Mary's Movie Night Ch. 04: A Quiet Place

I blame Emily Blunt.

I thought I'd been a good man. I went to school, got a degree. Got a good job. Had a good marriage to a smart, attractive, funny wife. Yet, here I was, with my life upside down. That attractive wife? She just came out as "asexual" and wants me to hook up with our widowed older neighbor. That neighbor? She wants me exclusively until she can hook me up with some stranger to breed. And breeding? Yeah, it seems I've probably knocked up the neighborhood swinger couple's wife. All so I can be blackmailed by my gross, unattractive other other neighbor, who happens to host movie nights.

A diagram might be necessary.

So, there I am, walking back from the Widow McGill's place, my dick still moist with the product of our, erm, negotiations, all while trying to figure out what to say to Susan about her, erm, coming out. And Mary intercepts me.

Last time she wanted to show me something, it was the photo she took of me (probably) impregnating Belinda, our neighbor. What could she want to show me beyond that?

Tonight she's in a shapeless gray sweatshirt, to ward off the evening chill. The movie had taken us to half past nine and whatever Cindy McGill and Susan and I were up to brought the time close to midnight. She's wearing bright blue scrub pants underneath that accentuate the acres of thigh meat hanging from her torso.

"C'mon up here. I don't bite... at least until we're horizontal." I groan inwardly. Could she proclaim my infidelity any louder? She's waving the phone at me insistently, though, so I go to look.

It's like a calendar app. Today is highlighted in pinkish red. Oh. Oh, I get it. Twenty-nine day cycle, CD1, starts today. It's fertility tracking.

"I don't know what movie we're watching next week," she says, "but the week after we're going to have to choose carefully. Because you know what day it is?"

"Uh, no?"

"Maximum fertility day. The day before ovulation. And I don't know. What do you think of Last Tango in Paris?"

"Hmm, isn't that kind of pornographic? I was thinking more Apocalypse Now?"

"It'll be an apocalypse for your marriage, lover, but not for nine months, eh? I usually feel gross when I'm on my period, but it's still pretty light so far. Maybe you should earn your red wings tonight?"

"Red wings?"

"When you do it with a gal on the rag, dude." She's tugging my arm to get me to go inside with her.

"Susan's waiting at home for me. Can I get a rain check?"

"I'm on the late shift next week. Come back in the morning. Don't make me come to you!"

"Wouldn't dream of it." And I escaped, if you can call it that, home.

Susan is somewhere between tears and euphoric when I get there. I spend a long time explaining that Cindy is very nice for offering her "services" to us with "our problem". I don't let on that I boned her six ways from Tuesday or that, apparently, I'm now hers exclusively. Nor her designs on getting me married to someone who isn't Susan. Talking to Susan is just as easy and comforting as it has ever been--maybe more so--now that sexual tension has left the building. But I'm not sharing with her the dark secrets lurking all around us. I comfort her and we go off to bed, to sleep near each other.

Susan snores lightly. I stare at the ceiling.

When I wake, it's after nine on Friday morning. I've missed a call at work and I'm scrambling to douse fires as a result. At a quarter to eleven, not able to stand it anymore, I grab as fast shower to wash the stale sex smell off, and, stepping from the shower, hear a furious knocking at the front door.

Crap. It's Mary and she's come to me. Her scrubs today are pink with little storks carrying babies--apparently she's working the birthing center now? She looks angry through the peephole, but when I pull the door open she takes one look and smiles. I'm fresh from the shower and wearing only a bathrobe--she must think it's for her.

"There you are. I was beginning to think you were going to stand me up. And we all know how awful that would have turned out."

"No, just overslept and had a wicked morning. What brings you here?" I ask, as she barges into the foyer.

"As if you don't know," she says, trying for something the realm of 'playful' but sticking the landing on Bela Lugosi. "I'm wearing pink, but you're going to be wearing your red wings."

She doesn't even slow down, just heads back towards the stairs. Our bed is unmade and Susan's Pillow Fortress of Solitude is still down the middle. Mary doesn't even seem to notice, or maybe she doesn't care. She sweeps the bedclothes off and turns to face me. "I'm ready, lover, come worship me."

Her top has a v-neck shape, but no buttons or fasteners that I can see, so I just pull the top up and she works it off her body and over her head. Underneath a sports bra has tamed her sagging tits into a single amorphous blob that I don't care to disturb. Her hair is up in its usual tight bun, but I'm inspired to let it down. She has some kind of stick and leather thing holding it together, so I pull out the stick.

"You like my hair?" I admit that I do--it is her best feature, although, one might say that it's her only feature. It's slightly curly and a kind of dishwater blonde color. "It's shoulder length now, but maybe you like it longer?"

"I think it would look good longer. You should wear it down more often."

"I will grow it long, just for you. How long would you want it to be?"

"Honestly? I think the Rapunzel look is a good one. How long you can manage?"

"Heh. I won't cut it again until you displease me," she promises.

"As long as you don't mind tripping over it," I try to jest. But she's not here to banter about hair. The belt on my robe is no match for her determined hands. Then she's kicking off the SAS shoes and slipping out of the massive pants.

Her thighs are everything I remember: dead fish white, reticulated with huge thick purple veins. Each one of these fleshy mountains is sculpted from cottage cheese. The inner thighs are darker, where they rub together with every step. She does not shave her legs, but the blondish hair mainly blends in. Her mound is covered by a teal pair of panties that clash with the pink stork theme.

"You wear those just for me?"

"That, and to prevent embarrassment. Sometimes the tampon isn't enough. It's a heavy day," she snorts. Her piggish nose wrinkles with disgust at the bodily function.

She is unattractive. But for some reason I get this weird feeling. I reach out to pull those big panties down and I feel my blood surge. For one thing, I'm not getting her pregnant today, so technically I'm not cheating on Cindy's rules, even if I'm about to do something completely unacceptable in the bed I still share with Susan.

And the memory of the previous week's encounter hasn't left me. She is heart-stoppingly ugly, but I nearly passed out when I came deep inside her. Little me remembers: he's working on being pretty adequately-sized me.

I close my eyes so I don't witness what I'm doing, and kiss her. She has coffee breath and garish red lipstick. My right hand is on her left breast, which heaves in waves, like an ocean storm, as we fall back onto the bed. I reach down to feel between her thighs again. She has massive labia, dark and swollen, with the tiniest pink slit between them. I can feel the string of her tampon and I use the string to wiggle it inside her.

"You getting a towel?"

"This bed is new and you're so wet, it feels like I should get a painter's tarp." I pull a bit, teasing her, then tug... tug... tug... it's free. I'm going to have a mountain of laundry later.

"I need it. Get it in me. Plug my bleeding hole," she grunts. Her thighs reach up and crush my pelvis in a bear hug as I slip inside. She's tight and I have to work at it, slowly penetrating her, until I'm buried to the hilt. Her fleshiness somehow transforms this moment from an odious duty into something carnal.

We rut. Her wetness is extra sticky today, mixed with menstrual blood. But there is no denying that we fit perfectly. I'm spearing her inside and she writhes passionately around me. Her arms hold me, and we are truly one, a big pile of jiggling heat.

"This must be how elephant seals feel," I think, randomly, "like when they slip into the sea and are suddenly graceful and free." I'm reaching my climax, I can feel it coming. I realize that she's cum at least twice--I could feel her squirting orgasms soaking the bed.

"Fuck me, daddy. Fuck me, daddy!" I'm shoving harder, thwack! Thwack! Thwack! Unbidden, I find myself crying out "Oh Mary! Oh Mary!" And then the stars burst and I'm pumping big but gouts of cream into her womb, in a futile attempt to find eggs that aren't ready yet.

Some time later, after I have somehow contrived to clean up the apparent murder scene, soaking most of the stains from the mattress (before flipping it over), running several loads of unplanned laundry, remaking the bed, and sending an urgent email to work ("food poisoning"), I collapse. I should seek professional help, witness protection. Something.

Susan comes home from work and is chatty. She mentions having run into Mary at the hospital: "I worry about that girl. She needs a good man in her life. She was so disheveled and looked like she hadn't had enough sleep." I don't tell her that she has had a man in her life on Susan's side of the bed.

The evening is strange because it is unremarkable. Susan goes up to watch TV in bed around eight. She has an early morning tomorrow.

I pull out my phone. I pull up Cindy's number and text her "U there?"

It's a minute or two before she replies. Rather than struggling with text and still feeling a bit guilty, I step out onto the patio and dial her number.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"I was always taught you should call your inamorata the day after. Manners."

"Someone taught you right. I'm glad you called. It means something. How's the first day of your new life?"

"I'm adjusting." I'm not about to discuss the red wings incident just yet.

"Good. Build up some strength. I'm going to need to suck you dry soon." My older neighbor has her hooks in me. I wonder if this is a good thing? She claims she can deal with my Mary problem, but at the cost of other problems instead. With that, I wander up to bed.

Saturday is even more normal. I head out and get some exercise in the park and run some errands around town. I come in around two and Belinda's there. She and Susan are chatting up a storm. Belle is kind of giggly and it's quickly apparent why: there is a little white plastic stick on the dining table.

"I wanted to share with daddy first, but I couldn't wait for him to get home. So, Susan's the first to know!" she exclaims. Daddy is stunned. The house of cards is about to tumble down. But Susan doesn't cotton to the fact that "daddy" is "hubby".

"I thought Petey had the snip?"

"Oh, he does. But he's excited to be a daddy. We decided to get outside help," Belinda says. She can be cagey when it's called for. "I can't wait for him to know."

Susan goes to get some slight refreshments, so Belle leans over and whispers. "And now he does, daddy. I hope we have a girl. The first of many! God, I want to kiss you so bad. Come over and congratulate me properly--soon."

That night I go to get some air and the neighborhood is busy. Short guys with blonde bimbos in muscle cars and gold chains are congregating: it seems the Belinda and Petey are holding a celebratory swinger party. Then I slip past Mary's, hoping not to be noticed.

Cindy's porch light is on. I go up and knock.

"Well, look what the cat dragged in," she says with a wink, "the neighborhood's stork attractor."

"You heard the news?"

"I am surprised Belle didn't have flyers posted on all the light poles 'Lost dog. Belle with child.' You didn't come here to crow about your accomplishments, though. I'll be you could use a stiff drink. I could use something stiff myself."

I hadn't actually planned to stop, but I go in. Cindy hasn't any makeup on and she looks like a dried apple doll, but once the door is shut I take her in my arms and kiss her. My heart soars a bit. She put some effort into the kiss and there is something to having a living body next to you. She breaks away to lower the shades--no prying eyes for her--and then turns around.

She unfastens her jeans snap and pushes the pants down and off. Then she pulls her jumper over her head. Just like that she's in bra and panties. I shrug off my jacket and shirt, kick off shoes, and shed my pants--you know, just to be sociable. She's drinking me in like a butcher looking over a prize steer.

Her body is all lines and angles, save for her formidable mammaries. She frees her bra clasp with a deft flick of her fingers. "I'll save you the trouble tonight," she says. She bends her shoulders this way and that to shrug out of the straps. Her hands hide her breasts and then, perfectly, slowly, she slides the lacy cups down and discards them. They hang there, bullet shaped, freckled and tipped with garnet.

My boner is sticking out of the fly of my boxers. She gives it good tug. There's not much conversation, because her tongue and mine keep getting in each other's way. Her panties aren't painted on, so I easily slip my hand in and cup her behind. This produces no effect, so I slip around to the front and feel for her puss. This makes her go "Mrrh!" and maybe pant a little. Her tugging is a little more frenetic.

It's amazing to kiss her, because our heights nearly match, but this gives me an idea. I break off, turn her around and start to pull her panties down. She reads my intention as if a neon sign were blinking over my head, bending over the sectional and spreading her legs apart. She puts a big load of spit into her palm, reaches back between her legs to moisten my tool with it and guides me up behind her.

I let her tease herself for a moment, wiggling my cock around her crease, before I lodge the tip into her vaginal opening.

"You not a back door man?"

"This hole was built for this purpose. We can test the other one when we've worn this one out."

"Good. I like that you're a pussy man. We're going to be something together."

"We already are something. And together." I put my hands on her narrow hips and push in deep. All of our conversation after that involves moaning, except for the needless directive: "deeper".

I leave the Widow McGill with a bowl full of cream and go home to sleep well.

Levon and Lakeisha made this week's film A Quiet Place and so everyone, even Susan, turn up for it. I sit between Cindy and Mary on the couch. Susan and Belle are on the love seat, cuddling up and whispering about her oh-so-exciting news. Everyone else is scattered in various chairs. The lights are out and we're all like giddy teenagers, waiting for the inevitable jump scares and sudden noises.

Mary has brought a blanket to keep warm and is sharing it with me. This is so she can work her hand over to get her hand on my leg. As the movie progresses, she's working it higher and higher, taking her time and enjoying the tension. I don't dare disturb her, but I'm going to have to in a minute.

That's because Cindy is less subtle than Mary. She's lowered my zipper and fished my stiffy out. When Mary's hand gets there any second now and finds that slim cool hand tugging on the tent pole, there might be some fireworks.

Emily Blunt saves me: there's a sudden noise. I jump and Cindy's hand withdraws. Cindy leans in, though, and whispers "Let her think you freed it for her. But remember your promise." I can hear the heh-heh-heh evil villain laugh in her voice. My promise was that I can't knock Mary up under any circumstances.

As the super villainess is laughing, Mary's hand goes the last inches to find me standing at attention. Her pudgy hand wastes no time in claiming my flag pole. Her turn to put a bug in my ear: "have you decided a movie to breed me to next week? You need to start saving all your cum for then... after I finish you tonight."

She's rubbing her massive thigh up and down against mine while her hand works its ministrations. She has strong hands and they are deft at their work. I'm thoroughly distracted from the movie now, because she's extremely talented. I'm going to blow. I'm going to erupt a big wad of sperm all over my pants and her hand and then we'll be exposed as the cheaters that we are, when she stops. There is a long time where I'm struggling on the knife edge. Then a bit more control. Then a bit more. Then she's pushing my engorged rod back into my pants.

"We'll talk about this later," she whispers.

When the movie ends, I help carry glasses and plates into the kitchen, where Mary has the chance to say "I'm so glad you gave yourself to me tonight. I knew you always wanted me. You knocked the slut up, right here on my couch. I can't wait for you to do that for me next week."

Belle also has a few words, but ones of frustration: "you haven't properly congratulated me yet." I promise her that I will.

Then Susan and I can finally walk home. She's burbling with happiness, for some reason. "Did you see the childbirth scene? So scary" and "Can you believe Belle's going to be a mama?" There's a lot of baby talk on the walk home. But nothing prepares me for the bombshell as we cross our threshold. She takes my hand and is dragging me towards bed, saying: "I know I said, I mean, I am pretty sure I'm not built that way, but... I think, what do you think? I think... yes, I'm ready and I want to make some babies."