Story of My Fucking Life

"I'll tell you what - this was fun, lots of fun." She held his head and kissed his mouth. She leaned back. "Call me around noon. Is that a good time for you? Do another afternoon? Call and we'll setup a lunch date. Not the same pub, 'cause tongues will wag." She thought again. "Oh, fuck it. Just be back here at noon. I'll have lunch ready. You know where the doorbell is." She kissed him again. "And be sure to bring your tongue with you."

Izzy regretfully dressed and left for campus after tit-rubbing and tongue-wrestling and groin-grabbing for some minutes. Cissy regretfully dressed and left for the Dallas house after changing the sheets and airing her bedroom. Much sweaty fun, yes. She called her housekeeper to give the place a good scrubdown first thing tomorrow morning.

Cissy beat her husband to the house by a half-hour. David biked through their garden gate not long before sunset. "Hi honey, I'm home!" he shouted through the back entry as he stripped off his riding togs.

Cissy floated into his sweaty arms in a miasma of fluffy chiffon and not much else. She assisted his getting naked and led him to the nearest shower with a firm grip on his firming-up cock. In the shower, they did cleanse, and they did fuck, and they did cleanse some more. David received a nice pre-prandial preparatory blowjob before giving her a stand-up rogering. They called such sessions 'appetizers.'

"Did you do anything interesting today, dear?" Cissy asked as she served the almost-vegan organic pizza she had prepared and frozen the day before. They both ate naked; their solar energy system made heating the house a trivial matter.

David sipped his chilled Venetian Pinot Grigio.

"It was great! Matt is really shining with a crowdfunding strategy for the Belize rainforest preservation project that's gone live, and I got Nike's grants guru to commit on the Maine beaver-dam restoration thing. I know we're making progress on the Athabaskan alternatives, too. I may have to go up to Vancouver B.C. next week to work on that one. Just a couple days, but I'll sure miss you."

"I guess we'll have to stock up on sex then, lay in a good supply of orgasms so we don't run out before you get back, won't we?" She stroked his bare thigh under the glass-top dining table. She saw his enthusiastic reaction and gave his rod a few strokes too. "I guess we'll start with dessert." She went back to her pizza.

David spent some evenings at home going over reports, numbers, and contract and grant proposals. Other evenings were devoted to pleasures of the flesh.

Oops. Cissy spilled some pizza sauce on her breast. David must necessarily lick her clean. Oops. He inadvertently dribbled wine on his chest. She must lip-vacuum him dry before it runs off and is lost. Oops. Another spill. Another cleanup. Yum.

One thing led to another, yes? The eco-sherbet stayed in the freezer Their marriage bed bounced well into the night.

--

Cissy, wearing only a workday thong as usual, was back at her ThinkPad the next morning, riding herd on her blot bunnies. The next batch were a mixed lot.

Home On The Range - I had been out here too long - the sheep were growing enticing.

Sex And The Single Squirrel - Wow, that chipmunk gal is a babe! Look at all those tits!

Where The Buffalo Roam - She could dream of nothing else for weeks after seeing the bull's immense schwanstucker.

Lost In The Jungle - Professor Czolgosz did his best to suppress his immense but doomed attraction for Lila, the matriarch of the orangutans. He was just not worthy of her love.

Honky Tonk Chimpanzees - I knew my heart was lost when Bertha blew me her sweet simian kiss.

The first two went into the REJECT folder. Wrong gender or species. She knew she could not personally relate. But a buffalo? Hmmm, maybe a young one... She hesitantly moved that into PENDING. And the chimp and rang-tang stories? Well, switch the genders. And maybe she would need to hook up with someone at a zoo or primate center for access. Those went to PENDING also.

She looked at possibilities for THE SOUTHERNERS series:

Faster Than A Speeding Mullet - That asshole redneck trucker sure could pump his piston!

Romeo Et Juliet - Romeo also et Sue Ann, Lily, Clarita, Meg, and Daisy. He used his prehensile hillbilly tongue like a starving anteater. And he sure loved "dining at the Y". Them gals got et out GOOD!

Sex To Sexty - I've got four on the floor and a fifth under the seat. Buckle up, cousin!

And possibly:

Guitar Workshop - Even with its littlest soundhole lined and lubed, my old Kay guitar can never replace a good blow-up doll or my sister. And forget the tin-cup banjo. But maybe my mandolin would do.

She would have to visit her old honky home or someplace like it to recruit subjects for those stories. But those ideas could all work out. She moved those to the ACTION folder but did not flag them.

Cissy had a good idea where the 'Termination' stories would go:

And When I Die - I want to be buried with the body of a 12-year-old girl.

High Impact - When your parachute does not open, you wonder how big a hole you'll make, and where. Free-fall sex just is not worth this.

Slow Rot - Seven years ago, the world ended, but almost nobody noticed. If my dildo batteries had not died, I would not have known, either. Sometimes, ignorance IS bliss.

The Tell-Tale Fart - If I had not eaten the chile con carne, and if her husband had not heard me in the closet, I just might have survived.

Fucked And Fried - Out of the frying pan, into the fire - it's not just a cute saying.

None For The Money - The vicious pimp Renaldo was just SO unreasonable about finances.

Like A Hole In The Head - I aimed the power drill at my forehead and pulled the trigger. I would find out if trephination is the best high.

She was nowhere near ready to test any of these. All went straight to REJECT... no, wait. Her kinky friend Hypoxia might be able to do something with them. She moved the lot to the FORWARD folder. She moved more from REJECT to FORWARD. Let Hypoxia have at them, sure. Served the sucker right.

This left her with only a few more generic ideas. Not quite vanilla, but were they hot enough? Cissy peered at them.

Sturgeon's Law - In the winter, I'm a Buddhist. In the summer, I'm a nudist. Now it was springtime, and I was somewhere in between. I adjusted my loincloth and attained Nirvana.

Lick It Where It Tingles - Her sensations shocked her, like an electrical short circuit. Was that tongue battery-powered?

The Invisible Girl - Nobody ever noticed me, so I could do just about whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, to anyone I wanted.

In The Land Of The Blind - Why couldn't they see what she saw? It was all so obvious! If only should could find the advantage...

Lost In Plain Sight - Nobody saw what he was doing. He was careful about that. Anonynymity was as good as omnipotence, almost.

Two more had just barely hatched: Yet Another Orgy (YAO!) and (It's ten inches long and) It Itches And Drips. She felt impatient now; she would conjure-up storylines for those later. None of this batch pinged her imagination at the moment. She sent them all to the PENDING folder flagged as Whenever.

--

All that only occupied the beginning of her 9-to-5 day. She spent the next two hours tweaking three POOP-A-ROO storybooks - she lovingly called them Poopers - for belated publication, and then turned her attention to online research. She was curious about her returning guest.

Izzy Young was quite an accomplished fellow, she learned. His team at Columbia, working with another group at NYU, was well regarded in the greater sexology community. More material for the SLUT story cycle.

She imagined he had done his own net-scouring to learn about her. Officially, Terri Glass, heir of a once-prominent family and moderately successful comercial writer, owned and resided at this address. Officially, her carefully-constructed CV and scattered social-net profiles hinted at nothing unusual in her life. Officially, she was just... there, with notes mentioning an anonymous "significant other".

Cissy threw on a jumpsuit and biked to her Terri-home. She was covered when lovely Kanya from Bai Mint delivered the Thai lunch but almost naked for Izzy's return to her door. She wore a fresh orange thong and nothing else. He saw her and drooled. They fucked, and lunched, and fucked some more, and showered, and fucked yet again, till Izzy was fucked-out and Cissy was quite happy.

She returned to the Dallas house in time to clean and cook and present a lovely antipasto and lasagne to her loving husband. Alas, David had papers to review that evening. They made up for that by screwing well past midnight.

The next day went much the same, and the next. Both illicit lovers had scheduled events on Friday; they sadly kissed goodbye and went their separate ways. Cissy thought she just might accept his invitation the next time she was in The Big Apple.

Cissy finished early Friday with an afternoon time slot left open. She called David's cousin Les to fill her slot. He was happy to accommodate her. Les is more, indeed!

David and Cissy did not work on weekends; they played, together. Well, David did have a regular Saturday morning round of golf, and Cissy did breed new plot bunnies while he was away, dictating free-association ideas into her digital voice recorder as she jogged through the well-treed neighborhood.

Cissy met David for lunch at his country club. He grumbled about his morning.

"It's supposed to be just a game but we keep talking business," he complained, and sighed. "That's the reality of the cash game. Golf is only another tool for extracting agreements from those guys."

His golf partners were other downtown financiers. They obviously stared at Cissy. She politely ignored their hinted invitations. She had no desire to stir that stewpot.

David drove his convertible Prius hybrid up the Columbia River Gorge after lunch to escape the Willamette's cloud cover. The sky was mostly clear by the time they reached The Dalles. They put the car's top down, drove across the massive dam to the Washington side of the river, and drove to Maryhill, to Sam Hill's full-size Stonehenge replica. It was not quite the original but was much easier to reach. Mystics and other pinheads infested this simulation and regarded it as real. Right.

Saturday night was for partying. They hit a few clubs in Portland's oh-so-hip Pearl District and shook their asses off. Each could almost pretend they were ten years younger and barely booze-legal. Each hot-danced with many others but shagged nobody else. Their sex that night was slow and sweet; they were tired.

--

Sunday was also fun. Monday was another day.

David caught the early commuter hop across the Canadian border to Vancouver for his days of business meetings. Cissy spent the day writing in the morning, going out for lunch at another brewpub, and taking her tablemates, two tawny blonds, to her Terri-home for an afternoon of bisexual fucking. Tabitha's tongue was nearly as long as Zoltan's penis and much more flexible.

Cissy kept her friends overnight. David called in the evening to chat about the day. She was reverse-cowgirl riding Zoltan's amazing cock at the time, with Tabby licking at their steamy juncture. She somehow managed to maintain a decent conversation. This session would go into her SLUT story cycle, oh yes.

"Oh, hi lover, how are things in Van? Really? That's great! Here? Well, I worked on a couple more Poopers, they should be ready for publication soon. Yeah, and I'm working on those two articles the magazine wants... No, they'll be under a pseudo, I'm not sure which name yet... Just a second, let me catch my breath," (as Tabby leaned close to suck her nipples) "...I was out late, jogging, yeah, you know I like running when nobody else is around, and I'm just a little winded... Yeah, I can't wait to see you, too. Oh yeah, we'll have a hot time. I'll take your cock all the way down my throat, just the way you like it... no, don't tell me, just surprise me... oh yeah, lover, it'll be great... see you in a couple days. Bye now."

She switched the phone off and tossed it into a nearby easy chair. Tabby was slurping her breasts and pinching her clit while she rolled faster yet on Big Z's big tool. Oh fuck...

The next day went about the same. And the next, until David's return hop.

David and Cissy had an energetic reuniting that night. So many days to make up!

--

Thursday was just another workday. Almost.

David biked off to work. Cissy punched at her ThinkPad keyboard and brought up her current project. It was time to ring-out Part One of the trilogy. She'd had a good year with David, but her SLUT story cycle demanded closure.

She refined the storyline. The three parts would be: 1) Sex Ed: Slut for the betrayal; 2) Flotsam & Jetsam for David's heartbreak; and 3) Ration Of Passion for the divorce. Tonight, a misty Thursday night, would be the right time to drop the curtain on the first act of this tragi-comedy. David would be in shock tonight, in denial tomorrow, at his lawyers' over the weekend, and serving her on Monday, probably. It was a perfect timetable.

Let's see - should she write that as a three-chapter novella, or separate novellas, or even longer pieces, maybe three 1000-page epics? Should she leave an open ending to segue into a followup, a SLUT 2 cycle for her next marriage? She emailed her agent Kira to ask about the best strategy.

And for (2) Flotsam & Jetsam to work, she needed some heartbreak herself. She needed a shitload of emotional debris. Well, she was used to pain. She need only find some asshole to break her heart without busting her jaw.

Hey, two birds with one stone! She could engineer a scene with David's hunky cousin Les. David would walk in on Les fucking her. David would blow a fuse. Les would laugh and brag. Meanwhile, Cissy would trickily lure Les' dim ex Sheila to arrive and profess her undying love and drag him away, leaving Cissy with nobody, apparently. It would be even better if David and Les both hit her, and got Sheila to hit her too, and then David and Les punched each other, and all four of them got into a knock-down-drag-out that did NOT culminate with make-up sex. And if cops showed up, even better! She made a note to pre-program a 911 call.

It played out pretty much as Cissy planned - at first.

Les was butt-fucking her when David arrived home. (She told Les that David would work late. Oops.)

"What the fuck! What's going on here?" David looked poleaxed.

Les laughed harshly. "What does it look like, cousin?" he taunted. "We've been doing this forever, like before, during, and after your wedding. How do you like cuckoo-land, cousin?"

"You fucking sonova bitch," David yelled.

He jumped on Les. Les necessarily pulled out of Cissy's ass and started swinging fists. They wrestled, David in sweaty biking garb, Les sex-sweaty and nakedly erect. Cissy thought them cute, sexy, and amusing.

Sheila walked in on schedule and screeched and threw herself at the naked Cissy, flailing away, scratching and biting. (Cissy had told Sheila that Les eagerly awaited her. Oops.)

The free-for-all rolled on and off the king bed. Clothes ripped. Flesh bruised. Mouths bled. Voices shouted and screamed. Cissy had left the windows open so sounds would carry outside to attract attention. Police intervention was in her script.

Everything was fine until David went over the edge. He reached into the bedstand, pulled out a little Ruger LCP automatic, and fired. The .380 round left a neat hole in Les' forehead and a messy stain on the wall behind him. Sheila screeched again and threw herself at David. They struggled; the pistol fired once more. The bullet in Sheila's heart finally shut her up.

David stood and surveyed the carnage in horror.

"Oh shit. What have I done?"

Terrified Cissy cringed on the bed and tried to pull the disarrayed covers over her naked form. David's eyes swept back and forth over the living and dead bodies.

"Oh shit." He threw the pistol at the bedroom door. It impacted on the crystal doorknob. The shock of impact caused one of those nasty "accidental discharges" to which an unmodified Ruger LCP is prone. The round destroyed David's throat. Oops.

Cissy was in shock. She stared disbelieving at the dead bodies scattered around her. This had not gone according to script! She crawled off the bed. She did not know what drove her. Cissy moved on her hands and knees to David and held his still-warm but now-lifeless hands. She cried. She crawled to Les and Sheila in turn and took their hands also, feeling futilely for pulse and life. Gone, all gone...

She picked up the pistol with shaking hands. A trembling finger brushed the trigger; a bullet sailed out the bedroom window. Oops. She tightened her grip on the pistol to hold it steady. She looked down the barrel. No, this is not the way out, she told herself; I am too young to die. I am not ready.

The first policeman on the scene, a thin Latino with an acne-scarred face, peered around the bedroom door, his service Glock held ready in both hands.

"Police. Is anybody..."

The scene burned into his brain. Three bloody bodies, two males, one naked. A naked woman squatting on the floor, holding a subcompact automatic pistol, and looking around aimlessly. He aimed his weapon between her lovely au naturel breasts.

"Ma'am," he commanded evenly and authoritatively, "put the gun down. Put the gun down. Do not drop it. Put the gun down. NOW!"

Cissy realized she held the death weapon. She lowered it to her bare thigh and nervelessly released it. It slid off her body to the carpet. Fortunately, that soft impact was not sufficient to trigger another "accidental discharge".

"Place your hands on the back of your head, ma'am. Nice and easy. Hands behind your head. NOW!"

Cissy complied. Her breasts protruded; her nipples were stiff. Blood smeared across her forehead and melded almost invisibly into her long black hair as she pushed her linked hands backward.

The cop moved cautiously toward her and gently but firmly kicked the Ruger away. He keyed his lapel microphone.

"Rodriguez at the ten-seventy-two scene. Three persons down, multiple fatalities, one female survivor suspect. Need backup and medics NOW! And woman officer and coroner. One firearm in view. Over."

Officer Rodriguez did not allow his enjoyment of watching Cissy's beautiful boobs distract his attention from the crime scene nor alter his aim. His pistol remained pointed at her solar plexus.

--

Criminalists did their jobs. Prosecutors worked their case. Media had a field day.

Murder and sex and money, oh my! Evidence galore. Powderburns on Cissy's hands from the pistol's discharge. Her fingerprints everywhere, and everyone's blood on her hands. Beloved children's author fucks and kills! Priscilla Amarilla was charged with enough felonies to keep her locked up forever.

Forensics technicians unlocked her ThinkPad and revealed her identity as Miss Terri, eroticist supreme. Her finances and fortune were similarly unveiled.

Alas, the trial did not follow the state's script. Prosecutors could not definitively show that Cissy had fired any of the lethal shots nor involved others in a conspiracy. Her computer files told of much lascivious activity but no plans for violence nor homicide. "Death during commission of a felony" did not stick because Cissy could not be shown to have ever actually committed a felony.