Death By Fucking Ch. 11

We are watching the ruination and homogenization of America. I don’t even mind so much that things are the same. But why was the bar set so low? Why is this a lowest common denominator America? What happened to the country that was once so great, so varied, so original?

I don’t want to get out of bed at my hotel in the morning and not be able to tell if I’m in Georgia or Michigan. I don’t want sameness. Fuck sameness.

The next morning we put in a couple of hundred miles I guess, using the very same interstate highway that I so detest in theory but can’t avoid using in practice. Hypocrisy thy name is Andrew. We picked up I16 somewhere south of Atlanta and took it almost all the way to Statesboro.

Well the IAM isn’t actuallyin Statesboro. It’s like in suburban Statesboro. That’s kind of like saying that it isn’t in the middle of nowhere, it’s in a suburb of the middle of nowhere. It turns out that the foundation is located in the original plantation of the very same Howard Johns who founded IAM over 160 years ago. I bet it looked better then.

How was I able to drive right to IAM? One word: Mapquest. Or is that two words? So we found this obscure old dilapidated mansion with multiple acres of land, all of which needed care. The place looked like it had weathered one too many hurricanes.

There was a large front porch with huge Grecian columns – with the paint pealing off. By the door was a discrete sign which read “The Institute for the Advancement of Mankind” in letters too small to read unless you walked right up to it. Donnie opened the door.

We walked into the main hallway of this antebellum mess. Dust was everywhere. The rug which covered the floor was worn and frayed. There was an open door to our left and we could see an old desk sitting in the middle of a small office. Behind the desk was a little old lady with gray hair held in a bun. Her wire-rimmed glasses gave her a bit of a John Lennon look. She was wearing a high collared dress with a crocheted shawl around her shoulders.

I couldn’t begin to guess her age, but she had to be eighty if she was a day. When she spoke her voice wavered. Her lips seemed to be stuck together. I wondered when the last time she spoke was.

“May I help you?” the old lady asked.

I walked up to her desk. “We’re looking for the Institute for the Advancement of Mankind. I assume this is it. Could we talk to the person in charge?”

The lady look surprised. “This is the Institute. You saw the sign didn’t you? What business do you have here?” She seemed to notice Donnie and Deirdre for the first time. “Oh, are you two of the twins?”

Dee Dee nodded her head. “Yes, ma’am. We are Donna and Deirdre Martin. At least we were. Now I am Deirdre Adkins. And who might you be?”

The old lady replied, “I’m Doris Johns. If you want to know who runs the institute, you are looking at her.”

I noticed an ancient mimeograph machine sitting in a corner of the small office. There were several rickety filing cabinets arrayed across the back wall. A manual Remington typewriter was perched upon the desk. I idly wondered how much all of this would fetch on theAntiques Roadshow.

Doris suddenly moved from behind the desk and it was then I realized that she hadn’t been sitting down. The woman was about 4’ 8”.

I said, “Ms. Johns, where is everyone else? Who helps you with all of this? After all, you send flyers to forty thousand people.”

“I do it myself, young man. Do ya’ll see anyone else? I only send out about ten to twelve thousand flyers, since I send one per pair of twins, and I don’t send any to children. Their mothers can keep them informed. I do about 1000 a month. That and keeping track of births and deaths has kept me busy these last sixty years.”

Donnie spoke up. “But mathematically this is getting worse every year, isn’t it? How will you be able to carry the increased workload as more babies are born and grow up? And pardon me for saying so Ms. Johns, but aren’t you getting on in years?”

Doris cracked a smile. It looked like the expression was superimposed on a piece of plaster. This is a woman who rarely smiles. “I’m only eighty-five. I’ve got a few good years left. But this is a boring job. I’ve always wanted to go to Disneyland, but I just can’t afford to take the time off. And there isn’t a lot of money anyway.”

Dee Dee asked her, “Isn’t there anyone else to help you? Who is going to take your place when you retire? Really, Ms. Johns, you shouldn’t be working at your age. You should be enjoying your leisure time.”

Doris said, “Somebody has to do it. Since my husband died I’m the only one left. I’m afraid that when I go that will be the end of the institute. Anyway, what are you doing here? I’ve never gotten a visitor who didn’t want money. Well, I don’t have any money to give you. I’m sorry, but it’s all gone. I’ve barely enough to live on and pay the taxes on this monstrosity of a house that my husband left me.”

Donnie said, “We aren’t here for money, Mrs. Johns. We are sight-seeing, really. We just wanted to come here and see how things were being handled. But it seems to us you need help. Isn’t there anything we can do?”

Doris actually laughed. It sounded like sandpaper rubbing across a blackboard. “You can buy me out, that’s what you can do! Got ya, didn’t I? You didn’t expect that, did you young lady?”

My mind was whirling. The thought occurred to me that if this ‘next generation’ thing was going to get off of the ground, Doris Johns was not the person to get it airborne. Maybe I wasn’t either, but at least I had a longer life expectancy.

“Mrs. Johns, what would it take to buy you out? We might be interested in running the institute ourselves. After all, we are already part of it.” I didn’t look at either Donnie or Dee Dee, assuming they were aghast at my foolishness.

“Well, young man (and what is your name, anyway?) I’m not so sure. I’ve got to live, you know. I want to do a bit of traveling since I’ve never been further than Atlanta to the west and Savannah to the east. And I can’t keep up this old house let alone take care of the lawns. Make me an offer. But if you aren’t sincere about running the institute, then don’t bother.”

I thought it was time to cover my ass. “Sorry for the lack of introductions. I’m Andrew Adkins. Mrs. Johns, let me talk to my two associates here before we go any further. We really just came to see the institute. We hadn’t any intention of buying it. We’ll go outside and talk things over, if that is alright with you.”

With that, the three of us went outside and walked around the grounds. Dee Dee was the first to voice her concerns. “Andrew, are you out of your fucking mind? How are you going to run the institute? You don’t even know what it does. You don’t know what information they have. What about this house? It looks like it hasn’t been painted since the depression.”

I said, “But how do you feel about it?”

Donnie actually defended my position. “Andrew might be right. If we don’t do something, IAM is dead. If IAM is dead then any chance for the next generation is dead with it.”

I added, “We’ve got to find out if this little burg can get high speed internet access. Can’t do it without high speed access, you know.”

Dee Dee asked “Is that some sort of fetish with you? We’re thinking about changing our entire lives and you’re talking about high speed access?”

I tried to be reasonable. “It’s true. We cannot do it without high speed access. It’s a major consideration, because our primary method of dealing with the twin population would be on the internet. I know I don’t plan to send out ten thousand mimeographed flyers every year.”

Donnie said “Let’s talk money. How much should we be prepared to offer that little old lady? Let’s face it, this ‘mansion’ here is no prize. It will cost us a bundle just to make it livable. So Andrew, how much do you have to put into this?”

I grimaced. “Donnie you know I was just a lowly computer geek. I’ve got maybe 40 grand put away. How much do you think the old bat will need?”

Dee Dee and Donnie are the business experts in the family. I don’t know from nothing related to business. They, on the other hand, are PhD candidates. I’ve no illusions related to who should be making the final decisions about the family business.

Deirdre decided to be less negative. “Right now Doris has nothing. We have no idea what she has in the bank, but her only real assets are this tumble-down plantation and the IAM mailing list. Let’s bargain with her. If we bought the place outright from her, where would she go? She would have to turn around and buy another house and try to take care of it. The woman is eight-five years old. She can’t be starting a new life like that now.”

Donnie picked up the line of reasoning. “We can make her an offer she can’t refuse. Let’s give her two options. Option one: find an assisted living facility where she can be taken care of and be with other old people. We can pay for her way into the facility and guarantee the monthly fee for the remainder of her life. And we could give her enough cash on top of that to travel a bit as well. Option two: we can let her stay in this house with us for the remainder of her life; with free room and board along with a healthy chunk of cash to let her travel. It seems to me that either of those options would be far better than her present situation.”

I said, “How much is a healthy chunk of cash? And how much is option one really going to cost? Can we afford option one and still rebuild this old house?”

Dee Dee chimed in. “Let’s talk it over with Doris. Let’s find out what it will take.”

So we walked back into the house to find Doris back at her desk, doing whatever she does. We let Donnie repeat what she had thought of. Donnie finished by saying, “We can write an air-tight contract so you can be sure that you will be taken care of for the rest of your life. You can give it to your lawyer and have him sign off on it. This is an awfully abrupt decision for us. We certainly had no intention of trying to take over the institute when we came down here. But the work you are doing is so important to us that we are willing to change our lives to make sure that it continues.”

Dee Dee said, “Doris, does any of this appeal to you? Do you have children? What are your thoughts?”

Doris gave us that granite look with the superimposed smile. “I have no children. My needs aren’t very great. I certainly don’t want to live with a bunch of old people. I’ve always been very comfortable right here, though I will admit that it needs a bit of repair.”

I said, “Yes it does need a bit of repair. We are very aware of that fact. But do you like option two then? Could you set a dollar figure that you would be happy with?”

Doris actually gave us a real smile. “Tell you what young’uns, Write up your contract. Instead of a fixed dollar amount, guarantee me two trips a year to any place in the continental US. Then give me time to think it over.”

Donnie said, “Okay. But let’s make it the Western Hemisphere. You might want to go to Mexico or the Caribbean or even Canada. You can watch over us to make sure we are doing it right. Oh, and Andrew says the deal is contingent on us having high speed internet access.”

Doris asked, “What’s internet access?”

And that’s how we became IAM. It didn’t cost us a penny out of pocket! Oh, of course we had to spend over a hundred and thirty grand to renovate the place. It needed a new roof. Who woulda guessed?

It had to be painted. The plumbing was designed by the Marquis de Sade. Yes there was cable access. So we converted one of the downstairs rooms into a computer center. We took a wall out between two bedrooms upstairs to make a room for the three of us.

Yes, by this time we had decided to combine our sleeping arrangements. It was just too difficult not to sleep with both of them. I’m not talking sex, I’m talking emotional comfort. So we have this enormous bed. I sleep in the middle and Donnie and Dee Dee sleep on each side.

My favorite position is when they both cuddle up to me with a head on each shoulder. Cuddling two pregnant women at once is sensory overload in action, especially in the morning when I wake up to two beautiful girls going down on me.

Donnie’s Story

We’ve had to make some concessions to our pregnancy, now that we are so far along. It’s just more and more difficult for Andrew to be on top, if you know what I mean.

I like being on top myself. My tits are bigger and more sensitive than they were before. When I’m on top (especially at the start of our lovemaking) Andrew can spend much more time taking care of my tits. It feels so good.

I can tell that Andrew is getting nervous about the impending birth. He’s never been with a pregnant woman before, and from his perspective we look like we could give birth at any second. We are big.

Andrew was going down on me. I love it when he goes down on me. He has an amazing tongue, does our Andrew. He starts so slowly, licking my thighs, feeling my tits, avoiding my center until I have to demand that he pay attention to my pussy. He can be very cruel that way. He likes to hear us beg.

But when he finally reaches my pussy! It hurts so good. To feel that long tongue of his sliding deep inside me! God’s in his heaven, all’s right with the world. And then he starts with my clitoris. He always avoids my clit until I almost have to force him to pay attention to it.

He was being his typical torturing self, drawing out my pleasure, avoiding my climax, making me crazy. It suddenly occurred to me that I could exact a measure of revenge. I was close, but I knew it was too early from Andrew’s point of view. He was going to bring me up only to bring me down a little. It isn’t that I mind so much. After all, when he does this my climax is beyond belief. But I just wanted to tweak him a little bit.

He was head first between my legs, licking my pussy, occasionally sucking my clit between his licks (I love that one). Suddenly I cried out, “Andrew! My water’s breaking”

He dove off of the bed onto the floor. Perhaps he was afraid of drowning in amniotic fluid. It was so funny! I was laughing, my tits were bouncing, Andrew first looked confused, then angry.

He said, “So your water isn’t breaking, is it?”

I couldn’t stop laughing. “If it makes you feel better, I have to pee.” And with that I hopped out of bed and waddled into the bathroom. I did have to pee.

I came back into bed, still laughing. I’m not sure that Andrew saw the humor in the situation. I made him lie on his back and climbed right on. And then I had what I’ve come to think of as a laugh fuck.

Maybe I’m perverted. Or maybe it harkens back to the first night I met Andrew. We had been caught in the act by Deirdre as she came out of her shower. That was when Andrew didn’t even know that I existed.

When he finally understood the situation, that he had made love to me thinking I was Dee Dee, he started to laugh. He was still deeply imbedded in my pussy. And Andrew goes deeper than any man I had known before.

But then he started to make jokes about the situation: this was a world record for meeting, fucking and coming to orgasm. It may have been a world record, but meanwhile we were still firmly linked together by that magnificent dick. And he was laughing. And I guess maybe I was laughing too.

And the laughter felt so good as his rock hard manhood massaged the walls of my pussy. It made short stabbing motions, like little explosions inside me. Right in mid-laughter I climaxed. That might have been another world’s record, I don’t know.

It was a laugh fuck. So here we were again, Andrew inserting that long fat dick of his into my pussy. Well, perhaps it was me doing the inserting. He was flat on his back.

Even though he had looked a little foolish diving onto the floor (very foolish come to think of it), he maintained his erection. I’m beginning to think it is an aberration of Andrew’s. No one can maintain an erection like Andrew can. When he is with us, just a flash of thigh, or perhaps a look at our derriere, and Andrew is hard. We do play with him that way. He tortures us with his tongue. We torture him by making his dick rise and fall. At some point it refuses to fall, and that’s when the game ends.

It feels so good to be impaled on Andrew’s dick. I’m just a big fat thing, but Andrew doesn’t seem to mind. And I was laughing. It was so funny watching him hit the floor. He’s so gullible sometimes. It’s hard to believe that he can be so innocent when he is so smart.

I got into a laughing jag. I do that sometimes, especially now that I’m pregnant. My emotions are a bit out of control. There I was, riding Andrew, laughing while my tits bounced (before they couldn’t bounce), and my pussy jiggled up and down on his enormous erection. How is it possible to laugh and cum at the same time? Believe me, it is.

I was laughing, and then I was screaming. Andrew hadn’t been laughing until then (I think his feelings were hurt by my little practical joke). But when I screamed, then he started to laugh. I guess he thought I looked funny.

God it felt good. His laughter was pushing me higher and higher. I started squeezing his dick with my pussy, applying more and more pressure as his dick moved in short spastic strokes.

I leaned forward and then Andrew’s dick was massaging my clitoris. I was in heaven! I couldn’t help myself. I ground against him, our pubic bones tight against each other. I was trying to maximize the sensation and it was sensational.

Suddenly Andrew’s hips plunged up, lifting my fat pregnant body six inches off of the bed, still fully impaled on his gorgeous cock. It was too much. I was screaming again. I felt him spurt inside me. I tried to make it last. I was screaming and grinding, grinding and screaming. My eyes were closed, my head swinging back and forth. God I must look like hell.

And then it was over. I collapsed; a huge pregnant thing on my loving husband’s chest. He put his arms around me, pulling me tighter to him. He loves me!

I’m fat and disgusting but he thinks I’m sexy. We cuddled for a long time, just enjoying the closeness. I love the feel of his skin, so soft and child-like. But beneath the softness are the muscles of a man. He only shows his soft side to us.

I knew that later tonight it would be Deirdre’s turn. I envied her, knowing that she would get to be close to our lover. I know I’m being greedy. I get more sex than the vast majority of women. How many women get laid almost every day of their lives? And get eaten out a minimum of several times a week? And try every possible sexual position (currently limited by our pregnant status)?

And there are two of us. By simple mathematics it is easy to see that Andrew gets twice as much sex as I do. I just don’t know how he does it. No wonder he’s so relaxed. If I were him I would be comatose. We’ve got to get what we can now, because in a few more weeks the sex will have to stop.

Poor Andrew, cut off in the prime of his life. I hope he really really likes blow jobs.