Putting the Fire Out

My sisters, for reasons that completely escape me, thought my brothers and I had missed the fact that my mom needs her holes filled in a full, satisfying, and regular manner. Hence their embargo on the truth about Tommy. As the Yanks would say, Tommy stepped up to the plate ready to hit; the old boy hit a homer every time and batted in a few runs as well. Bloddy, good luck with your swing, Tommy boy. You have our blessing. I don't want the details, and seeing you spank my mom's bum is a sight I could do with unseeing, the fact is. It's not going to happen. You're making my mom happy, Tommy. Good luck to you.

What my mom can't do is lie. Well, she has tried, but she knows she can't. I could see through my mom's lies when I was five. We all could, none more so than Dad. She has more stories than a Sunday School class of five-year-old girls. Mom could never have an affair for three reasons. First, she can't lie. Second, she just plain didn't want another dick while Dad was alive. Finaly, she didn't have time; dad had her in their bed, over chairs, over the kitchen table, pretty much any time he caught her bent over something he would do her from behind and laugh while she

Mom would never let dad buy her an automatic washing machine. One day, long after all this happened, mom told me she loved to sit on the corner of the top of her old spin dryer. Yup, she had been at the Gin and Tonics again. Dad would catch her and hold her there while she came, like the old Western Express coming into Cardiff Railway Station. I can close my eyes and visualise him giggeling while mom squaled like a cat with a tom biting her neck. I wonder: Is that how the sibian was invented? Damn, it's Sandy's birthday soon. I just figured out what to buy her.

My two brain-dead sisters decided not to tell us boys mom was happy getting plugged by an old and very trusted friend of dads. How the fuck do women who are allowed to think for themselves, minds work?. I need to have a deep and meningful talk with my brother-in-law and Annie's long-term squease; my sisters need a big dose of common sense fucking into them. Thinking about it, I'm sure the last line of my old man's "well shagged and poorly shod" mantra was, "Any money spent on education is wasted."

My three brothers and I were very relieved when we found out mom had someone to make grown-up decisions for her, and we all expressed wonder as to why it had taken so long. They were as dumfounded as I was when I told them Meg and Annie had known for six months and had not bothered to tell us.

There are some who would like to call her slutty. They never do, though. My dad would have visited biblical-style retribution on anyone who did. When his son, who made a living out of visiting biblical retribution on the deserving, was far away from home, my three brothers were not quite as good as me did it.

Back to the main story.

Sandy and Clive were ecstatically married; they had a few dollars in the bank and more precious than that they had their two beautiful daughters. The only fly in the ointment was that Clive couldn't see that the extra time he spent at work resulted in time away from the woman he loved. Sandy's one and only real character flaw is that she is very needy of love and attention. In short, just like my mom, she needs cock, preferably big,thick and lots of it.

Then one day they went to a dinner dance with friends, and it all went horribly wrong.

Sandy bought herself a posh frock, saucy underwear, heels, and hose. Clive booked a room. It should have been a night to remember. The fires that burned so fiercely on their honeymoon were to be reignited.

Both Sandy and Clive would remember this night for the rest of their lives. Sandy was hit by a supercharged blast from a slut-ray gun. That gun was fired at her by the local football hero. She walked out of the club hand in hand with Mr. Smooth and left Clive bereft, stripped of his dignity and self-worth. Sandy was encouraged by the very people who should have reminded her that she had two children and a husband.

Comments like if he loves you, he will let you have this golden opportunity. He is such a stud; you cannot let this opportunity go. Sandy went back to Mr. Smooth's home. He danced with her, romanced her, and screwed her magnificently for 12 hours. Sandy had the best orgasms of her life. He was an animal, insatiable. Sandy gave him everything, and he gave her a night of unbridled, ecstatic sex.

Sandy arrived back at their home fourteen hours later, one hour past noon the next day. Mr. Smooth parked behind Clive's car on the drive. Sandy gave her one-night lover a final kiss as he dropped her off. He sat in his Ferrari while Sandy opened the door to her home. Before he drove away, he yelled out, For all the neighbourhood to hear, tell the Cuck I looked after you.

Clive honey I'm home.

Clive didn't hear that; Clive hadn't heard a thing since 2 a.m. Sandy found him hanging in the stairwell of their home.

An hour later, the police had been and gone, and the body had been removed. Sandy was in bed with her mother watching over her. She was pumped full of tranquillizers, and Mr. Smooth, unaware of the ramifications of his actions, was bragging to his mates about another bitch who couldn't get enough of his cock and another cuck who would never take his wife to the place he took her.

He was right there. Sandy was about to go to a place called Suicide Watch and stay there for three months. The two children went to live with her parents, and Clive's mother was to set about a course of action that would see her spend every penny of her life savings with a shister attorney trying to get custody of the kids. His mother was bitterly opposed to ever letting Sandy see her girls again.

When it got to court, it was obvious from the word go that the judge wasn't too keen on Sandy. However, he thought Doreen was pure scum. The chances of her getting the girls were less than zero. Sandy's mom and dad were the only sane choices. As they had the backing of the state child support services, that's where they went.

Sandy gradually pulled herself back together and started to take on the load of being a mom by resuming her duties. She sold the home Clive had bought and with the equity bought the broken-down diner out of town on Route 58. The town showed its true colours and rallied along with Sandy's dad to clean and decorate the place. Sandy did good. She closed a couple of rival chain restaurants just because the food and value were so much better.

About three months after Clive's death, Sandy's mom, Barb, applied some tough love; she kicked Sandy out of bed and told her to be out of the house in four weeks. She would never deny her access to the girls, but somehow she had to be able to look after them if ill fortune befell Sandy's momma and daddy; they weren't getting any younger. Eighteen months later, I had a decision to make 49.999% of the fibres of my being told to get back on the bike and go watch a game of baseball with an old friend. 50.001% demanded I stay.

Selling the house Clive bought and buying the diner wasn't a complete clean break; Clive's brother refused to get out of her life. Marshall turned up at the diner and announced Sandy was a slut and a bad mother, and he was going to manage his brother's diner. For a considerable time, his management activities consisted of removing cash from the till to feed his various habits and trying to get the slut to drop her panties for him.

A year and a half later, some Brit Guy rolled in on a big motorbike, turned his own slut ray on Sandy, kept the sights trained on he and his finger on the trigger, he held it there. A week later, after another marathon session that left Sandy walking funny again, the Brit guy told Sandy she now belonged to him. Sandy cried again; however, they were happy tears.

Less than a week after I arrived on the scene, Marshall introduced himself. He let himself into the diner while we were still in bed. Well, I was not actually in bed, and Sandy was only bent over the bed's footboard. Who knew she would love my cock up her brownie?

He used the key he stole from Sandy and yelled upstairs that he wanted his commission and to get your fat slut arse down here and feed me. Sadly, I had to leave Sandy in bed, crying again. It seems I forgot to throw the trash out last night. She still sheds tears over Clive, but to a lesser extent, over his family, but nowhere near as meney as she had done.

It's been three years now, and my slut ray is getting stronger, not weaker. Sandy is a total slut in our bedroom. I fuck her every night, wind, rain, or shine, and the girl takes it as a personal insult if my morning wood is not used to its best effect. She goes downstairs early to start trucker breakfasts, wearing thick, absorbent knickers. On the days she is menstruating, it's dripping out of her ass. On a good day, it's dripping out of her ass and her pussy. She is quite a demanding girl; she says it's a dirty job, but someone has to fill me.

The girls Crystal and Imogene live with us now, though they spend a lot of time with Nana Barb and Graps Charlie. They started to think of me as family about a year into our relationship. Clive is Daddy, and I hope he always will be, but having two beautiful girls call me Pop is nearly as good as a beautiful, sexy woman calling me Honey.

I usually roll my arse out of bed at about 9. Sandy always has my breakfast and coffee ready, so I sit in the back, and while I'm eating my breakfast, she will blow me. The silly bitch will not be told I'm here for the long haul. She really is a slut; she cums while she has my cock in her mouth. These days, she is a one-man slut; her words are not mine. I firmly believe in my old man's words, "Keep them well shagged and poorly shod. Well, no, I don't, not for a second. "Well shagged", for sure, poorly shod No, sorry, dad, that's bollocks! I love to dress her up. I love undressing her at bedtime even more. It's like unwrapping Christmas presents every night.

I went through her underwear draw very early on in our relationship. I bagged up all the knickers you wouldn't find on a call girl. I made her take everything that didn't make me horny to the local hospice thrift store.

We went down Route 58 into Norfolk and loaded up on silk, satin, leather, and lace. She isn't allowed a single piece of underwear that doesn't scream slut. Some days I lock her knicker draw, and when I do that, she knows it's a super slut day. She has to spend the whole day with just my hand touching her pussy whenever I get close enough to grope her.

It's always a super slut day the day we go visit Clive's momma. Now, we always go as a family once a month to Doreen's for dinner--Sandy, the girls, and me. As I said, the two girls both call me Pop these days. Immy, the youngest, asked me if I was her new daddy very early on in our relationship. We had a talk together, and I reminded them that Clive was their Daddy, and Momma would be sad if they forgot that. I consider it an honour that they call me Pop; they are clever and hardworking, and everyone within five miles knows them and loves them.

Sandy still feels a duty to take them to their other grandmas. Not only do I strictly enforce a no-nicker rule, I also pick out a short skirt and a tight, low-cut sweater. Clive's brothers still try to bully her as soon as my back is turned. I used to let her go alone; she would come home trying to hide the fact that she had been crying most of the time. So, I just have to go. I don't like going to Clive's momma's, but when all is said and done, the bitch is Crystal and Imogene's granny.

I draw the line at Marshal being there. I told him, for Sandy's sake, that I would spend half an hour of my life with him one day a year so he had some contact with his nices. No way the bastard gets to see any of my girls without me being there and in that time I promised I wouldn't hit him. It's his choice when, actually, it isn't; it has to be the 26th of December. Unless his ex-sister-in-law is giving me my Christmas treat, and of course I'm giving her hers. On Christmas day, we go to eat dinner with the woman who taught Sandy to cook. We eat Barb's Christmas dinner and later tea; I drink Charlie's beer and his best Burbon; and we sleep wherever we can lay our heads. I have to say boxing day with the Mansalls is a real anti-climax.

I make no bones or apologise to them about Sandy's lack of knickers. The fact is, I shag her ragged every day of the week. I put extra effort in at holiday times when the diner is closed. I consider it an affront to my manhood if she can walk demurely up to Doreen's front door on Boxing Day.

On one occasion, the three of them together found an ounce of spine to confront me, I told them an uncomfortable truth. If Clive had fed the pussy what the pussy needed, he would still be here, Sandy wouldn't be considered a slut, and she would still be making Duracell share holders rich. He didn't, she isn't, and Duracell share holders are eating gruel for dinner every day.

There are other places I have to go with her. Sandy goes to church every Sunday. I have to say I didn't want to, but equally, she didn't make me. In truth, she didn't even ask me to go with her. The church here is a country mile away from the chapel I remember from back home as a boy. You don't go to church here for a bollocking from God or his right-hand man for the ultimate sin of wanking. Show me a twelve-year-old lad who doesn't, and I'll show you a serial rapist in the making.

You go to see if the big man can give you a hand with your problems and if you can help anyone along the way, just plain do it. Up to a point I'm a believer these days. The big man is very busy, and he's getting on a bit. I like to think I'm repaying a debt or two and maybe putting a bit in his good deeds bank. Trust me, I need a few to balance the book.

You don't go for half an hour dressed in your Sunday best, then home for a ham salad sandwich, and no playing out in the street after. You go for the day; I freely admit it's better in the summer. The first time I went, Sandy loaded her car up to the gunnels. I thought we were dropping something off at unknown friends on the way home.

As I watched Sandy peel off to chat with an already-formed mother's meeting, an older guy sidled up beside me. "She is a fine-looking woman," he said. I haven't seen her look so happy since she was a child. Do you know Sandy? I asked him. He just smiled at me. I do believe she has found what she's been looking for.

He changed the subject to "you're a Welshman." It was a question, not a simple statement. Yes, I said. A son of the valley's

Do you sing? Every Welshman I've ever met can sing.

That's very true, I replied, but some should only ever sing in the bath.

He laughed. "Are you one of them?"

"That's a question for other ears, isn't it?"

"Sandy says you can."

I didn't reply but turned to this old guy.

"Let me please introduce myself," he said.

"Are you a man of wealth and taste? I asked.

The old guy got my joke and laughed. "I believe Mr. Jagger and Mr. Richard's were saying we have a little of that in all of us! It's my job to help people keep a lid on their inner Lucifer. I'm Pastor Eric Seager."

"I thought you guys always wore your shirts back to front, so sinners like me could sidestep in plenty of time."

"I don't think you are a sinner. More of a saint from what I hear."

"I don't know who told you that, but their judgement is a little suspect, Pastor Seager."

"I'm realising more and more that this friend has very sound judgement, and, please, it's Eric."

"I've done things I'm not very proud of, Eric."

"So have I, Ben? Ohh, can I call you Ben?" he asked. I smiled my assent. "All of us who have served our country have done things we are not very proud of, Major Bennett Gerald Price." I answered with a surprised look. "I know you wore a sand-coloured beret; mine was green. I'm sure that, just like me, you still know people."

"Yes, I still talk to one or two of my old buddies," I said.

"Yes," he smiled, "much more like a saint than a sinner. That woman you came with needs a saint, but a saint who commits a forgivable sin or two with her at night. I'm pretty sure I'll marry the pair of you one fine day, and then, even the gossips will be happy.

"I need to get this show on the road, he said. Perhaps we can have a beer one evening and swap war stories; it does no good to bury bad memories. They dig their way out and bite you on the ass, my friend. Before I put my shirt on back to front again, I'm going to ask you to sing for us.

Then, as I only ever ask one person to do one thing, I'm going to ask Sandy to start the dance. The first rule of the church is that you must do as the pastor asks. The second rule is that the pastor may only ask one thing of each member. You can see that even under God's eye and in his house, I am prepared to cheat. God's first rule is forgiveness. I think my eternal soul is safe on this one.

You can sing outside the church if you're more comfortable. I hear you sing Delilah better than Tom Jones, he said thatwith a genuine chuckle. Maybe that one is best sung outside the church.

Now the ladies will be putting the picnic out soon. If I don't get on with calling God's blessing on us all, there will be hell to pay.

This was not church, as I recognised it. Even the service, which was a tenth of the overall proceedings, was unrecognisable to me.

--------

A few weeks later, I had been to see an army friend who lives near Rockhill, and I was well on my way back to my new home and my woman. I had a bit of a problem--a schiolboy error, really. I hadn't done this in years. I was runing out of petrol on my bike, that's a sign I'm not concentrating. Well, I am concentrating, but a bit too much on Sandy's boobs bum and furry bit and not enough of the important stuff, like looking after the details of our lives.

My excuse to myself, and it was an excuse, was that I still wasn't used to looking after us. Not very long ago, it was just me. The bike interrupted these thoughts. The engine coughed. She spluttered and died. I reached underneath and found the reserve tap. If the one gallon the reserve tank held, if I was lucky, may get me back to the diner and Sandy. I glued the needle to 55 in sixth gear; that was the most fuel-efficient speed. For twenty minutes, I prayed to my new-found God. The power of prayer seemed to be working until I passed a sign that told me it was 5 miles to Capron. The diner stood a mile and a half from Capron.

I could see the diner in the distance when the engine coughed and died. I tried waggling the bars. It worked a bit. It fired for about 150 yards; that was enough to let me coast the rest of the way into the diner's parking lot. I said my thanks to the big man and promised him I'd give Eric's next community project a good few hours of my time and sweat.

Something was wrong. It took me a second or two to put two and two together. Sandy wasn't standing at the door giggleing, holding her knickers in her hand with her tits out for me. I did say she was a slut, didn't I? I was expecting her to be home. I was expecting the girls to be at Gramps and Grandma's house; her car and our truck were in their usual spots in the lot.

Then I heard her say, Scream, really. Please, no, please don't, no, no. Then her voice was cut off. I went straight through the front doors. The fact that they were locked didn't seem to matter much at the time. I went into the back of the diner, up the stairs, and through the bedroom door. Sandy was on her knees with her back to me and her hands tied behind her back. Marshall was facing me, his eyes popping out of his head. I think he thought he was a dead man walking.

Sandy hadn't realised I was in the room. She didn't even know I was there at this point. He had a knife, and the tip of the blade was tasting Sandy's blood. The tip was in her neck, and the blood was running down and darkening her beautiful red hair. He was threatening to do real damage to my woman. The time it took him to think allowed me to take the two steps to get there and try my very best to punch his head right off his shoulders. I got two really good kicks in before I realised at that moment that my woman needed me far more than I needed to kill him. Looking back, I can distinctly remember thinking i need to hlod her, I can kill the bastard later. I promised myself it would be slow.