It seems that everyone wants to know what the characters in a story look like in order to get a good mental picture. Normally stories aren't about completely average people and this one is no exception except that I, Amy, the main character, am not a raving beauty. To give you an idea of what I look like -- to be expounded on later -- the Valentine's Day card I got when I was 18 and had just dumped my uninspiring short-term boyfriend was:
You've got more curves than a roller coaster;
Your clothes fit like a glove;
There's only one thing wrong, Glamour Puss;
You've got a face only a mother could love.
Even though my face is between plain and homely I'd put my body up against anyone's (except maybe Kate Upton's), and I also have an outgoing sparkly personality in addition to a killer bod, so I've never lacked for male companionship even if some of my dates and boyfriends would rather spend more time with me in bed than out in public (unless they had a paper bag and a crayon -- ha. ha).
Because my self-image of a spectacular body is so important to my ego, I work diligently at maintaining it. With rare exception since I was sixteen I have worked out six days a week, a minimum of one hour and usually 140 minutes a day. In addition to that exercise, since I became sexually active at 18 I've done ten minutes of Kegel exercises twice each day, one time using a contraption called a Kegelmaster. The Kegel exercises have provided me with my most prized asset -- a tight, gripping, pussy.
For the last several years an average two days a week my 140 minutes of exercise consists of Kraw Maga training or workouts. Kraw Maga is a martial art that consists of a wide combination of techniques sourced from aikido, judo, boxing, and wrestling, along with realistic fight training. I've had my nose broken twice during Kraw Maga training or tournaments but because my face is not my fortune it never bothered me and in fact after my nose healed from the second break I do believe that I looked slightly better.
Even though I'm not a killer chick like in action movies, and I'm only five feet seven inches tall, and 135 pounds, I honestly do believe that with no problem I could take any ordinary 160 pound man. Before this story I only had one incident in real life where I had to use my skills, on a half-drunk 170 pound guy who was way too aggressive and handsy, and he ended up in the hospital.
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When I was twenty six I married Bryce Boston. His facial features are much nicer than mine -- the average woman would consider him handsome -- and he has a pleasant personality which meshed nicely with mine. I do believe that aside from our meshed personalities the main reasons that Bryce married me were because my tight gripping pussy made me his best fuck ever, and because he is horrible at handling money, and I am great at it.
The first five years of our marriage were an adventure for many reasons.
One was great sex that never became stale or tapered off, at least not until the month before the defining event in this story.
A second was that I rapidly advanced in my field and at twenty nine ended up as the top sales person of a small but highly profitable company called Limitless Widget LLC. We had patent rights to a line of energy saving modules that could be utilized with almost anything run by electricity or gasoline. I travelled on business a fair amount but at my request was not issued a company credit card because on my personal one I get loads of cash back or airplane miles, which is like an extra tax-free bonus.
The Managing Director of Limitless Widget, Carl Orton, is a fucking genius. His philosophy is a holistic one, however, and he insists on life outside of work. None of us is required to be available 24/7, and in fact all work communications are cut off from 7 p. m. Friday through 5 a. m. Monday, and on Holidays; our small office staff doesn't even have each other's' personal cell phone numbers. We don't -- like doctors or plumbers -- have any "true" emergencies. Carl's approach has led to a highly motivated, happy, group of employees and because of our unique products has never had an adverse effect on sales.
Continuing my list of why my marriage to Bryce was an adventure, there was his increasingly irresponsible behavior having to do with finances and money. The only times we argued it seemed like it was about money, namely Bryce's complete inability to handle it. Despite the fact that I made good money, and he made decent money, were it not for me we would have been in major debt; as it was, to keep it away from Bryce I put a good deal of money in stocks and bonds in accounts in my name only, or requiring both of our signatures, so that the money was illiquid. It was a constant struggle to keep our credit card balance within the relatively low limit we had (which was due in part to Bryce's personal bankruptcy before I met him), and on occasion I had even hidden his ATM card and our bank checkbook.
The constant hassles about his spendthrift ways, and delinquency when it came to handling money in general, started to take the edge off my desire for sex for the first time in our relationship. When he complained I told him "Responsible money management is like an aphrodisiac to me." He made promises that got me into the sack, but they were broken within days. Finally I had had enough.
A few days before I was going to take off on a two or three day business trip to a city where our most important customer was, to introduce a new product line to the customer's president, I had a pow-wow with Bryce. "Darling, you can't make any irresponsible purchases while I'm gone. I need to pay for my hotel and return airline ticket because I don't know when I'll be returning, but it will be this coming Friday at the latest. You've got to exercise discipline. Understood?"
"Can I have a titty fuck before you leave if I promise to be good?" he asked with a devilish smile. My firm yet pliable C cup boobies are perfect for a titty fuck, which he likes almost as much as fucking my tight, gripping, pussy.
"If you break your promise, never again," I chided, being as stern as I could be.
"I can't give up titty fucks, so I'll be good," he beamed, then started taking off my top; then sucking one nipple while massaging the other; then gently laying me down on the living room rug while simultaneously dropping his pants exposing a massive hard-on; and when a small bottle of lotion magically appeared from his pants pocket we were soon off to the races.
I don't know what percentage of women orgasm from titty fucks, but I do -- if it's done properly. While my orgasm from a titty fuck isn't as intense as one from my pussy, it is definitely real -- and very enjoyable -- particularly when I suck the guy (only Bryce for the last five + years that we've been exclusive or married) off after his first spurt while he pinches my nipples.
Bryce did it right!
I sucked him off after the first spurt!
He lightly pinched my nipples as I sucked him off!
We both had nice orgasms.
Just before I left for the airport on my business trip I called Bryce and reminded him that he needed to be especially careful to be fiscally responsible while I was gone; I got his voicemail, but left a clear message.
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My business trip went well -- so well that I extended to Friday. I had my cell phone off during the day while meeting with the customer, and got very late checkout at the hotel because John Peterson, the CEO of my customer, was one of the investors in it and they had a few rooms for the upcoming three-day weekend that had late arrival, although they were fully booked.
At 4:45 p. m. on Friday I completed my business, rushed to the hotel, and showered and finished packing. Just before I went downstairs to check out, I turned on my cellphone. There was one message -- that didn't require any action on my part -- from Carl telling me that he had talked with John Peterson and that Carl and John were both pleased with the order John had placed with us for our new line. There was another call from my sister just wanting to chat when I had the time, a robo call which I quickly deleted, and one from Bryce.
"Hi, Hon; I just wanted to let you know, so that you're not surprised when you get back, that I got a great deal on a like-new 2014 Harley Davidson Fat Boy -- you know that I've lusted after one since High School -- and I just had to act fast or the dealer was going to sell it to someone else. I know that you'll love it, and I don't think that the credit card transaction which supplemented the cash that I paid will go through until after the holiday on Monday, but I just wanted to give you a heads up. I look forward to seeing you tonight."
I'm sure that I turned white as a ghost. I tried his cellphone, but my call went straight to voicemail. With trepidation I went to the lobby.
My credit card was declined at the desk, leaving my $585.86 (at the discount rate John got me) bill unpaid. I tried my ATM card, but all that I could get out was $50 -- $61.33 was the balance in our bank account before I withdrew the $50. I called my office and even though it was 6:40, not 7:00, everyone had left early for the three day weekend obviously at Carl's insistence, and there would be no help coming from that avenue until Tuesday morning.
The only person I knew in town was John Peterson. I finally got ahold of him on his cell about 7:45 p. m., after more than an hour where there was no answer and his message queue was filled. "Hi John; I hate to bother you, but I seem to have an emergency. My husband somehow managed to overcharge stuff on our credit card, and wipe out my ATM card at the same time, and I can't pay the hotel bill or get an airplane ticket home."
"Oh my God, Amy, that's awful. Unfortunately, you've caught me at a bad time. My wife and I are at the airport about to board a flight to NYC for the three day weekend, not to return until Tuesday morning. I can talk to the hotel staff and get them to hold the bill until then, but I can't do anything about the plane ticket."
"Oh -- groan," was my reply. "Anything will be helpful; the hotel is booked for the three day weekend, however, and I can't stay anyplace else because they'll run my credit card and it will be dishonored," I groaned again.
"There is an alternative; our twenty one year old son just got home from college before we left. He made plans on the spur of the moment otherwise we'd stay home with him -- but he says that he has some parties, etc., that are a big deal. I'll call him and have him pick you up at the hotel -- you can stay in our house until Tuesday morning when I get back, and then I'll take care of everything," John reassured me.
"Oh thank you so much, John -- here's my number, xxx-xxx-xxxx. By the way your message queue is full. And tell your son that I won't get in his way," I virtually chirped into the phone.
