Ch. 02: Charley's Chalet
"Hello. This is DreamWeavers. 'Tell us your dream; we'll make someone cream!' Stephanie at your service."
"Yeah, hi. I want to get gangbanged! How much will that cost?"
"You're over 18, right? You've got to be over 18!"
"Yeah, yeah. Fucking 37! Divorced. I don't want romance. Just want to get fucked--not fucked over!"
"Well, I need some info before I can give you a seximate," I explain. "Raped?"
There's a pause on the other end. "Naw, not really raped, like a bunch of guys tackle me in an alley and fuck me. I don't want to get hurt...you know...just something that I start and that gets a little out of hand, maybe. I want to be a slut for a couple hours!"
"Sure. How many? All white, all black, latino, asian, a mix? How big?" These are the questions I must ask. "Okay, one really, really big cock! Where does he get you-sure, it can be in all three! Just men? Okey-dokey! No, I'm sorry, but the only German Shepherds in my stories are ones that can yodel! You want piss with that? Piss-you know, anyone pissing in you or on you? I see. Ooooh, good idea! I'll try to work that in!" I finish taking my notes.
"Well, our usual rate is each cum scene costs two hundred dollars, but in most of our gangbangs, a bunch of guys cum at the same time. Let's see now...with the group discount and no afterglow scene-gangbangs generally speaking do not have afterglow scenes...did you want one? I didn't think so! Five hundred should cover it all! Sorry, we don't take American Express!"
"Fine. A whole fucking month of telemarketing just to turn me into a bowl of cream-of-fucking-meat! Yeah, fine-it'll be worth it!"
"I'll email it to you on Tuesday!"
***
Charley's Chalet
When Charlene bought the place over the Internet, she thought she was getting a great buy. A log cabin on Misty Lake in Chinquapin County--secluded, pristine, just a few yards from the shoreline. She imagined sitting on the deck some early weekend morning, sipping Vienna roast coffee, eating chewy bits of homemade cinnamon-raisin toast, listening to whatever sounds nature sent her way. Maybe Bach's Chaconne for violin on the CD. Maybe the Beatles.
The divorce had been ugly and humiliating. Ken-who Charley knew cheated on her with other women and occasionally with men-actually convinced a friend of his to testify that she had been banging him for years. But Charley knew how to work the courtroom. She also knew how to hack into Ken's email and print out reams of emails and, more importantly, email addresses. The divorce went through but Ken paid dearly. Enough for a country house. And a little extra. "I won't have to work for years!" was her triumphant declaration to Balls, her Persian cat.
From the gravel driveway, the place which she had dubbed 'Charley's Chalet' looks fine, a little weathered perhaps, but nicely rustic. It is what she finds inside that causes her heart to sink within her, lower and lower, until she thinks she might shit it out. Her quick inspection reveals tons of problems-from bad plumbing to a malfunctioning boiler to non-working appliances. Charley is a woman of stout spirit, though. "I am going to make this work!" she smugly says to herself, arms akimbo.
She finds a tattered Yellow Pages in a nightstand and begins making calls. "Yes, Tuesday at 9 a.m. is fine," she says to one repairman. "Yes, Tuesday at 9 is fine," she says to another. And on and on. "Well, at least one break goes my way," she thinks. "Everyone I need is coming Tuesday morning between 9 and 9:30. Hmmm!" A seed of a daydream takes root in her head. Charley spends the rest of the weekend dusting, scrubbing, and chasing raccoons from the attic. At one point, she screams at a mouse nibbling the last of her grilled-cheese sandwich. "Laura Ingalls Wilder had it too fucking easy!" she yells. The mouse drops a couple turds on her plate and rushes off, as if thinking this woman is mad.
Monday night, Charley puts Herbie Mann's "At the Village Gate" CD into her stereo and takes a bath-a long soak in tepid water-the best the water heater can do, but amazingly calming. She scrubs herself red, trying to release the dirt from her pores. She shaves her armpits, legs--and then her pussy. Why the fuck not, she asks herself? It's sexy! Later, she turns on the TV and flips back and forth between the only two channels she gets-the fishing channel, this night with a feature on large-mouth bass, and a National Geographic special on Rorqual whales. Charley learns that the male of that species sports a penis 10 feet long and 1 foot in diameter! In bed, Charley sips her red wine while working her vibrator. It feels 10 feet long and 1 foot in diameter. Against her freshly-shaved cunt, it tingles nicely.