Long Sentence

*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.

**Disclaimers: This story has been edited by myself, utilizing Microsoft Spell-Check. You have been forewarned, expect to find mistakes.

*..*..*..*

"At this rate, I'm going become one of those damned alcoholics," Michael Chopin thought as he pulled up to the Casual, a small lounge that lived up to the name.

It was a casual, no-frills lounge with soft piped in music, dark wood paneling, soft seats and no ambience. Even the bartender was an easy-going man with slightly aloof mannerism. He was there to pour drinks. If needed, Terry would listen, but wasn't there to solve your problems.

The exterior was also very drab. Plain cinderblock walls, a heavy wooden door, a faded, hand-painted and peeling sign that announced the name of the place.

"Joe Bob, you know, they say insanity is doing the same thing over and over, hoping for different results," Terry, the old bartender was saying to a wrinkled and gray man at the corner stool. "In your case? Insanity is doing the same thing over and over, knowing what the results are going to be and just not caring. Hi Michael; the usual?"

Michael smiled. He'd last been in here four weeks earlier, but Terry already knew him, already figured what Michael was there to drink. Michael picked a stool far enough away from Joe Bob to discourage any conversation with the ill-tempered drunkard.

"Aw, Jesus Christ Joseph and Mary, Terry, you called her?" Joe Bob spat out when a harried looking mature woman entered the bar.

"No, Joe Bob. Women just have this innate thing, tells them when they're man is happy," Terry said, nodding to Carla as the woman tiredly approached her husband.

"And they just got to try and stop it," Terry continued as Carla gently guided Joe Bob to the door.

"Breaks my heart," Terry confided to Michael. "That woman's a saint, you hear?"

"Really? What position does she play?" Michael asked.

Terry shot him a smirk, but got the message. Michael wasn't there to hear about Joe Bob and Carla's marriage. He was there for his one shot of bar brand whiskey.

"Terry!" a very attractive blonde called out as she entered the bar. "I, give me an Oakleaf, okay?"

"Whitney, wait your turn," Terry playfully ordered. "Can't you see Michael was here first?"

In the Smokey mirror over the bar, Michael looked at his attractive neighbor as she took a stool three stools down from him.

Michael recognized the beautiful blonde; she and her wife, her partner, her spouse, whatever they called one another lived right next door to him and his wife, Pamela. Pamela, not Pam, not Pammy. Pamela Katherine Chopin.

Once, fixing a loose board in their adjoining fence, Michael had seen the two women getting into their hot tub. In that brief moment, Michael had seen that Whitney was a true blonde; her thatch of curls matched the loose, lazy easy style of hair on her beautiful head. Her breasts had been magnificent; two beautiful globes of flesh dotted with perfect areolae.

Polly, the other blonde had possessed an equally stunning figure, but her pubic mound was completely hairless, a fetish of Michael's. His cock was so hard he almost didn't need the hammer to drive the two nails into the board; he could have used his hard on.

But, it was five days until Pamela's fertile time. So, Michael would find no relief for his throbbing, aching cock until Pamela was fertile, ready for impregnation.

"And why's the damned board all wobbly? Oh, that's right. Because you wanted a useless hummingbird feeder. And, instead of just waiting for me to get home, you had your shit head pussy whipped Daddy come out and fuck the whole thing up," Michael muttered to himself.

Michael looked at the cracked feeder laying on the ground and resisted the urge to kick the decorative plastic feeder across the backyard. Pamela's father, George Johnson had not thought to unhook the feeder from the hook when he nailed the ring into the fence. One erroneous swing of the hammer and...

"Seventy three dollars? Seventy three fucking dollars for a plastic piece of shit, just because it supposedly looks like a red flower," Michael muttered and finished repairing the damaged board.

Board in place, Michael nailed the ring of plastic onto the fence then hung the cracked, but still useable hummingbird feeder from the ring.

"George Butterfingers Johnson is not to do anymore 'Honey-Do' chores around my house," Michael muttered to himself as he stomped across his backyard toward his back door.

"Mm, oh! Oh yes, oh God," Michael heard one of his neighbors moaning and his erection returned with a vengeance.

Thankfully, spotting the pinched, miserable face of Katherine Johnson, his mother in law wilted the tent in his shorts. Michael knew Katherine was only thirty five years old, but the woman looked seventy five.

"Okay, board's fixed, and the feeder's up," Michael said, looking at the same pinched, miserable face on his eighteen year old wife.

"Why?" Pamela spat. "I can't use it; it's broken."

"It's not broken; it's cracked. It is cracked. But the bottle where the sugar water goes is fine and the dispenser is fine," Michael tiredly explained. "The birds will be able to use it with no problem."

"For the amount of money Babbage's charged, you'd think it could take a whack with a hammer, George attempted to joke.

Michael gave the oaf a look of disgust before cutting through the living room to the kitchen. He stepped into his garage, shut the kitchen door, then gave his wife and her overbearing parents the finger.

The twenty six year old new hire at Thibodaux Investment had met Pamela Johnson on her third day of working at First Fidelity Credit Union in Elgee, Louisiana. She was stunning, long red hair, sparkling green eyes, heavily freckled face. Her manner of dress was a little dowdy, but there was no mistaking the two impressive orbs underneath the plain and shapeless dress.

She giggled and blushed as Michael flirted with her, but did refuse his request for a date. The next time Michael came into the building, he again flirted with the attractive bank teller. He found out she had recently graduated from Elgee High School and this was her first job.

Two months after first seeing her, Michael entered the Credit Union and got into line. Fortune smiled upon him; he managed to get in front of Pamela instead of another one of the three tellers on duty.

"Yesterday was my eighteenth birthday," Pamela confided to the handsome man.

"I, well, how about that?" Michael smiled.

"So, if you really want to go out with me, we can now that I'm eighteen," Pamela disclosed.

"Do I ever!" Michael enthused and she giggled and blushed prettily.

After dinner at Acapulco Grande Mexican restaurant, after steaming up the windows in his new BMW, Pamela and Michael went to Holland's Hand Cranked Ice Creamery in the Courtyard Mall and enjoyed walking around, looking at the various displays. Her manner of dress was extremely conservative; she was covered from throat to ankle and from wrist to wrist.

Pamela told Michael she and her parents were members of the Church Of The Risen And Living Messiah. Their church forbade the cutting of hair, the use of cosmetics, the wanton displaying of flesh. Michael stated firmly that he was a Catholic, had been born Catholic, and would continue to be a Catholic until the day he died.

There was more hot and steamy kisses in his car, but when Michael tried to accelerate the action, he was firmly shut down. Pamela's brilliant eyes bore into his as she asked him to please respect her, respect her religious convictions.

"Should have run for the fucking hills right then and there," Michael thought out loud as his neighbor and Terry chatted while Terry poured Michael's shot of bar brand whiskey.

"Hey, hi! I know you," Whitney Chastaine gushed, looking over at Michael.

"Well, I would hope you do," Michael smiled. "I cut the grass right next door every Saturday."

"Yeah," Whitney agreed and took a tiny sip of her own shot of amber liquid. "Mm hmm, oh, this, this is so good. Yeah, I know. Ought to hear what Polly calls you."

"Oh, I'm sure," Michael agreed. "But if I wait too late, it's just too damned hot."

"And," Michael thought. "Ought to hear what my wife calls y'all."

Apparently, the fat, balding sanctimonious horse's ass that presided over the Church of the Risen and Living Used Car Lot Messiah had taken a marks-a-lot marker and had blacked out 'Judge not, that ye not be judged' in the pages of his Bible. The pompous jackass certainly never taught his followers the true meanings of the word of Christ. Forgiveness, servitude, love...

"Jesus died for ALL," Michael had told Katherine, George, and Pamela when they yet again sat around his comfortable living room, passing judgement on all they found to be worthy of their contempt. "Even those horrible and disgusting homosexuals right next door."

"But only if they seek forgiveness for their wicked wantoness," Pamela smugly declared.

"For Jesus sayeth, 'I am the Way, the Truth and the Light...'" Katherine stated. "No one comes to the Father except through me."

"Dear God; I should have run for the hills," Michael thought as Polly Chastaine came into the bar.

Their mannerisms were easy, comfortable. Polly and Whitney displayed a genuine affection for one another. It was quite apparent, they were together, they were a couple. There was no overt display of their sexuality; they did not grope one another, they did not stuff their tongues into each other's mouths. But their attention to one another was unmistakable.

""Hey Neighbor," Polly said when Whitney pointed Michael out to her.

"Hey Neighbor," Michael smiled. "When I bought the house from Samantha Porter; her dad had died what? Three months before? She didn't tell me anything about the two beautiful women living next door."

"Would it have changed your mind?" Polly smiled easily.

"Would have made me not talk her down ten thousand dollars," Michael lied and Polly and Whitney laughed.

"Well, time to go home and face the music," Michael said, tossing back the harsh, abrasive liquor.

Polly watched, eye brow cock as Michael ran his finger around the inside of the shot glass and rubbed the residue onto his cheeks, throat and shirt. Whitney watched the bizarre behavior with a puzzled expression on her beautiful face.

"Good night, neighbors," Michael smiled, pulling a cheap cigar from his inner jacket pocket.

"Uh huh," Polly agreed.

Outside, Michael lighted the cigar and puffed on it. The smell and the taste made him nauseous, so he only smoked it for a moment before crushing the cheap cigar on the ground.

Michael then drove to his home, his house at 2121 Pitman Road. It had not been a home for the seven months he'd been married to Pamela Katherine Chopin.

The kisses had been hot, passionate kisses. Those kisses promised so much pleasure awaiting him, or whomever did marry the beautiful red head. In time, Pamela even allowed Michael to grope her heavy breasts, but only for a moment. And, only on the outside of her clothing.

Her comment that her breasts were meant for their children should have clued Michael in. But as smart, as intelligent as Michael was when it came to market fluctuations, particularly foreign currencies, Michael was oddly clueless about the opposite sex. He was no virgin, but he had no long-term relationships, no practical knowledge to fall back on.

Michael winced as he purposefully screeched to a halt millimeters from his garage door. He knew those tire marks would be difficult to remove from his driveway's surface. He intentionally mashed the button for the garage door repeatedly, making the garage door jerk up a fraction of an inch before coming back down.

Michael then jerked the door of his car open, staggered out of his car, then loudly slammed the door. He staggered and swayed his way to his front door, cutting across the short holly bushes his wife planted along the walkway.

"Fuck!" Michael hissed as the sharp leaves dug into his ankle.

Michael then tried the front door. Of course, the door was locked. Michael then dug his keys out of the left pocket of his trousers and tried to put the back door key into the front door lock. He then tried his safety deposit box's key. He then tried the door knob again. Then Michael dropped the keys to the ground.

"What? What's wrong with you? What are you doing?" Pamela snapped irritably at her husband.

"Tryin' unlock God damn door," Michael slurred drunkenly, picking up his keys.

"God...did, did you just say..." Pamela screeched, horrified as Michael knelt on the Welcome mat in front of their house.

"Oops!" Michael giggled as he jabbed at his wife's crotch with the house key.

"Michael!" Pamela shrieked, jumping back.

"Found fuckin' key," Michael slurred, staggering to his feet and trying to fit the key into the door, even as it swung out of his grasp.

"Michael! Michael James Chopin! That sort of language is unacceptable in this house," Pamela hissed forcefully.

"Know what, Pammy?" Michael said, finally fitting the key into the door lock and twisting it. "Ayent your house. Dis ish my house. My house, and in my house? That's how we talk."

Michael then slammed the door shut with his keys still in the lock. He staggered to the kitchen table where his now cold dinner sat.

Michael, you, are you drunk?" Pamela gasped, horrified.

"What? Me? Fuck no," Michael denied. "I, I only had what? Two, maybe three drinks. Three little drinkie poos ayent goin' make me drunk, huh?"

Pamela opened the door. Michael twisted, staggered, and attempted to sit in the chair.

"Hey, where you goin' huh?" Michael demanded, and fell to the kitchen floor next to the chair.

Pamela jerked the keys out of the door, closed and locked the door, then hung Michael's keys on the hook next to the door. She marched into the bedroom and slammed the door shut. Michael fought hard against bursting into laughter.

"Hey! This shit's cold!" Michael yelled.

He staggered and swayed to the bedroom door. It was securely locked; Michael could have easily picked the lock but did not. He instead kicked at the door.

"How you spect me eat this shit? It's cold," Michael yelled.

There was no answer. Michael had not expected one. With a satisfied smirk, he walked back to the kitchen, no drunken sway or stagger to his walk. He put his plate into the microwave, and set the timer for forty minutes, instead of four minutes. Still laughing, he quickly fixed himself a ham and cheese sandwich and took it into the hall bathroom.

"Michael! Michael! What, what is wrong with you?" Pamela demanded as the smell of the burnt food filled the house.

"Aw, God damn, what did you do?" Michael demanded, staggering out of the bathroom.

"Stop! Stop using the name of God in vain!" Pamela demanded, fanning the smoke while the smoke detector screeched incessantly.

While Pamela struggled to clear the house of the smell of the ruined dinner, Michael went into their bedroom and flopped down on their bed, still in his suit. Surprisingly, he did fall asleep before Pamela came back into the bedroom. She made much noise as she gathered her pillow and slammed drawers open and close as she selected a nightgown and a pair of full cotton briefs to sleep in. Then she loudly slammed the bedroom door closed.

Michael laughed as he heard the door of the guest bedroom slam shut. He got out of bed, put his suit into the dry cleaning bag, along with his tie, then dropped his shirt and socks into the hamper. He brushed his teeth and pulled on his New Orleans Saints tee shirt. He played a few games on his phone, set the alarm and went to sleep.

In the morning, fully refreshed, Michael dressed and went into his back yard. Getting the lawnmower from the tool shed, Michael started cutting the grass directly underneath the window of the guest bedroom. He finished cutting the grass underneath the window of his neighbor's house last. He hoped they noticed and appreciated his gesture of goodwill.

"We need to talk," Pamela snapped when Michael came into the house.

"No. We need to shower; I just finished cutting the grass," Michael said. "Uh, hey, instead of just sitting around looking all constipated, how 'bout you try to make some breakfast, huh?"

In the shower, Michael thought of his two lesbian neighbors and stroked himself to a juicy climax. He dressed in shorts and tee shirt and returned to the kitchen.

"Uh, bacon? Eggs? Grits; what the fuck you been doing? Sitting around with your thumb up your fat ass?" Michael demanded, stomping into the kitchen.

"That sort of language will not be tolerated in this house!" Pamela screeched.

"Hey, uh Pammy? Fuck off. Sit around all God damned day, don't do shit just because we're married? Least you could do is every now and then get off your fat ass and make me breakfast, huh?" Michael said, rapidly filling the coffee pot. "Jesus Christ, couldn't even bother make some coffee? God damned useless, useless, useless..."

Michael laughed happily when the bedroom door slammed shut. He made himself a scrambled egg and American cheese sandwich. Then he started on some of the Honey-Do chores around the house.

"Michael, I don't know what's gotten into you..." Pamela started as Michael was fixing the commode in the hall bathroom.

"You know, I really hate it when you let your God damned useless Daddy try to fix shit around here," Michael cut her off. "That cock sucker's about as useless as..."

"Damn. Don't know how much more that door's going be able to take," Michael laughed as the bedroom door slammed again.

By dinner time, Pamela attempted a reconciliation of sorts; after all, she was in her peak fertile time. Michael took one bite of her supper and asked her why the food tasted like warmed up dog shit. Again, the bedroom door was slammed shut.

Their wedding was performed in the office of the used car lot that doubled as the church she and her parents attended. Their honeymoon cottage in Swift Falls, Tennessee was nestled among fragrant pine trees, a gloriously romantic hideaway for two newlyweds to get to know one another, get to know one another's bodies. The crisp autumn air, the glorious colors, the crackling of fallen leaves underfoot was a romantic setting.

Michael wanted the lights on; he wanted to see his bride's body. The lights were turned off, the curtains tightly drawn.

Michael wanted to fondle his wife's 32D breasts. She huffed in disgust but allowed him to fondle them. When he put his lips to her left nipple, Pamela screeched in disgust.

"Should have run to the hills," Michael thought as he chewed his supper.

Michael's cock was of average length, roughly six inches. The girth was impressive, though. The five women that had handled Michael's Big Boy called it 'the Coke can' because of the circumference.

Finding his wife's vagina completely dry, Michael suggested oral sex to help lubricate her. Pamela declared he was a filthy pervert and leapt from the bed. Their first night as man and wife was spent with her sleeping on the lumpy couch of their cottage.

They did manage to consummate their marriage on the second night. Because of his girth, because she was unprepared for intercourse, their union was painful for her. She vetoed a second attempt; she was far too sore down there.

"Yep, should have run," Michael thought, loading his dinner plate into the dishwasher.

On the third day of their honeymoon, Michael tried to initiate sex. Pamela fixed him with a haughty stare. Then, she informed him that sex was for procreation and procreation only.

"Uh, it's also an expression of love and affection," Michael snapped. "And, believe it or not? When it's done right, it actually feels good."