tagErotic CouplingsThe Chronicles of Ben Merriman #02

The Chronicles of Ben Merriman #02

bypseudonym2005©

Author Note: This story is an original work of fiction and the second part of an ongoing series. It is highly recommended the reader reads Chronicles #01 prior to Chronicles #02. All characters featured herein are at least eighteen, if not expressly stated, and certain characters may also be found in other works by the authors, published or forthcoming. Feedback is desired and greatly appreciated. Email comments to the address in our profile. Thank you for reading.

Copyright 2011 by Jack and Josephine Cutter.

This story stars: Benjamin Merriman, and features Caroline Cassidy, Courtney Daly, Beau Nivens, Danny Salvatore, Elizabeth Macintosh, Keri Merriman, Heather Simpson, Angela Merriman, and Frank Merriman, with a special guest appearance by Addison Cross.

This story contains: male-female erotic couplings, fellatio, cunnilingus, anal and analingus, cheat-sheets, bathtub sex, van sex, showers, staff meetings, car swaps, cheerleaders, post-shower nakedness, homosexual roommates, beautiful women, and a budding private detective with significant sexual skill.

This story begins on Thursday, September 22nd.


* * * * *

It goes without saying that my high school life was not what you might call normal. I was eighteen and a senior, and that is where much of the normalcy ended; typical high school seniors do not have the kinds of experiences that marked my first year of official adulthood.

They do not have to deal with crime rings, sleazy politicians, wealthy socialites, corrupt cops, dangerous criminals, deadbeat dads, missing persons, illicit dealings, breaking-and-entering, infidelity, underground gambling halls, drugs, high-priced escorts, affluent brothels, etc. I've dealt with such things and more, and all before I graduated.

My name is Benjamin Merriman . . . and these are my stories.

The Chronicles of Benjamin Merriman, Volume the Second

Dinner at my house is always an interesting affair, but the truth of this fact is most unmistakably exhibited when all members of the family are accounted for, and on this particular night of nights, a Thursday as it happened to be, the whole of our eclectic little household managed to attend, not to mention Beau (who came to dinner a lot) and Caroline (who did not). Beau, as you might recall me saying, is a member of the Discretion Investigations team and a close friend of the family for going on twelve years.

My father was seated at the head of the table with my stepmother, Angela, at the other end. Keri, my sister, and Heather, my stepsister, were on one side of the table, while I was between Caroline and Beau on the other. It was Thursday, as I mentioned, one day after my remarkable tryst with Jacquelyn Atkinson—which, of course, was the first thing my father wanted to talk about.

"Ben did field work on his own for the first time yesterday," the man said, and it felt good to see the evident pride on his face. "He met with the client, relayed information, submitted evidence, and returned with new instructions. All in all, a very successful day on job."

Keri clapped with genuine joy. "Great job, little brother!" she bubbled, ever cheerful and warm. She was like an effervescent Energizer bunny, and everyone loved her for it. "Isn't it exciting, daddy? Ben's in the family business!"

"Exciting," muttered Heather under her breath.

It should be noted here, if I have not told you already, that Heather is a big-time bitch. She cares little for the feelings of others, nor their well-being; she cares only about her own social standing (she's a cheerleader), her looks (she's gorgeous), and her bank account (she's not poor).

It should also be noted that Heather had been eyeing me strangely for a few days, and that this dinner was no different. Every so often I would catch her glancing at me, a weird look on her face, as if trying to figure something out. This odd and somewhat unsettling issue, however, did not stop her from acting very much the bitch.

Back to her comment, which garnered little reaction from the rest of the table. By this point the family knew how to handle Heather; she was what she was, everyone knew it, and so everyone ignored her. Simply stated, no one cared what she said anymore. There will undoubtedly be more such commentary from Heather in the course of these stories, but I won't waste time again detailing why no one ever answers—not even Angela, her mother, who spoke next.

"How wonderful, Ben," she said, and while there was a hint of emotion in her voice, it was mostly monotone; the woman was rather indifferent to most things beyond the scope of my father and her own life. Not rude, just indifferent.

"Blondie says you're picking it up quickly, kid," drawled Beau, who had been calling me 'kid' for years. He's just one of those guys who has a nickname for everyone. Blondie, of course, was Caroline.

"She also said you're a little aggressive," said my father reprovingly.

Beau laughed. "Just like you, eh, Hefe?"

My father grinned. "In my youth," he admitted.

"How do you like it, Ben?" asked Keri, hazel eyes still sparkling with enthusiasm.

I smiled. "I love it," I said. "It's everything I thought it'd be. Of course, Caroline's been a great teacher, and I can't complain when I get to hang around with her all day."

Keri, my father, and Beau all laughed, Caroline rolled her eyes exasperatedly, my stepmother sipped from a wine glass, and Heather texted away on her cell phone.

Like I said, we were quite the group.

* * *

Frank Merriman lies in the bathtub, eyes closed, relishing the feel of the warm water as it laps around his body. Jets below the surface caress his flesh, soothing, soft, and rejuvenating.

His wife, Angela, is moving around in the closet, modeling some of her new purchases. She had gone shopping earlier that day, as she is often prone to do, this time to a few of the boutiques along Rodeo Drive. Frank wonders fleetingly how much her little trip cost him. Not that he cares, mind you; whatever makes the woman happy.

As he is prone to do, he begins to think about Lynn. It's over ten years since she passed away, but the ache remains. She was the love of his life, the mother of his children, the other half of his soul, and he would love her above all others for the rest of his days, and reunite with her in the heavens when his own ending came.

Angela knows all this, of course—Frank considers himself an honest man—and does not mind. They met three years ago at a parent meeting at the high school of his children; she has a daughter the same age as his son. The two clicked immediately: he thought she was the most beautiful woman in the room (she was) and she knew of his reputation as the wealthy owner of an elite Beverly Hills investigative firm.

And so they began seeing each other, slowly at first and then more frequently, and marriage followed. Each is very satisfied with the arrangement: Angela is beautiful and uninhibited, and very sexual and affectionate, while Frank is an attractive older man who is very generous with regard to both his character and his wallet, and very skilled between the sheets. She wanted the financial security he was willing to provide and he wanted the companionship she was willing to share. They love each other in a certain kind of way, though nothing nearly as deep as what Frank had experienced with Lynn.

Footsteps along the hardwood floor, just barely heard above the whir of the jets and the pop of the bubbles, break him from his reflections. He opens his eyes and is pleased to see his wife come into the bathroom, sipping from a glass of red wine. A short silk robe covers her body, accentuating her long and supple legs—much of her five-foot-ten frame lay in those legs—and her full black hair is pinned up on top of her head in an intricate series of folds.

"How's the water?" she asks, smiling softly. He knows well what the look on her face means and it has its intended effect instantaneously.

"Lonely," Frank replies.

Angela sets down her drink and stops in the center of the room, just a few feet from the tub. She tugs at the sash of her robe, untying it slowly, letting it fall to the floor, and proudly displays her fantastic body for her husband to view.

She watches him drink in the sight of her long legs, the trimmed swath of soft black hair covering the pubic mound where they met, flat stomach, and full, firm breasts. Her dark brown eyes flash with the kind of sudden hunger that comes for her only after a long day of spending money. She steps into the water of the tub and sinks down into his arms.

"Mmmm, yes," she sighs as the water envelops her. She gasps sharply, suddenly when she feels him press into her side, and adds, "Oh, Frank!" Her fingers sweep under the water to clutch his shaft, and gave it a quick and pleasurable jerk.

She rolls over in his arms and their slick, naked bodies mold together. Frank leans in and kisses her softly, only to be nearly devoured by her response: she is hot and horny, and ready to go. He knows spending money has this effect on her, so he really isn't too surprised.

Frank runs his hands down the smooth curve of her back and digs his fingers into the taut flesh of her rump, and pulls her tight against him. Angela breaks their kiss, preferring instead to tackle his exposed neck, kissing and nibbling it all over.

"Mmmm, yes, baby, oh yes," the woman mews as she pushes his legs together and straddles him, slithering her body up his to offer her fleshy breasts to his active mouth.

Frank wastes no time, releasing his hold on her ass to grip her round and ripe melons and squeeze them together. His tongue flicks back and forth over the shriveled, distended pink crests as her hand tightens its hold upon his seven-inch cock.

He smiles, knowing what comes next.

Angela's hips slide further up his torso as she guides the purple head of his manhood to the folds of her pussy. His hands travel down from palming her tits to grab hold of her hips as she lowers herself onto his column.

"Ahhhhhhh," Angela groans as the familiar thickness spreads her pink lips. One of the draws of the man in her mind—aside from his warmth, generosity, and wealth—is his fantastic cock, and skill with its use.

Her hands clutch his thick shoulders as she sinks further and further down into his lap, impaling herself so pleasurably. When she bottoms out and the undersides of her creamy thighs settle upon his legs, she knows his cock can go no deeper, and she sighs.

Frank bends his head once more to lavish her glistening body with his tongue. He attacks her breasts, his tongue lapping at the valley of her considerable cleavage, even as his hands slip around her waist to grasp, once again, the cheeks of her ass.

Angela grabs his head and yanks back suddenly, for she has unique skills of her own, and brings her mouth down to devour his even as she begins to grind her hips in little circles. She is in charge this time, he realizes, and lets her go to work. The beautiful raven-haired woman pulls her tongue out his mouth and leans back, dark eyes locked on his as she slowly, ever slowly, slides herself up and down on his substantial shaft.

Frank brings his hands up to touch her breasts again, holding the flat of his palms like little shelves so that with every downward motion of her body, those luscious mounds come to rest heavily upon them. At the same time, he moves his own body just enough, thrusting his hips up to meet her. Water splashes and slops about, and Angela loves it.

"Just like that, darling," she whispers breathlessly as she slumps against him, crushing her bountiful breasts into his chest but raising her hips until only the tip of his cock remains within the snugness of her sex. "Give it to me, hard!"

Frank needs no further encouragement. His hands return to the flesh of her ass and spread the cheeks wide to allow him greater access, and forcefully he begins to pound his cock into her velvety depths. Angela gasps softly into his ear with each powerful thrust.

"Yes! Oh, god, yes!" she wails, taking everything he has to give her.

She grinds her hips in skillful circles to take his strokes at different angles, increasing both of their pleasure, her left arm wrapped around his neck to hold on for dear life, while her right hand slips down the groove between their wet bodies and over her mound. She strums the swollen clitoris vigorously, her nails titillating his shaft as it continues its barrage of her pussy. The churning of the jets and the splashing of the water is scarcely heard above his grunts of exertion and her steadily rising squeals of pleasure.

"Oh, god . . . so close . . . yes . . . yes . . . yes! Yes! Yes Yes Yes Yes YESSS!" Angela screams as her sex explodes, quaking violently around his thick cock at the crest of her climax.

Frank holds her forcefully by the hips and does not stop, hammering his unflagging erection into his delirious second wife. He keeps her in the throes of climax for an excruciatingly long time as she trembles in his arms, breasts jiggling, pussy twitching, ass shaking, eyes fluttering, until finally she returns to earth and slumps wearily against him, his cock still embedded within her.

"Oh, Frank," she whispers as she nuzzles his face with her own. "How did you survive that?" She gives his still hard and unsatisfied cock a squeeze with her vaginal muscles.

He grunts. "I have more in store for you, my dear," he informs her. "Now flip that sweet ass over so I can take you from behind."

"Oh, Frank," she says with a new and seductive grin, and obeys.

Case File #003: The Case of the Classroom Cheat-Sheet

I suppose I should go into my school life some. Up to this point I've only really hinted at it, but it would do some good for you to know more. Also, it will tie in nicely to the story I have to tell about something that happened the next day, Friday, the day before Jacquelyn Atkinson was set to be married.

My school is the Rembrandt School, an ultra-elite private institution in Beverly Hills, one of a handful of top private high schools in Los Angeles. I have been a student there since ninth grade, the first grade the school offers, and like I said, my first two years were not the best from a social perspective. I was gangly, awkward, and shy, and relegated to the uncool part of the populace.

I remember wondering at the time how much of a part my beloved step-sister played in all that. When Angela and Heather came onto the scene, we were just starting ninth grade. Naturally, I was not in my prime—Heather, however, was fully bloomed, and instantly moved to the front of the popular crowd line. I wondered at the time if she was helping to urge, accidentally or even overtly, my lack of any kind of consideration by those in the elite social circles.

After my physical transformation, while certain students seemed more willing to talk casually with me, I did not make any kind of definitive push up the school's social ladder; I was fairly sure that Heather was influencing this, too, but there was little could be done—and so I remained on the social edges well into my senior year, to which point we have come in my narrative.

And like I said, I was happy with that, which is why I harbored Heather no ill will. For one thing, it was still purely speculation on my part at that point, and I was not going to hold something against someone without more concrete fact. Perhaps this was due to my investigative training, perhaps just something innate within me; either way, it amounted to the same. I continued to treat Heather as nicely as I could, given her difficult attitude.

The Friday of this story—two days after Jacquelyn Atkinson fucked me in her familial mansion and three days after I wound up stuffed inside a closet with Caroline Cassidy—began like most the others. First and second period classes, math and English, passed slowly; both teachers were extraordinarily dull, and often times I found myself drifting off in class. Third period was free time for me, spent this day studying a pair of case files Caroline had given me the past afternoon. Fourth period was science, followed by physical education fifth, lunch sixth, more free time seventh, psychology eighth, and history ninth.

The action started ninth period. My history teacher was Mister Edelstein, a real pain-in-the-ass instructor with a bad attitude and a boring, often abrasive style. In short, he was one of my least favorite teachers ever. On this days of days, the guy was giving us a test.

The test went well. In fact, I was pretty sure I'd aced the thing when I raised my hand half-way through the hour to have him collect it. That was how the man operated—you raised your hand for everything, every minor and miniscule thing, even turning in your test.

Mister Edelstein walked over to my side of the room and, in doing so, noticed a small white strip of paper on the floor in the middle of the aisle. I watched him bend to pick up the sheet of paper, watched his face go red, and then watched him return to his desk, taking my test with him. It was a little strange, but did not seem to be much more than that.

Boy, was I wrong.

Once everyone had turned in their tests—he never let anyone leave early, ever—and the stack was neatly placed in front of him, Mister Edelstein turned to my side of the room and said, in a tight voice with an unhappy face, "Miss Jensen, Mister Mickelson, Mister Henderson, Miss Macintosh, Miss Smith, Miss Towne, and Mister Merriman, remain in your seats. We have something to discuss." He faced the rest of the group and added, "Class dismissed."

Trouble.

When the rest of the class had departed, the teacher turned again to address our small group of seven students, all of whom were located on the same side of the room, which to say not more than a few feet from where that little piece of white paper had been found—the piece of paper that Edelstein raised for us to see right before he spoke.

"I found this on the floor during the test. Would any of you like to lay claim to it now, before this gets unpleasant?"

I decided a little levity was in order. "If it has any kind of monetary value, Mister Edelstein," I said, "I'm pretty sure it's mine."

A couple of students snickered, but our teacher was not amused. "It does not, Mister Merriman," he said sharply. "What it is, I am sad to say, is a cheat sheet. It means one of you attempted to cheat on this exam. It means we have a serious problem."

"Whoa," said Stevie.

I immediately took an examining look at the rest of the bunch: Tara Jensen and Heidi Towne were cheerleaders, popular "in-crowd" hotties—and friends with Heather—with big tits and great legs, the former a brunette, the latter a blonde, and likely not half a brain between them; Stevie Henderson was a stoner, likely half-baked at present, and a slacker of significant renown; Elizabeth Macintosh was a quiet, bookish sort of girl without much fashion sense—baggy clothes, grandma glasses, no make-up—and no real desire to revel in her femininity, but she was also intelligent, very nice, and one of my better friends at school by virtue of multiple shared classes; Susan Smith was a brunette with big brown eyes and a lovely face, not to mention a varsity volleyball player which assured popularity, but she, too, was very smart and, to my knowledge, a very caring sort of girl; and last but certainly not least—as he himself would certainly argue—there was Adam Mickelson, one of the school's "smartest" students, the son of a powerful State Senator, and an utter snob.

Mister Edelstein continued. "One of you is the perpetrator of this dishonorable act, that much is obvious; the evidence was found in your vicinity. Therefore, I will keep the seven of you after school, effective immediately, in detention in this room. You will only be allowed out of detention when one of you confesses to ownership of this sheet. If no one confesses, you will all fail the test."

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