Facets of Love Ch. 03

This would be not only my first time flying in an airplane, but also my first trip to an airport. The sons of poor Alabama farmers didn't do much jet setting. Not wanting to display my naivety to my wife or in-laws, I got James to talk me through the entire business trip process a few days before I left. He gave me an hour-long tutorial about where to park my truck, how to check in with the airline, what to expect from the TSA line, and how the boarding process worked.

And that was just the first part of the trip. I couldn't believe the crap I had to put up with just to get from my gate at the Dallas airport, to my rental car, which was also a first for me. But, thanks to James' briefings, and a couple of cellphone calls, I managed to get me and my suitcase on I-35 heading north out of Dallas towards Oklahoma.

Oklas was seventy miles and four decades from Dallas. When I drove my rental car across the Red River bridge, I would not have been surprised to see a couple of horse drawn covered wagons pulled up to "Manny's Place", an ancient wood framed structure which included the town's only bar, restaurant, and hotel. After ringing the bell on the reception desk (twice) a well weathered man of indistinct heritage ambled around the corner.

"Help you?" he asked.

"Good afternoon, sir. I'm Robert Jones and I've got a reservation. I'll be staying through Friday."

"You got a card?"

I did. As part of my "how to do a business trip" tutorial with James, he set me up with a company credit card and told me to put everything from "airline tickets to whiskey shots" on the card whenever I traveled for the company.

The man inspected the credit card for a while, studying both sides and then gave it back to me saying, "yeah, I'm going to want that eventually, but right now I need your business card."

"Why?" I asked.

"So I know your proper name and how to get a hold of you."

Sure enough, James also set me up with a pack of business cards.

Robert Ryan Jones. Chief Engineer, Spencer Manufacturing. It also included all my contact information. Although the "Chief Engineer" title seemed overblown, since I was the company's only engineer, I still took pride in passing the card over to the old man.

"You okay if I call you Mr. Ryan?" he asked.

"Ryan's my middle name."

"Yeah, I can read. But an old fart like me, calling you 'Mr. Jones' seems a bit formal for a young whippersnapper such as yourself. And 'Robert' don't seem right for a Chief Engineer, so I figure we'll compromise and go with your middle name."

"What's your name?"

"I'm Manny. I own this place."

"How about I call you Mr. Manny and you call me Mr. Ryan?"

"I think you and me are going to get along just fine," Manny said as he handed me a key. "Room number twelve. Top of the stairs, all the way to the right. Dinner's from 6:00 till 8:00. Breakfast from 6:30 to 8:30. The bar's open until 10:00 unless I decide to close it early. Let Amy know if she needs to pack you a lunch."

My first trip to Oklas wasn't as bad as I feared it might be. I did a three mile wake up run every morning. The challenging work made the days go by quickly. Having nothing else to do, I spent ten to twelve hours a day at the new factory, trying to learn all I could about the new plant and its people. After dinner, I cuddled up with a bottle of Jack and a good book on computer-aided manufacturing.

However, getting to sleep was damn near impossible. The bed was comfortable and far enough removed from the bar that the drunks didn't keep me up. But Mary wasn't there. And, even though I slept alone for the first twenty-four years of my life, once I got used to having a warm body next to me, I spent a good bit of what should have been my nocturnal hours in Oklas tossing in turning in bed while wishing I was home.

By the end of the week, I was pitifully homesick, exhausted from lack of sleep, and hornier than a sex addict in solitary confinement.

Two separate issues consumed my thoughts on Friday afternoon as I drove south on I-35 towards the DFW airport.

The first burning question was, despite introducing myself to everybody I met as Robert, why did the entire town of Oklas call me "Mr. Ryan"? The answer was obvious. Manny was the mayor and head bartender of the small town. When he called me Mr. Ryan, everybody else followed suit.

My second dilemma, my newly discovered inability to sleep without Mary cuddled up next to me, wasn't as easily solved. And while I didn't give a damn if the people of Oklas didn't know my proper name, not being able to sleep at night was a problem that needed a solution.

-

Dr. Martha Weaver Spencer

Lots of girls grow up thinking they want to be a teacher, movie star, airline pilot, or senator. I planned on becoming each of those, and more, at different stages of my childhood. But I'm fairly positive that no young schoolgirl ever dreamed of being a sex therapist. I certainly didn't.

I didn't start college until Mary was two and changed my major three times before I finally decided I wanted to be a sex therapist. It took me five years to get my undergraduate degree. Simultaneously going to school and raising a child was like taking on two full-time jobs. Thanks to Frank's emotional and financial support, I pulled it off. Quickly realizing that a four-year degree in counselling was kind of like getting a learner's permit, I continued on with my master's degree and, while I was at it, added on a PhD.

But that doesn't explain my emphasis on sex. Frankly (pun fully intended), it was my nightly bedroom activities with my husband that led me towards my unusual specialty.

I liked sex. Everything about it. Sure, I enjoyed the hell out of the back arching, toe pointing, pussy squirting orgasms Frank brought me to. But the psychology of the events that led up to the final release was what truly fascinated me.

Seeing his gaze wander from his newspaper down to my ass when I made breakfast excited me just as much as it did him. A slightly suggestive text or phone call in the middle of the workday reminded Frank of what was waiting for him at home. We never did anything inappropriate in front of Mary but, when she was in the other room, I would often find an excuse to press an unrestrained boob against some part of my husband's anatomy as we prepared dinner together.

At one point in our marriage, about the time Mary turned twelve, I seriously thought Frank and I might be sex addicts. We were intimate at least once and often twice a day while my clients sometimes went weeks at a time without touching each other. After a good bit of research, I determined that, even though Frank and I had sex more frequently than most couples our age, our marriage was much stronger for it. That's when I deviated from what most practitioners deemed appropriate marriage counseling and concentrated primarily on my clients' sex lives. Two years later, I changed my title from "Marriage Counselor" to "Sex Therapist" and never turned back.

I was officially a sex expert. I was not only good at keeping Frank's pecker in a perpetual state of erection, my techniques also kept my pussy lips moist and nipples hard. My first book, "The Best Sex Starts at Breakfast", sold over a hundred thousand copies during its first year. Despite repeated increases in my hourly rate, I turned down more clients than I accepted.

Very few of my clients ended up as active in bed as Frank and me. They didn't have to. Going from one mediocre sexual encounter every month to a couple of well-crafted orgasms a week was usually all a struggling couple needed to fix their marital woes.

Twice a week didn't hack it for us. I wouldn't go as far as to say Frank and I were exceptional (although some might), but we were certainly exceptionally lucky. Our bodies and libidos matched, like we were designed to fit together. In our eighteen years of marriage, never once did I roll over and say, "not tonight honey, I have a headache". Likewise, when I snuggled up to him, no matter how tired he might be, he always opened up his powerful arms and accepted me. Having his cock in my pussy cured my headaches and made him sleep better.

Getting back to the summer in question, the summer Mary and Robert got married, I had high hopes that my daughter had inherited my love of sex. But, at the same time, if she did, if Mary, like me, was unable to function without her daily dose of cock, what would she do when Robert wasn't with her?

I had my answer during his first business trip. Whenever Robert was in Oklas, Mary changed from the sweet, optimistic, cheerful girl I raised, into a moody, sarcastic, pain in the ass. Hopefully, she'd get over it once the baby came. If she didn't, I'd either have to find a way to fix the situation or kick her out.

-

Mary Spencer Jones

I thoroughly enjoyed being pregnant. Even with the morning sickness, it was the most enjoyable nine months of my young life. Living with Robert had a lot to do with it. And my intimate relationship with Casandra, my college roommate, certainly added to my pleasure. But waking up every morning, knowing I was growing a brand-new human inside my body just blew my mind.

As my child grew, I could see me growing with it. I'm not talking about my boobs and belly, although they expanded so much there were times I thought I'd explode. I'm referring to my ever-increasing sense of self-esteem. For the first time in my life, people needed me. My unborn child was obviously totally dependent on me, but I could tell that Robert would also have trouble living without me.

How did I know? He told me. Every day.

"You are the world's best alarm clock. I can't imagine starting a day without you." Admittedly, he usually said that, when my lips were wrapped around his morning woody, but that didn't make it any less true.

"Having a tough day at work. Thank God you'll be there when I get home. You are my oasis of love in the desert of life," was one of many texts he sent me during the day, just to let me know I was constantly on his mind.

"Lord, thank you for this beautiful woman. If you take her before she wakes, please take me with her." He often whispered this prayer after we made love in the evening, when he thought I was already asleep.

Unfortunately, the most convincing evidence of Robert's growing dependence on me was not his words, but his actions, specifically when he was in Oklas.

I might have made a minor fuss when Dad sent him away for a week every month, and his absence did make me a bit gloomy. I did a good job of hiding it from my parents, so I don't think they realized how not having him around affected me.

Robert, on the other hand, was like a homesick kid away from his parents for the first time. He was a man about it. He didn't constantly call and complain, but the way he acted when he returned home, how he held me when I met him at the door and refused to let go of my hand even during dinner, was proof that he would do anything to keep me by his side.

I could only imagine how he would be once our baby was born. If he struggled being away from me, how would he survive when he had to leave both his wife and child for a week every month? Hopefully, once Robert got whatever was going on in Oklas under control, Dad and Uncle James would be able to babysit them and let Robert stay home. If not, we might have to find him a job which didn't involve so much traveling.

-

Robert Ryan Jones

Robert Ryan Jones Junior was born on September 5^th, 2018, at 10:05 am.

Everybody who saw him said Robbie was the spitting image of his father. Which I always thought was a ridiculous thing to say. Like all healthy newborns, Robbie was a button nosed, round bellied, pudgy fingered little thing with no teeth or hair. Yes, he was a great looking baby but, in my opinion, no child looks like his parents until they're at least twelve. Having said that, the way he latched on to Mary's boob no more than an hour after he was born left no doubt in my mind, he was my kid.

Mary and Robbie came home the day after he was born and quickly settled into a constant cycle of feeding, pooping, and sleeping. Martha had cleared her calendar for the next month so she could help Mary with the baby. I offered to stay home for a few days but both Mary and Martha suggested that Frank needed me at the office more than they needed me at home.

-

Robbie was only a week old when tragedy struck.

Frank, James, and I were in Frank's office discussing business strategy when Frank slumped over his desk.

"What's the matter?" James asked. "That new baby keeping you up at night?"

When Frank didn't answer I walked over to check on him, only to discover he wasn't breathing. With James' help, I laid him on the floor and, not feeling a pulse, started CPR while James called 911. Once James notified EMS of our location, he fetched the company's defibrillator and, thanks to the printed directions, we were able to get Frank's heart beating again.

"What happened?" Frank asked as he regained consciousness.

"I think you might have had a heart attack," James said. "How do you feel?"

"Like somebody just slammed a twenty-pound sledge into my chest."

"Well, at least you're breathing again," James said to his brother and then turned towards me. "You stay here. I'll go outside and wait for the ambulance."

James sped out the door, leaving me alone with Frank.

"You need anything?" I asked. "Something to drink maybe?"

"I'd prefer some whiskey, but under the circumstances, it better be water."

I left him sitting on the floor, leaned up against his desk and got a water bottle from his fridge. He looked pale when I returned and was having trouble breathing.

"Listen son," he said after taking a sip. "If this goes south, I want you to promise me you'll take care of her."

"You're not going anywhere. And even if you do, you know I'll take good care of both Mary and Robbie."

"I know that. I was talking about Martha. If I go today, next year, or when I'm eighty, if I die before her, promise me you'll do the right thing."

"Yeah, Frank. I promise. But do me a favor. Robbie's going to need a grandfather. How about you stick around until he has grandkids of his own."

Frank laughed, closed his eyes, and exhaled his last breath.

***

Dear reader. Thank you for taking the time to read Chapter 3 of Facets of Love. I realize it ended with a high (Robbie's birth), followed by a low (Frank's death). Hopefully, by the time you've read the entire series, you'll forgive me for having to take Frank out of the story.

Please rate my story. An author needs at least fifty ratings in the first month of publication to qualify for a Literotica Reader's Choice Award. My goal is to win at least one of these awards so that I can increase my followership. If you enjoyed the story, leave a rating.

I also want your constructive comments. My desire is to write stories you look forward to reading.

Caution. Dangerous curves ahead. A lot happens in chapter 4.