Twenty Years to Life Ch. 01

This story is a bit wordy and fairly long, so if you are looking for immediate gratification, you might want to look elsewhere.

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The following story is a work of fiction. Any resemblance between actual persons, living or dead (or just confused) is entirely coincidental. Please do not copy/redistribute the story, in part or in total, without the author's permission.

This story takes place in the entirely fictional city of Springfield, California, so don't go looking for it on a map. And in my little fictional world, there are no unwanted pregnancies or STD's, except as plot driving devices. The author encourages the practice of safe-sex.

Also, although this story (and subsequent chapters) are placed in the "Novels and Novellas" category, that is primarily because no other single category made any more sense. This overall storyline has some aspects of group sex, interracial sex, lesbian sex, heterosexual sex, anal sex, as well as BDSM sexual activity. If any of these types of activities bother you, you might want to stop reading now.

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Torrie Jones couldn't have told you what had gone wrong if her life had depended on it. Only four years ago, she had been a happy if somewhat rebellious teenager in high school who had gotten good grades and had a bright if uneventful future all planned. In her senior year, something had changed. She had found herself increasingly discontent with her life. She had decided to take a year off before going to college, which her parents had felt might do her good. Then she had decided not to go to college, which had pissed her parents off to no end. But Torrie didn't care. She just couldn't see herself going the academic route anymore. But she had taken up sculpture in high school, where she had learned to weld. So she figured she could get certified as a welder and get a job that way. But she had put it off and put it off until that goal was nothing but a memory. She still created sculpture, but there was no career in sight.

At the age of twenty-two, Torrie was still living in the apartment over her parent's garage and working the graveyard shift at a nearby convenience store. Her parents, both of whom were decent blue-collar workers, were frustrated with their youngest child's lack of drive. She knew they loved her. They just didn't know what to do with her. They couldn't even hope that she would find a nice man and settle down. Torrie had been openly gay since she was seventeen. And it wasn't as if finding a woman should have been hard for her either. She was an attractive young woman with a lean body and a face that had often been described as "elfish." Working with metal had given her a pleasantly toned physique that was the recipient of many appreciative glances, and one of her hobbies besides sculpting was surfing. She loved the water and was an avid swimmer. Whenever she needed to clear her head, she grabbed a board and headed out into the waves. It was one of the advantages of living near the ocean.

But the weather outside that day was frightful, and you didn't want to be in the water during one of Springfield, California's rare lightning storms. So she found herself lounging on her couch while burning down another cigarette, reading a book of short stories and poems by Edgar Allen Poe and waiting for her shift to begin. Then the phone rang. She just stared at it, waiting to see if one of her parents was going to pick it up. One of them did. Then her mother's voice came bellowing up the stairs.

"Torrie! It's for you! It's Rachel!"

Torrie cocked an eyebrow but reached for the phone. She hadn't heard from Rachel in weeks, even though Rachel was probably Torrie's best friend. Rachel was true black beauty whose dad used to play professional football and now owned a series of automotive dealerships. But in the last couple months, Rachel had started ragging on Torrie just like her parents were. It had gotten tiring.

"Hey Rachel. Wa'as up?"

"God, I thought that phrase went out with the nineties," came the voice from the other end. "Hey, wanna grab some grub before your shift?"

Torrie was instantly suspicious. She was a vegetarian, but Rachel was almost entirely carnivorous. While they used to hang out all the time, they never ate together. Unless, that is, Rachel wanted something. "Sure," she said at last. "It has to be somewhere cheap though."

"Cool with me. Hey, mind if Jeremy and Frank tag along?"

"Sure!" For a moment, Torrie was genuinely excited. Jeremy was Rachel's big brother. If Torrie had a straight bone in her body, she would have been all over him. He was a former high school track star and quintessential stud-muffin. Women of all ages and races were drawn to his Adonis body and natural charm. Frank was a friend of Jeremy's whose family had moved to California from Hawaii. He was a handsome islander, but women were just as attracted to his incredible sense of humor as anything else. They all used to hang out together all the time. Torrie realized that she didn't remember why they had stopped, but Frank was someone who could make a gargoyle statue smile, and she decided she wanted to smile. She and Rachel agreed on a time and place that was nearby (Torrie didn't have a car) and then she hung up the phone.

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Across town . . .

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Rachel hung up the phone and took a deep breath. She hoped this was the right thing to do. She turned to Jeremy and Frank and grimaced.

"I hope this don't backfire," she muttered.

"It's the right thing to do Sis," her brother said. "She's one of the smartest people I know, and she's just wasting time at a dead end job."

Frank placed a hand on her shoulder. "You KNOW dat right!" he said, getting a chuckle out of her. There wasn't anything quite as ridiculous as Frank trying to "talk ghetto." "Seriously, she needs an intervention. Let's just make sure not to get too 'in her face' about it. We need to let her know we're concerned. When and where?"

"Nine o'clock at the Wendy's on 4th Street. They've got those salads she likes."

"Cool," said Jeremy. "I've got to go visit one of my ladies!" he added, flashing a perfect smile. Rachel shook her head and rolled her eyes. Jeremy was a man-whore, plain and simple. His "little black book" was bigger than the telephone directories of a number of small cities, with a few special numbers on his speed dial. "I'll be done in plenty of time."

"I wouldn't go bragging about how quick you are," ribbed Frank who promptly had to duck a mock swing. "Anyway, I told my roommate I'd pick up some stuff. I figured I could do that now. See ya at nine."

Jeremy and Frank wandered out of the den, leaving Rachel alone. Despite their assurances, she was still worried about the upcoming confrontation. She knew that Torrie had gotten turned off when Rachel started pestering her about getting some kind of life-plan. But Jeremy was right about one thing: Torrie was way too smart to be working at a fuckin' gas station. Rachel remembered when her friend was reading a book every day or so. Poetry, philosophy, prose . . . she had been one of those renaissance women that they made movies about. And Rachel couldn't even figure out what had happened. It was like . . . like Torrie had slowly stopped caring . . . about anything.

She heard her father and his friends making a lot of noise as they watched the basketball game on television. She rolled her eyes again. Her dad and his buddies were quite probably the only Clippers fans in the entire city of Springfield, but they made up in enthusiasm what they lacked in numbers. She found herself wondering who all was out there. She needed to vent some steam before her talk with Torrie, and there was one of her father's coworkers who was handy for just such an occasion.

Rachel snuck down the hall and stared into the living room. There were about five men plus her dad. One of those men was Charlie Anderson. She smiled. She always heard stories about white girls wanting to have sex with black guys due to the legendary status of their penises. Rachel was in exactly the opposite situation. She was a young black girl who craved white meat. And truth be told, she was as much of a slut as her brother. She was just a little more careful about revealing her exploits, particularly since so many of her encounters involved friends of her brother or older men. And Charlie was one of her favorites. He had sandy-blonde hair, a v-shaped torso of rippling muscle (he was a construction worker) and the stamina of a teenager. More importantly, he had a HUGE dick.

She stood at the entrance to the hall, waiting for her prey to notice. At one point, Charlie reached forward to grab some popcorn. He looked up and noticed her. A smile played across his lips, then he glanced at John (Rachel's father). She tilted her head back down the hall and his eyes widened slightly. He knew that the two of them played a dangerous game, but that's what made it so interesting.

"Gotta use the toilet," he said.

"You and your small fuckin' bladder," John said, glancing towards the bathroom. Rachel had already vanished.

"Not the bladder. Gotta drop the kids off at the pool." He grabbed a newspaper off the coffee table. "This could take a while." He moved down the hall and into the bathroom where Rachel was waiting. She looked as hot as the first time he had caught her masturbating after stumbling into her room on accident, which had lead to an incredible fuck session. They both knew that if Rachel's father ever found out that there would be a shallow grave dug in the backyard, but that just made the whole thing more exciting. Every time he came over, Charlie immediately looked around for Rachel's prime ass. At the moment, she had that round booty parked on the edge of the sink and was unzipping her jeans.

"You're gonna get me killed," he said as he dropped his own pants and let his ten-inch rod spring forward.

"But what a way to go," she said, taking his massive organ in her hand. "We'll have to make it quick. I just need somethin' to tide me over." She leaned over and took the velvety mushroom head into her mouth and just held it there before sliding a few inches of the shaft into her throat. It had that smell of sweat that permeated the skin of men who worked hard for a living. She savored that smell and that taste as she downed more of that precious meat. It was already beginning to leak man-candy. She sucked about half of it down before coming up for air. "You were hopin' to get me alone, weren't you?"

"Every day," he gasped, looking nervously towards the door. "When you gonna come by the house for some real fun?"

"Next time your wife's out of town, I suppose," she said as she stroked his rod and started sucking on the head. She gripped the base with one hand while she stretched her mouth around the shaft. She loved giving head. She was avoiding making to many slurping noises, but every now and then a moan would emanate from her dick-filled lips and sent shudders up Charlie's spine.

When his staff was good and slick, Rachel stood up and pushed her jeans down past her ass. The denim hadn't even reached her mid-thighs before Charlie was on his knees, licking her pussy from behind. His pink tongue darted between her ebony ass cheeks and teased her asshole before snaking into her cunt. She was already a little wet down there, and Charlie intended to make her drip.

"Ooh, you got a sweet mouth sugar," she crooned as his powerful tongue tickled her outer lips. He was getting her primed, but they didn't have much time to waist. "Now," she whispered. "Do it!"

He stood up and quickly pushed his mammoth rod into her warm box with one swift stroke. She felt her vaginal cavity fill to capacity as he drove his spike home, and she gasped as all the air left her body. God, she loved having Charlie's big dick inside her. As he quickly and quietly pistoned his shaft in and out of her hole, she gripped the edge of the sink and held on for dear life. Charlie had a death grip on her ass as he pumped his flesh into her warm body. Then he ran his hands up her body and under her shirt, grabbing her sizeable breasts through her bra.

"You are so fuckin' hot!" he whispered heatedly. Her pussy was gripping at him more tightly than anything else he could imagine. He loved it when John invited him over to watch the game, even though it was here in the bathroom or in Rachel's bedroom where the game was really taking place. "Take that cock!" he muttered as his balls slapped up against her.

The knowledge of what would happen if they got caught had brought an air of desperation to the event, and Charlie felt a feeling boiling up in his balls far more quickly than he otherwise might have liked. "I'm gonna cum," he said, pulling out.

Rachel spun around and engulfed the head of his member in her hot mouth again just as he jettisoned his load. The warm goo splashed against her throat and filled her mouth nicely, and she managed to swallow every drop. She nursed his shaft until she was satisfied that there was no more candy to be had before letting it fall from between her lips. She knew that Charlie wanted to kiss her, but he was too squeamish about tasting his own jizz to try. That worked for Rachel. Charlie was a good fuck, even when it was just a quickie, but she wasn't interested in being an official mistress. There were too many other players in her life for her to be the "other woman" for this one guy, no matter how hot he was. She gave his semi-hard stick a gentle squeeze.

"Pleasure doin' business with you," she said grinning, then pulled up her pants and hid in the shower as Charlie got dressed and left, making sure the coast was clear. She snuck out of the bathroom and headed out to the car. She hadn't gotten off, but she didn't need to. Yet. Fucking made her feel relaxed, and she was going to need that feeling during the upcoming "intervention."

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A little while later . . .

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"I can't fuckin' believe this!" Torrie almost shouted, startling some of the other restaurant patrons. "Is this the only reason you invited me out?" Things had been going so well. Frank had been funny, Jeremy had been charming and Rachel had been friendly. Then Rachel had started in about Torrie needing some sort of life direction, and things had degenerated quickly.

"No! You know that's crap! We're just concerned and . . ." Rachel was already regretting trying to intervene. Torrie was so pig-headed and . . .

"Sis . . chill." Jeremy placed a hand on Rachel's shoulder, which silenced the young woman. "Torrie, we don't want a fight. We just want you to be happy, and you don't seem all that happy anymore. If you tell us that we're full of shit, we'll drop the whole thing here and now."

"I'm happy," Torrie said, not believing her own claim for a minute.

"Really?" inserted Rachel. "Because you used to have all these dreams. And you've just kept settling for less and less." Rachel took one of Torrie's hands. The fact that her best friend was gay had never bothered her or made her feel uncomfortable. "If it's just that you're not sure what you want, I can handle that. I just want to make sure there are still some dreams in that head of yours. That tacky, pink head of yours." Since the last time she had seen the girl, Torrie had dyed her short hair pink with black stripes running through it. Torrie looked indignant at the statement, then cracked a smile.

"Kiss my white ass!" she said, and everyone started chuckling. "Or we can talk about you and those parachute pants you used to wear in the eighth grade."

"Upon pain of death, you swore you'd never bring that up again," laughed her friend.

Torrie realized that Rachel had never let go of her hand, and the look in her friend's eyes told her that she while she was trying to diffuse the tension, she wasn't going to drop the subject. "I'm . . . I have no idea what I want." And that was the truth. She knew that she had been growing increasingly disinterested in a lot of things, but never could quite figure out why. "Everything I used to want to do . . . just doesn't seem all that important."

Frank piped in. "People change and we're cool with that. Not everyone needs to find their path by the time they're our age." The four of them were all in their early twenties. Rachel was studying journalism and wanted to be a news anchor on CNN. Frank wanted to be a screenwriter for television shows, and Jeremy was studying business and was hoping to follow in his father's footsteps. He had put the track shoes away and been playing college football. He showed promised as a safety, and had already displayed his skills in a couple of bowl games. "But do you really want to be one of those people who is still living with her parents even when she's forty, delivering pizzas to the trailer park her ex-girlfriend lives at with her new husband and eight-point-five children and . . ." Frank finally shut up when Torrie tossed one of Rachel's fries at him.

"It's all such bullshit," Torrie said, staring out the window. "Not you guys and your plans . . . I didn't mean . . ." She looked back at her friends. "We spend so much of our lives kidding ourselves about what we want. We want to be rock stars or famous actors or astronauts. But all the time, we're going to public school. Then we're supposed to go to college, then graduate school. By the time we're done, we've spent over a fourth of our life, just to get ready to spend all our time working and not enjoying our lives."

"I get that," said Rachel. "Unfortunately, sometimes you gotta compromise. You've got to make a living somehow. Even if you aren't rich or something . . . Don't you want to get out on your own? Is there any job out there you might be interested in? I mean, even if you just get a bachelor's in English, you could probably teach at a community college. All you'd have to do is read and argue, and you're good at those."

"And there's always welding. You can make good bank at that," said Jeremy.

"I know. I've got options, and I really hate puttin' my folks out. I just don't wanna sink all this time into something just to change my mind a few years later."

"That's always going to be a risk, toots," said Frank. "But the longer you wait to take a chance, the longer it'll be before you can have a second chance."

"You're a real philosopher, you know that?" grinned Torrie.

"No, but you are."

"Shit," Torrie said. "I've got to get going. Listen guys, I appreciate the concern. Just don't give up on me yet. I'll figure something out." She headed out the door and down the street to the Kwik-E-Mart where her graveyard shift was about to begin.

"I wish I knew what was going on in that girl's mind," Rachel muttered when Torrie was out of sight.

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Two o'clock the next morning . . .

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It had been another incredibly boring shift. But Torrie didn't mind. The store was right across the street from a police station, so she almost never got hassled. And despite her friend's concerns, there was something she loved about working there. The store was also close to the University of California at Springfield, and there was always a stream of tasty young coeds streaming through. Torrie looked at them, imagining what THEIR dreams were and she was happy for them . . . happy they still COULD dream. She envied them for that. She cleaned, ran the register and read her book. She was reading "The Scarlet Letter" for the hundredth time or so when her favorite visitor dropped by.

Every Friday night, almost like clockwork, Isabel Turner walked into the store. She was usually on her way back from a bar or a club, and she almost always got the same thing . . . a hot dog and a large diet soda. And to Torrie, Isabel was an angel. Even when her mind was muddled, the thought of Isabel got her heart racing.