*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual activity are at least eighteen years of age.
Jack tried the knob; it was unlocked, just as she said it would be. He slowly turned the knob then pushed the door softly. Only the slightest of creaks could be heard, but he still froze for a moment.
He entered the darkened living room and looked around, letting his eyes get accustomed to the dark.
There was the shiny red leather couch. He'd not said anything about how gaudy it was when she was laying on it, her thighs locked around his head. He'd not commented on the surreal color of the leather when he had his cock buried to the hilt in her tight ass.
She was the first woman he'd ever fucked up the ass. He'd begged his ex-wife for anal sex so many times; hell he'd begged her for any kind of sex. She was a frigid cow that though sex was for procreation and procreation only. She had even thought playing with her titties was a sin, since those were supposed to be for producing milk for the children she was to bear.
When she found out that she was unable to bear children, several cysts in her fallopian tubes, this was ground for divorce. Obviously, in God's eyes, she wasn't meant to be married.
Thankfully the judge ruled that, since the house was his before the marriage, she wasn't entitled to half of its value in divorce. She may have used her religion to determine she wasn't supposed to be married, but that didn't deter her from being a vindictive bitch in the divorce.
But Lynne let Jack fuck her any which way he wanted to, and play with her titties, and play with her pussy, and play with her ass.
The floorboards creaked slightly as he began to creep along to the hallway. Funny, he never noticed how much they creaked before. Then again, he wasn't trying to be silent before.
Lynne wasn't very silent when she was making love.
She actually curled up her lip in disgust at that term. "Love is an emotion, you can't 'make' an emotion," she declared. "It's fucking, which is an expression of love."
And at first, that's what it was to him, fucking. He'd sidled up next to her in line at the McDonald's and asked the five foot ten inch beauty what a man had to do to get between those long beautiful legs.
"Most of my lovers just ask," she smiled and placed her order with the pimple faced girl.
"Bye," she smiled and left with her lunch.
The floorboard creaked horribly in the hall and he froze again. He saw the many framed pictures in the hallway and wondered why he'd never noticed them before.
"Because, dumb ass, you were to busy looking at her ass," he laughed to himself.
Too busy watching his come dribble out of her stretched, raw looking anus and stretched, angry looking pussy, and sticking to her muscular, tanned thighs.
There was a photograph of David when he was much younger, dressed in a football uniform. Jack didn't remember those days; he'd only been two years old at that time, but his father sure did remember it. Bender, Louisiana was proud of its high school football team, and had something to be proud of. And right in the middle of that was David Labbe, star running back. Several colleges had vied for his attention and his future looked bright indeed.
Then David Labbe, Senior had been killed in a hit and run accident. They never did find the other driver. David Junior had dropped out of high school to go to work at the mattress factory, Bender's main source of employment. His mother was busy raising five children, one of which had special needs, so David took up the role of 'man of the house.'
There was another photograph of a young smiling David, flexing his muscled arms. Dangling from his arm was a small girl, smile on full wattage. Jack could see the girl's leg braces and recognized the big smile.
Melanie Labbe had been born with spina bifida and had to wear leg braces. She walked with the use of crutches, but always seemed to have a full smile on her face. Jack liked when he'd get her window at the bank; he'd flirt with her and make her giggle and blush. Right at her window, in full view of anyone who looked, was a picture of her big brother, David.
David had told her that she was only as limited as she wanted to be. When someone tells you that often enough, you tend to believe it. And you tend to make other people believe it too. In her senior year of high school, she'd been voted 'Homecoming Queen.'
There was the picture of Melanie Labbe in her Homecoming prom dress, cheap plastic crown on her head.
Unfortunately, while everyone agreed that Melanie Labbe was beautiful, few could look past the leg braces and the crutches. Jack had heard that she had to wear a diaper. He didn't remember where he'd heard that, but the idea of dating a girl that had no control over her bowel movements was not very appealing to him.
There was a photograph of Lynne, pasties and g-string on, hanging upside down from a pole in the middle of a stage.
There was another photograph of Lynne, smiling saucily at the unseen photographer as she covered her breasts in her small hands. The g-string panties barely covered her blonde tuft of hair.
Jack remembered her cupping those magnificent breasts together so he could thrust his cock between them. She screamed and laughed as his come spurted out and coated her lips, chin, neck and breasts. Then she used her fingers to scoop the semen up. With him watching, she had that same saucy smile as she licked her fingers clean.
"Divorce is out of the question," she sadly said. "He said he'd kill me before he let me go."
The twenty two-caliber pistols were nearly untraceable to him; he'd stolen it out of a customer's car five years ago. He'd taken a soda can and duct taped it to the muzzle. The soda can was stuffed with packing peanuts. The homemade device would serve two purposes; it would act as a silencer, and also render the bullets almost impossible to perform any ballistics tests on.
He paused outside of the guest bedroom door. He smiled as he looked at the comforter.
"It was his grandmother's," she'd sneered. "Fucking ugly, if you ask me.
But they'd had fun fucking on it. Lynne laughed at the idea of 'generations of wet spots' on the ugly bed covering.
Just past the doorway were a few more photographs. There was one of Lynne, dressed in a thong bikini, draped over the hood of a 1957 Ford Thunderbird. Her tan looked good, as she'd greased herself up just before the picture was taken.
There was another photograph of her, and David; it was their wedding photograph. He smirked at the white wedding dress, she was clearly no virgin, no blushing bride.
There was a photograph of David and group of men, standing outside of the mattress factory. Jack looked closely at the photograph. The front doors were the old glass and steel ones, not the newer wooden wanes that hung on the frames now. They'd replaced the glass and steel doors after the fire. Several of the employees had been severely cut by the thick glass as they ran to escape the inferno.
Jack also saw Herman Villeaux in the photograph. They'd never recovered his body; some said the force of the blast had blown him to small chunks of flesh and bone.
There was John Laponte. John had been deafened from the blast. Dazed, deafened, disoriented, he was stumbling toward the inferno itself when someone grabbed him and carried him outside. He never did find out who it was that saved him.
"It was an angel," John would say. "An angel saved my life; being deaf is a lot better than being dead."
That was why David was in the horrible physical shape he was in now. In the photograph, he still had his 'running back' physique, instead of the bloated body he sported in the wedding photograph.
He'd gone back inside, despite the others' trying to stop him. Three times he'd come back out with a severely injured coworker. On his fourth trip in, the roof collapsed on him, burying him under flaming wreckage. He was in physical therapy for nearly a year before he could walk again, unaided.
