Family Disrupted Pt. 01

"Why don't I help you?" Samantha said, surprising everyone, "I know Carl and Alexa's wine collection well."

"You know wine?" he asked.

"I studied as a sommelier for a summer in college," she said, "It was a bit of a naughty secret, as I wasn't even 21!"

"You're a bad girl," the double murderer said to my wife, leading her delicate hand forward as the two descended into the wine cellar together.

Rather than talk to me, Alexa took out her phone, checking messages.

Now that Tyson was gone, I felt like I had an opportunity to reach out to Alexa. I could maybe shake her out of her madness, of what she had done by allowing Tyson into this place. So I stood up and took the seat beside her, smelling her feminine and sexy perfume, and looked at her as closely as I could.

"Alexa," I said, "I've known you for years. I knew your husband Carl for longer, and he has been one of my closest friends. I want to ask you: are you sure letting Tyson into your home is what's best for your family?"

She looked up from her phone and shot me a look of utter disgust.

"Excuse you? How dare you accuse me of not tending for my family." She looked around to make sure we were alone.

"I have all the family I need right here," and she held her flat tight stomach with her hand, "Or, I might not yet, but I soon will."

Geez--Alexa wanted to get pregnant?

"A family of Tyson, my Nubian God, and the offspring that carries his exceptional genes-- what more family could I want?"

I thought about Carl, her sons... What were they, disposable trash?

"I want a more 'evolved' family," Alexa said, "Something for the 21st century." I had no idea what she could mean.

"Besides," she said, "I think you should be the one worried about YOUR family."

I sat confused.

"Samantha told me everything. Your son, on the cheerleader squad? Doing community service for the basketball team? Sounds like your life is a mess."

"Plus," she continued, "Your wife just got that job... And you have no idea what it is she does all day!"

That was true! What was Samantha doing all day since she got that 'government' position!

"Not to mention," she said, a cruel smile on her face, "That you truly don't know what's coming."

What could she mean?

"Carl had been crooked for years," she said, "Including when you and he worked together. I wouldn't be surprised if there's an FBI truck just waiting for the go ahead to knock down your doors and send you away forever too, you see?"

My heart fell into my chest. I returned to my seat, in cold terror. Soon after, my wife and Tyson returned from the wine cellar, holding hands, before they poured a glass for each of us.

"So," Samantha said cheerfully, "What did I miss?"

--

In the car ride back, Samantha was all talky about how nice of a time she had.

"The wine was amazing! Alexa and Carl have such a good collection."

"Alexa and Tyson, you mean," I said with animosity.

"Oh yes, right."

I couldn't believe she had enjoyed it. The story Tyson had told was horrific. Why was she just accepting it.

When we got back to our bedroom, I couldn't hold it in any longer.

"Alexa told me something when you were gone," I said finally. Samantha just folded her jacket away as if I wasn't talking.

"What 'government position' did you end up taking for the community service hours?"

"Oh," Samantha said, totally casual, "I figured you'd forgotten. It's actually at the prison where Tyson did his time. I'm a, hmmmm, I forget the official name, but they all call me a 'care girl.'"

A care girl?! That sounded awfully suspicious.

"What does your job entail?"

"I've only been doing it a few days," Samantha said, "But it's not much. I sit in the rec room with the criminals and chat. Sometimes we play games."

"Games?! Like what?"

"Poker, mostly. They all bet with quarters or candy bars. It's all harmless fun."

The thought of my wife, with her prominent juicy jugs, sitting in a rec room with all those mighty and violent criminals... It sent shivers up me!

"Are they... inappropriate?"

She didn't seem to know what I meant.

"Do they objectify you?"

At that, she let out a big spit laugh.

"I mean, they're certainly a little flirty," she said, and my heart began to pound, "But who wouldn't be? They're locked up in there, with no release. Let them call a woman 'beautiful' every once in a while."

That did some harmless to me... Still, if Tyson was able to so quickly seduce and fuck Alexa, who knows what an entire den of criminals could do to my Samantha?

"Hey sweetie." My wife came close up to my neck and started kissing me. "Do you want to fuck?"

Two weeks ago, it would have been crude for Samantha to ask this question so bluntly. But now, after all that had happened, it seemed casual for such a dirty word to leak through her lips.

"I'm so wet after tonight," she said, inviting my hand to feel between her legs. "I want to be conquered."

"Conquered?"

"Fucked and owned," she said, and started to spread her legs slowly. "I want to be fucked raw, like an animal, and stuffed full of cum."

Samantha was on fire tonight. I barely had time to respond when she had me on the bed, unbuckling my belt.

Of course I was rock hard. Samantha's sex drive had sky rocketed recently, and it seemed like she couldn't get enough.

As soon as she straddled me, I slipped inside of her slick thighs. She moaned, loud enough to wake everyone in the house.

"This is your pussy," she said, eyes closed, riding my cock, "I want you to own this pussy!"

But all that came to mind was the thought of Samantha's plunging cleavage in the rec room of a prison, surrounded by men with swollen balls and raging cocks, ready to penetrate her.

"I'm yours," she said, and I began to worry that she was saying it to reassure herself. That maybe it wasn't true!

"Fuck me like it's a secret," she said, wriggling on me, "Fuck me like we can't tell anyone!"

I wasn't sure what this meant but her pussy was melting my brain, sending me into a warm and cozy place made of her flesh, tits, and cum!

"Fuck me like a stranger," she begged, "Fuck me like I'm a whore that's slithered into your cell!"

Fuck her pussy was tight.

"Fuck me like you haven't cum in 25 years!"

I exploded inside her pussy, the first time I had done that since we conceived our second child. Samantha wasn't done. She grabbed her breasts and nipples between her fingers and continued to ride my shrinking dick, getting every drop of semen from my balls and trying to wring out every drip of pleasure into her cortex.

"Fuck, I want to be a slut!"

--

On Tuesday, Trish the Poet had another poetry reading and I felt like I needed to go. Something that Alexa said, about the school's treatment of my son, proved to me that something was wrong and that this woman was at the center of it.

The coffee shop where it was held was full of counter cultural types. Men of all races smoking cigarettes and joints out in the open. Girls with tattoos on their arms, little cartoon shapes and figures, wearing black stockings and band t-shirts. I felt like a federal agent infiltrating a meeting of communists, and everyone sure did stare at me that way.

At the door, they charged a $20 entry fee.

"It goes to cover the prison fund," the pretty girl there said, "We're raising money."

"Prison fund? What's that for?"

"To help the disenfranchised, of course," she said, rolling her eyes at me.

Inside, a stack of flyers explained that the night was themed around carceral justice. I had to google that word: it meant prison reform.

"I didn't think you'd come," a voice said, and I turned to see Trisha standing before me. She was dressed casually, unlike when I had seen her in her office. She had a crop top that showed off her toned midriff (the woman had six pack abs that were so hot you could fry an egg on them) and a bouncy bubble butt stuffed into jean cut offs. She was hot and she knew it, and she talked to me like a goddess would talk to a termite.

"You know, we've had two conferences now, and in both you failed to mention what a hottie your wife is."

"Huh?"

"I've been volunteering at the prison, idiot," she said, gesturing around her to the general theme of the evening, "And I met your wife there. She's got some massive jugs, huh?"

It was so inappropriate for a woman in her position to comment on my wife's breasts. But the whole evening was weird. I was seeing my kids' principal perform poetry at a prison reform hipster coffee bar. Life was strange.

"She's a gorgeous woman. Almost makes me wonder what she's doing with you," Trish said, poking me with her elbow.

"I'm just kidding. She loves you. Talks about you all the time. Talks to the convicts about you too. She's smitten."

I breathed a sigh of relief. At least my nightmare fantasy of my wife surrounded by those prisoners was out of line.

"Get ready for a nice show tonight," Trish says, "There's a reason this bar is 18+. We get into some pretty politically radical stuff here. Good thing the school board is so left, huh?"

I didn't know what she meant, but just then the lights went off.

The show started with a lecture about the state of the American penal system. There was a lot of stuff I didn't know: about the links between modern day prisons and slavery, about the ways companies profited off prisoner labor, about how incarceration rates were rising so fast in the US and not anywhere else. It was the kind of thing that, if I weren't in such a psychosexual quandry at the moment, would really make me upset.

Then, we heard a few poets. I have no idea what good poetry sounded like, but the crowd cheered after each poem. I was ready to call it a night and leave, when the announced said Trish's name.

The lights went out. Everyone whispered, wondering if something happened, when a spotlight began to shine on the stage.

"Pent up! Locked up!" shouted a voice. It was a woman, facing the back of the stage.

She turned around: it was impossible. It was clearly Trish, but her body looked completely different. Whereas the Trish I knew was fit and spry, suddenly, it was as if she had grown enormous breasts. They must have been a makeup trick, but it really did look like Trish had massive big breasts stuffed into a bright orange tank top. Additionally, she had on a long black haired wig and high heels.

"Locked up! With no chance at release!" she shouted.

A second spotlight shone. There was a tight cage, barely bigger than a coffin. A man in an orange jump suit was stuffed inside, his body pressing against the bars of the cage so tightly his skin must have had red lines from the pressure. The man was wearing a sad drama frowning mask and big white cartoon gloves.

"Pent up with no release!" busty Trish shouted. She went towards the man and stuck her hand inside the man's pants. The audience gasped.

Like a magician, she pulled something out of his waist band. It was long and black, like a slug, but it just kept going. The penis was so big it must have been prosthetic, made of rubber or something. It kept going out of the pants until it was all the way out, the length of Trish's arm, as black as a snake.

"No release!" she shouted, holding the cock up to her lips like a microphone. "Release, now!" she shouted.

The bars of the cage came down. The man inside burst forward into Trish's arms, and from the cage, like magic, came another man in a orange jump suit, and another and another, until there were dozens of men, each with big long prosthetic cocks, jockeying for position in front of Trish to touch them.

"Release now!" she shouted and just then, I could swear she looked right at me and shot me a wink.

The men and their cocks all rubbed Trish up and down. Music behind her began to play. Big trumpets and wild drums.

Trish began to put the cocks into her mouth. She slobbered and sucked on them and they pawed at her fake tits. Then, as if magic, it looked like their cocks began to get hard. There was no way they were real given how big they were, but they seemed like they were all getting erections.

"Release!" Trish shouted, stuffing a cock into her mouth, "Release!" Another cock in her face. "Release!"

Now, Trish had a dozen big black cocks surrounding her face. The crowd was engrossed, watching the woman stuff dicks in between her cheeks, drooling everywhere, rubbing them with saliva and sucking them down.

That's when I saw it. This was exactly it. This was what I feared for my Samantha! Trish was dressed and modeled exactly like my Samantha looked. These men, thrusting their cocks onto her, looked like what I imagined Tyson's friends were doing to her in prison!

I watched in awe as Trish shouted release one last time.

The cocks all erupted with ejaculate: they must have been fake, for they shot rope after rope of cum onto her with volumes twenty times more than I had ever produced. I couldn't help but see Samantha's face, swallowing jizz from those heavy black balls, as the actress Trish on stage did the same.

The spotlights went out. The crowd burst into applause. Someone murmured, "a lot to think about!"

But I had even more to contemplate, I realized. I had to go to this prison and find out what my wife was doing. And, I needed to figure out whatever Trish was doing at the school, and whatever Tyson was doing with Alexa, and most of all, whatever I was going to do about it!