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This is a rather long story and it contains a fair amount of sex, but the incest occurs only in the last few pages. It is written to elicit a wide range of emotions; if you are looking for a quick jerkoff story, this is not it. Please leave feedback but don’t tell me the story was too long unless you are a professional editor who would consider publishing this story.
Friday, October 11, 2013
It was a Friday night and I was sitting in my outdoor hot tub, naked and alone. On the edge of the hot tub was my scotch. It wasn’t the cheap stuff; I drink Glen Morangie or Glenfiddich. When I was younger and didn’t have much money, I drank the cheap stuff; now that I have some money, I prefer single malt scotch.
It really didn’t matter how good the scotch was, or how nice and warm the hot tub was, or how much privacy I had with a solid eight foot masonry fence around my back yard. None of that mattered, because I was alone. There are many things which do not live up to their reputation, but being alone is everything you ever heard about it . . . and more!
I know. It sounds pathetic, and it is pathetic . . . but I’m not looking for sympathy. I’m just telling you the story. If you don’t want to hear it, stop reading now.
Some folks are alone, by choice, their entire lives, like monks who live in a reclusive monastery, but those folks are a very small minority of the loners. Some folks live in loneliness because they are socially awkward, inept, or intimidated and, for them, life is so challenging, so scary that they prefer loneliness.
Other folks live in loneliness because their lives have been shattered by some life altering event and they feel too much discomfort in facing the world after their reality has been horribly fractured. I am one of those folks. I wish I wasn’t . . . but I am.
Up until a few years ago, I was happy, outgoing, gregarious, sociable, extroverted, etc. You get the idea. I had a life that would cause many men to feel jealous, not because I had attained my enviable position through artifice or chicanery, but simply because my position was so enviable.
I came from a good middle class family in a decent neighborhood. I was blessed with academic ability and I always performed well in school, but I avoided being a book nerd or a geek. I had a decent social life when I was in high school and I dated a few girls, all of them smart and pretty. When I went to college, I joined a fraternity and I balanced the demands of my education with my need for physical affection from the opposite sex. I never kept score or compared my number of conquests with other guys but I was happy and quite successful with women without ever being accused of being a man whore.
When I was in college, I loved history and political science. It seems like everyone was telling me that I should go to law school. My dad had a cousin who was a lawyer and he talked to me about it and it sounded better than anything else I could think of, so I went to law school. That’s not a great reason to go to law school, but that’s what happened and, in my case, it worked well.
The truth is that law school was fun. I know, most folks think law school is extremely hard and totally absorbing and you sacrifice three years of your life to be totally devoted to learning the law. Quite a few lawyers will tell you how hard it was in school because they want you to think that they fought and killed the biggest dragon in the kingdom. Some CPAs will tell about how many CPAs don’t pass their exams on the first attempt. There’s some truth to their stories and, yes, law school was demanding, but I still had enough time to have fun, work a part-time job, and graduate with honors.
After law school, I got a job clerking for an appeals court judge in Tallahassee. I worked in the court system for a few years and then got a job with a firm in Gainesville which handled a broad range of matters, including personal injury and wrongful death. It was a very honest and ethical group of lawyers, not ambulance chasers, and I learned so much while I was there for three years. At that point, I had the itch to open my own practice and I had saved enough money to make it happen.
Hard work and my reputation, plus some help from professional friends, made my practice grow and it became fairly lucrative. I had a nice home, a nice car, and I saved money for retirement. I had a great assistant at the office and my life was good – damned good. My friends considered me to be one of Gainesville’s most eligible bachelors and I had no problem getting a date whenever I wanted one.
That was seven years ago. At that point, I was still single, 32 years old, and I felt like I was in command of my life. I was the master of my destiny and, although I was very happy with the niche I had found, I also had additional professional advancements which were within my grasp whenever I was ready to take the next step.
The next seven years of my life – from age 32 to age 39 – is what this story halkalı escort is about.
On Friday, October 11, 2013, I was almost 40 years old, sitting alone in my hot tub. I didn’t want to see anyone, and I didn’t want to talk to anyone. I wasn’t a hermit – not entirely. I maintained my office and I did what I had to do, but I didn’t enjoy work. I had other people working for me and I delegated as much responsibility as I could.
Outside of work, my social contacts were limited. I went to the grocery store about once a week. Sometimes, on weekday mornings, I would take a day off and go to the beach when it was unlikely that I would encounter many other people. On rare occasion, I would go to visit family members. Most of the time, however, I was at home and I was alone.
At the moment, I wasn’t drunk. In another thirty minutes, I would be “feeling no pain.” Then, I’d probably start thinking about her, about the first time we were together, what she looked like, how she felt the first time I was inside her, and I’d get a boner. Then, I’d probably jerk off, bop the baloney, choke the chicken, beat my meat, take matters into my own hands, fuck my fingers, crank the love pump, do some handiwork, flog the log, free willy, grease my pole, take the sausage hostage, honk my own horn, make the bald man puke, milk the moose, pet the pig, have a peter pull at St. Taffy’s, yank my crank, stroke the bloke, wax the Buick . . . I guess you get the idea.
Then I’d get in bed and – hopefully – pass out. That was the plan, because this was one more “day in paradise,” just like all the others.
Tuesday, October 3, 2006
“Mr. Darnell, your new client’s here for her appointment. I’ve already got her in the conference room,” Doreen announced. If it was just the two of us, she called me Tom, but it was always Mr. Darnell if a client or another attorney was present.
Doreen Gunderson was a goddess. She was the best secretary/paralegal I have ever had. She started with me in 2002. She never called in sick, she was never late, she knew her job, she never acted like she knew more than what she did actually know. Even more importantly, she never acted like she knew more than me . . . and she was beautiful. I thought she was beautiful and I saw plenty of other men checking her out when they were in my office. Doreen looked sort of like Jennifer Love Hewitt. She was cute and, paradoxically, her face proclaimed both innocent vulnerability and sexy allure. She had shoulder length wavy brunette hair. Her breasts weren’t large (I’m not addicted to big boobs and, in fact, prefer small to medium size hooters) but they were certainly large enough. She always dressed in a manner which I thought was provocative but I doubt that she thought she was “asking for it.”
There was nothing improper about our relationship but it was more than just a professional relationship between boss and employee. We each sometimes talked to the other about what was going on in our personal lives. Doreen was not my best friend but I knew that, if I confided something personal to her, she would respond with the best possible advice and then maintain it in confidence. She was a great woman, and under other circumstances, I would have been chasing after her . . . but she was off limits to me for two reasons.
First, you should never screw the help. If they’re a good employee, you’ll end up losing them when you break up; and if you don’t break up, you probably end up marrying them, in which case you’ll probably lose them as an employee anyway. Second, Doreen was married. I usually called her “Miss Doreen,” because I am an old fashioned Southern boy, but I guess I should have been calling her “Mrs. Doreen,” although I didn’t think she was very happy in her marriage. Whether she was happily married or not, I would never allow myself to become the cause of anyone having their marriage fall apart. No sir, when I get old and I look in the mirror, I want to be proud of who I see looking back at me.
So, I knew that Doreen was definitely off limits, but one of my body parts (a part south of the equator) didn’t know that, and it tended to be strong willed. On this particular day, the goddess was wearing a skirt that was so short that I’m sure I’d have seen her panties if she had bent over at the waist. I would have loved to see her panties – probably little silky, lacey, feminine things that barely covered the essentials. Yes, and I would have loved to pull those panties down. I would have loved to see what was being kept secret inside those little silk panties. I would have loved to get my lips around her nipples and see if I could make her cum just from licking on her precious little tits, and I’d really have loved to get inside her tight, hot . . .
“Mr. Darnell, Mrs. Easter is waiting for you!” Doreen reminded me in a voice that sounded more like my mother than my sexy assistant. Still, if she wasn’t my secretary, and if taksim escort she wasn’t married, I’d have turned her over the desk and fucked her in a New York minute. Being single and between girlfriends, I was horny. Hell, I would have fucked a hole in the floorboard at that point. Sometimes, trying to maintain a life with some standards is torturous. I’m not claiming to be a saint, but I usually try to do the right thing, like not screw the secretary.
* * *
“Hi, I’m Tom . . . Tom Darnell. Sorry to keep you waiting,” I introduced myself. As soon as I saw her, I really was sorry that I had kept her waiting. My new client was a beautiful blonde who appeared to be in her early thirties. She had a very pretty face with Nordic features. She was not particularly buxom and her clothes were not tight enough for me to guess her bra size, but that didn’t matter; she was a beautiful woman, regardless of whether she had bodacious boobs, medium mounds, or tiny titties tucked away in her bra. She was well dressed, well groomed, articulate, and I guessed that there was much more to this woman than just a pretty face.
The next 1½ hours were spent on the usual information gathering interview that I do in all new divorce cases. The facts that she recounted painted a picture which was very sympathetic to her side of the case, and it was filled with enough details – some quite intimate – that I had no reason to doubt her veracity. Usually, when I meet a new divorce client, I ask them a series of questions to try to determine whether they are really ready for a divorce; I don’t want to file a dissolution for someone who is going to reconcile two weeks later. In this case, there was no question. I was convinced that my client was ready for a divorce and it truly was the right decision for her.
Constance Easter had been married for 13 years to John Easter. They had married during their first year of college in Gainesville and she quit after her second year when she got pregnant with their daughter. She started working fulltime as an aide for the board of county commissioners; at that point in her life, she wasn’t really qualified for the job but it was almost an entry level job, she was bright, beautiful, and eager to learn, and I certainly would have hired her if it had been my decision. Connie continued working until just a few days before the baby was born; after her maternity leave, she returned to that job and had continued to work for the board. I have several friends who work for the county and we made small talk for a couple of minutes about a couple of our mutual acquaintances. In fact, it was one of those mutual friends who had recommended me when they learned that Connie needed an attorney for a divorce.
His parents continued to help with the college expenses, and together with Connie’s income and support, John got through college with a 3.8 GPA. The university had an excellent medical school and his application had readily been accepted, meaning that Connie and John did not need to move to another college town for the next four years. Those four years went by quickly but the two of them had decided to not have any more children until John had become established in a medical practice.
Their little girl was Sally. Connie showed me a recent picture and Sally was a blonde cutie, just like her mother. Apparently, she had already proven that she was as bright as her parents. A full time job, supporting her husband in his career, and raising Sally had been enough to keep Connie busy through these years.
After medical school, every physician must participate in a three year residency program. John had decided to specialize in obstetrics and gynecology and there was a good residency program in Atlanta, only about 350 miles away. John and Connie decided that Connie and Sally should stay in Gainesville, as they wanted to live here after the residency was completed. John would move to Atlanta, and he would commute back to Gainesville as often as possible. At that point, apparently, neither of them realized that John would be able to commute only once every three to four months, but they soon learned the hard way.
By her account, which I didn’t doubt, Connie was a faithful wife and fulfilled her duties as a mother in superlative fashion. She did everything she could to support John during his residency. She frequently sent him care packages with home-baked goodies, clothes, and personal items. She called as often as she could but not so often that it would cause problems for John, and she did very little to bother him with the day-to-day minor problems at home.
I was not surprised to hear John’s response. Connie’s good behavior was not rewarded. “He cheated on me, not just once, but over and over and over. He’s a selfish bastard and I hate him!” You can’t imagine how often I hear this story.
I’ve handled a few unpleasant divorces and it isn’t unusual to see an otherwise proper and demure Southern girl turn into the demon from şişli escort Hell when she has been rejected. “Hell knows no fury like that of a woman scorned,” but make that a Southern girl and even old Satan himself wouldn’t want to be near her. When a divorce client starts talking on this subject, especially a woman, I generally allow them to rant for a few minutes so they can dissipate their anger enough and, then, hopefully, continue a rational conversation. I also try to get an idea of the depth of their raw emotions. The fresher the wounds, the more difficult it will be to get the client to have realistic goals for the divorce case. Blood may be what they want but I’ve never seen it awarded in a final judgment of dissolution of marriage.
“I know some guys cheat because their wives don’t take care of them at home – or, at least, that’s their excuse – you know, they say she’s frigid. Well, that’s not the problem here. I like sex. I like it a lot and he got it as much as he wanted, so . . . I don’t want you feeling any sympathy for him: no empathy for the enemy. He’s just a son of a bitch!”
She paused and looked at me as if she was judging something about me. “I don’t know if this is something that you routinely discuss with divorce clients but . . . it’s important to me. I need to know that you understand this is all his fault and . . . that I’ve done everything I can to keep things from getting this far. I need to know that you’re really on my side.”
“I’m on your side, Mrs. Easter. You seem like a very nice lady and he sounds like he’s not a very nice guy. Besides . . . you’re my client and I’ll present your case to the best of my abilities,” I defended myself against what was probably an unintended but implicit accusation.
“I understand what you’re saying but that’s not quite enough. I mean . . . I probably haven’t told you enough to convince you . . . and I need you to really understand this, so . . . this isn’t something that I’d ordinarily tell a stranger, or even a close friend, but I want to make sure you understand that he’s the problem, not me.”
She continued. “Well . . . I was raised to be a very modest Southern girl and I don’t consider myself to be an uptight prude but I rarely discuss sexual matters with anyone else, not even my own mother.”
“Well, you already told me that you like sex,” I reminded her with a smile.
“Yes, well, that’s probably not the confession of the year and, besides . . . you’re my attorney and you need to hear these details.
“I understand that’s the way you feel. I’m not asking about anything that private, but . . . if you think I need to know, I’ll listen very carefully, I’m not a judgmental person, and, of course, everything you tell me is confidential.” I do not routinely ask for details about sexual matters when I’m interviewing a new divorce client as it is rarely relevant to the case and it is a private matter. However, since Connie had been raised to be a very prim and proper young Southern lady and yet, despite that upbringing, she wanted to tell me about these matters, I would let her “spill her guts.” Apparently, her efforts to overcome her inhibitions and please her husband were, at least in her mind, the strongest measure of her heroic devotion . . . so she volunteered the details without hesitation. You can call me a sexist for offering this generalization, but it’s true: in my experience, women love to talk about sex if they can do so without being blamed or judged for it. Give them a slender excuse and they’ll tell you about every kinky little thing that they’ve ever done. That’s my experience.
Connie began by telling me that, when John did come home, she would arrange for a friend to keep Sally overnight and Connie would indulge John in whatever his desires were. “When he came home and it was time to be intimate, I gave him whatever he wanted. Do you know what I mean by ‘whatever?'” she asked rhetorically. “I mean it wasn’t just missionary position regular sex. I really wanted to make him happy and I didn’t limit him to the options in the Proper Girl’s First Book Of Acceptable Married Sex. I want you to know how dedicated I was to giving him whatever he wanted. So . . . we’re both adults here, so . . . here goes. I told him to call me whenever he was feeling, you know, lonely . . . and we’d have . . . sexy talk on the phone. If he came home, I tried to give him whatever he wanted. I mean, if he wanted regular sex in the missionary position, I gave it to him, but if he wanted, like . . . oral sex, I gave it to him and give it to him good and I’d, you know, let him finish in my, uh . . . I guess you know what all guys want when it comes to oral sex. However he wanted to have it – doggy style, woman on top, reverse cowgirl, in bed, in the shower, on the kitchen table, whatever he wanted – we did it. My momma never taught me any of that stuff but I was bound and determined to make him happy. I actually looked at some porn online for a while to educate myself about some of the things that get guys aroused. And, one time, after we watched a porno together, he told me he wanted to do what they did in the porno, and . . . well, they did a lot, so I asked him ‘like what?’ and what it was is that he wanted, uh, sex, you know . . . ‘back there,’ and I was a good sport about it . . . I was surprised that it wasn’t that bad.”
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