Tunnel Of Love Pt 03

It's just nobody knows honey where love goes

But when it goes, it's gone, gone

When you're alone, you're alone

...when you're alone, you ain't nothing but alone

CHAPTER 7: Saturday Night Fevers

Jennifer was on her knees. In her hand was a very large cock. It belonged to a stunningly handsome man, sitting naked on a couch.

"Oh James," she said, staring at his manhood lovingly, "it's so beautiful!" The man watched her solemnly.

"And so thick!" Jennifer added, while squeezing the base of it gently. "My hand barely fits around it!" The man nodded stoically, as if he'd heard it said many times.

"And sooo long!" Jennifer marveled, placing a second hand on the shaft. "Not even both my hands can cover it all!"

Jennifer pumped the man's rod slowly. As she did, the huge head alternately disappeared into her hand and reappeared. Soon, her hand was glistening with pre-cum.

Locking eyes with the man, Jennifer asked teasingly, "You want me to lick this?"

The man lifted his eyes from hers and looked elsewhere. Following his eyes, Jennifer looked where a camera might once have been; in its place, now, stood a man. Jennifer smiled at him.

"Hi, Mike! You know I've always loved you and will love you forever. But I just have to taste this cock!"

Turning back to the man on the couch, Jennifer removed one of her hands from his dick and slowly licked the long shaft. After a while, she paused, looked up, and smiled mischievously. Placing the tip of her tongue just under the head of his cock, she leaned towards him.

Her tongue slowly slid down the shaft. The head entered her mouth. Eyes still locked with the man's, she sucked on his cock and began to moan...

After a while, Jennifer mounted the couch and straddled the man. Mike watched in horror as she lowered her pussy onto the man's upright pole. "Oh god, it's so big," Jennifer moaned, "it's filling me...like I've never been filled! It's huge...but I'm so wet, so open for you, James...for your cock...your cock...ohmigod I'm coming...coming so h-hard!"

Suddenly, Mike was sitting on the couch, alone. Still immobile and mute, he heard sounds coming from another room. Perhaps a bedroom?

"Yes, James, spread my legs! Hold my ankles! Oh god, I can't wait to feel that AHHH! Yes, put it in me, all the way! Oh god James fuck me...fuck my pussy...oh fuck I'm going to come again!"

* * *

Mike bolted upright in his bed. He was panting and shaking; his heart pounded. From a fitful sleep, he was suddenly awake—as awake as a person can be.

He was, however, disoriented. He looked around, barely perceiving things in the near-darkness. James and Jennifer could not be seen nor heard. Slowly, Mike realized he was no longer in James' apartment. He could move—and, as he found, scream.

The first night at the hotel, Mike did not sleep at all. The second night, he had the terrible nightmare. He'd had that nightmare, or something like it, every night since for a full week.

He thought back to the last time he'd been home. Instead of making Jennifer a candlelight dinner, as he'd intended, he'd packed up some things. Opening the front door to leave, he'd paused...and cried.

I'm sorry, Mikey. I'm so sorry.

With his eyes closed, his mind had replaced the image of the doorway with another image. He'd seen himself back at the wall. Across from him, through the breach, had stood the barbarians—drums quiet, weapons dropped, arms open and inviting. With grim determination, Mike had stepped through the breach...and joined them.

Behind him, he'd heard a sound, like a door closing. Yet when he'd turned and looked, all he'd seen was the wall. Finally, the breach had been sealed. The wall had been restored.

But Mike was now on the other side.

* * *

Jennifer lay in bed. It had taken a long time to get Mikey to sleep. He'd kept asking when Daddy would be home. Jennifer was running out of false answers.

The day before—Friday afternoon—Jennifer had been keeping an eye on the kids playing in the yard when suddenly, Mike appeared. She did not know what to do, so she kept talking to one of the moms, trying not to tremble. Mike found Mikey and started a game with the kids. Jennifer watched secretly from a distance, even when her conversation ended.

Someone approached Mike—a blonde woman. It was that skank, Collette Davis. What was she doing, talking to Mike?

And why isn't he brushing her off? Is he...smiling at her? Ohmigod, did he just...put his hand on her shoulder for a second?

Jennifer watched with rising alarm as Mike and Collette continued to talk. When the kids moved away, Mike's face seemed to darken. As Collette listened to him, her face seemed to darken too. She gave Mike a hug, whispered something in his ear, and walked off to collect her son.

What did I just see?

Jennifer made her way towards Mike. Spying her, he turned his back and started to retreat.

"Mike!" she shouted, speeding up. "Mike, please don't make me...scream."

Mike stopped, shook his head, and turned around.

Jennifer studied him. He looked like he hadn't slept all week. His eyes were cold, his jaw clenched. He folded his arms and looked down at his feet, waiting for her to speak.

"Mike," she said in a quavering voice, "Why won't you answer my calls? Where are you staying?"

"At a hotel," he replied, looking away from her. "I don't want to talk to you, Jennifer. I'm done talking. Tell Dr. Seymour thanks for trying. I'll be in touch about...things."

As Mike turned and started to leave, Jennifer begged him to stay. He stopped but kept his back to her. Jennifer continued.

"Mike, how can I explain if you won't talk to me? The video...it wasn't what it seemed!"

"Oh, I think it was exactly what it seemed," he said sternly. "Or are you telling me it was fake? That it wasn't you? Because it sure looked and sounded like you!"

Jennifer looked down and sighed.

"Yes, Mike," she said in a defeated tone, "it was me."

"So you and your stud are into videotaping, hey?"

"He wasn't my...I didn't know he was... Mike, what you saw me...do in that video, it was right at that part that I stopped and left!"

Mike made a derisive sound between a snort and a laugh. Jennifer wasn't sure he was even listening, but she continued.

"It's true! If you could only see the rest of it!"

In a flash, Mike turned around and pointed to his head.

"I SEE THE REST OF IT HERE, EVERY NIGHT, DAMN YOU!"

Jennifer was shaken. She took a step towards Mike, but he backed away. Then, he turned and left.

Now—two nights later, as Jennifer lay in bed—her mind raced. Mike probably thought that James had sent the video, but Jennifer knew better. James had no reason...

But Peter did.

That son of a bitch!

Peter sent it; yes, she was sure of it. If only she could explain to Mike!

But Mike did not know about Peter. Jennifer had kept it that way. Now, she was trapped. Trapped by her own lies and omissions.

If she were to reveal Peter's scheme now, would Mike believe it? Even if he did, would the revelation of more lies and half-truths on her part just make things worse? Then again, could they get any worse?

A voice seemed to speak to her. A voice from the den. A voice from a photograph.

"Yes. Yes, it could get worse. If you had to face everything...everything..."

Were it not for Mikey, Jennifer would have drawn a bath and slit her wrists. She wondered if she could be strong enough to keep living, in such pain, for her son's sake. And even if she lived, would she ever sleep again? She wondered...and wondered...as sheer exhaustion set in.

* * *

Suddenly, Jennifer was outside Collette Davis' house. She recognized it, having been there once for Bobby Davis' birthday party. Mike's car was in the driveway. Jennifer walked to the front door, found it unlocked, and stepped inside.

She heard sobbing—it sounded like a man. Making a right turn, she found herself on the threshold of a living room. Across from her sat Mike, on a sofa, his head in his hands. She was about to go to him, when she felt a hand fall on her shoulder.

"I'll take care of him, Jennifer," a woman's voice said. "He needs me. He needs to be comforted."

Jennifer stood frozen as Collette passed her by and went to Mike. Collette was dressed in a seductive nightgown. Jennifer found herself unable to move or speak as Collette sat down on the sofa next to Mike.

Mike leaned his head on her shoulder. As he sobbed, she stroked his hair and kissed his forehead. In her mind, Jennifer shouted.

Stop it! Get away from him! Mike, please, get up!

As if in answer, Mike looked right at Jennifer and spoke.

"I need an escape, Jennifer. I need this. I'm sorry, but only Collette can help me with this pain."

He turned his head towards Collette, sobbing again. She put her arms around him and pulled his head against her breasts. As she resumed stroking his hair and kissing his forehead, his sobbing slowed, then stopped.

Mike lifted his head and gently, tentatively kissed her neck.

Jennifer's eyes bulged. She struggled but still could not move. Heart pounding, she mouthed words, but no sound came out. She only heard herself in her mind.

No, Mike, no! Don't kiss her! Please don't kiss her!

While Mike continued to kiss her neck, Collette's lips trailed down Mike's forehead to his eyes and cheeks. Meanwhile, she slipped her arms out of the straps of her nightgown, revealing her large, fair breasts. Pushing Mike's head down, towards them, she whispered to him soothingly.

"I know you want me, Mike. It's okay. You don't need her anymore. All she does is hurt you. But me...I'll heal you."

Jennifer screamed, but Mike and Collette seemed not to hear.

* * *

Dr. Gayle Seymour lay in bed, a candle burning on the nightstand. In her hand was a slender, smooth glass object that glistened with moisture. She casually stroked it against her slit, drawing it back and forth like a bowstring.

Following Jennifer's last appointment—undoubtedly, the last appointment either Chancey would ever have—Gayle had been so distracted at work, it had been embarrassing. After two days, she'd canceled all her appointments for the rest of the week. She'd gone so far over that she did not think she could ever get back. Her professional life—her real life—was falling apart.

Meanwhile, her fantasy life was taking over. She found herself powerless to stop it. She'd spent a third of Wednesday, more than half of Thursday, and nearly all of Friday at her computer, absorbing stories of all kinds from numerous different sites.

Along the way, for the first time, she'd tried to write a story of her own. It was just a collection of notes so far. It wasn't all that original, but then, what story hadn't been told somewhere, sometime, already?

The story centered on a buxom female therapist with a knack for hypnosis and a lack of morals. She was "treating" John and Charlotte, a couple whose marriage was on the rocks. The therapist's objective was to reunite the couple through an intense experience in which she would partake. At least, that was the excuse for the sex scene, which was running through Gayle's mind now.

The therapist rose from her chair, walked around to the front of her desk, and leaned against the edge. She stared at the hypnotized man and woman, their eyes closed, their breathing slow and deep.

"Are you ready to obey me?" she asked them.

"Yes," they answered.

"Stand up and take one step forward."

Complying, they approached her so that one stood to the therapist's left side and the other to her right. "Take off your shirts," she instructed them. As the husband bared his chest, she studied his broad shoulders and licked her lips. Then, examining the wife's deep, bra-clad cleavage, the therapist licked her lips again.

Turning back to the husband, the therapist took his hand and placed it on her cheek while placing her own hand on his cheek. "Clear your thoughts, John," she said. "Clear your thoughts of everything. Feel yourself wanting to kiss me. You want to kiss me so badly. Do you want to kiss me now, John?"

"Yes," he replied throatily.

She leaned in and kissed him hard on the lips. Quickly, he responded. She enjoyed herself for a while, then broke the kiss and turned to the wife.

Repeating the ritual of hands on cheeks, the therapist spoke to her. "Clear your thoughts, Charlotte. Clear your thoughts of everything. Feel yourself wanting to kiss me. You want to kiss me so badly. Do you want to kiss me now, Charlotte?"

"Y-yes," she replied tentatively.

The therapist drew the wife to her and kissed her passionately. At first the wife hesitated, but then she kissed back. Soon, their tongues were as involved as their lips.

Breaking the kiss, the therapist straightened and stepped back between the couple. "You are both feeling lust, now," she intoned, while removing her blouse. "So much lust," she chanted, unhooking her bra and placing it on her desk.

"Open your eyes," she commanded. "Look at my breasts. They captivate you. You want them, John. You want them, Charlotte. Each of you, raise a hand...place it on my breasts...yes, feel them...feel your lust build..."

The therapist enjoyed the feeling of their squeezing and caressing hands: the strength of his, the delicateness of hers. The therapist's nipples tingled, partly from the physical stimulation—but mostly from mental stimulation of being in control of the couple. Soon, the husband would be licking her pussy while the wife tongued her asshole...

On her bed, glass dildo thrusting inside her while her fingers danced on her clit, Gayle imagined the rest of the scene, spoke the therapist's lines, and climaxed.

It was a long time before she could think again. She covered herself in blankets, put the dildo on the nightstand, and blew out the candle. Sleep was quickly overtaking her, but she heard a voice inside her head. The voice of her story editor.

Better. Still too mechanical, though. Needs more work on the feelings, the emotions; the dialogue's a little rote, too. Finally, you need to work on the rest of the action—what happens after the therapist orgasms from their ministrations.

The couple, Gayle, they're the focus. You need to finish. You need to finish the story.

"Yes, Doctor Seymour," Gayle whispered before drifting into oblivion.

* * *

Collette Davis sat next to her son, Bobby, whose fever finally was coming down. The medicine was starting to have an effect. It was a miracle, she thought, that she even had any medicine in the house.

I only had the wrong kind of medicine here, and for too long.

She knew Bobby's fever probably wasn't serious—just one of those viruses that went around school, knocking kids out for a few days. Still, it was unsettling to feel a child's searing hot forehead, read a thermometer, and see a number over one hundred. When Bobby was much younger...when Richard was still around...at least she'd had some help, albeit begrudged help. Now, Collette had to weather these storms alone.

Bobby was falling asleep, but Collette resolved to stay with him for a while. She might even spend the night right there, in the chair, beside his bed. There was nothing inviting about her own bedroom; it was haunted with too many bad memories. Glancing in the bedroom's direction, she recalled one particular scene there.

Richard had pressed her for so long, she'd finally relented. If he really wanted it—if it might get it out of his system, improve things between them—maybe she could stand it. Plus, he kept promising her that she would enjoy it. She'd never really believed any of the rationales (hers or his), but out of desperation, she'd given in to his request.

The three of them had drinks in the living room before retiring to the bedroom. The other woman was dark-haired and lithe; Richard said he'd found her through some channel for these kinds of things. The woman seemed interested in Collette, but Collette sensed no warmth, no respect.

Collette's already-cold feet were freezing now, but she feared that if she tried to back out, Richard would cause a terrible scene. They'd brought a wine bottle upstairs, and Collette drank liberally from it. Due to the alcohol and the passage of time, Collette's memories of what happened next were incomplete.

...They undressed in stages. Hands and lips roamed from body to body. Collette was reluctant, but Richard and the woman prodded her on...

...Collette was lying down on the bed, on her back, with her head hanging off the edge. Richard's dick was in her mouth. He fucked her face while the woman got on the bed and straddled Collette's chest. Richard and the woman leaned towards each other and kissed. Soon, while still taking Richard down her throat, Collette felt fingers—a woman's fingers—stroking her mons and labia. The fingers disappeared for a moment, during which Collette thought she heard Richard make a wet, sucking sound. Next, Collette felt a palm on her mons and a moist fingertip grazing her perineum. It slid upward towards her vagina and entered her, up to the knuckle. Then, swirling, it slipped in deeper...

...Collette was on all fours, getting fucked by Richard from behind while the woman kneeled alongside them, kissing Richard. Richard reached underneath Collette and played with one of her breasts. Following suit, the woman did the same to Collette's other breast. Eventually the woman lay down on her back, perpendicular to Collette, with her head near Collette's knee. Then, the woman scooted backwards, until her head disappeared under Collette's waist. "Push her down a little," the woman said to Richard, who complied. Collette then felt something soft, warm and moist on her pussy. It touched her here and there, probing, until it found her clit. Then, swirling and stroking, it stayed there...

...The woman scooted out and repositioned herself in front of Collette, facing her. On her elbows and feet, like a crab, the woman crawled forward until Collette's head was between her thighs. The woman lifted her hips slightly and nodded at Richard, who placed his hand behind Collette's head and pressed it down...

..."I'm ready to be fucked," the woman said later. Richard pulled out of Collette and moved to the side as the woman did the same, leaving Collette by herself. Then, as the woman spread her legs invitingly, Richard moved up into a missionary position and entered her...

...Collette lay beside them, not knowing what to do. When it became clear that they had no further use for her, she left the bed and went to Bobby's room. They'd made arrangements for Bobby to stay elsewhere that night, of course. Collette crawled into his empty bed and cried herself to sleep, trying not to listen as Richard and the woman fucked the night away...

Bad memories and all, Collette thought, at least they had a house. At least Richard had left them that, when he moved out. In fact, in the divorce, Collette had gotten it free and clear—mortgage paid off—in exchange for reduced alimony and child support. She wasn't sure anymore if that had been a good deal, but at the time, keeping a roof over their heads had been her highest priority. And she'd wanted a clean, total break with Richard.

Collette looked at Bobby, wondering what dreams he would have this night. Would they be feverish dreams, full of monsters? Or worse?

Will you have that dream again where Daddy comes home? Lord, if I hear one more time that you've had that dream...it may send me back to the bottle.

Collette also wondered what lay in store for her that night. Now that she wasn't drinking herself to sleep anymore, she was having and remembering more dreams. Some were dark, but some were light. She'd even had a dream about Mike Chancey; a rather intense dream.