Ultra Dysfunctional

I'm Brett Compton. I'm not objective when it comes to how my family should be viewed. If you want another perspective you'll have to ask my mother, father, sister, or brother. This is my story, my perception.

My mother and father were superstars in their professions. My older brother and sister were superstars in school, excelling both academically and athletically. All my family members were good looking. I was the third kid and compared to the other four was untalented, stupid and an ugly duckling. My parents always seemed to have time for the two beautiful talented kids, little or none for me.

It warps your personality when as a kid you're always looking for love and attention and rarely get it. I was a nuisance to my brother and sister, and an afterthought -- or embarrassment -- to my parents. My warped personality carried over to relationships with my peers. I wasn't very popular and had few friends. Life sucked lots until I turned eighteen. After that it sucked even more.

Three things happened after I turned eighteen that warped me even more and destroyed the already tenuous relationship with my parents. The first two: I found out that each of my parents was having an affair and I told the other parent -- supposedly in confidence -- to hopefully gain some love, or at least attention. They ended up sharing the information with each other, with each denying it to the other. The environment in my house turned icier.

The third thing: shortly before my High School graduation one of my classmates accused me of getting her pregnant. I had never even had sex with her -- I just think that she was a gold-digger and wanted to get something from my parents. She threatened my parents that she would go public; always concerned with their image my parents paid her off, ignoring my protestations that I not only wasn't the father but had never even had sex with her. [This was before the days of common and inexpensive DNA testing.] "Just another of Brett's fuck-ups," was my father's attitude.

As a result of the three situations described above my parents unceremoniously booted me out of the house two days after I graduated High School (which they didn't even bother to attend). I had my clothes in two softside suitcases, $1,000 in cash, a laptop computer, a six year old 125cc Honda motorcycle worth about $1,200, and essentially nothing else. The only things I had going for me were that I had a High School education (big deal) and even though not athletic I was strong even for my size (six foot two inches, 225 pounds).

I got a menial job manually loading boxes from a warehouse into trucks in the next city over from where I grew up, a room in a boarding house, and a personality disorder. About my only joy in life was paying for a hooker every other weekend since I didn't have the confidence, looks, or money to start a relationship with any female that I was interested in. A couple of hookers seemed to like me -- maybe because I was never crude to them, even if I didn't have a sparkling personality, and I was always grateful -- and gave me a discount. They also said that I was a great fuck, but isn't that what hookers always tell their johns?

Things didn't get any better for me until I got a break when I was twenty.

I was out late at night on a Saturday -- actually in the a. m. on Sunday -- having just had a disappointing sexual experience with a hooker who I hadn't used before. It had been a bad week at work, and very frustrating since I had tried to contact my mother and she never responded to my calls to the house and had changed her cell phone number without giving me the new one. I made unsuccessful token efforts to contact my parents on occasion, but never was even invited home for the holidays. In a really shitty mood I came upon a disturbing scene. A middle-aged guy was slapping around a middle-aged woman and giving her verbal shit besides.

I normally mind my own business, but given the shitty mood that I was in I was anxious to vent -- and what better way than by legitimately beating the shit out of some asshole. I grabbed the asshole's right hand as he was about to hit the woman again and threw him down to the ground. "What do you think that you're doing you asshole?" I rhetorically asked.

"Mind your own fucking business," the guy yelled back from his prone position; bad mistake. I kicked him in the nuts as hard as I could. Two guys, obviously friends or associates of the moaning asshole on the ground, got out of opposite sides of a car that was parked on the street right next to us. I hit the guy closest to me in the face as hard as I could before he completely stood up as he exited the front passenger seat of the car causing him to fall back in. I then kicked the car door so that it slammed into his shins, resulting in a loud shriek.

The guy who had gotten out of the driver's side of the car was much smaller than I was and saw the fire in my eyes. When I started around the car after him he decided that discretion was the better part of valor, jumped back in the car, and took off, leaving the asshole who had been hitting the woman still moaning on the ground, holding his nuts, and causing the passenger's side front door to slam again onto his buddy's shins, resulting in another shriek as the car peeled off down the street.

"Are you OK?" was my brilliant question to the woman who was leaning against a lamppost with blood coming out of one nostril, disheveled hair, and red marks all over her face and neck. Her clothes were high class, and she had what looked like an expensive necklace, watch, and rings on.

"I'm not sure," she replied, her eyes rolling.

"You should probably go to the hospital," was my second brilliant comment.

"I'm not sure that I could drive there," she moaned.

"Do you have a car?"

"Yes -- it's in the lot across the street," she said, nodding her head in the direction of a well-marked three story parking lot.

"I'll take you," I offered.

"Thank you so much," the woman replied, latching onto my arm.

Just before we started across the street I saw the asshole on one knee trying to get up. I don't know if he really did look like my father, but suddenly I imagined that he did; so I took out my most immediate frustrations from my bad week, and life, by kicking him in the jaw, knocking him over backwards.

The woman's car was a new 500SL Mercedes -- she obviously had money. As we drove to the hospital we talked just enough to exchange basic information -- her name was Linda Patton. When we got to the Emergency Room I helped her out of her car. She grabbed my arm tightly and stared up at me with a scared, pleading look. "Brett, after you park the car will you stay with me -- I promise that I'll make it worth your while."

Having nothing better to do, and feeling good about myself for the first time in a long time, I said "Sure."

While I was waiting for Linda in the waiting room two police officers came in, apparently called by the Emergency Room desk. The receptionist pointed to me as a person waiting for Linda, and they pulled me to the far corner of the room and interviewed me.

"What happened?" was the logical first question of the male cop.

I explained the whole story, conveniently leaving out that I kicked the antagonist twice while he was on the ground. After a four minute explanation the female cop asked "Who were those guys?"

"Never saw them before in my life. Maybe Linda knows -- I didn't ask her when I drove her here in her car."

"Thanks," the female cop said, having finished writing in a notebook. "Is Ms. Patton being treated now?"

"I believe so -- she went with a nurse to the back shortly after I parked the car."

**************

I drove Linda home -- she was bandaged up and would be hurting for a while, but fortunately had no lasting damage. It was after three a.m. before we got to her townhouse in a very upscale neighborhood. I parked in her three car garage; there was a Range Rover and a seemingly new 1100cc Harley in the other two garage bays. My eyes bulged out looking at the Harley.

As soon as I turned off the ignition Linda touched my arm, looked at me with her good eye (the other was covered by an eye patch) and said "Brett it's too late to get a cab. Why don't you stay here tonight -- I have three bedrooms that I don't use. I'll get you a cab tomorrow, unless I can drive, in which case I'll drive you home."

"Either that or you could let me take the Harley until you get better," I replied with a big shit-eating grin on my face.

"We'll see," she said, with her first chuckle of the night, even if it did hurt her face.

The queen-sized bed in her largest guest room was very comfortable. I took a shower in its attached bathroom and fell asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. I woke up to the smell of breakfast. When I got down to the kitchen Linda was there in a bathrobe at the stove.

"I'm not very domestic," she said with a wry smile visible despite her swollen upper lip, "but I thought that you'd need some breakfast food, so I gave it a try."

"Thanks," I said with my own smile. "Smells good."

Linda was right -- she isn't very domestic. The bacon was wibbly, the eggs a little undercooked, and the toast slight burnt, but I was hungry and ate it enthusiastically. She seemed pleased by that, and by the fact that I cleaned up the dishes and put them in the dishwasher. "Should I start it up?" I asked, since it was fairly full.

"No, don't bother. My maid Joyce will be here tomorrow. She'll take care of it. Can we sit and talk?"

Linda was easy to talk to, and a good listener. She drew out of me things that I had never really told anyone else before; maybe because it was a combination of her obviously keen intellect, her ability to emote, and her very nice legs. The last point should have had nothing to do with it, but it did.

After I had unburdened myself -- and we had consumed and relieved ourselves of two pots of coffee, which I made so that it didn't get ruined -- she opened up a little too. In the next hour I found out:

--She had been rich her entire life. Her parents were rich, and she was not just from their money but from her own efforts. She had gone to an Ivy League college for undergraduate studies and a top five medical school.

--She was forty years old, in the process of getting divorced.

--She was a top notch and very successful plastic surgeon; in fact I remembered seeing a couple of her ads on TV.

--She had gone out the night before to a night club by herself, something that she had never done before but tried because she needed a pick-me-up from the angst associated with her divorce. She obviously picked the wrong guy to dance and socialize with. After buying her some drinks he, and probably his friends too, wanted some action and when she demurred he got violent.

--She had given his name to the police; it turned out to be fake (they had called that morning while I was still asleep).

--The Harley was her soon-to-be-ex's but she was trying to get it in the divorce for spite since she had bought it as a gift for him eighteen months ago and the title was in her name. She didn't ride it herself.

"Brett, I'm very grateful for what you did for me. I know better than to repeat, but I have concerns for my safety. I think that the asshole that beat me up may have recognized me even though I never gave him my last name. From what you describe about your situation, maybe you'd do me another solid and stay at my house the next couple of weeks when you're not working. I have some ideas about how I could help you out since I sense tons of resentment in you about your family."

I thought for a minute. "That's a nice offer, Linda. I don't want to get in your way, though, plus maybe my problems stem from me not being easy to get along with."

Linda laughed. "Since this divorce is my second one I'm probably harder to get along with than you are. Think about it."

"How do you think you can help me in the future?" I asked, getting down to brass tacks.

"I'd pay for you to go to community college in a course of study that you're interested in, I'd send you to my psychologist to talk about your issues, and -- now don't be insulted -- I'd do a little work on your face. You actually are a good-looking guy, but you obviously have an inferiority complex because of the attractiveness of the other members of your family, and with a few minor changes to your nose, ears, and cheeks, I can give you model good looks," Linda nonchalantly replied. Then she gave me her biggest grin yet.

I stared at her for a good three minutes without saying anything, turning what she said over in my mind.

"Let me try living here for two weeks and if we don't hate each other by then, maybe this will be the break I've been looking for in life."

"Wonderful," she gushed, standing up. As she did so her bathrobe parted and I saw more of her thighs -- they were really nice; not that I had any intention of eventually stroking them -- but they were nice to look at. "Why don't you take either the Harley or Range Rover back to your rooming house and get some clothes and other things, and then come back later this afternoon?"

I looked at the clock -- it was already mid-afternoon. We had talked for almost three hours. I got a big smile. "Where are the Harley keys?" I chuckled.

**************

The next two weeks went by in a flash. Since Linda was still on pain medication for a few days she didn't want to drive so I took her to work in the morning and picked her up at night, the first three days in her Mercedes, the next two with the Harley. She screamed or giggled the entire three mile trip on the Harley, and squeezed me with a death grip. She didn't perform any operations the first week, just had consultations and office visits, but as soon as she went off the pain meds she started operating on patients again. She had much longer hours that I did, so I spent some time waiting for her by playing pool, bowling, or working out in the gym that she was a member of.

After all of Linda's bandages were removed, she was -- I guess not surprisingly given her profession -- a very good-looking woman. Her face didn't look forty; nor did her body, as far as I could tell.

We ate breakfast and dinner together. I made the breakfasts with food that the maid bought, and we either went out to eat or had take-out delivered although once or twice in the first two weeks the maid Joyce made dinner for us. Linda really, really was not domestic.

Being around Linda, some of the sharp edges of my personality got rounded off. She said the same thing about herself. The Sunday after I had been living in her luxury townhouse two weeks we had a pow-wow to see where we were going.

I was a little taken aback when Linda showed up for the pow-wow in her living room in a pair of really short shorts, and a tank top. Her legs and cleavage were awesome. She opened a bottle of wine and we started chatting.

"So, Brett; we haven't tried to kill each other the last two weeks. In fact I seem to get along better with you than with the majority of people I come in contact with, and I haven't seen any real asshole tendencies in you. Why don't you move in here, work at my office part time, and start community college -- on my dime."

"Actually, there are courses I'd like to take. I've always been interested in graphic arts but never pursued it, and was never encouraged to do so. My problem is that I'd feel like a parasite living off of you -- I'm not sure that I can do that."

"Brett, I feel safe with you around. I haven't felt that way in a long while maybe because of my own neuroses, and I still have angst that the asshole that beat me will show up again. Plus I really will put you to work at my clinic -- I have stuff that needs to be done that you could easily do, and it would help me out. You'd get paid -- you'd have your own money."

We talked for about an hour, going through a bottle and a half of wine. Once we finished the second bottle we both were in a good mood. Then Linda hit me between the eyes:

"As one last thing -- this was hard for me to say without more than a bottle of wine in me but now that I have that I can say it -- I have sexual desires that I need to have taken care of. I pride myself on being a great fuck. I know you don't have a girlfriend. Maybe we can help each other out."

As she was saying "Maybe we can help each other out" she removed her top, exposing a pair of really nice puppies. Less than a minute later she was moaning on the couch with her shorts (no panties) off and her legs splayed out as I knelt in front of her and tongued her labia and clit while holding on to her world class thighs. She was highly sensitive and a mild squirter. After she came down from her second orgasm she moaned "Don't you need relief?"

"I don't have a condom," was my frantic reply.

"Screw the condom. Fuck me bareback, I'm not a hooker."

I scrambled up onto the couch shedding my pants and boxers as I did, put her ankles on my shoulders, and gave her the most intense cock-pounding that I was capable of while simultaneously squeezing her tits. I grunted loudly as I deposited a large load in her very active cunt and she screamed like a banshee.

We fucked twice more in Linda's bed that night.

Monday I moved all of my stuff out of the rooming house, sold my Honda 125 to one of the guys there, quit work, and moved into the master suite at Linda's townhouse.

**************

Linda and I had many fewer problems than most people that live together do. There were many reasons for that, but perhaps the most important was that we had no expectations of falling in love with each other. Neither of us was looking for a true romantic relationship at the time, and understood that if either of us did find someone that we wanted to romance that our sexual activities would stop. In the meantime, we thoroughly enjoyed satisfying each other's primal needs. Also, we never felt obligated to include the other person in all our activities. It was a perfect friends-with-benefits relationship.

Linda was a great fuck. She was much better than any girl I had fucked in High School, and better than any whore I had been with too. My cock seemed to fit her pussy perfectly, and she loved oral and I loved giving it. Her pussy was always so clean and fragrant, not like a hooker's. Plus our libidos matched almost perfectly. While I was a typical horny twenty-one year old (I turned twenty one shortly after we started living together), she had a high libido for someone in her forties, and was uninhibited in bed. Plus she was more experienced than I was and taught me a lot about how to please a woman, both in and out of bed.

I did study graphic arts at community college, and at the first semester break Linda had one of her partners -- apparently doctors never like to work on someone that they have a relationship with -- do the changes to my nose, ears, and cheeks that Linda had suggested. I was bandaged up for three weeks and couldn't do oral on her (which she jokingly constantly complained about when we fucked). When the bandages were removed, and certainly after I had healed completely, I was surprised about how positively my new appearance affected me. Linda assured me that I was now in the top 5% in looks of anyone my age, which gave me a much better outlook on life.

Linda's psychologist also helped me immensely. Dr. Lisa Patterson was far different than what I thought a psychologist would be like, and it wasn't just her looks. She was likely in her late fifties with a body that looked like a female weightlifter's, a stark contrast to her almost completely gray hair; she wore tight clothes which most people would think inappropriate for someone in her profession. Her entire attitude and approach seemed to me to be even more unconventional than her looks, and she readily acknowledged that it was. However she was obviously smart and intuitive and it was after just three sessions that she seemed to hit the nail on the head with her assessment of me.