank in the bathroom that evening to coax another cum from his prick around one o’clock -- a cum inspired, in roughly equal proportions, by the porn channel, memories of Melanie, and a torrent of guilty, half-suppressed thoughts about his daughter’s milk-filled breasts.

Of course, another reason for the Fords’ late rising was the weather. It had remained bitingly cold all night long, even with the heat going. And the light which managed to penetrate the blinds and curtains throughout the house was feeble and dim. At first Neal had thought the den clock must be wrong -- that steely, gunmetal gray outside belonged to the sky of six o’clock, not half past nine. Upon arising at last, he peered out the window into the backyard, stopped rubbing his neck, and whistled.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said.

Everything was white. Bright, glistening white. It had actually snowed.

Amazing. Oh, it wasn’t much by any standards. Just a light frosting. Still, he hadn’t seen snow of any kind for nearly fifteen years. He loved the look of new snow -- it always made everything look so clean and fresh. It took him back to his childhood in Indiana. For a long while he just stood at the frosty window and drank it in.

So . . . the weather man had been right, for a change. He remembered the conversation he had with Nessa last night -- it came swimming back to him through a wave of indecent fantasies. Wouldn’t she be thrilled when she awoke? Automatically, he wondered what Melanie thought of it, how she must look at her window, how cozy it would be to be standing behind her there, stroking her hair. How lovely some lazy, late morning sex with her would feel, with all that cold whiteness just outside . . .

A noise on the stair distracted him. Improbably, it was Josh, his six-foot-four frame stumbling about like one of the living dead. He halted at the entrance to the den, and one-upped Neal by exclaiming, “What the fuck?”

“Well said,” Neal laughed. “It’s snow.”

The boy yawned and scratched his nuts.

“This is Florida,” he offered.