Guess Who Came To Visit?

Sipping your sixth or maybe your seventh or eighth double scotch your head drops and your eye lids droop to the soft crooning sounds of George Strait.

"Click."

Your eyes partially open and your head comes up.

Was that the sound of the doorknob turning or just your drunken imagination?

Groggily, you wonder, "what time is it? How long have I been asleep or passed out?"

The television provides no clue as Jo-Dee Messina belts away.

Just as you hand reaches for the sleeping mask you hear the squeak of unoiled hinges.

Terror streaks through your body.

Your heart races but you cannot move a muscle.

You are totally immobilized by your terror.

"Please, God, " you fervently pray for the first time since you were a small child, "let this just be a product of my drunken imagination. I promise if..."

Snap.

"Oh, God, oh, oh, my GOD," you silently scream to yourself.

You are totally frozen in place.

As you life flashes before your eyes you can only think, "if I could only live I would make my life count, I would..."

As two hands touch your neck from behind in a gentle unthreatening manner a mechanical, hoarse voice whispers to you,

"Easy, Phyllis, you are safe."

You collapse.

The tears start to flow down your cheeks and you pee yourself.

The acrid smell of ammonia wafts through the room.

The intruder kneels on the floor behind you and slowly starts licking and kissing your neck. The palms of his hands slide over your collarbone and down inside your kafkan. They cup your pendulous breasts and your turgid nipples slip between his fingers. Ever so gently he begins to manipulate them, pulling and stretching, exciting them.

Isolated from all visual sense, your mind clouded with alcohol and sleep you wonder,

"Is this a fantasy?"

"Oh, my, God...the power of the human mind."

As your taunt nerve endings take over command of your body from your mind you dismiss the question as not relevant.

Your cunt starts to moisten and your juices start to leak out dampening your panties and the front of the kafkan.

Almost involuntarily, your hand sneaks to your face to remove the mask but another hand detaches itself from your tit to intercept and prevent it from completing the act.

The intention of the intruder is clear.

The mask stays.

Suddenly, all contact is broken.

There are sounds of movement. Your head swivels, your ears pricking for any sound of danger.

You sense, rather than hear or see, the intruder standing in front of you.

Tentatively, you reach out and a hand touches yours, the fingers intertwining with your urging you to stand.

As you struggle to rise your head swims. Deprived of your sense of equilibrium provided by your eyes and your other senses dulled by the scotch, you stagger and start to collapse. The intruder firmly grasps and steadies you as he leads you to the bedroom.

You resist the almost overwhelming urge to remove the mask intuitively knowing that it will destroy the mood, the ambiance, of the moment. The fantasy, real or imagined, might disappear like an errant wisp of smoke. Befuddled as you are, you know that what your senses, your nerve endings, are screaming for a big, thick, All-American chunk of gristle, muscle and blood to be driven unmercifully up that insatiable, gaping, dripping hole between your legs.

Almost any cock will do the bigger, the rougher, the better.

The cock doesn't require a face, a body and person attached to it.

Love, affection, friendships have nothing to do with your current needs.

You simply need to get fucked, hard, fast, and even brutal.

No soft words of endearment are required. No promises, no professions of love, just hard gristle, properly pounded into you.

Your needs are simple and basic.

As you enter the bedroom, he turns you around and urges you to sit and then lay on the bed on your back with your legs from the knees down hanging over the edge, you feet flat on the floor.

His hands snake up your body and unbutton your lounging outfit from throat to crotch.

Silently, he stands.

In an instant he has reached down and seized the light material by the collar and totally ripped it from your body.

Even though you can see nothing there is no doubt what has taken place. A hundred-dollar outfit totally ruined, but somehow you don't care.

The sum total of the effect is not frightening, not threatening, it is totally unbelievably erotic.

It is as if he has said to you,

"Get ready woman, I am about to ram it to you."

"I'm going to drive my cock into you so hard, so deep, your going to think you have been impaled on a fence post."

He does no such thing.

Instead you sense he kneels on the floor in front of you.

His hands take your knees and he spreads your legs. His fingers slip into the waistband of your panties and you life your hips to help him snake them down your legs.

He slides both of his arms under your thighs and the palms of his hands caress their way up the back of your legs and under the cheeks of your ass to cradle and massage them.

He pulls you ever so slowly but insistently to him and buries his face in the hair on your cunt.

"Oh, Jesus, ...oh, fucking, Jesus."

"Oh, my God..." you hiss raggedly through your twisted lips.

Your fingers splay out and you clutch the bed sheets as your muscular tension increases.

His tongue begins to lick around your gaping, weeping hole.

Your juices, running like a veritable river slide down the crack of your ass and begin to puddle on the sheet.

Beneath the mask your eyes flash wide open as you feel what he has just done.

Wetting his middle finger in your lubricating juices he has wormed it into your ass, first to the knuckle, and now, as your sphincter muscle relaxes, all the way in.

"Oh, Christ..." you moan in an anguished tone, as you think to yourself, "why, oh why, didn't I do the enema to clean out my shithole. If I had only believed that this was going to happen!"

This momentary recrimination is lost in the raw sexual arousal of the scene.

His finger pokes and prods, insistently wiggling all the time trying to find a new crevice to explore, a new channel to invade, that it has not previously delved into. Deeper and deeper it worms.

You raise your legs and place the soles of your feet flat on the bed to give him greater access.

Idly, you think if you spread your legs any wider you will dislocate your hips.

His tongue starts to probe your channel, flicking in and out, touching, teasing, and then moving on, never staying in one place for more than a second or two.

You begin to shake ever so subtly on the bed, your fists clenching and unclenching, a sure sign an orgasm is starting to build.

"Don't stop, please don't stop," you beg the intruder, if indeed there is someone in the room other than your imagination goaded on by your overactive hormones and the scotch.

Suddenly he stops just as you begin to spasm.

The moment is lost.

Are you waking from your drug-induced wet dream?

As you start to rise unseen hands grab you violently by the hips and roll you over on your stomach, a pillow is forced under your hips, and a pair of knees is unceremoniously placed on the bed inside yours.

Your legs are forced apart and he lays upon you in a frog like position for copulating.

You feel a massive log worm its way between the fleshy cheeks of your ass.

His arms and his hands extend above your head and his fingers intertwine with your clutching in a death grip.

With an audible pop he slips through the outer lips of your pussy.

"Oh, Jesus, stop, please stop."

You realize, for the first time, how truly massive he is. It feels like the head of a baseball bat has been slipped into your entrance.

"No, no...NO... I can't take that. You're too big. You'll tear me apart."

"No, stop."

"Oh, please, stop."

You whimper and start to cry.

He ignores your crying and begging.

He forces your legs even further apart.

Hunching up on his knees for greater purchase he starts to work his cock up your channel.

At first your muscles tense, but as he slowly, insistently, poke and prods, they relax, distending, allowing his obscene sized cock to inch its way up your cunt.

You realize that you can survive this and relax, beginning to enjoy the feeling of being well and truly fucked, not loved, not cared for, just well and truly fucked.

You start to flex your muscles grabbing his weapon, squeezing, pulling, and encouraging it to go deeper and deeper.

Your fingers flex grasping his.

Your muscles begin to tense as you feel your orgasm beginning to build once again.

Inch by inch he works his way up...six inches...eight inches...ten inches until the spongy head has slipped past your cervix and is prodding at the entrance to your womb.

You moan and begin to whisper almost incoherently.

"Harder."

"Deeper."

Your muscles flex, grab and milk his cock.

He starts a slow rhythmic seesaw in and out of you.

The slurping sounds of his cudgel entering and exiting your sloppy wet hole seem to bounce off the walls of the bedroom like rolling thunder.

The sounds contribute to the overall erotic effect.

He increases the pace.

As your orgasm builds and starts to race through your body he senses it as would any good lover.

He releases your hands and sinking each one into the rolls of fat on each side of your hips, grabs you and pulls you up so you are resting on your widely spread knees and face.

You are obscenely exposed. Totally defenseless and he is still deeply embedded in you.

He draws back and drills you.

"Oh, Christ," you scream.

"You're killing me, you're tearing me apart."

Your mind, your rational processes are screaming, "STOP."

Your hormones, your pussy are yelling, "FUCK ME."

"...fuck me deep, hard..."

"drive that cock into me..."

You lose control.

"Nail me, oh please, nail me."

You hear him reach into the open drawer of the bedside table.

"Buzzzzzzzzzzzz..."

The sound alone tells you what he has.

Your long stemmed anal dildoe with the batteries has been turned on.

Forcefully, even violently, he drives it up your ass without any lubrication, without relaxing the muscles, without any warning.

The sensation is almost indescribable.

For the first time in your life you understand what it is like to get truly stuffed with cock. It is too bad the Christmas turkey could never appreciate the sensation.

He manipulates the probe in your ass, the vibrations quickly bring you to the edge once again.

He plays with the probe and turns it so it is massaging the tip of his cock through the thin membrane of your bowel somewhere in the vicinity of you belly button.

You lose control screaming, as one warm wave after another of your orgasm sweeps over you.

As you lose consciousness and start to collapse on the bed you feel him pulsing, depositing his load of pent-up semen deep in you.

You come too as the rays of the early morning sun beam through the window and warm the cheeks of your face.

Pain, excruciating pain, flows through your body as you emerge from your drug induced sleep. Piercing bolts of pain flash through your head as you gingerly reach up and remove your sleeping mask.

You move your head to avoid the direct rays of the sun shining in your eyes and survey your bed.

You are lying atop the bare mattress with the sheets and blankets in a twisted mass on the floor. Naked, you lower belly and thighs are covered in a dried substance that you can only conclude are your dried juices, the product of the most satisfying sex you have even had in your life or, for that matter, ever dreamed of having.

Was it real or was it a fantasy?

Did Robert really come to visit an throw a self serving mercy fuck into you to get you focused on the task at hand or was it all a product of your imagination induced by the idea planted earlier in the day and fueled by the alcohol and the sensory deprivation provided by the mask?

Regardless, you are mentally rested. It has had the desired effect. Your nerves are no longer singing and you are mentally at peace. Your hormones, so rampant yesterday, are slumbering know. Focused for the first time in days you mentally prepare for the challenge of the task at hand convinced that you would be able to concentrate.

Lethargically, you rise from the bed and pick up the stained anal probe from the mattress. You winch from discomfort from your asshole and pussy as you put your weight on your ass for the first time sitting on the side of the bed.

With trepidation, you push and probe with your fingers, but find no evidence of bleeding. However, there is a need, a pressing need, to wash your hands.

A long, hot shower goes part of the way to physically reviving you but does nothing for your raging hangover consisting of a blinding headache and bloodshot eyes.

As you look in the mirror, bleary eyed, you cannot help but think,

"I look like the wreck of the Hesperus. My eyes are like two pissholes in a snow bank."

"Well, dark glasses are the order of the day. I can tell them at the office that the lights are hurting my eyes."

As you reach for the front door knob to exit your apartment you stop dead in your tracks. It's as if you have been it right between the eyes with a sledgehammer. The thumb latch, which engages the dead bolt from inside, is in place. The door is locked. The only way to lock it from the outside is with the key, which is still on your ring.

Your erotic adventure was a figment of your imagination. It is that simple. Yet it was so real, so satisfying. How could anything that good be only a dream?

As you insert you key to lock the door behind you your spirits sag. Somewhere deep in you heart you were hoping that it was something more than an erotic wet dream induced by too much scotch.

The forty-minute drive to your temporary office is interrupted only by a stop at the Dunkin Donut Drive Through for one extra large black coffee.

Ensconced in your office, alone except for Randy who is quietly working on replacing yet another window you put your purse away and consider your options.

You are focused and ready for work for the first time in days.

The question is simple. Do you start again from page one and not bill for the last three days or do you continue on hoping you didn't miss the mistake.

Self-interest wins out.

You cannot afford to give up three days pay so you will continue on. If you have to do it over again, you will give them a substantial discount.

Head down, ruler in place, you start at page 156, line by line, symbol by symbol, only occasionally raising your head to take a sip of black coffee.

You hear nothing, lost in your own little world of computer language not even the quiet noises of Randy as he works away in his own little world, deprived of all sounds around him.

You lose track of time.

Suddenly, you silt bolt upright in your chair.

"No, it couldn't be that simple you say to yourself," but, intuitively, you know it is that simple.

The company programmers have been working from this tattered printed copy of the program trying to find the problem. 312 pages, 38 lines of Cobol per page.

There it is on page 176 line 37.

A malformed decimal point. It looks like a blemish on the paper and as such would have been dismissed by someone not looking carefully but it is really a decimal point not properly formed due to the improper flow of ink through the printer.

You whirl around in your chair and bring the program up on the screen of your terminal.

It is anticlimactic because you know that you have it.

Scrolling...scrolling....

"Bingo, got you, you little fucker," you silently scream to yourself.

You swivel the chair back around and lean back smiling at Randy who returns your smile warmly as he silently works away.

"God," you wonder, "he is handsome. He doesn't appear as rough as some tradespeople, and he has such a nice smile. How do you let a deaf and dumb person know you might be interested?"

As your mind starts to think nasty erotic thoughts once again, freed of the mental challenge of the last three days, Robert comes bouncing through the door.

He doesn't even give you a perfunctory morning greeting.

"Jesus, Phyllis, that was a pretty miserable trick to pull. If you weren't interested all you had to do was not unlock your front door."

"What did I do?"

"Don't play innocent and stupid."

"You called my house and told my wife that if she valued her marriage she would make sure that I didn't leave the house last night."

"Thank God I hadn't yet told her that I had to return to the office to work on the problem. As it was it took me all evening to convince her that it was a crank call. It certainly helped that, who ever the son of a bitch was, they had a strange mechanical, hoarse voice. Like it was coming from a machine. She was suspicious from that, too."

The look on your face says it far better than any words could.

"You didn't call her?!!!"

"No, it wasn't me."

"Then who did?"

"I don't know."

"...But no one else knew of our arrangement. I didn't tell and I suspect you didn't tell anyone."

"Did you leave your door unlocked?"

"Yes, I think so."

"What do you mean, I think so?"

"Well, I had a couple of drinks, or more like a few drinks and I am not sure whether I left it open or not."

"Well, did anyone come?"

"I don't know."

"What!!!!!!!" "You don't know?"

"I had some drinks, I put on the face mask..."

"And?"

"I sat on the couch and I had he most sexually satisfying experience of my life."

"So, someone came in?"

"I'm not sure."

"What do you mean, your not sure?"

"I don't know if it was real or the figment of my imagination, but it was the most incredible experience of my life."

"Are you telling me the truth? You really didn't come to visit me last night?"

"Honest to God, someone really did call my wife."

You are both totally perplexed. There is no logical explanation.

You muse for a few minutes.

It could be dismissed as a highly successful fantasy produced by a powerful suggestion, involving sensory deprivation and alcohol if it were not for the telephone call.

The again maybe, just maybe, he is lying.

There is no way of finding out from his wife.

You can't ask, "Oh, by the way, did your husband come over to my place last night to lay a hosing to me?"

Maybe he is just too embarrassed to admit it? Or, maybe It was just the product of my imagination, but it was so real.

After all, the deadbolt was in place when I left for work this morning.

Finally, you return to your conversation.

"Well, we may never know the truth. The good news is my relaxing evening was successful and I found the problem."

The smile on his face and the words of appreciation which flow from him are genuine but not nearly as rewarding as his promise to spread the word among his colleagues which will guarantee you all the work you can handle.

Finally he rises to leave after telling you to take the rest of the day off and billing it to him.

He turns to the door and starts a brief sign language conversation with his brother that becomes rather animated.

He concludes his conversation and sits back down with a sly smirk on his face.

"My brother says to tell you that he is pleased you found the problem. He understands the significance of what you have done for all of us."

"He hopes you had a relaxing and enjoyable evening last night."

"He would like to know if you would have dinner with him this evening?"

"He promises to do his best to entertain you and hold up his end of the conversation, He is able to converse with a mechanical sound box which attaches to the side of his throat at his larynx."

"He says it would give him an opportunity to return your spare key which he found in the bottom of your purse."