tagNonConsent/ReluctanceBean Counter Ch. 08

Bean Counter Ch. 08


The next few days were busy. Not only was it a short week, due to the Thanksgiving holiday, but I had to get tooled up for the new contract that started January 1. I had to hire six new accountants, find them offices, computers, support staff, and all that good stuff. Mary was only able to fulfill her obligation twice, once at her work on Tuesday ("Twiggy" the college student was getting used to our "marital discussions" in the back, by now) and then on Wednesday in my office.

Mary was almost over her snit about the mysterious panties by then, and when she asked to come up about six o'clock she sounded almost normal. I agreed, mostly because I had been working so hard and needed a good stress-relieving break. Everyone else had taken off early for the holiday, so I actually had to go down and let her in.

Once we got to my office, with a minimum of chit-chat, I merely opened my pants, slid them to my ankles, and settled back into my office chair. Mary took her now-familiar position between my knees and took a moment to study my growing cock.

"Where have you been recently, I wonder?" she asked it, idly.

"Oh, out and about," I said. "We have quite the social life."

"So I imagine," she said, a trace of sourness in her voice. She played with it for a few more minutes before leaning in and beginning her attack. I have to admit, seeing the jealousy so prominent in her expression was thrilling.

Unlike the pro forma BJ she had given me the day before, she was very deliberate, using her tongue to play around the head and shaft with rapid butterfly licks. It was very nice – she knew where I was most sensitive, and hit those spots relentlessly. It was as if she was trying to impress me, some how; I can't explain how, but the way she sucked my dick that day I can only describe as "competitive", as if she was trying to prove her sexual worth. It took me a while to remember why this suck session felt so familiar, and then it hit me.

About six weeks after we had started dating, but before we became exclusive, I had a date with a tall, leggy blonde from my Macroeconomics Honors class – Brenda, her name was. While she was not the best-looking woman in school, she was certainly the hottest chick in Macro, and scoring a date with her was a real coup among my fellow accountancy geeks. We went to a movie, had a burger, and had a good time; she had even given me a handjob in the parking lot of her apartment building before a kiss goodnight and the promise of a second date.

When I got back to my student slum apartment, there were four messages from Mary. I returned her calls, sheepishly admitted to being on a date, gave the barest of hints that things had gone well, and within twenty minutes she was in my "living" room sexually attacking me. I wasn't complaining – I liked Mary a lot, even then.

When she cornered me about my evening's activities and I had admitted to the somewhat limited scope, she pushed me back onto the papa-san chair and treated me to a ferocious blowjob. Exactly like this one. After she had taken me to the edge of bliss and beyond and swallowed my load like a good potential girlfriend, she wiped her lips, gave me a look and said "You remember that next time you think about dating her again!"

Mary wasn't competitive about very much. But when it came to her man – whomever that might be – she was as aggressive as a lioness.

I watched with fascination as her lips plied skillfully from base to tip, and I felt a bizarre satisfaction that she would put up such a display to impress me even after she had dumped me. Jealousy is a strange and powerful thing.

Heh. I'm telling YOU that.

I held out as long as I could, but after twenty all-too-short minutes she was drinking down my sperm with slurps of satisfaction. She didn't say anything else about another woman – but it was implied.

"So," she said, as she got out her Chapstick. "What are your plans for Thanksgiving?"

I shrugged, too spent to even pull up my pants yet. It had been a stressful day. "An old friend of mine invited me over. At their parent's place," I said, putting just a hint of depressed resignation into my voice.

"I'm glad you found somewhere," she said, putting the tube away. "I thought you might go to Seattle to be with your sister."

"I've got too much to do," I said, motioning to the mass of paperwork that was my desk. "I couldn't justify taking that time off right now. It'll be okay," I conceded, defensively. "You going to your folks' place?"

She looked at me, and I knew she really didn't want to discuss it. "Yes," she said, tight-lipped. "And before you ask, yes, I'm taking Tim to meet them."

"Oh, that should go well," I said, sarcastically.

"You leave that to me," she snapped. "And it's too bad you had other plans. I was going to invite you, too. So you could meet him, finally. Someplace where you would be obligated not to hurt him."

"I'm sure Mr. Studly Painter Dude is just full of muscles," I said, grimly. I outweighed Tim by a good thirty pounds, easily, and if the boy worked out I had seen no evidence of it. "Besides, I'm not a violent man."

"No," she conceded, "No, you're aren't. Just as well, then," she said, snapping her purse closed. "But maybe I can convince Mom to make you a plate."

"I do so love her pumpkin pie," I said, wistfully. "I'd hate to miss out on that. That would be very gracious of you."

Oh, tomorrow was going to be good.


That night on the MaryCam I watched her lie there and take her nightly dose of sodomy without complaint, then roll over and start to lecture her disinterested boyfriend.

"Now, Dad was in the Marines for twenty years, and is now retired. Mom worked as a school nurse. Both are pretty conservative, so let's avoid any discussion of politics and radical Marxism, OK? And don't talk about pacifism. Or any 'ism' at all, OK?" She was starting to sound desperate.

"Great, I'm marrying into the bourgeoisie," he moaned. "And Christo-fascist warmongers, at that!"

"Stop it!" Mary said, angrily. "You don't want to get Daddy any more upset than he already is. This is our shot at making peace, introducing you respectfully, and letting them get to know you a little without all the scandal, OK? No politics – no religion."

"I don't have any religion, so that won't be a problem," he said.

"Don't mention that – Daddy hates atheists. He's been a big supporter of the Church for years. He'd rather see me marry a pygmy bushman and practice animism than marry an atheist. So no, I repeat: NO discussion of religion or politics. Or money," she added. "DO NOT mention money or how poor we are at all. He'll take it as a sign of weakness, like you're trying to ask for a loan. That . . . that wouldn't be good."

"Fine!" he said derisively. "We'll just stick to how cute little Mary was!"

"Let's . . . let's just focus on our future plans, OK? That should be safe enough. A few more shows, the Spring Fest art walk, then a major exhibit downtown sometime soon – say by next Fall."

"Yeah, like that's going to happen," he said, miserably.

"Focus!" she said, snapping her fingers under his nose. "Talk about the BABY. They'll like that. The first grandchild. They won't be able to kick you around so much if you're their grandbaby's father."

"What if they mention . . . Dollar Bill?"

"They won't – that would be rude. They may hate the sight of you, but nothing could keep them from being polite at Thanksgiving. It's just how they're built."

"Bourgeois!" he said, shaking his head. "Please God don't tell me they live in the suburbs – I don't think I could handle that."

"No, they built a house in the country," Mary said. "Daddy bought twenty acres when he retired from the service. Mostly woods, actually. Oh, and Daddy will feel honor-bound to show you his classic car collection, back in the shed. Just humor him, OK? No 'the internal combustion engine is killing the planet' stuff, OK?"

"This is sounding more and more like Hell," he said, burying his face in the pillow.

"Oh, stop it. Let's just hope that Daddy doesn't show you his gun collection."

"Guns?" That got Dickless' attention. "He has a gun collection?"

"Yes, he does. He's a collector. But don't let it scare you. He hasn't even fired one in years."

"What have I gotten myself into?" he moaned again.

More trouble than you ever imagined, I answered him silently, grinning manically.


"Just wait out here a minute, let me go in first and set the stage," Susan said warmly. "I want to get the maximum effect." Mary and Dickless had beaten us here. The Gremlin was parked behind Dad's pick-up truck, looking a little lost.

"Sounds like a plan," I agreed. I silently felt for the digital camera in my pocket. It did a fair amount of video, and I wanted as much of the coming conversation on tape as possible. It was bound to provide hours and hours of entertainment in the future. I had even taken the precaution of putting a strip of electrical tape over the indicator light on the front of it so I could set it up in a surreptitious way.

Susan walked to the door, looking splendid in some of Mary's finer upscale wardrobe – a cream-colored cashmere sweater, smart wool skirt, books, and the gorgeous yet affordable fur coat I got for her for our third anniversary. A moment later, she stuck her arm out and waved me in.

Margaret and Paul, my in-laws, had that Old South graciousness in spades. Their house was always immaculate and ready for company, and I always enjoyed my visits here. Holidays were especially pleasant, as Paul – or Dad, as he insisted I call him – was generally less crotchety and opinionated (and often more buzzed) around the holidays than the rest of the year. Margaret was a pleasure to be around twelve months a year – and the holidays was when she shone the brightest.

I stuck my head in. "Do I smell pie?" I asked, with a big grin.

Margaret, my mother-in-law, beamed and squealed. "BILL!"

She was an attractive woman in her 50s – one of the many selling points on getting married to Mary was seeing what her future looked like. Margaret had maintained her youthful body (with only a little well-earned padding) and complimented it with a trace of gray and a maturity in her face that was warm, not worn. I'd always liked her – she was the perfect wife and mother, a gracious hostess, a respectable member of the community and an exemplar of domesticity. As mothers-in-law go, I got a winner. She'd always liked me, perhaps because I was so unlike her rough-and-ready husband.

"I . . . hope I'm not intruding," I said nervously. "I know this is a family dinner—"

"Not another word, Bill!" she scolded. "In the eyes of the Lord and the Church, you will always be my son-in-law! You will always be welcome in my home, especially at the holidays!"

"Thanks," I breathed. "I've been feeling a little . . . out of place, lately."

She frowned. "I can imagine. When Susan said she was bringing a date, I thought maybe one of the teachers from work. I never suspected . . ."

"MOTH-er!" Susan complained, rolling her eyes. "I'm going to marry for money, which excludes everyone I work with."

"What about love?" Margaret pined.

"Yeah, look where that got Mary," my sister-in-law said, bitingly. "She had both and tossed them. Now she's got an underemployed—"

"Look, if it's going to cause you grief, I'll leave," I promised, shooting Susan a look. "But not without some pie. I know this is Mary's special day." She made a sour face at that. "I take it you've met the gentleman in question?"

"No, but I met her . . . paramour." She leaned forward. "Not impressed. Not impressed at all."

"What about Dad?" I asked, innocently. Margaret's face got more severe.

"I think he shares my opinion," she whispered. "They're in the den right now. Mary's trying to mediate between them. It's not going . . . well," she finished, a hint of sad laughter in her eyes.

"Well, considering all the grief he gave me when I started dating his daughter, I should think that Tim should get at least that much kicking around first," I said with a grin.

Their father had not been thrilled when I started going out seriously with Mary. I wasn't Catholic. I wasn't a Marine –I had studiously avoided the armed forces in my passionate pursuit of accounting. And I wasn't into cars the same way he was.

But I was polite, respectful, and unwilling to fake it – and their Dad hated fakes more than anything. So while he thought there was something unmanly about my profession (an attitude which he amended slightly when I saved him about $6000 on his taxes the first time I did them) he respected me as a good husband and provider. We had our differences, but nothing we couldn't put aside for our mutual goal of making Mary happy.

But that first six months of our engagement had been pretty hard, and had included a mandatory hunting trip with him and his ex-Marine friends, a few hours of quality time underneath his '67 Mustang, and more "touch" football on the holidays than I'd really cared for. And, of course, he ragged on me the entire time. If you couldn't hang in his macho world, you didn't belong in his daughter's life. I could only imagine what was going on in the den.

"Can I help?" I asked, taking off my coat and hanging it on the rack. "I see dishes that need doing!"

"That's women's work!" Margaret chided. "You should be in the den, watching football!"

"Because you know how much I love football," I moaned. I loathed the game – I'm a die-hard Braves fan, and NCAA basketball, but football is nasty, brutish, and short. "No, it might not be manly, but I think you need me here more than they need me in there. Besides, I wouldn't want to step on Mary's toes." I pulled on a frilly apron and started washing pots and pans, which I knew secretly pleased Margaret to no end. In her family, menfolk kept to the den and masculine pursuits while women cooked, set the table, served and cleaned up on Thanksgiving and Christmas. She was a holdover from an earlier era, and Susan – and Mary, for that matter – didn't share her dedication to domesticity.

"I'm going to make myself a drink and listen in," Susan said, mischievously. "You take good care of my date, Mother!"

"Oh, I will!" she said, happily. As soon as we were alone, she pounced.

"I wish you would put a bullet in his goddamn empty head, Bill," she whispered as she mashed the potatoes with malice of forethought, and in absolute seriousness.

"Now, Margaret, you know I'm not a violent man," I answered quietly. "But that doesn't mean I won't . . . get some satisfaction. I just have to do it my own way."

"Well, what ever it is you're going to do, do it twice as hard for me!" she said viciously. "I know I just met him, but I hate him already!"

"He can't be that bad," I whispered back. "As long as Mary is happy," I conceded, sadly.

"He's a fucking idiot!" she said, a tear coming to her eye. That was two swear words in a row. On a holiday, no less. She was really worked up about this. "And, no, I don't think she's happy."

"Well, what I have planned . . . it might make Mary a little unhappy," I said, with just enough guilt in my voice to keep her sympathetic. I needn't have bothered.

"Good! I can't believe her! A married woman, carousing like a common whore! With someone like THAT! I didn't raise her that way, I swear!" she said, weeping.

"Margaret, get a hold of yourself," I said, gently. "It has nothing to do with you. Me, perhaps. But it's all about Mary. She's an adult. She gets to make adult decisions." I glanced toward the doorway that led to the den. "And live with the consequences."

We went back to idle chatter and clanking dishes until I heard someone approach.

"So who's this mystery man Susan's so—OHMYFUCKINGGOD! BILL!" Mary gasped, her hand over her gaping mouth.

"Hi, honey!" I said, sweetly. "Happy Turkey Day!"

"Don't you DARE blaspheme in my house again, you little whore!" Margaret whispered viciously. "I don't care what kind of sick sins you indulge in under your own roof, but this is a Christian home!"

"I'm . . . sorry," she said, absently, still in shock at seeing me. The look she gave me alone was worth any grief I might get for this. "Bill, what the HELL are you doing here?"

"Washing dishes," I said, innocently, nodding towards the soapy sink in front of me.

"You . . . you know what I mean!"

"Susan very kindly invited him," Margaret said, evenly. "He didn't have other plans. And he is still welcome in this house," she reminded her daughter. "If you don't like it, well, you know your way out."

"I can't believe you," she said, her face contorted in horror. "This was supposed to be a special day!"

"I'd say it's stacking up as one of the family's all-time most special days," I admitted.

"Does Daddy know you're here? Maybe you can slip out without him knowing—"

"Why in Heaven would he do such a thing?" Margaret asked indignantly. "Bill is our son-in-law. He's welcome here."

"Not by me!" she spat. "You've got some nerve, Bill!"

"I'm not here to cause trouble," I insisted. "Your folks are the closest family I've got. And your sister has been very supportive of me these last few weeks."

"I know," she said darkly. "Which is why she got MY makeup, MY clothes, and MY fur coat!"

"It was either that or Good Will, and I thought she'd appreciate it more," I said, casually.

"You are an utter asshole, Bill," she steamed. "And you had better not start anything, or I swear to—"

"ENOUGH, young lady!" Margaret bristled. "Bill is family, and Susan's guest. Since we are extending goodwill to you in your choice of guests, I don't think it's too much to ask that we give your sister the same consideration."

Mary paused, looking daggers at us both. "I need to go break this to Tim," she said darkly, and left.

"That went better than I expected," I admitted.

"Don't let her get to you," Margaret said warmly. "I don't know what's gotten into her . . ."

"Well, if you find out, let me know," I said, miserably. "Maybe I can talk to her some while she's here. We've been . . . talking a lot, actually. Nothing much has come of it. But I wouldn't feel like a man if I didn't try."

She gave me a long, loving, matronly look. "I'm so sorry she hurt you, Bill. And it might not be the most Christian thing in the world to say, especially about your own daughter, but . . . I hope she suffers for this, somehow."

I didn't say a word.


Gosh, dinner was fun!

Tim eyed me malevolently across the table the entire evening while he picked at his meal – that was a major mistake on his part. Margaret judged your character in part by how well you ate her food, and I was digging in with unfeigned gusto. She was a great cook.

Susan watched everyone like she was having an entertaining night at the theater. And I suppose she was – you could cut the tension with a butter knife. She looked great, and was quite witty at times. She was also pleasantly buzzed from liberal-sized gin and tonics she had been tossing down.

Dad was visibly troubled, and winced every time Mary spoke. That was hard to see on a man who was proud of his ability to take pain – like the Iraqi bayonet he had taken in the back in the first Gulf War. I know Mary idolized her father, and every wince was a profound condemnation of her choices that stabbed her in the heart.

Margaret was subtly disparaging, but openly gracious. The wine helped. We hadn't been there for more than half an hour, and she was in her second bottle.

And Mary? She looked like she had entered a special torturous hell with a festive holiday theme. When she spoke, it was in a low, submissive tone, half little girl and half indignant adult, and often in an attempt to get between Tim and everyone else. He needed her help in this hostile environment. The boy kept stepping in it every time he opened his mouth. Of course, I just fed him more fuel and enjoyed the result, all without appearing anything less than a perfect gentleman.

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