ED

"Yep. Shayla, read the label." She did, which gave an exact weight, a date, and a certified expression of the purity of the contents, which were chemically pure, 99.75% pure metal granules."

Half a million dollars, in the hands of a lovely blonde bombshell, with a beautiful exposed, stiff-nippled breast, quivering and jiggling.

The plastic jar got passed from Melanie to Shayla and then to Chickie.

Chickie's eyes went wide open, as she squealed, "This jar is one of the ones I've been kicking around in the basement, on the floor. Are each of those ...?"

"Yep," I answered as an understatement.

Shayla asked, her own eyes wide open, "how many jars did you send, by FedEx, or just bring here?"

Smiling widely, I said, "about 73."

Her lips moved as she calculated in her head, but Chickie beat her to it, whispering, "we have over thirty-six million dollars of 'precious metals' gathering dust down in the basement, on the floor, covered in dirt, mouse-shit and spider-webs?"

"Uh huh," I grinned, and then I sprang the trap, saying, "and you might remember that, when I was put on the deed to the house as an equal owner, I specified—in writing, certified by the state and township—that now we'd all own the house and all it's contents, shared equally."

I finished, "so that's just a little more than nine-and-a-quarter million dollars apiece ... and the price of Rhodium just keeps going up and up, as it gets rarer and more dear. This is my purest love-gift to you, all my lovers ... since the friendship and the sex was, is, and always will be, free."

Chickie, being Chickie, just responded by slipping loose her wrapper and letting it fall to her chair seat, as she communicated by her sex desires alone. She looked pointedly at Shayla and Melanie. Both of them dazedly pulled off wrappers and sweaters.

My God, I was so lucky, as they all looked magnificent in their lovely skin.

There was a long moment when all three sat there, dazed by the things I said. Then, suddenly, without a word spoken or a glance made, they simultaneously leapt at my helpless body, burying me in musky female scent, and they tore at my jeans, shirt and underwear. Struggling to breathe around a large, stiff-nippled breast, I heard a familiar SNAP and felt the slight pressure of the auto-injector.

I was allowed to come up for air, totally nude, gasping from under a pile of bare naked women, my hand and face on moving breasts, pussies and thighs, my still-soft penis enclosed by a three-way sucking match, and not knowing for sure exactly who was who, from moment to moment.

I managed to get out, "can I tell my story now?"

Three newly-made multi-millionaire nymphette sex-goddesses sort of slithered off my body, face and hands, and settled down. One under each arm, and a third sitting between my thighs, in folded knees. Shayla looked so utterly beautiful, on my right, and Chickie on my left. Melanie was in front, and she had somehow gotten one of the black bras I'd ordered, months ago, that helped hold up her heavy breasts without covering up a damn thing. Her ultra-sensitive nipples filled and got even larger, darker, congested with blood and more protrusive.

I quirked an eyebrow, and she replied, "I put it in your other bedside table, where I could get at it easily. Be prepared. Waste not, want not." She stared at my just-beginning-to-get-interested penis.

I started my 'story:'

A guy I know (let's call him ED, or just 'Ed') worked for a company that made, uh, 'framis hangers,' out of a rare combination of metals, called, uh, 'fragistat alloy.' Ed had just found out that everyone in the company, from the boss to the van driver was fucking his wife, every time he was out of town on laboratory business. He wanted a divorce, to get out of this mess, but for 'religious reasons,' he couldn't do that.

It's like the Third Law of Thermodynamics, expressed in a gambling sense: Ed couldn't win, he couldn't even break even, and he couldn't get out of the game.

And it quickly became clear that his wife was a total cum-slut freak, and had no further thoughts about him, or use for him.

So Ed decided to play a double game: be the loyal, dumb employee at work, but also get them at their own game.

It helped that the conspirators had rapidly started to brag about their exploits to each other and to his gangbang-fucking wife, who was constitutionally unable to keep a secret for longer than a day. She wrote all the 'delicious details' of her cluster fucking and the 'Plan' in her diary. She hid that in her secret place (under the bed), and contented herself that she was keeping secrets in a diary book with a little strap and a simple key that 'locked it away from prying eyes,' but which could be opened with the small blade of a pocket knife.

Ed discovered in short order that his boss only called his cum-slut-wife on his private phone line, to set up a 'party'. Somehow, no one seemed to recognize that all the company phone lines ran into a trunk, which could be tapped from a closet, just outside the analyst laboratory.

So, Ed set out to discover what the Big Plan was, by listening to the sickening details of past parties and the next coming one, as his boss boasted of the money he and the management team were extracting from the business. Ed found out that the company funds were being diverted to buy industrial quantities of a rare and exotic material. Let's just call it 'Fuckium.' It was easy. All that was needed was a valid money order or a wire transfer confirmation and a company letterhead & logo. The Fuckium could easily be sold in the USA or overseas, almost anywhere in the developed world, for a high price per troy ounce.

Through his slut's diary, Ed discovered that the canisters of Fuckium were being taken, a few at a time, and put at a self-storage place, in a little rural town about an hour's drive away from the company location.

So, one fine day, Ed went over to that town, and contracted to rent the larger unit, right next to the small bay that the company fraudsters had rented. Ed rented the space for a year, paying in cash, which he'd expended from the lab's account, labeling it as an ounce of Yitrium, a very rare and expensive metal. No one ever checked up.

While there, Ed inspected the lock on the smaller storage unit. This was a very expensive and very secure padlock, requiring 3 separate keys to open it. Ed suspected that each delivery of Fuckium, when the storage unit was opened, was done with all three conspirator-fraudsters physically present, each having his own key.

When Ed determined the company was teetering on the brink of bankruptcy—by listening to the call on the Boss' private line, to his slut-wife—he launched his revenge. He invented a private 'conference' to attend, and that night, read his slut-wife's diary to determine that she was going to hold a 'party' (a cluster-fuck gangbang orgy) as soon as he left.

Ed left in the morning, and unhurriedly drove to the laboratory, to get several gallons of liquid nitrogen, in a Dewar flask. This was, essentially, a large thermos bottle, which contained the super-cold liquid, and slowed down evaporation, so that the gas would remain liquid for a long time.

Ed drove to the small town, changed his license plate to a fake one (in case of cameras), got into the storage area, and drove his van into the large unit he'd rented. Slipping on lightweight leather gloves, he took out an ordinary Styrofoam lunch container, and propped it up under and around the super-strong & secure lock on the smaller unit.

Then, whistling tunelessly, Ed poured about a gallon of super-cold liquid nitrogen into the cheap lunch container. The really cold liquid gas surrounded and penetrated the big lock. About a couple of minutes later, Ed poured another half-gallon of liquid into the box, to correct for evaporation. The process only took five minutes or so.

Then Ed took out a small hammer, pulled the now-empty foam lunchbox away, dumped the remaining liquid gas down a drain a few steps away and firmly hit the super-cold, super-secure lock twice. The lock didn't just break, it SHATTERED, brittle as glass, into several dozen pieces. Ed swept these up into the Styrofoam lunchbox with a whiskbroom, and then opened the small storage compartment.

It was the work of only a few minutes to carry all 73 little plastic containers of Fuckium into the other storage container.

Ed smiled as he took out a couple of Canadian Maple Leaf extra-pure gold coins that he'd been saving for a couple of years, wiped them clean of fingerprints, and casually pitched them in the corner of the small storage unit, kicking dust and dirt over them. Two gold coins, worth about $1600, was a small price to pay for his revenge, just executed. If anyone thought to try to trace the 'precious metals,' they'd be looking for gold coins only.

Then Ed brought out an identical super-secure lock (keyed differently, of course), and snapped it closed around the hasp of the now-closed small storage unit. Then, filling up a plastic syringe with low viscosity, very liquid, fast-set epoxy glue, he injected all three keyholes in the lock, and smeared the rest of the glue over the face of the lock. It would likely take a locksmith hours to try and open the obviously-vandalized lock, and probably would require a saw with an abrasive cut-off blade, to cut a hole in the door, at the end.

Going over to the other larger storage unit, Ed loaded his car with the 73 small plastic cars of the dull silvery metallic granules of Fuckium, and, closing the storage unit, drove out of the area, and back on to the highway. He took off the false cardboard license plates, and ripped them up, burning the remains and scattering the ashes in a ditch along the road. The remains of the lunchbox, the epoxy syringe and the metal fragments were put in several random dumpsters that he found, driving to Columbus. He left the Dewar flask in the car, because that's where it usually was, about half the time, as it was one of the 'tools of his trade.'

Then Ed took his packages over to several different FedEx office in Columbus, and had them overnight shipped to the motel where he was going to stay, tonight, to attend the conference. They were to be picked up by a person named 'Al Prostadil,' a farm-supply rep from out of the country.

And finally, chuckling to himself, Ed flew out to his 'conference,' which he found, not unexpectedly, had been cancelled while he was in the air and not available for contact.

Later, in his room at the hotel, Ed tried to call home, but found the phone off the hook. No one was there, back at the company offices, either. Ed made one quick, anonymous cell call to the company's bank answering machine, suggesting that there was evidence of fraud and theft, and hung up.

The next morning, by 10:00 AM, FedEx delivered 13 boxes of plastic bottles to a pre-determined contact 'out-of-country representative' at the hotel, each box insured for a couple of hundred dollars, and each weighing about 30 lbs.

Ed rented a car, and loaded all the boxes by hand into the trunk and back seat, and drove to another self-storage facility, over in Palmyara, New Jersey, where, paying with cash, the anonymous 'representative' rented a larger space for a half-year price, identifying himself with a passport from the 'Democratic Republic of 'Inner Fuckistan.' The 73 little jars stayed there for a half year, and then were transferred to a place where the jars of Fuckium were all but forgotten, dusty, dirty and covered with spider-webs.

Since 'Mr. Al Prostadil of Inner Fuckistan' never existed, and the passport was a fake, any trail went cold there, if followed that far.

Ed stayed where he was, and never returned to his former job and his slut-wife, and he probably lived happily ever after.

"Wasn't that an entertaining, fictional story," I said, with a solemn cast to my face, and my hand around my fully erected penis.

"Fascinating," Shayla commented dryly. Melanie didn't say anything. Chickie giggled, and said, "that's quite a story, luv. Go get us a drink of water, there, be a luv."

Holding the glass, I came out of the bathroom and confronted all three of my lovers, lying naked on my king-size bed. Not that I hadn't seen them naked and on the bed, but ...

They were lying on their backs, tightly side by side. Melanie was on the right, Chickie was on the left, and Shayla was in the middle. Sort of like a backwards Oreo cookie. Mealanie's leg was over Shayla's leg on one side, and Chickie's leg was twined around Shayla's other leg. All their legs were open, and I could see three lovely and different drooling-wet pussies, and six lovely sets of differing breasts. Their hands were over their heads, similarly entwined.

I was so hard and lusty that I was dribbling pre-cum on the rug.

Chickie spoke for all three, chanting, "Hey, stud, cum fuck us millionaire sex goddesses. Fuck us all. Fuck a little left. Fuck a little right. Then fuck some more in the center. Squeeze a little tit, suck a litle clit. Use us for your whole four hours. Fill us full of your Fuckium."

So I did.

I slept the sleep of the well-fucked that night, cuddling in my king-sized bed with three womanly bodies, whom I loved and cherished and wanted to live with forever.

- - - - -

It's the same dream, but oddly different. I come in the side door by the garage. I'm wearing jeans, an open chest shirt and an open leather jacket. The power's off, and the scene is lit by many candles. There are nine guys there plus my wife. Everybody's naked and sweaty. Sheila's on the pool table, and all nine guys are around her, on the floor. She's fully dressed, and a rock tune with a slow, heavy beat is playing on the battery-powered stereo. She starts a truly slutty and sexy strip, until she's completely nude. She lies down on the table, surrounded by her nine erect fuckers. She's slowly and sexily twisting her hips and thrusting her crotch She crossed and un-crosses her legs, thrusting her chest so her boobs bounce, and grinds, as they shout obscene taunts at her. No one sees me, as I move around the side of the table, and stare at the wood stove, radiating a lot of heat. I look fixedly at the vent handle. I see the little bit of low-temperature-melting-point metal, that forms the handle stabilizing groove, suddenly turn liquid, and drip off the heated iron rod, to vaporize in the fire below. The handle, now not prevented from rotation and heavy with Sheila's bathrobe, falls over into the closed position with a dull 'clunk.' No one hears or sees the handle movement. Carbon monoxide quickly builds up in the closed room. Suddenly, the action starts. One guy climbs on the table. He has a truly huge organ, and she forces it into her slippery cunt, and begins to thrust rapidly. She's screaming in continuous orgasm, "yes, yes, YES, fuck ME, rape me, you bastards, FUCK ME." He grunts, screams and deposit's his load inside her. He pulls out, and gets off the table. When he falls to the floor, no one notices. The next man gets on the table, and he, too, enters my unfaithful, murderous, cum-slut spouse. He, too, thrusts, cums, gets off and falls down. This pattern continues. The guy currently inside Sheila screams his orgasmic release. I turn again to the table and only three men are left. Each of Symulski's sons frantically work themselves inside her in a double-penetration, shoot off, fall over, and slump to either side. They stop breathing in their coma sleep. Last is my former boss, Ed Symulski. He works himself inside Sheila, and finally leaves a huge spermal deposit in her bulging pussy. He falls over too, slips into asphyxiation coma, and dies. There isn't any more groaning, screaming, or any breathing sounds. I look up and there's Sheila. She isn't beautiful any more, covered as she is in ropes and globs of sperm. Her face is lined and worn. She looks like a cheap whore who had to take all 27 cums that nine horny men could give her over a whole day. She sits on the edge of the pool table, with her slimy legs spread wide open, and a steady stream of spent manhood drooling out of her cunt, and into the side pocket of the pool table. Her hands are trapped under the bodies of her former fuckers. Suddenly, I'm standing with my legs apart, fists on my hips. The light in the room seems to swell and get brighter. My zipper is open, and I'm sporting a fantastic erection. I must be two feet long and as thick as a beer can around, with the fantasy cock bright red. I use my cock to gesture at the dead men all around her, and I say, "I killed them all, and took their stuff, too." My cock swells up, and jerks, as I orgasm, and six pint-capacity jets of golden cum squirt out of the opening, to arch up and fall on my wife's cheating tits, belly and shaven slit. She's coated in a thick layer of gold-plated sperm. Her mouth opens to speak, as I say, "and then I killed you!"

I snapped awake – and smiled.

I never had the dream again.

--- END ---