Guilty Pleasures Ch 09 1

Welcome to my latest series, mashing up a few more tropes. This one turned out to be a crazy ride, so get ready for something that ends quite unlike it begins.

One thing you can be sure of, even though this is Literotica, and this story could easy veer off into... THERE, it does not in fact, go THERE. So either don't fear, or don't get your hopes up, whichever your preference.

Lastly, as always, I am not going for deep truths or gritty realism. The aim for me is a plausibly ridiculous course of events.

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Guilty Pleasures - Nine

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Normalcy had broken out in my life. As summer's heat built, my life slid back into its usual easy rhythms.

Becca brought her friends over about once a week. When they came, I kept an eye on things, cooked cheap food for everybody, and guarded my booze fridge. Becca's Trinity of best friends all largely behaved themselves. This made me happy, and my dick sad.

Work went smoothly. Trevor and Thalia were getting along, our physical production line was spooling up nicely, and none of my urchins in my department made any entitled demands. Well, no excessively entitled demands. Thalia even went back, more often than not, to her boxy-cut suits.

I went to Bridge Night at Wanda and Yancey's on one Friday, then a cool event the next weekend at Ursula and Janet Talbot-Whitney's. Those two did not regularly host neighborhood events, but when they did step up, they usually produced extra cool evenings. That week was a fairly low-key, old-fashioned cocktail party where we were expected to get all dressed up, like it was 1957 or something. Walt, Nate, and a few other husbands grumbled about having to pop on a tie and were told repeatedly to shut up by their excitedly dressed up wives.

As promised, I flirted with Wanda outrageously.

I had no agenda, obviously. I was just indulging in humorous appreciation--appreciation that I could now comfortably have fun with. My teasing of her (and of Yancey--I made sure he was always right there to see me do it) was fairly low-key fun when it had been Bridge Night, as that kind of evening is mostly just clusters of people, not close-in crowds. During the Talbot-Whitney's standing cocktail party, there was a lot more mingling.

The second time I made Wanda snort with outraged laughter, I realized that I was getting a look or two, especially from some of the other wives, wondering what I was up to with her. Especially since Wanda was clearly flirting right back. I didn't want any dark suspicions running through our neighborhood, so I just expanded my net and flirted with many, if not most of the other wives. People quickly relaxed.

After I had, right in front of him, done the next best thing to hitting on his wife, who is fifty-eight, overweight, and an absolute dear, Walt leaned into my ear and said, "Good to see you starting to get your Game with the ladies in shape again, Howard! It's about time you started getting over Rebecca." His wife, who had good-naturedly fled my 'advances', laughed almost hysterically at something another spouse said, and Walt chuckled. "You are gonna do fine. Tina is still blushing."

I even flirted with both our hosts, to surprising effect. Ursula was amused. Janet practically leaned into it. I shook my head as I moved on from her. Janet was wearing one of the smallest cocktail dresses at the party, and her legs were on full display. And it was a damned nice display that I was unable to resist drinking in. But, recent, bizarre and unique circumstances not withstanding, Married was still very much a bright line for me.

The whole lesbian issue might have also presented a barrier... even if the Married thing wasn't in the way. But maybe it wouldn't have, considering the streak I was on lately. I sensed rather acutely that neither of these women were innocent of dick in their lifetimes, and Janet in particular did not seem terribly adverse to the concept...

Married. They were married.

There were a few of the women in my circle of friends with whom I intentionally did not flirt. Hannah and Beth Anne were both, well... repressed. I knew flirting would make either of them uncomfortable. Plus, I didn't have the time or inspiration to tease every woman anyway. I did also have a fair number of guys I wanted to have a conversation or two with. I like talking about sports, and business, and booze, and hunting, and I had a good time talking about all of them with various husbands, and some wives too.

And I carefully didn't flirt with Monica. She and Stan were mostly back to their old ways. He was a human tool, and she was a sweetie who treated hm inexplicably like a king. But even though there were no more public dustups between them, I could still sense some strain. Best not to roil those waters, much as I would have enjoyed fucking with Stan's head.

Also... Stan was large. I was not overly eager to go dancing with him.

I did enjoy watching a few other guests doing some humorous flirting as well. I wondered if that was a dynamic I had not noticed because of my own hangups, or if my newly relaxed behavior was rubbing off. We all used to be more flirtatious, back in the day. Maybe I was helping others get back to some youthful fun. We were a bunch of middle-aged farts. We needed some fun.

The only bad thing about all this was Stan apparently took the situation as an excuse to flirt a little himself. I narrowed my eyes as he tried to get a laugh out of one of the more attractive neighbors. I hated to admit that he could turn on the charm, but he indeed could. Too bad for him however, because she knew what a human waste dump he was at heart, and failed to be impressed.

My eyes slid across the room to Monica, who was ignoring her husband's antics. Or maybe she just didn't see. Whatever, I shook my head at how a woman as beautiful as she would stay with... My mind filled again with that damned fantasy of leading her into the kitchen, and making love to her on the kitchen counter. I'd kiss her softly, and hungrily, fill my hands with her lovely breasts, lifting them free of the neckline of that wrap-around dress she was wearing... And speaking of wrapping around, she'd lift one of those lovely legs up and around my back as I drove into her like a velvet piston, sending her to loudly appreciative orgasmic heights that would draw Stan in to see what was happening. I'd flip his ass off. She'd tell him to get a good look...

Jesus!

I shook my head, and went to get a refill on my whiskey, which I slugged down far too quickly. My diseased brain was not back to completely normal, obviously. I shivered and slipped off to the bathroom. I looked at myself in the mirror.

In the last couple of months, Clark, you have had more sex than any man should, with way,

way

more women than he should, I told my reflection sternly. Cut out the dark fantasies.

I washed my hands and returned to the party, where I joined several others in goading Walt and Tina into dancing. A good bit of alcohol had been consumed by all by that point, enough for Tina not to save her husband from our taunts. Walt should never dance in public...

*

Over all, life was good.

Of course, I found that now that my 'Dry Spell' had been broken, I was a bit more consciously aware of my need to find some kind of dating life. Hopefully with some lady or ladies who were actually appropriate to apply my game to.

Easier said than done when you are in your mid-forties, and you live in a suburban neighborhood where everyone except Peter is married. I mean, Pete's a good guy, but I wasn't asking him to dinner and a movie any time soon.

The only real echo of the sexual chaos my life had become at the beginning of the summer was Becca's friend Stephanie. Now that she had decided that I was to be flirted with, she took to doing it more and longer each time she came by with Becca.

"Hey, Mister Howard," the blonde said, draping herself down in the large chair next to where I was working. It was a very hot day, and most of the kids who were there that day were in the pool, staying cool. Stephanie was staying cool by not wearing much in the way of a bikini. It was a new one. Even if I had been able to not keep careful track of Stephanie's bathing suit choices over the course of the summer, I would have known this one was new.

Her smooth, firm flesh had accumulated an excruciatingly deep, gorgeous tan over the summer so far, and the fact that this was a new and smaller suit was loudly attested to by the presence of pale hints of tan-lines exposed here or there where the bikini covered even less than its predecessors had.

I found my eyes making the evaluation a bit more openly, and more extensively, than was good for me, and I yanked my eyes back to my laptop. "Hello Stephanie," I replied, as if distracted. "Good to see you again."

"Mmmm," she murmured, damned well aware at how closely I had just been checking her out. "I'm thirsty, what flavor are you going to give me today?"

Oh, this was new, I reflected. I had always let her help herself, since she became twenty-one, to a White Claw or two from my beer fridge. It wasn't a big deal. There were two other kids, boys, who were twenty-one as well. They usually cadged a beer.

But as of today, I was now apparently expected to lean over to the fridge, which was closer to Stephanie than it was to me, given where we were sitting, and get a hard seltzer for her. I needed to nip this new gambit in the bud!

But I didn't. I popped out of my chair and leaned over to open the fridge. This brought me closer to my new nemesis, who stretched a little in satisfaction (and display) at seeing me cave to her new ploy. I chose a lime-flavored can, knowing by now that she liked lime, but it was scarcely her favorite. There were three cans of black cherry in there, and I had to reach past them to get the lime.

I presented the can to her with widely sarcastic servility. "Shall I open it for you, lest you break an elegant nail?"

"Oh, would you? That would be great! Thank you!" she said, with a wide-eyed, enthusiastic innocence that was not fooling me.

Nip it in the bud, Clark!

I sighed, and cracked open the can, handing it to her as I sank back into my seat.

She took a long, loud pull, and I swear, even the way she held the thin, tall can was slightly suggestive. "Ahh! I love lime. Thanks, Howie! You are the best," she chirped, slid to her bare feet, and popped off to join her friends in the pool, making very sure that her cute little butt danced for me as she moved away.

Her flirting was definitely escalating. But Becca assured me it was just that, and I guessed that I could live with it. That I could still feel creeped out by enjoying ogling a college cheerleader, after everything that had happened with Carol, Mary, and Anne, who were all talking to boys in the pool at the moment, made me feel at least a little better about myself. I thought.

*

Among the best returns to normalcy was the way Yancey and I were back to regular happy hour after work on Wednesdays, like we had done years before--back before he fucked my wife and felt too guilty about it to hang out with me all the time. He had not felt so guilty that he had confessed. Nor so guilty that he didn't hang out with me at all. But his guilt had marred things for us. Now that I had a matching amount of, admittedly unregretted, sin on my ledger, it was good to relax with each other again.

"Tar Heels are going to suck this fall," Yancey grumped into his tall draft Blue Moon.

"It is ACC football," I said in basic agreement. "Most teams suck all the time. And all the teams suck most of the time. Wait for Winter. Basketball with be back this season, you'll see."

We wrangled for a little while over the details of my assertion, but since we both agreed in principal, it was more pro-forma bullshitting than actual debate.

Mostly we talked about work. For once it was Yancey's company where the feces was hitting the rotary impeller, and he was having great fun telling me about it. He was having fun with the situation because the shit-show was not imperiling the company meaningfully, and because none of it was his responsibility.

Our waitress came by with our second round. We always had two. No more, no less. As the short little girl walked away, we both sipped in silence. And yes, we both took few a moments to appreciate the view. It was a good one, after all.

"So, I hear the cheerleader is torturing you now," Yancey observed into the silence.

"How the fuck did you hear about that?" I asked, taken mildly aback.

"Mary was laughing about it with Wanda on Monday. They didn't know I was close enough in the house to hear," Yancey grinned at me, an expression half-leering, half-acerbic. The fact that I had fucked his wife, repeatedly and with gusto, was something he and I were on the same page about. But the fact that I had done the same with his daughter was still something he was

just a smidge

less comfortable with. Actually, since I was uncomfortable as Hell about it myself, I guess we were on the same page there as well.

So why the heck was Yancey so comfortable teasing me about my being tortured by one of Mary's friends?

"You should hit that, if she actually gives you half a chance," Yancey murmured into his beer.

I just stared at him. What the Hell?

"She's crazy hot," Yancey shrugged. "And she has the inestimable virtue of not being my

daughter

."

Oh. There it was.

*

At 11:45, in the dark of that same night, my phone rang. It was on Do Not Disturb, so whomever it was calling had called and hung up repeatedly until it rang through anyway. I sat up like a bolt. Something must have happened to Becca!

Blearily, I grabbed my phone, yanking the charging cable as I did so and knocking my water glass on the floor.

Shit.

But I stabbed the button. The call was more important.

"Clark? It's Wanda," came a breathless voice over the phone.

"Wanda?" I said, confused. At least it wasn't the police.

"We need you to come over here. Now," she said urgently.

"Now? What?" I asked intelligently.

"Monica is here. She's in hysterics," Wanda said, nearly in hysterics herself. "She's left Stan... as in run the fuck away from him, just now... in the middle of the night!"

"God!" I exclaimed, both relieved and horrified. "I'm glad she thought to run to you guys," I added, meaning that. Wanda and Yancey are the best people I know. "But why does she need me? Now?"

"She doesn't need you.

I

need you," Wanda said, almost crossly. "I need you to get over here and stop Yancey before he works himself up to go back over there and beat up Stan!"

I was on my feet before the phone I had tossed had completed its arc down to the mattress. I almost slipped and killed myself on the spilled water, and but I kept my feet and was soon throwing some clothes on. I found myself brushing my hair in the bathroom mirror, and stared at the brush. Now was not the time for primping. I ran the brush over my head once or twice more anyway, and bolted for the door. I judged, based on experience, that I could run the distance to their place faster than I could get the car out of the garage and drive it over, so there I was, running through my suburban neighborhood in a pair of sweatpants, a teeshirt, and leather loafers with no socks, at midnight.

Yancey yanked open their front door in response to my knock. He had a wild look in his eye that I didn't like. But I possibly had the same look growing on mine, so whatever.

"How is she?" I asked preemptively.

"Not good. I'm not sure I've seen a woman be this panicked."

"How badly did he hit her?" I asked flatly.

Yancey paused. "I'm not sure that he did. If so, it was just a slap or two, which is fucking unacceptable as it is." He heaved a beep breath. "But she doesn't seem injured," he said, "not even bruised," clearly refusing to think it mattered. Still, he did slow down a hair as he admitted it. Good.

If she wasn't hurt, it would be easier for him to not do something stupid. But bad, because if she wasn't hurt, he'd get in a lot bigger trouble if he went ahead with Plan Stupid anyway. The problem was, Plan Stupid was sounding pretty good to me, too.

Taking a calculated risk to leave Yancey alone by the door, I indulged my own concern and dashed on to the kitchen, where I heard the women. Monica sat in their breakfast nook, with Wanda on the bench seat beside her, arms round her tightly. Monica was sobbing when she heard me come in.

"Clark!" she said in surprise. "I... you didn't need to come. Not in the middle of the night. It's bad enough I dragged Yancey and Wanda out of bed at midnight." She gasped painfully for air, then went on in a voice that was suddenly suffused with anger as well as anguish. "But I could not stay in that house with him for another second. He's so... fucking horrible." I didn't think I had ever heard Monica drop an actual f-bomb before. "I can't. I can't go back there.

Ever

!"

"We have you, Monica. You are here with Yancey and me," Wanda crooned reassuringly. I suspected this was a refrain that she had been repeating, and would continue to repeat until Monica heard it fully. "You can stay with us as long as you like. You are safe here. You are safe with us. Yancey and I will keep you safe. Clark will keep you safe."

Yancey had not seemed to be certain, so I was by God going to ask for myself. "Did he hit you? Did he hurt you?" I asked flatly.

"He slapped me pretty hard," Monica said softly. Wanda stiffened, and I felt Yancey behind me bristle.

"Wait!" Monica added hastily. "He can claim self-defense on that one. I slapped him pretty hard first," she said miserably.

That really didn't get him off the hook in my book. Stan's a big guy, and Monica is a delicate little thing, barely above average in height. Slaps from each were not created, or delivered, equal.

"That's it," Yancey growled. Wanda looked at me in alarm. Yancey turned, but before he could head back into the living room, I pushed him there myself, taking control without being overt.

"I'm going to kick that motherfucker's ass," Yancey growled, but when I stopped, he unconsciously did too.

I thought fast. "You are not, bro. And here's why," I growled, theatrically keeping my voice down as if we were keeping a secret, and making him lean in to hear me. "Right now, Monica is set up perfectly for a great divorce settlement. But if you go over there tonight and punch out that colostomy bag, he gets a Golden Victim Card. Further, if she really did hit him first, he might get everything. Calm the fuck down."

"You didn't seem so calm when you marched in and outright asked if he hit her," Yancey complained.

"Because if she'd been injured, courts or no, I'd be going over to the fucker's house with you. That way I could be sure it was Stan who got his ass kicked, and not you or me!"

"I could take that asshole," Yancey growled, not ready to stand down.

"You and I stay in shape, Yancey. Stan

works out

. And he is ten years younger than either of us, at the point in all our lives where that is a huge fucking advantage. If he does eventually need to be chastised, we will do it together."

Yancey looked at me surlily, but I saw agreement, at least in not heading out instantly, growing in his eyes.

"I need for you agree to take me, if you decide it is go time," I said. "Just like I will agree to take you." I held out my hand. With a deep breath, he shook on it. "Good. Now let's go back and see if we can do anything useful, or else we can just stand around while Wanda takes care of her."

Fortunately, there seemed for the time being at least to be no Stockholm Syndrome affecting Monica. If she never saw Stan again, it would be too soon for her, she said angrily. But she hadn't even taken her keys with her when she had fled, and now felt homeless and adrift.