Turnaround
Chapter 1: Peggy
"Move it!" he snarled. "Come on, shake that ass!"
Peggy DiMarco turned her head on the pillow and gazed back at her husband of twenty years. She was irritated, and frustrated but tried to cover her feelings. She knew from long experience that he became nastier when she was yapping at him, and he made every attempt to piss her off even more. He thought a woman is a better fuck when she's mad.
Except for the first year and the birth of their son, Jason, her entire marriage had been a bust. Oh sure, Fred made a good living and always brought home good money. But he was a clod. A boring clod who thought fucking was for the man's benefit and that the ideal wife was a whore.
She knew she would have to eventually do what he wanted so she slowly rolled over and lay on her belly. "I'm in position, Lover," she said sarcastically.
"Shit, will you look at her!" he snipped. "Get on your knees so I can reach it."
"Reach what?"
"Reach your asshole, my dear!"
Peggy raised her body and stuck her luscious ass up in the air. "You mean like this? Is this what you want? You want to relieve yourself in my butt? Well, go ahead, but don't take too long. I'm tired."
"You're not too tired to spend money at the mall. That uppity bitch calls you every week with --"
"Sally calls me when they have a sale. Last week I got a $1200 Halston evening dress for $300. We ought to have her over for dinner ..."
"Where're you going in an evening dress? My mother gripes every time you buy a new pair of shoes."
"I thought we could go out for our anniversary. It'll be our 25th this August."
"Shit ..."
Fred always considered himself a ladies' man. He had almost forgotten their wedding anniversary. He was close to fifty and he still went to the gym three times a week. Even though he'd lost most of his hair, he had a roving eye and attracted women like flies to honey.
He had his own business as an auto mechanic. The garage was located in Waltham, not too far from Cambridge. Women brought their cars to him because he provided a full service. He had an office over the garage, which included a big sofa, a desk and file cabinets. Always congenial, Fred would invite women up for coffee and he took salacious photos of the women he serviced. These he kept in a brown manila envelope.
Women were typically over 40, and married, although there were some divorced females. They brought in their cars, ostensibly for oil changes, but most cars today do not require oil changes every 1000 miles.
Fred's garage had a lift, and an assortment of tools -- socket wrenches, crow bars, and hammers -- stuff used in rotating tires, doing valve jobs, or replacing spark plugs. But Fred's customers were well-to do and drove late model cars and these cars didn't have carburetors or spark plugs. No matter, the women needed lube jobs and tune-ups on a regular basis.
Robbie worked for Fred, and he was gay. He had no interest in the women so Fred let Robbie handle the real work, while Fred brought the women upstairs for coffee. He had the ladies sit on the sofa while he fixed a cup of instant. The way the women sat, it was easy looking up their legs and they twisted and crossed their legs because the sofa was not very comfortable. He got it for fifty bucks at Goodwill and it was the best fifty bucks Fred ever spent.
The women wore skirts with flesh colored nylons; they wanted to be feminine for Fred. Word got around. You got a better deal with a skirt, never wear pants. Shorts were good in the summer, but you don't want to be slutty. The older gals wore panty briefs because they were pretty hairy and had no intentions of going to the beach in the Boston area. Their stockings were thigh-highs, held up by garters, revealing the lush white flesh below the panty line. Fred's clients were exclusive and those women naïve enough to want a flat tire fixed were directed to the AAA garage a mile away.
After a hard day at the shop -- cunt licking, fucking and buggering -- when Fred reached home he was exhausted and had no tolerance for Peggy's overtures and whining about not getting any action. He'd accept a blow job, and if Peggy could get it hard, she would find herself in the position she was in at the moment.
* * *
Peggy shut her eyes tight and waited for the penetration. She knew there would be no foreplay. Fred thought foreplay was a golf term. He thought when his cock was hard it was time to fuck. Even if her cunt was bone dry.
Still, Peggy was horny and she had high hopes that one of these nights he'd make an effort to lick her between the legs. Like back in the old days. It happened occasionally, it was inevitable, she thought wryly. Her pussy was so hot that once in a while her body did respond, even to his awkward fumbling.
Wiggling her hips in his face, she shivered with anticipation. "Come on Fred," she said. "My ass is open for business ..."
He rubbed his prick around her cunt. That felt good. She knew he was only doing that to lubricate his shaft, but it didn't matter. She'd take what she could get.
Peggy had always been a hot-blooded woman. Even as a teenager. That was why she'd married so young. Her mother had warned her that eighteen was too young to make a life-time commitment, but she hadn't listened. And had lived to regret it.
But Fred had been so romantic in those days and so sexy. She'd had no way of knowing the honeymoon would last such a short time and the living together would last so long. Kids didn't listen to their mothers. They should hold classes in school about those things. Marry in haste; repent at leisure.
There were compensations of course. She had a terrific kid in Jason and a nice house. As far as she knew, Fred was faithful and in his own way he loved her. She loved him, sort of. So far she hadn't cheated on him and she'd had plenty of opportunities. She was still a good looking woman with big tits that hardly sagged and a nice flat belly from daily exercise. Sure, maybe she'd gained an inch or two around her hips, but she knew she was still built like a brick shit-house. She saw the way men stared at her when she walked through the mall. There was no mistaking the look in their eyes. She was a juicy-looking, fuckable woman in the prime of her life with a clod for a husband.
"Is it going to happen in my lifetime?" she said sweetly, arching her neck and gazing at Fred. "Or are you going to wait until I'm dead and then corn hole me when I'm in the coffin."
"What a mouthy bitch," he said, compressing his cockhead and slowly wedging it into her asshole.
"Don't hurt me!" she warned him.
