45 degrees and falling

Tim's mother, Diana, knows everything.

She knows how they'll cure cancer someday (high-tech blood transfusions), how to prevent kids from being abducted (by implanting GPS devices under their skin), and how to keep convicts from escaping prison (by building jails in space. Dumb idea, I know, and I'm sure Michael Scofield would find a way to break out anyhow.)

But most annoyingly of all, Diana knows how to keep mother Earth beautiful and pristine for all of eternity: By never throwing anything away. Ever.

Putting something in the garbage is painful for Diana. Every once in a while, just for laughs, I'll drop a plastic bottle in the trash while she's watching and wait for the scream. "What are you doooooing?!" she'll shout. "Recycle it!"

As for anything larger than a plastic bottle, you can forget it. If she has no room in the house for it, she'll try to sell it; if she can't sell it, she'll give it away; if she can't give it away, she'll put it on her curb with a "Free" sign on it, and leave it there for weeks until her husband threatens to divorce her.

Monday, September 8, 2008, 6:39PM
Steve and Tim's house

"What's that?" I ask, pointing to a strangely familiar red-cushioned office chair.

"It's our new chair!" Tim says, way too enthusiastically, like a kid trying to convince her mother to keep a stray dog.

It doesn't look new. And there is only one person sufficiently lacking in common decency to palm off a faded, tattered, and probably malfunctioning piece of crap like that on us.

"That's your mother's chair, isn't it?"

"It works," she says, unconvincingly. "Plus, we need a second chair, so we can sit together while you're on the computer!"

She hates it too. But she only stands up to her mother on very important matters; otherwise, fighting with her would be a full-time job. The chair is not going anywhere, so Tim must make her peace with it. She's forced to smile bravely and pretend to love it, the same way you compliment a friend's ugly baby or smelly dog.

"Watch!" she chirps, plopping down onto it.

I stare as her breasts bounce heavily. Why didn't I notice that tight T-shirt before?

She wriggles cutely into the seat, and the back rest immediately tips away from her and comes to a stop at a 45 degree angle, so that the chair looks more like a poolside lounger than a piece of office furniture.

She smiles weakly and reclines against the back rest, spinning a little to face me, her knees slightly apart, hips thrust upward, her tight shirt straining against her boobs.

My cock stiffens at her suddenly suggestive posture. I love that she still turns me on so much, even after two years of dating and almost a year of marriage. I imagine myself pulling that frayed shirt over her head and feeling her nipple stiffen as I tighten my lips around it...

"Why are you looking at me like that?"

"You are so fucking gorgeous, you know that?" I ask in a hoarse whisper.

"You're crazy," she grins, rolling her eyes.

I grab her shirt and pull it up over her head, just like I imagined. Her naked breasts stare out at me, her nipples already at firm attention. She's been thinking about this, too.

Yeah, I've seen her tits a million times, and yet, like a song that never gets old, their smooth skin and gentle, sloping curves still get me hard every time.

My heart races. I hear the soft cling-ing of my belt buckle as I pull off my creased office slacks and frantically unbutton my white Oxford shirt. I watch unblinkingly as she slips her jogging shorts over her round ass and turns her big blue eyes up at me with a sexy half-smile.

I lower myself in between her legs, my pulse pounding in my ears, and rub my cock against the smooth skin of her pussy.

There is nothing like a hairless vagina. I love the pink folds of flesh and the telltale shine of wetness that tells me she's turned on. I love how her clit swells with her arousal and the way it feels between my teeth, hard and bulletlike. Covering all that natural beauty with wiry hair is a sin. Shaving it clean is like cutting down a row of nine-foot tall shrubs and revealing a gorgeous house behind them.

I shove it into her all at once, and the pleasure rushes to my head. I watch her, soaking in every detail, her bouncing tits, her half-opened mouth, her curvy thighs pinned against my hips, the way her hair cascades gently down her shoulder, ending halfway down her chest, the graceful peaks and valleys of her nude body, as if designed by an architect.

I grab the arms of the chair for leverage and thrust my cock into her harder, so hard that she falls back against the chair with all her weight. This thing is going to break one day, I think.

"Oh God," she whispers in my ear, and I look down again, growing harder as I watch her pussy lips alternately turn inside out and disappear inside her again.

The seat back protests loudly under our combined weight, an ugly, squeaking groan that under any other circumstances would have made us stop short.

But not now.

I'm going to cum. I can feel the orgasm rising inside me, like a storm cloud waiting to explode with angry torrents of rain.

I fuck her harder, faster, listening to my own heavy breath, feeling her legs tighten around my waist and her hands squeeze my biceps. It's probably my imagination, but it almost seems like the chair is...

Crack! Thud!

The seat back breaks free of the chair and drops to the floor. Tim falls violently backwards, flailing her arms wildly for balance. The lurching of our bodies tips the chair to one side, and for an endless moment we are at a crazy angle and the room falls eerily silent before we crash to the floor in a heap, as I am bombarded by elbows and knees.

"Looks like your mother's getting her chair back," I say.

Dichotomy

"Do you want a real tree this year, or a fake one?" Tim asks.

"Fake ones make a lot more sense, but I've never had one, ever."

"We'll figure it out. Oh, and do you want our picture on the Christmas cards this year?"

"Our picture?" I say, as I carry a box of decorations down the attic stairs.

"Last year, we signed both our names to the Christmas cards, but we had only been dating a little while, and some couples put their picture on their cards. Until they have a baby, then they put the kid's picture on the card--"

"Are we back on the baby thing again, Tim?"

"No! I'm just saying!"

"Yeah, we can do the picture, I guess."

"Is that extra extension cord in here?" Tim asks, pointing to the hallway closet. She turns the doorknob...

...Krista's apartment door opens. "What took you so long?" she smiles.

Krista's psychosis has not affected her physically, at least not yet. Her teeth are straight out of a dentist's "after" picture, and her thick lips, freshly coated in dusty pink, frame them flawlessly.

I am staring. "Are you coming in?"

"Yeah, thanks."

"You want a glass of wine?"

"I have to go back to work."

"I was just asking." She gets defensive quickly, and I'm careful never to say "I'm sorry" when she does. She's insecure; she would doubt the sincerety of the apology, and a fight would ensue.

"I have to ask you something," I grin.

"What?" she smiles back, as she walks over and straddles my lap with her dainty thighs, chewing a piece of red licorice. I catch a glimpse of her navel under her scoop-neck t-shirt; her short skirt rides up.

"Are you wearing red or pink today?"

"Why don't you look and find out?"

I slide my hand across her back, and feel nothing but spine. My cock, suddenly stiff, is bent at a crazy angle under her weight, and with the adrenaline that's flowing, I can barely feel it.

"Trick question, huh?" I say. "I bet you're not wearing panties either."

I pull up her skirt, exposing her cleanly-shaved pussy, and her soft mouth plunges against my neck. We stare for a brief moment and then we are clutching at each others' clothes, pulling at buttons and zippers with feverish speed.

The phone rings.

"That's my mother."

"That's nice," I say in between kisses.

"She's gonna keep calling until I answer..."

"...can you get that?" Tim calls from atop her stepstool, as she places the star on the tree.

"What's all that commotion in the background?" Tim's mother says.

"What commotion? We're decorating. Hold on, I'll get Tim."

"I don't want to talk to Tim, I want to talk to you."

"About?"

"Are you proposing this Christmas?"

"What? No, Diana!"

"You wouldn't tell me if you were. I just want you to know it's a bad idea."

"Thanks for the tip."

"You're doing really wonderfully together. There's plenty of time to get married--"

"Diana, like I said--"

"Of course. You're not thinking of it. Then Christmas comes and the Hope Diamond will be under the tree, and I'll get this giddy phone call at 7:30am. 'Mom, we're getting married!'" she says, in a mock falsetto.

"Diana. You are way off base here. Words cannot express how far off you are. So--"

"Gimme that," Tim shouts, grabbing the phone.

"Mom, I'm sick of you interfering," she shouts. "Just..."

"...leave me alone, mom!" Krista yells into the receiver. "I'll call you later!"

She bangs the phone down so hard that it dings.

Her scowl melts and she lays down under me, sliding off the last of her clothing, a half-length cotton sock. I pause over her, my heart throbbing, my breaths quick and choppy.

"You want it don't you?"

"Uh-huh."

"Say pretty please."

"Steve--"

"Say pretty fucking please!"

"Pretty please fuck me."

"Again."

"Pretty please fuck me with your big hard dick."

I slip into her before she's done saying it. Her hands clutch my shoulder blades; her teeth sink into my flesh, and the dizzying pain somehow makes me hornier.

You don't need a PhD to figure out when Krista is getting ready to cum. Her high, panting moans grow progressively louder until you think the cops are going to break the door down any minute; she claws and bites me like an animal. Sex makes her lose control, like a drug that she can't quite handle.

Yeah, I like it.

I pull back and watch my cock slide out of her, almost all the way, then guide it back in, in exquisite slow motion.

"You like that?" I ask, pushing her ankles behind her ears.

"Oh yeah."

"Are you a horny little slut?"

"Yes."

"Say it!"

"I'm a horny little slut!"

Krista likes being belittled. I never really got into that type of thing; if she's that much of a whore, who wants her? But evidently she needs to be treated this way to fully get off.

Her pussy is amazing, warm and soft; it's like fucking melted chocolate. And all at once, I am outside my body, just like I used to be, watching myself like a disinterested third party. Though our bodies are stuck together like magnets and we are going at it like rabid jackals, all I want is to fuck her harder, to drive my cock deeper into her, to fill her with my hot cum until she overflows.

"You want my cum in your face? Huh? Do you?"

"Pretty please," she whispers, clutching my legs with hers, pulling me against her.

"Say it again."

"I want... you... to... cum in my face," she says, as her breathing deepens and a faint line of sweat forms across her hairline.

I pull out, squeezing my rod with all my might as I rush to the head of the bed. And just as I stop moving, I can hold it back no longer; I unleash thick cum on her, across the bridge of her nose, on her cheek, in her open mouth.

"What time do you have to be back at work?" Krista asks nonchalantly, as I search for a towel, her face still a cummy mess.

A Very Germy Christmas

Thanks for the linkage, Claire!

Dad update: He's been released from the hospital! Dad, I'm proud of you.

**********

December 24, 2005, 7:15PM
Tim's house

"Merry Christmas, love," Diana says as she opens the door, somehow managing not to crack a smile.

"Diana," I say, kissing her cheek. I'm going to be civil, even if it kills me.

Tim rises slowly from the couch. Her green velour dress hangs from her body, and her nails are worn well past her fingertips. "Hey," she says, slipping a hand around the back of my neck.

I kiss her cheek. "You ok?"

She shakes her head. "I have a cold."

Our eyes lock. "Guess I better not kiss you," she says, and we stand staring, Diana watching closely.

"Mom, dad," Tim sniffles, getting more nasal by the minute, "Steve and I are going to go talk."

A newspaper lowers, exposing Marvin's face. "Hi, Steve," he deadpans as I walk by.

"Merry Christmas, Marvin," I say to the newspaper.

Tim closes the door to her room and sits on her bed. "Are you going first, or me," she asks.

"I will," I say. "First of all, I need to apologize for my... display with the whisky bottle."

"You scared me, you know."

"I know. Anyway there was no excuse for that and I want you to know I'm sorry."

"Ok."

I breathe deeply. It feels like I'm in the middle of a poker hand with my cards facing the wrong way.

"For the first time ever, I really feel like I need someone, like I would die without that person. That scares me, but it also makes me really happy, because I do want to have a forever after with one person. I want a wife and a family. Someday.

"I'm glad to know that I'm capable of feeling so strongly for you. I'm glad that you make me happy, and even that you make me really angry sometimes, because getting angry means that I care.

"We were really good together, and I think we could be even better. Maybe permanently better. I think we'd be crazy not to give it another try."

I can't tell if she's wiping her nose or crying.

"Well?"

"I have to finish blowing my nose."

She trumpets loudly into a tissue, wads it up and drops it to the floor. "It's so funny you said you feel like you would die without me."

"Why?"

"I swear, I wanted to kill myself," she says.

"Me too!"

"OK, maybe we shouldn't be so excited about that," she chuckles.

"I believe it's your turn."

She pulls another tissue from the box and waves it lazily, like a magician preparing to do a trick. "Waiting for a sneeze," she says.

"I keep telling myself that it's not worth it and I should move on, but every time I try to I can't. It scares me too, because I don't like having to depend on someone else. If I depend on someone, that means they might not come through for me."

She sneezes loudly into the tissue. "Know what I mean?"

"Yeah."

"Seriously, I don't know what it is with you. I don't know why I care about you so much." She pauses. "That sounded bad," she laughs.

"I just mean I haven't been this serious before, ever, but I guess we just grew up at the same time."

"Yeah," I say.

"We're all grown up," she whispers, and her smile tells me everything is perfect. I rub the back of her head, almost having forgotten how soft her hair is.

"I got you a present," I say, handing her a rectangular jewelry box. She opens it to find the letter I wrote, and a platinum wire necklace.

She turns the necklace over in her hand, as if trying to figure out what it is, almost puts it down, then examines it again, finally dropping it back in the box and placing it on the floor next to her feet.

She laughs three times while reading the letter; the third time, her foot moves and she almost kicks the jewelry box.

"So does this mean I have to write you a love letter now?"

"Sure."

"It won't be as good. You should totally be a writer!"

Hey, good idea! Maybe I'll start a blog! Nah, that would never work.

"Come on," I say, with a cheerleader's chirpy enthusiasm. "Let's go to my house!"

"Wait! You didn't open your presents yet!"

"You got me something?"

"Of course I did!"

She hands me a tall thin box that swishes. "Wonder what's in here," I smile.

I tear the shiny silver paper away, read the box, and smirk at her. "Jack Daniels?"

"I had a feeling you needed a new bottle."

"Funny."

"Now open this one," she says, handing me a shoebox-sized package. Too light to have shoes in it, though.

I open the box to find a roll of duct tape. "What's this for?"

"In case you break the bottle," she giggles.

"Did you come up with this shit all by yourself," I ask sarcastically, but I'm laughing too.

"Now open your real present!" She hands me an envelope, and I pull it open.

"What's Meadowbrook," I ask, reading the certificate inside.

"It's a bed and breakfast in the mountains. We can go for a weekend whenever you want!"

Oh good, because it sounded like a nursing home.

"That's sweet, Tim! Great idea!"

"Read the letter!"

"So you wrote me one after all?"

"Yep."

Dear Steve,

If you are reading this, it means we made up, and all I can say is you have made me the happiest girl in the world.

I hope we never have a fight like that again, or if we do I hope we can talk about it. I'm sorry I let my mother interfere in our relationship, but I hope you understand that I love her and she will always be a part of my life. I will work on putting "us" first from now on. Ok?

I am so happy we are back together, and I wish I could say "I told you so" to all the people that said we couldn't do it.

I missed you so much - I love being with you, I love talking to you, I love just watching TV or sitting around with you... I love sleeping next to you and hearing you snore (you do snore, so don't try to deny it), and I love waking up next to you in the morning. Sorry, I'm getting corny now...

It's hard writing this letter, because I am trying to think of all the good times we had, but I also keep thinking that we might not make up. I guess I'll just write it and put it away somewhere and hope that we get back together someday.

I just talked to you and we had a nice conversation. I wanted to say "I love you" so bad but I know we have to "talk first". Speaking of that, I hope we make up before Christmas so we can spend the holiday together.

Well, you are probably tearing my clothes off by now, so I guess I'll stop writing..

Love,
Tim

"Now can we go to my house," I smile.

She pulls me by the hand toward the front door.

"All better now, kids," Diana asks.

"Mom, we're going to Steve's house. Call later if you want to."

"You're just going to leave us here?"

"We're not in the mood for company."