Look, reader, you can believe this or not, I really don't much give a shit. This is my story so, sit down, shut the hell up and listen while I tell it.
David, my husband, and I were invited to a big Halloween shindig over in Lake Oswego. You know the type of party I mean, business guys sucking up at a ludicrously big house belonging to some rich asshole and his fat-ass wife. All the bitchy wives would be standing around in stupid costumes trying to look like Princess Fuck-Me while getting drunk as they watched their faggot husbands down on their knees dressed like the medieval cock suckers they are, blowing the host in hopes of making a profitable sale.
The evening started out in its usual horse shit fashion. I was feeling like I'm on the verge of PMS and David was pissed off about something. What? I could really give a shit. I do what I want and David makes oodles of money. We don't do much but argue anyway so money's all I care about these days, anyway.
That night, grumbling, David lead the way out to the Lincoln parked in the driveway. He opened the driver's door, climbed in and started the motor. I went around and got in the passenger side, So-fucking-much for gentlemanly behavior. Soon we were on the freeway and traveled along I-5 headed south past Tigard.
"Before it's too late to turn back, what did you forget?" David growled. This was an old routine. For the entire 4 years of marriage every time we went someplace, David assumed I had left something of burning importance at home. So once I had left the water running in the kitchen sink. No big deal. Not like I burned the fucking house down or anything.
"No," I answered curtly as I smoothed my dumb-ass looking fairy costume across my boobs. "Hmm. Boobs starting to sag. I wonder what they'll be like in another 10 years," I thought to myself as David pulled off I-5 and on to the I-217 interchange. He stopped at the light, signaling for a left turn towards Mercantile Village and the back side of Lake Oswego. "Legs still look pretty good, dishwater-blonde hair looks like shit, but it has always looked like shit, and my tummy is still as flat as it was when we got married - almost," I continued inside my head, "But my ass is definitely starting to spread. Shit. I go to the gym starting Monday."
"David used to look at me," I thought, "but not anymore. Now it's all about his damn job. Christ, he hasn't even touched me in... How long?" I shuddered trying to remember when the last time I'd gotten a good romp. "I need it, damn it! I want it! But, the chance is zero. So I know I will continue being the bitchy wife, smiling my smile, acting like nothing's wrong. Bullshit! I so hate this shit."
David turned on Iron Mountain Blvd then up the long curving drive way of the Foster Mansion. After he parked in the line of cars along the driveway David looked at me. "I really don't fucking want you getting drunk like you did at the Stephens party. God, I lost the Stephens account and almost my job. Foster is important so just be nice. Just one drink and make it fucking last. You hear?"
Irritated, I replied, "Yes, you fucking prick." David glared at me as he opened the driver's side door and got out.
David's job at Roderick & James Consulting Engineers was all he ever thought about. His job, damn, he have should paid that kind of attention to me for fuck sake.
We were met at the door by the hosts, Joe and Angela Foster. I put on my best "Howdy- Ma'am-Mind-If-I-Suck-Your-Husband's-Cock" smile and shook hands warmly. Joe and Angela Foster were in their late 50's. I understood Joe had inherited a small land development business and turned it into one of the largest, most successful land investment companies in the state. His white hair gave me some inkling of how hard he'd worked to do it. I did think the Red Devil costume complete with pitch fork and tail was a little over the top. But it could have been worse, I suppose.
Angela was a grey haired, fat woman dressed as the Dowager Hog or something. My impression was she looked like she was waiting to die under the weight of her bloody jewels and over blown lifestyle. Over ostentatious understates the words that came to mind. This bitch had it all, Mercedes 550 SL in the garage, million dollar home, expensive everything. I suspected even her tampons were custom made by Cartier and gold fucking plated. By the look of her, she could have been costumed as the Goodyear Blimp more appropriately. Jesus, I can be a bitch when I'm in a mood.
Our hosts directed us to the living room where there was a bar and people milled around. David ordered a martini. I looked at the bartender and said sweetly, "Freddy Fudpucker, please." The bartender just looked at me like I was stupid. David glared at me savagely. "Ok kid. Make it a double Irish with a splash of lemon. Chop. Chop." I took my drink and joined the party to mingle. I could feel David's eyes flaming into my back. "Screw him," was my only thought.
Ok, reader. Get this and get it good. You can always tell the size of an asshole's ego by their choice of Halloween Costume. Costumes always portray how people see themselves, proven fact. By all rights with my ego I should have been dressed as the most expensive hooker on 3rd Avenue, but David would have been even more pissed off so I didn't do it. Looking around the room I could see at least 5 "Princesses-Wannabes", 7 "Knights-Of-The-Sock-Stuffed-Cod-Piece", a couple of "Homo Kings" and David, my husband, the dumb ass "Court Jester". That asshole looked like something out of a fucking Woody Allen movie for shit sake. And he was worried about me making a scene?
Anyway, back to the story. I'm being Mrs. Nice. I mingled with the other guests, laughed at their really stupid jokes and listened to these shit head's nonsensical, back biting gossip, even joked when a drunken Joe Foster poked me in the ass with his fucking pitch fork. Eventually came the time when I had to pee. That was always my curse, you know. I had the smallest bladder in the universe. It was about the size of a pea, I think. So I wandered around until I found someone who looked like he didn't belong at the party either and asked in my most charming way, "Ok, Jose or whatever your wet-back name is, where'd you hide the sand box?"
The guy looked at me like he was thinking, "Who is this Bitch?" Then he directed me down a hallway to the bathroom with all the courteousness of a whore house bouncer. I ignored the fucker and didn't strangle him on the spot because I was in a hurry. By this time I really had to go, made it just in time too.
So, sitting on the pot in the Foster's disgustingly baroque bathroom I'm thinking, "This whole party thing sucks big donkey dicks. A little boring chatter here, a friendly poke in the ass there and what happens? Mr.-Devil-with-a-Pitch-Fork-and-a-Hard-On gets his little ego massaged. If he's lucky he might even gets his little weenie rubbed in a back bedroom by one of the wives on the sly. Then he starts handing out lucrative contracts on Monday morning to the guys who jerked him off the best. Meanwhile, I'm hiding out in the bathroom having to deal with the world's smallest damn bladder.
With all these guys sucking up to his tiny ego, maybe I can even understand why Joe (Pencil Dick) Foster hosts these parties. Most of these guys and their wives look like they'd be glad to take it up the ass to ensure they closed the deal. I'm positive the old bastard probably needs a damn good piece of ass. I'm sure by the look of Angela's fat ass she hasn't put out for years.
Frustrated, I wiped the dribbles, stood up and pulled up my Calvin Klein seamless thong. I turned to the mirror and fixed my hair. Why? I didn't know. Women always did that. No matter what I did my hair would always look like shit, so why I bothered I don't know. Then I opened the door and stepped into the hallway.
Son of a Bitch! Right there in front of me was the most gorgeous hunk of man I ever saw. God. My nipples got hard as rocks just looking at him. Well, maybe I've exaggerated, but he was really hot.
Being the coy, bashful type that I am, I immediately put on my best "Scarlett O'Hara- Southern Belle" face, grabbed his hand in a death grip so he couldn't escape and said, "Hi. I'm Jennifer. And you are?"
A wide smile crossed the man's face as he shook my hand. "John. John Stanley. And, I suppose you've met the host and the vultures he's invited?"
"Vultures?" I laughed trying not to sound like a total idiot. "Why, yes, most of them anyway. My husband is one of them." I took an immediate like to John Stanley. He had the right attitude, if you know what I mean. "And what do you do, Mr. Stanley?"
"Oh, please, call me John," he said, still trying to escape the vice like grip I had on his hand, "I've been out of business for some years. Retired, you might say." John looked me up and down. It's a warm evening even for Halloween. Let's take a walk. I know Joe has a lovely garden out in back."
Well, I can't tell you about the weather that night, but I was certainly feeling the heat. I took his arm and together we strolled down the hallway to a pair of French doors. Opening one side John held if for me as I stepped across the door sill. Dropping John's hand I ventured into an absolutely lovely, and deserted, garden, my mouth agape at the sudden beauty.
Now look reader. I'm not the type of woman who goes running around with every swinging dick who comes along. If I was, I'd have plenty of cock in my Calvin Kline's any time I wanted. But there was something about John that seemed to make it alright. Not to mention the fact that he was tall, my age or a little older. He had strong, square jaw that reminded me of someone I couldn't quit put my finger on.. And he made me feel just like a school girl. Frankly, he was just so damned charming I felt I would do anything for him. And I do mean anything.
"Oh, but we can't be gone long, its 11:30 and my husband will be wanting to leave around midnight," I told John in a moment of panic.
John nodded and took my hand gently in his large hand and we walked out into the garden. It was a beautiful night. The bright, full moon cast a silvery glaze over everything giving it a surreal appearance. We walked for a bit then came to a stone bench. John suggested we sit for a bit. So we sat and I wiggled my ass up close to him.
Turning to face John, just for a moment I thought I saw something. I'm not sure what. It was as if his eyes glowed red for just a fraction of a second then the moment was gone. And his eyes were just glistening in the moonlight as they looked at me.
I have to admit, I was feeling really rather giddy at this point, and very strange. John placed his hand on my shoulder and said something in words I couldn't understand. Suddenly, I was light headed. And a strange feeling came over me. Even though the evening air was quite cool, I was so warm I was sure to break out in a sweat any second.
I rose quickly saying, "I should be getting back." Leaving John, I almost ran back to the French doors. Opening one side I stepped into... the garden. I just stood there looking around, thinking to myself, "What the fucking hell?" I turned around and looked back through the door. The garden was there just as I had left it. Okay. This was fucking creeping me out. I stepped back through the door thinking I may have taken the wrong one. But there were no others. Now I was really starting to freak.
About that time, I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was like electricity coursing though me. My knees almost buckled under me. John Stanley held my arm, turned me around and looked deep into my eyes. I was looking back into his eyes but not his eyes, but into a different universe. I was totally mesmerized. I felt light as a feather, like I could just float off into the universe behind those eyes. Ever so lightly, almost like it never even happened, John's lips brushed mine. Fucking shock of a lifetime, I am telling you. Without even knowing it I fell into that universe in his eyes. There was nothing around me, not even the grassy floor of the garden. Only the universe somewhere far away I drifted in.
Instinctively, my arms went around, John's shoulders. Again our lips met, this time there was no doubt. My entire body pressed into him. His lips engulfed my soul and I was flying through space. Faster and faster I flew passed comets and shooting stars that I somehow knew were there only for my enjoyment. Then our lips parted and I found myself still staring into those eyes.
I felt that urge again. My bloody damn bladder was letting me down again. I backed away from John and said, "I need to find a ladies room, John. Can you show me the way?"
John looked at me a moment and placed his hand in mine saying, "No, Jennifer. You do not need to go." and damned if he wasn't right. I didn't. My bladder was completely empty. I could not understand what happened. My bloody, pea-sized bladder, the bladder that has let me down every day of my life, was... what? Empty? Sleeping?
But I didn't have time to think about it. I felt a coldness that crept up my legs beginning at my ankles and moving up to my knees. It was so cold it made me shiver but at the same time it seemed oddly warm, almost erotic. There were goose bumps all over my ass and I had the distinct feeling someone was doing an "up skirt" beaver shot on me but, but of course, I was alone except for John standing in front of me. The coldness was almost like fingers running up my legs. My nipples were certainly reacting to the cold. They were standing right up there ready to salute. When I moved they rubbed against the fabric of my fairy costume shirt and it felt wonderful. The more I moved the more it rubbed, the better it felt and the harder my poor old nipples got. I thought they were going to explode.
And that's not the only place I was having a reaction, either. Putting it bluntly, my pussy had my thong sopping wet and I still cannot explain what was making it do that. What I do know is I was becoming damned uncomfortable down there in a very pleasant way.
When the coldness reached mid-thigh my knees started to buckle again, but John caught in a powerful embrace. God was I embarrassed. My nipples were stabbing into his chest like daggers. Without knowing it, I started grinding my pussy against his leg. I was losing all track of the world around me. There was nothing in my consciousness but the intensely erotic cold creeping upwards. That and John's lips pressed against mine again, our tongues playing, darting back and forth in a strangely arousing dance.
When the cold reach my pussy it was like a thousand little hands all lovingly feeling, massaging, and probing me. I let out a moan from deep in my chest. My arms encircled John's neck. I clung to him to keep from falling. My mouth tried to devour him. His tongue licked the side of my neck. His hands kneaded my breasts, pinched my pulsating nipples. My breath came in short gasps.
Another moan, deeper still and much louder as the cold crept in between my pussy lips and moved deep inside me. I ground my pussy harder against, John's leg, higher now to heighten the contact with my clit.
Reader, I have to stop the story here and let you know how this felt. The best way I can describe it is to say there were a hundred hands fingering me all at once. No, more than that. Each little finger had some inside knowledge of me and knew exactly where to press, rub or... Shit. I'm getting wet again just thinking about it.
Whew! Continuing the story, before I knew it, my fairy shirt was unbuttoned and John's mouth was, well, busy with my nipples. The cold fingers seemed to be plunging deeper into me if that were even possible. The little hands wrapped around my throbbing clit while others moved between my legs and caressed my ass.
There was a voice screaming, "Fuck me. Pleeeeeeese fuck meeeeeeee." I don't really remember screaming but I'm sure it was me.
Then I was on my back, legs spread wide. The new thong I had bought at Meier & Frank that morning was gone. My fairy skirt was hiked up around my waist and John was naked, standing over me. I reached up to hold his hard, erect penis. God, I wanted that thing. My entire world was focused on his cock. A pleading moan escaped from me and John sank to his knees, straddling my chest. I took his throbbing cock into my mouth and lashed it with my tongue. John thrust forward with his hips and the cock slid easily into my throat. I gagged and choked on his cock until I thought I would suffocate. Then the cock was gone and John was between my thighs rubbing the head of his cock against my pussy lips, covering it with my wetness. A single thrust of his hips and the cock slid deep inside me. The same voice was screaming but I was too far away to hear the words. My heels locked behind John's knees. My fingernails tore into his back as thrust after thrust pounded my pussy.
Arching my back, I drew him deeper inside me, taking the full length of his shaft. Then with a single, massive shudder my whole body crashed into a spastic orgasm just as John's cum shot time and time again deep into my hole. That was when I must have fainted.
The next thing I knew, I was lying on the grass alone. My clothes were a mess. I never did find my thong. Sitting up I did the best I could with shaking hands to get my shirt buttoned and my skirt presentable. Without looking, I could tell my ratty-ass hair was a bigger mess than usual. I probably has grass stains on my ass.
Slowly I stood. Off to one side I could hear the music and voices from the party. I walked in that direction and came to the French doors. Carefully, I opened one side and stepped into the hallway. I continued down the hallway to the bathroom. I entered and shut the door locking it. I walked to the mirror. I was a fright. My Este Lauder make up was all smeared (damn the sales woman who told me it would never smear) and my hair looked like an untended empty lot, for Christ sake. I grabbed some tissue and went to work on my face. It cleaned up pretty well, passable anyway. My hair took longer. There was grass and dirt and dog crap for all I know. And worse, I had to pee. I hurried along with my hair and got it, if not presentable, at least it did not look like I just got (what?) shagged in the back garden (?) No. That didn't happen.
I pulled up my skirt, sat on the toilet and did my business. I reflected on what had happened. John Stanley? Who was he? I had not seen him with the other guests. And where did he go? I shook my head. No, nothing happened. There was no encounter. There wasn't even any cum on my pussy or running down my legs. I just got lost and wandered into the garden and fainted I told myself several times until I was convinced. Yes. That must have been what happened. Standing up, I reached down to pull up my thong and where was it? Shit. No matter, I was feeling rather slutty anyway, probably from the Irish whiskey. One final look in the mirror and I opened the bathroom door and rejoined the party.
Later, much later, after two AM, David and I finally got home. David was hopeful that he'd spread the bullshit deep enough to land a contract and me, feeling almost decent after three more whiskeys. But, yep, the house was still there. Once again I failed to burn it to the fucking ground. Sorry David. As he turned the key in the front door lock I asked, "David. Do you remember a rather tall, good looking man at the party? His name was John. John Stanley."
David turned and, with a very odd stare replied, "Where did you hear about him, Jenn?"
"Why? He was there. I thought I saw him."
Laughing now David turned back to the door saying, "I don't think so, babe. John Stanley was Angela Foster's father. He's been dead for years. He started the business. Originally it was Stanley and Foster."