*Author's Note: Any and all persons engaging in any sexual behavior are at least eighteen years of age.
Disclaimers: Yes, I need an Editor; no, I do not want an Editor. Yes, it jumps around too much, yes, there's too many people to keep track of, yes, it's in the wrong category, yes, it's too long, yes, it's too short, yes it's stupid shit and yes, and I suck.
For those of you that have not hit the backspace key, I hope you enjoy this rather dark little tale.
*.*.*
The nurse helped Marcus Whitehead into his wheelchair, but Marcus waved the stout woman away when she began to push the chair.
Slowly, maddeningly, he made his way down the hall to the kitchen.
Tasha, his beautiful wife sat, chomping her way through a large bowl of Cap'N Crunch cereal. She looked up at him, cool golden brown eyes regarding him for a moment, then resumed chomping.
"Hey, there's my beautiful wife," the man tried to say.
Because of the stroke, though, all that came out was grunts and slurred gibberish. So he forced himself to slow down and tried again.
"Day's mim boo full wie," he managed.
Again, she glanced at him and, after a long moment, actually smiled.
"And there's my handsome husband," she responded.
She got to her feet, approached him and bent slightly to kiss him.
He could taste the sugary sweet cereal and the milk on her tongue as she noisily kissed him. Then, with a little peck to his nose, she grabbed her cereal bowl from the table.
When she bent to put her bowl into the dishwasher, the hem of her sleep shirt rose up and Marcus could see a hickey, a passion mark on her right buttock.
"Where the fuck did you get that? Huh?" he angrily demanded, knowing he had not put that mark on his wife's pale flesh.
But again all that came out as grunts and gibberish. As if she knew what he was saying, as if she knew the source of his angry outburst, Tasha turned and smiled her little smirk at him.
Then she skipped out of the room, leaving him alone.
"Want anything?" the nurse asked, coming into the kitchen.
The nurse would not enter any room that Tasha was in; she and Mrs. Whitehead had more than one screaming fit with one another. If Tasha entered a room the nurse was in, the nurse would finish her chore and leave.
"Rib eye, medium rare, three eggs, sunny side up, and toast with butter, real butter all over it," Marcus said in his slurred speech.
"Uh huh, you're getting oatmeal and you know it," the woman said, as if she understood his grunts.
"I hate oatmeal, always have, always will," Marcus thundered. "God damn it; I am a grown man! If I want steak, I should be able to have steak!"
And she ignored him and fixed him bland oatmeal. She did stir in some raisins and some apricots for a little flavor.
Marcus sighed as he insisted on feeding himself the watery gruel. It had not always been this way. Three years ago, he had been a healthy man of fifty eight, with a full head of white blonde hair, well-muscled body, and a long, thick cock.
He'd met Tasha Iechenbach at Dustin's, a little greasy spoon diner that served some of the absolute best country fried steak and milk gravy.
He gave no thought to his fifty five year old wife, or their three daughters and two sons as he approached the young woman with long flowing ash
Blonde hair, light brown eyes, and large chest. He ignored the wedding ring she wore on her left hand.
"I want to fuck you," he said.
For a long moment, she stared at him. Then she shrugged.
"Let me finish my lunch first," she said in an oddly flat voice.
He did let her finish, then she let him finish his own meal. Then she told his driver the address for her house.
Tasha's pubic hair was dark brown, matching her thick eyebrows. It was an odd, titillating sight, the dark triangle against her milk white flesh. Her nipples were also quite dark on her pale white breasts.
Marcus was also thrilled to discover that Tasha's large breasts were real, no silicone in them.
She did not need to be told; she sank to her knees and sucked and licked his cock as he stood in her bedroom, the bedroom where she slept with her husband.
The thought of fucking a married woman in the same room she fucked her husband in gave Marcus a little bit of a charge.
After he'd come down her gulping throat, Tasha showed Marcus that she could kick her legs up and touch them to the pillow on either side of her head. This splayed her pussy wide open, displaying the dark inner lips to his lecherous gaze.
"Don't bother eating me; just fuck me," she ordered.
And he did. He hammered her through three orgasms before blowing a load into her. Then she sucked him up again and rode him, large chest flopping and bouncing wildly as she bucked.
"Next time I'm here, have that pussy shaved, hear?" Marcus demanded after he'd pumped his fourth load of semen into her tight, clutching pussy.
"All right," Tasha said.
Susan, his wife of twenty five years, was happy when Marcus came home and did not grope her large chest, or her widening backside. She was on the other side of menopause and frankly didn't find sex all that exciting any longer. Truthfully, she had never really found sex all that exciting. She had endured it; it was her wifely duties. But Susan had enjoyed the intimacies, the closeness to her husband that sex afforded her.
For Marcus Whitehead, sex with Natasha Magdalene Iechenbach was addictive. He found himself distracted during the day, thinking of her large chest and tight pussy. He'd think of her noisy blow jobs, dark red lips stretched wide to take his cock in.
Her husband was a nineteen year old nobody, with a nothing job at a local restaurant. On the days when her husband was home, Marcus found himself thinking, quite angrily, of the unknown Dwight Doucet getting to fuck Tasha's pussy, grope Tasha's breasts, pump his sperm into Tasha's sweet mouth.
On their next tryst, Marcus told Tasha, her pussy was now his, her ass was now his, her mouth was now his. She agreed without any real emotion.
"That little punk ass bitch you're married to? He doesn't get to fuck you, hear? Unless he's willing to eat my sperm from that pussy, he can't fuck you, you hear?" he said as he hammered her.
"All right," she agreed.
"Who's pussy is that?" he asked as he stiffened and pumped his sperm into her.
"Yours," she agreed.
While it was exciting to fuck the nineteen year old slut, she was the same age as his twin daughters, Marcus began to obsess about humiliating her husband. Tasha admitted that she had begun to deny her husband access to Marcus's pussy; it was Marcus's pussy. But Marcus craved that one more humiliation of Dwight Doucet.
Dwight had reacted pretty much as they'd hoped he would. He was angry, he was sad, he was defeated.
But he refused to eat Marcus's sperm from Tasha's pussy. When Dwight came to work for Whitehead Generators, Tasha would dress in her most revealing outfits, stroll across the floor of the Whitehead plant, then stroll up the stairs to the office.
Any man would break, seeing the beautiful, sexy young slut in her whore clothes.
But Dwight still refused to satisfy Marcus's desire.
And then the little punk was gone.
And Tasha showed some real emotion, other than sexual; she flitted from anger to sadness to bitterness.
"Get him back here. Now," she snarled at Marcus.
She actually refused to let Marcus fuck her; the first time she'd ever said 'no' to him.
"Get him back," she demanded, pushing Marcus away.
Dwight Doucet's sister, Theresa, greedily took the two hundred dollars Tasha offered and promised to find out where her younger brother had run off to. A few days later, Theresa called Tasha's cell phone to report that Dwight had called home, had told her that he was now living in San Francisco.
"San Francisco?" Tasha asked, genuinely curious. "What is he doing there?"
"I don't know, something about off-shore drilling, I think," Theresa Doucet shrugged, quickly stuffing the offered two crisp hundred dollar bills into her bra.
But Reynold Reynolds, the private investigator did not locate Dwight Doucet in San Francisco. He did find a Dwight Doucet in Oxmore, N.D., but by the time the man arrived at the Verizon store that Dwight Doucet had worked at, an oddly mutilated girl said he'd quit.
And she described the Dwight Doucet as a six foot three inch tall former running back for the Missouri River State University Pioneers.
"My Dwight never even watched a football game; it's not him," Tasha spat angrily.
In the midst of searching for Dwight Thomas Doucet, somehow Susan Whitehead found out about her husband's little concubine.
His team of lawyers did manage to keep Whitehead Generators out of the divorce settlement, but Susan and her lawyer did manage to get twelve million dollars out of Marcus Whitehead.
"Baby, divorce is final in just twenty four hours," Marcus smiled as he spoke into the phone. "How about a little trip to Cancun to celebrate?"
"Can't. I'm busy," Tasha answered.
"Busy? Busy doing what?" Marcus asked.
"Got a date," Tasha admitted.
"Got a what?" Marcus yelled.
"Hey, we're not married; I can see whoever I want to," Tasha said.
"You listen here, you little bitch," Marcus snarled into the phone. "That pussy is mine, that ass is mine, that body is mine, you hear me?"
"Ain't yours 'til you put a ring on it," Tasha answered and hung up.
The trip to Cancun became an engagement celebration. Marcus got his lawyers to fast track a divorce through St. Ann's court. Then a trip to Paris became a surprise wedding.
And less than two weeks into their marriage, Marcus had roused himself from his sleep. Something was wrong; he had a blinding pain in his head and his breathing was labored.
In a daze, he attempted to get out of bed, tried to reach out with his left hand to hoist himself up, and tumbled out of the bed onto the floor.
Then, to his utter horror and embarrassment, he soiled himself.
Tasha calmly called 911 and waited downstairs to let the EMT crew in. Marcus Whitehead lay, face down on the carpet, and lay alone in the dark bedroom until the paramedics arrived.
And now, he sat, in a wheelchair, eating watery oatmeal, while his beautiful wife ran around with someone else's passion mark on her perfectly shaped buttock.
The nurse dressed Marcus and Paul Clemens, his driver drove him to Whitehead Generators. He insisted on wheeling himself to the lift, then pushed the buttons that would hoist him up to his office.
Then he had Courtney Louviere, his trusted secretary call Reynold Reynolds, the private investigator.
"Told you not to marry that little tramp," Courtney muttered under her breath.
"What?" Marcus grunted angrily.
But Courtney ignored him, just punched in the number.
Reynold Reynolds agreed to tail Tasha Whitehead, find out what he could. And he did his best. He followed the attractive young woman as she and Ally Choo, her best friend, drove in Tasha's gleaming Maserati to the Courtyard Mall, to Babbage's and Abdul's department stores in Bender and DeGarde, Louisiana, to Radcliffe's and Side By Side and La Scalia's and Henri's restaurants.
