Not. Clue. One.

It wasn't until I was doing my umpteenth impeccable edit of this story, that it suddenly dawned upon me. "Flashman"!?!

It has been a few years since I remember last reading any of Fraser's masterful1 series about the Not-So-Gentlemanly Craven Adventurer Across World History. Whom we all loved to hate. (We all hated to love?)

Damnation! It pisses me off, when my subconscious grabs the controls and takes charge of my writing. Well, here it is, I hope you enjoy. And if you don't enjoy this you limpox? Go visit the Wizard and beg him to gift you a sense of cardinalidae humour!

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This s a fictional story of fictional people in fictitious situations engaged in fictional activities and fictitious fuckups at anonymous worthy levels.

Includes heroism and cowardice and just plain doing whatever the hell it takes to survive.

Scenes of bloody violence amidst bloody-minded threats.

Following orders and blowing them off.

Rude political screeds, racist insults and other acts of dismal gagging wags.

With an assortment of criminal activities including homicide and kidnapping, legal shinola and vengeance, drug-running and slavery. Corruption, bribery, extortion and perjury. Plus mopery and dopery and topery, with encouragement of embezzlement.

In addition to a variety of vanilla M/F sexual activities and perversions enough to stroke my exiguous fancy. Including technical incest.

A question about creampies?

Defining non-consensual acts of rape.

Opportunistic infidelity and childish adultery.

Assorted B&D,

And Poker.

If any of these gets your knickers in a twist?

Well?

Why the hell are you reading any of my stories?

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&... of course... The obligatory hypocritical due diligence of pretending that all the fictional characters, entrapped in these fictional stories, engorged in fictional sexual activities, are always fictionally concockted by the fictional author as fictionally being of 18+ fictional ephemeris temporalities.

Wink, wink. Nod, nod. And Bob's your pervy fictional Uncle, you'd never leave your fictional kids with.

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Hey, Rube!

P.S. Deer analmousies and académiquists.

If you are at all uncertain, whether or not I am mocking You?

Personally?

I most defiantly am!

Yes...Yes, I am laughing at all you NssNss out there.

Académiquiststs, I am laughing at your pretentious, narrow-minded inquisition blindly attempting to enforce a cult of redundant language orthodoxy. Best put your hard-hats on... Cause I'm taking a sledgehammer to that 'Sacred Fourth Wall'

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!

Analmousies, I am laughing at your irresponsible, infantile narcissism that is a grotesque caricature of masculinity. That you are semi-living proof of the Peter Principle

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. Here's Your Sign

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!

Thank you for sparring me, your limited attention span and tediously repetitious whinging.

To paraphrase Sibelius: "No one erects monuments to critics!"

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P.P.S. Over the years, it has been my sober observation that the loudest braggarts are the guys to be found the furtherest from the front lines and the closest to the bartender.

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Variety is the Spice of Life

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{mid 2006}

{past midnight}

The skinny blonde bent over to snort up the last line of powdered blow off the hand-mirror lying flat on her bedside-table. The beefy younger man standing behind her was squeezing her ass-cheeks, barely covered with stained white silk panties. Half a smoldering cigarette dangling from his lips as he decided how he intends to fuck this slut.

Valerie had already choked herself blue in the face deep-throating his cock, that'd about blown his socks off. With the boost from the cocaine he'd just vacuumed up his sinuses, Mark figured he could squeeze out at least one more Big O for himself. by pounding this slut like a side of beef.

Since Val's hubby was conveniently away on a fishing trip for a couple more weeks, Mark thought it'd be a funny joke on the absent Luke Braddock to fuck his wife in their home and on their matrimonial bed.

After a night of drinking and dancing, popping pills and groping in dark corners at the clubs,Val was so stupefied she'd acquiesced when the malicious Mark Snowson bullied her into taking the party to her home. Where they could continue drinking and smoking some primo dope and engage in a wild variety of sexual excess.

Val stood erect, rubbing her nose and watering eyes. Grabbing those panties, Matt ripped the expensive delicacy off her legs. Making her squawk at the pain of the material cutting into her flesh, Sending her stumbling towards the bed. Ignoring her complaints, Mark shoved the semi-coherent woman over, face down onto the bedding.

Grabbing her bony hips, he pulled her ass close to the edge of the bed. Moving his hands to knead her butt-cheeks, he watched fascinated as her dangling pussy lips flapping, her asshole gaping, as his strong grip cruelly squeezed her glutes.

First things, first. Mark slammed his swollen cock right into her lube dripping cunt making Valerie screech with surprised pain and some artificially induced lust. "Fucking shit Mark! That ain't no fucking tunnel you're entering!"

Steadily moving his hips back and forth, stretching out her cunt lips before slamming himself back into her again. He snickered and replied "Looks a lot like a 'fucking tunnel' from where I'm standing!" Laughing at his own wit.

She just groaned "Bastard!" as the big prick's remorseless hammering drove her across the torn up bedsheets. Pulling her back every time he shoved his turgid cock deep into her gaping cunt.

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{late that morning}

The Latina housekeeper used her master key to quietly unlock the bedroom door and cautiously peered inside. La pretendido la Señora de la casa all too often woke up with a raging hangover. All too often responding to an intrusion by throwing whatever was close at hand, with vicious intent.

There was a flash of disgust across the domestic's face. The woman visibly recoiling at the miasma of stale tobacco and pot, the lingering stench of alcohol compounded with the acidic sweat of rutting sex.

She could see that the Señora was still in bed, apparently asleep or more likely, still passed out from last night's excesses. There was a large hairy arm, obviously male, draped over the slumbering woman. Two sets of discordant snoring.

A deep sense of revulsion shook the Housekeeper at the sight of la puta and whoever el hombre asqueroso would turn out to be. This time! With a final sneer at la pareja adúltera, Sra. Hernandez silently backed out and firmly pulled the door shut.

If Señor Braddock's eaposa wants to live like un cerdo en una pocilg, far be it for a lowly ayuda doméstica to interfere!

Gathering her wits about her as she relocked the door, Sra. Hernandez muttered a quick prayer for the benighted mujer. One hand went into an apron pocket with the ring of keys. With a sigh, her other hand covered her eyes for a moment then to her brow as she turned to resume her daily chores.

She started with a strangled squeak as suddenly she realized el Jefe, Señor Braddock and his 'hombre de confianza", the scary Fredrics, were standing just a few feet away, silently staring at her.

Her mouth opened and closed as she tried to think of what to say. Luke Braddock had a bemused expression, then a quirk of his eye to encourage her to say something. Fredrics had his usual dead-eyed look of someone who had experienced too much pain, too much suffering, at too young an age.

Finally, with a gulp, in a shaky whisper, Sra. Hernandez blurted out.

"Señor Braddock? ...ahmm... la Señora is still ...uhm.. asleep?"

Braddock, with a tight smile and in a soothing voice, encouraged the obviously rattled housekeeper to continue. She drew herself up and pulled her resolve together. After all, el Jefe was the one who signed her paychecks.

"Señor, su esposa does not sleep alone! There is uhh...ahmm? An hombre in there with her?"

Her employer stared at her with a thoughtful grimace on his face. Fredrics, motionless, apparently indifferent. Patiently waiting behind his boss, without any visible expression.

"Señora Hernandez, leave these rooms for later. Please do not mention this matter with anyone until I have time to discuss my intentions with you. Silencio, por favor? Discreción será recompensado."

With a nervous glance at the scary Fredrics, Sra. Hernandez looked back at her employer and nodded acquiescence.

"Por supuesto, Señor Braddock. Usted es el jefe. Cuando quiera darme instrucciones, voy a trabajar en la planta baja esta mañana, corriendo el limpiador vacum."

Braddock smiled thinly at her cleverness and waved her away. She started to head back to the rear stairway then hesitated for a moment to look back over her shoulder to say.

"It will probably take me a half an hour to get started vacuuming parte de abajo, Señor.

The senior man replied "Understood."

As she disappeared around the corner, Braddock turned to Fredrics and admitted.

"I did not realize, till this moment, how much I admire an intelligent woman!"

Fredrics was using his own master key to unlock the bedroom door. Pushing it open, the stink of rutting drunks slapped at both men.

The cuckolded husband glared at the 'par entrelazado de pendejos maldito' passed out on the bed as he growled.

"And how much I hate this stupid slut!"

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The Hellbound train

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{same day, almost noon}

I sit quietly behind the desk in my home office. Meek as the proverbial +church+mouse+.

Carefully observing the tall, albeit burly young jerk lounging with practiced carelessness in the chair across from me. As he brags how easily he had seduced my wife Valerie.

'Snicker.' Whatta twit.

I doubt if any man ever had to putout any effort into fucking that skank since the first time she spread her legs for cock. When several of her cousins obliged, sharing her three cherries amongst themselves with her first familial train.

Ahhllll! Haaahh..Boarddt!

He's so unapologetic. So superior. Mark Snowson, so certain of his family's social prominence. Smugly confident that he is entitled to casually use the affluential trophy wife of a jumped up parvenu such as myself.

Me? I'm Luke Braddock, the slut's official husband.

A tomcat (him) focused on said mouse (me). His pompious, self-deluded imaginings of tomcat versus a little mouse. I'll bet he still gets all excited watching Saturday morning cartoons.

Boldly challenging me with a smug pretentiousness. A poorly rendered caricature of an Alpha male, he must have copied off of online porn. Fantasizing that he is cuckolding me into wimpy, creampie-eating submission.

What a macaroon! Confusing mediocre pornography with real life. And what is this obsession by supposedly masculine twits going on and on about cream-pies? I'm guessing it'd be their fetish?

This idiot has absolutely no idea whose wife he has been screwing.

Not. Clue. One.

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Poke her for me, my boy!

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He is completely ignorant of how good I am at controlling my visible emotions. I had augmented my comfortable lifestyle, throughout both sets of my college years bracketing my Air Force career, playing poker and blackjack. All my evident tells are faked, just good acting.

{1980}

Tragically, my birth mother had died bearing me. My grandmothers took turns caring for me, as their own health issues permitted.

{1984}

Until my father re-married to Lucinda Jones. Lucy took over raising me and I learned to love her as my mother. As the Mother who raised me.

My step-mother Lucinda had been a B-film starlet. While married to my father, she did some local stage theatre and commercial advertisements including local television ads.

{1994}

Yet another calamity in my youth. When my father died of complications after cancer surgery, before my fourteenth birthday. His estate enabled us to live comfortably. Lucy got a part-time office job with our Community Theatre to supplement our income.. As it had became inconvenient for her to continue modeling ads while keeping house for me.

When I was old enough for community theatre and then through High School theater, my Step-Mother worked with me developing my acting skills. With an assortment of dancing classes, piano & voice training, gymnastics and fencing instruction. For the exercise as well as poise and balance and social skills.

Often, one or both of us were in an evening class, interspersed with rehearsals or a performance. We even did a couple of musicals and all the Holiday plays together.

Otherwise, we spent our evenings at home. After my schoolwork was completed and Lucy had gone over it with me to check it. Testing me to make sure I'm actually learning something besides how to take rote tests.

For an hour or so before bedtime, she would drill me at cards, developing my skills.

Before Lucinda's short-lived movie career, she had survived as a dealer at the Card Palace. She had taught me the various games and betting strategies.

She explained that she was deliberately keeping me away from watching television. She always said it was pablum for the ignorant. As institutionally mediocre as talk radio.

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{1998}

I remember asking Lucy, why she didn't make any effort at a social life outside the Community Theatre.

Her reply was, "Neither of us had any family left except for one another. After ten wonderful years with your father, I had no interest in finding a new husband or even a regular, live-in companion."

She hesitated. Considering me. I think figuring if I was mature enough to talk openly about her needs. Finally, she must have decided I was old enough and trustworthy enough for blunt honesty.

She continued "Maybe once every month or two, I do get a craving for intimacy. When you spend a weekend with your friends or away for a school function or trip. I have a couple of discreet gentleman friends. Who, when they are available, are happy to scratch my itch."

I was suspecting they were probably married and usually unavailable? None of my business, as long as my step-mom was happy and safe.

The other men who were now bumbling after Lucy, she brushed them off. Mocking their presumption of masculine charm. Making jokes about how hard they worked to achieve mediocrity.

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The most important lessons I learned from her drills. Were first, you have no control over other peoples honesty or integrity.

Second, in an honest game, with a cold deck, the only variable you can control is your own self-discipline. You can learn to read inexperienced players and maybe you can influence their reactions to your own manipulations.

Third, bet only what you are willing to lose.

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When I was eighteen, going on nineteen, Lucy taught me how to make love to a woman.

All during my adolescence the subject of sex was very confusing. I can only speak for my own miserable experiences as a male teenager. And what I observed around me. Everyone refusing to speak honestly about the subject.

By time I got to High School, I realized that everyone and I mean Every Single One Of You ... Lies! Lies! Lies themselves blue in the face about what they claimed to be doing or not doing. Especially pretending about who they were actually doing it too and who they deny having done it too.

That not one of your boasts in ten, comes anywhere close to factual truth.

I hope that the proceeding makes more sense to you than it did to me!

For us males, insisting that our ejaculations are the be-all and end-all of sexual masculinity? Than, masturbation has to be at least 80% or better of every man's sex life. If just for the sheer convenience of it. No matter our bragging and boasting otherwise.

And that this male carnality directly conflicts with female expectations and shifting desires. I have always heard a lot of guys I've known, complain about how women never seem to make up their minds about anything. And that female emotions seem to shift back and forth, across the spectrum every few minutes.

Except I've dodged enough bar fights and basketball court thuggery throughout my life, to comprehend that us males have our own violently emotional hysterics. Sufficient to fill a hundred prisons!

When I was a teenager, everyone put a lot of emphasis on paying lip-service to protecting female virginity. Even more emphasis on the ideal that losing his own so-called virginity automatically turns a boy into a man.

Though after muddling through fucking my first virgin during College, I can't say as I felt any different or less confused about what the hell I was accomplishing. And she became a clingy demanding harridan! Expecting me to make a commitment towards a full-time, life-long relationship just cause I busted her cherry?

Over the years, after four virgins now, I have decided that I would prefer not to have to deal with any more of that crap. Thinking back over those young women I have 'deflowered', kinda makes me feel uncomfortable with myself. Perhaps it is guilt I feel? Over my unwillingness to take responsibility for how I changed their lives? I guess?

Contrary to the popular myth of men wanting to take female virginities, I sure as hell do not want to do that ever again.

I mean, think about it... Why would I want to bother wasting passion and emotional zeal on an immature amateur? Not worth expending my time and energy trying to coach the ignorant. Just to squirt out a few spoonfuls of semen to be mixed with a little blood?

Yeah, that'll make you a big time winner, if only in your own self-delusions.

Okay, frankly, trying to get a satisfactory sexual experience out of the Senior Class girls I was dating during High School was a frustrating series of bad drama and social disasters.

Late on a Friday evening, I got home drunk on beer and despair from another messy, mediocre orgasm from one more perfunctory handjob by another clueless "I'm saving myself for marriage" Future Matron of America

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.

I was stumbling around my bedroom, kicking things. Knocking over my desk chair. Cussing up a blue-streak. I guess too loudly. Cause Lucy came barging into my room and sharply read the riot act to me.

"What is going on in here?" Suddenly her nose scrunched up as she caught a whiff of me.

"Dammit, Luke! You smell like a brewery. If you can't learn to hold your liquor, you have no business drinking! What's eating you?"

I opened my mouth and drunken stupidity spewed out. "Shit and damnation, Mom! I'm fucking sick and tired of all these fucking games these bitches play!"

Her eyes narrowed in anger at the filth coming out of my mouth. "So? Sounds like you got two problems. You drink too much, being too stupid to control bending your elbow. And your ignorant ass is demanding a level of sex that your dates are not willing or experienced enough to give up to you?"

I was wavering, trying to utter a reply when she held up her hand to shut me up and then she continued.

"Wait! Make that three stupids for this night. You were driving drunk and frustrated? If a cop had pulled your stupid ass over? You'd be getting plenty of sex. In a jail cell! Don't think you'd being enjoying that little dating scene."

I think I just gaped at her. till realization of what she'd said washed over me. My stomach churned at the thought.

Seeing the effect of her warning Lucy reached out, grabbed me by my shoulders, twisted me around and shoved me towards my bathroom. Where I proceeded to leave offerings of Budweiser

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and White Castle Sliders

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in the porcelain altar.