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From: Al Steiner <al_steiner@hotmail.com>
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Subject: {ASSM} RP: The Mommies by Al Steiner (FM, cheat)
Date: Thu, 6 Jan 2000 06:10:01 -0500
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Please enjoy this one. I had fun writing it. Feel free to archive,
repost, or use at your discretion but if you would, leave intact the
text and the author’s name. Send any comments to
al_steiner@hotmail.com I try to answer all legitimate E-mail. Enjoy
sex, if there’s a God, he specifically designed us to do so, so why
disappoint him?
THE MOMMIES
By Al Steiner
Not much else in my life has followed along the beaten path so I
suppose it was inevitable that the circumstances of my divorce would be
no different. I’d married Mandy when she was young, only nineteen. I
was a junior in college back then and she was studying to be a
cosmetician at the same school. As a struggling History major I used
to pinch pennies when I could. One such way was by getting my hair cut
at the campus’ cosmetology building. It was free since it allowed the
students to practice on actual people. It was here that I’d met Mandy.
I knew we were different the entire time and I should have intuited
that the relationship would not work well. I was from a middle-class
upbringing, raised in the sheltered suburbs of Seattle. Mandy was from
a poor, trailer-trash type family. Both of her parents were
alcoholics. Her older brother was in prison for rape. Her sister was
a high-school dropout with three kids, strung out on crank. Mandy had
seemed however, to be above all of this. She took good care of herself
and was striving towards an employment goal. She drank very little and
only occasionally smoked a little grass with me. She was intelligent
and easy to talk to and had little contact with her family. My
impression of her back then was that she’d had a hard life and was
working strenuously to pull herself out of it.
She was also very good looking; the best looking female that had ever
shown an interest in me, and I’d be lying if I said that that factor
hadn’t been a major one in taking up with her. I was very shy in
college, getting dates only when the woman chose to be the aggressor;
something that didn’t happen nearly enough. We got married less than
three months after we’d met. By the time I graduated with a BA degree
in History and began working as a teacher for the Seattle Public School
System, we had a young daughter and another one on the way.
Life in the early days with Mandy wasn’t ideal but it had never struck
me as particularly unpleasant either. She was a good mother to our
kids and helped bring in the family income by working part-time in the
late afternoon and on weekends at a beauty salon. If there was
anything that really stands out about those times it is difficulty in
conversation. As the years went by she became harder and harder to
talk to, keeping more and more inside of her.
Since I was a child I’ve loved to write stories. During my college
years I took as many creative writing courses as my general education
requirements would allow. I polished and refined my technique, always
treating it like an intense hobby. By the time my second child was
born I’d published six short stories and historical essays with various
magazines; the prestige of such endeavors far outstripping the meager
payments that they provided. My first year as a History teacher I
wrote a novel, working on it in my spare time over a period of six
months. After more rejections than I can count, a publishing house
finally bought the rights and printed the book as a paperback. It did
moderately well in sales, just well enough for them to offer me a three-
book contract.
Since then I’ve published six more books, all in the same genre. None
of them have been bestsellers and no hardback publishers have ever
approached me. There’s a good chance that you’ve never even heard of
me before, that your eyes passed over my books in your local
booksellers without the slightest ding of name recognition or
interest. My contract fees and royalties combined only account for
about twelve thousand dollars a year; certainly not enough to quit work
for in and of themselves. But by the time of my third novel I was in
fact able to give up teaching and work full time on my writing thanks
to a pleasant quirk of the writing business that I’d been previously
completely unaware of.
Some might call it selling out and I suppose in a way that it is. It’s
one of those things that could only exist in a capitalistic society.
What I’m talking about is indirect advertising. Ford Motor Company was
the first to contact me. They offered me six thousand dollars to have
the main character in my next book drive a Ford automobile. Two fast
food chains came next, actually bidding with me for the privilege of
having my characters consume their food or conduct meetings in their
establishments. I score eight thousand a book for that. I get ten
thousand a book from Smith and Wesson for arming my characters with
their firearms; they even give me a list of specific models as
suggestions. My two biggest advertising contracts however, come from a
large beer maker; who pays sixteen thousand for having my creations
drink their brand, and a tobacco company, who pays me twenty-two
thousand to have my protagonist characters smoke cigarettes. They
particularly like it when I have the character in question return to
cigarettes after a long absence while he or she is under stress. They
once gave me a five thousand-dollar bonus for a graphically good
description of how it felt to have that first cigarette when the shit
started hitting the fan.
So I’m not stinking rich or anything, but I’m comfortable. Mandy and I
bought a large house in an affluent suburb and settled down to the task
of raising our children. It was when I quit work, I believe, that the
problems really started. The communication problem increased to the
point that, if we weren’t fighting about some stupid thing, we weren’t
talking at all. Our sex life ground to a screeching halt. She kept
herself away from home as much as she could get away with, working as
many hours as she could arrange to do even though we no longer needed
the money. A small part of me suspected that she might be having an
affair but I didn’t know what to do about it. I would have filed for
divorce if not for two little things: Becky and Sarah; our two
daughters.
I love those two kids like I’d never loved anything or anyone else on
the face of the Earth. They are what it’s all about. I was around
them every day, taking care of them while Mandy was out, and I was
constantly in awe of them; their innocence, their bright, inquisitive
minds. They were and are what made each day worthwhile for me. I knew
that if I divorced Mandy that my time with them would be drastically
cut. The courts in our state do not favor the father in custody
disputes. As it turned out however, Mandy herself solved this
particular problem for me.
I’ll never forget that early June day, when Becky was five and Sarah
was nearly four. Mandy had been at work, or so I’d thought, and the
two girls were playing contentedly with a dollhouse in my study while I
worked on my latest novel. I was trying to figure out a way to
incorporate Goodyear tires onto my main character’s Ford automobile
without sounding too obvious about what I was doing. Goodyear had
promised me four thousand for an honorable mention in this
publication. Suddenly the doorbell rang.
I got up, irritated, and walked through the house to the front door. I
peered through the keyhole, spying two middle-aged men in cheap suits
standing on my porch. Figuring that they were salesmen or religious
fanatics, I almost left the door without opening it but when they rang
several more times and then pounded with their fists, I gave up and
opened up, prepared to send them away post-haste.
They addressed me by name, which gave me pause. Salesmen or religious
fanatics would not have possessed that information.
“Yes?” I said, curious now.
“We’re Detectives Watson and Langely from Seattle PD.” He paused and
they both flipped open leather badge carriers, displaying their
credentials. “Homicide division. May we come in?”
“Homicide division?” I said, all sorts of evil possibilities going
through my mind. “What’s this about?”
“If you let us in,” Watson said seriously, “we’ll tell you.”
I did so, leading them to the front room and inviting them to sit. The
tale they then told me took me completely by surprise.
Mandy HAD been having an affair, but that is not the surprising part of
the story. She began seeing an ex-con loser that was a friend of her
sister’s latest boyfriend. This had been going on for some months and
as near as I can figure, Mandy fell in love with the guy and wanted to
marry him. Simple divorce however, and the inevitable alimony and
child support that would have followed, was apparently not enough for
my beautiful wife.
She asked her new boyfriend if he knew of anyone that could be hired to
kill her husband and make it look like a random thing. She’d explained
to him about the two life insurance policies that would have provided
about half a million dollars apiece. She explained to him about the
skyrocketing book sales that would have inevitably followed my demise,
pumping fresh royalties into her account. He’d listened carefully to
her suggestions and said he’d think about it.
I must say that this two-time loser Brenton Hamilton, a crank addict, a
wife abuser, and a general dirtbag, has done a lot towards restoring my
faith in humanity. Despite what he was being offered, he was appalled
by her suggestions. He told his parole officer what Mandy said. His
parole officer told the Seattle Police Department. Homicide detectives
quickly met with Hamilton and a sting operation was set up.
Detective Watson posed as an outlaw biker hitman and met with Mandy,
the entire meeting taped on video and audio. She agreed to pay the sum
of ten thousand dollars to have me killed. She told him my schedule
pointing out the fact that I made a habit of visiting a particular
yuppie coffee shop at a certain time of each day and suggesting that a
robbery of the coffee shop would make an ideal “random” event.
Detective Watson gave her every opportunity to back out of the deal but
she persisted. Finally a third meet was arranged and Mandy handed over
three thousand dollars as a down payment on my murder. She was taken
into custody less than thirty seconds later.
I can’t begin to tell you how shocking it is to see your wife coldly
arranging your death before your eyes on videotape. I was speechless
to say the least. I would never have direct, face-to-face contact with
my wife again and I never plan to. She was brought to trial on the
charge of soliciting a murder for hire. I testified against her in a
limited capacity, my most powerful evidence the bank statements
indicating the withdrawal of the down payment money. She was convicted
in less than thirty minutes by her jury and sentenced to six years in
the Washington State Penal system. After the trial I took Mr. Hamilton
to a bar and bought him all of the drinks he could consume. I write
him a check for a thousand dollars a month to this day and mail it to
his current address. His likeness has been featured as the friendly
snitch in my last three books (and he smokes Camels, which brings in
another eighteen thousand dollars from THAT tobacco company).
The divorce went off without much of a hitch, as did the custody
arrangements. I pay no alimony and never will. I was granted complete
custody of the two children. Mandy, who will get out of prison in a
few years, has been forbidden to ever see, approach, or contact either
me, Sarah, or Becky in any manner whatsoever. It has been made clear
to her that if I was to die in some unfortunate manner she would still
never acquire custody or get her hands on any of my money. In
retrospect I’m almost glad for what happened. I got off cheap in more
than one way.
Following this my life became pretty sedate. I watched my kids, took
them to school each day and picked them up. Nobody in my happy little
neighborhood knows about the history of my wife and me. I try to write
at least ten pages a day, which keeps me well ahead of my contractual
schedule of 1.5 books per year. I haven’t remarried and I don’t even
date seriously for reasons which I’m about to explain.
I found myself without a social life nor with any hopes for one. The
only time I am without my two daughters in tow is when they are in
school. During this time I write, I exercise, I smoke a little grass
or drink a little beer (I have a lifetime’s free supply of beer from my
brewery contract). I watch the History Channel on cable, making
comments to myself about how they’ve sensationalized everything in the
interest of ratings. I read pornography or look at pornographic images
on the Internet and whip my weasel to them. Certainly none of the
characters in my books have such a boring life, but I’d always been
content with the way things were.
About a year ago however, things began to take a turn towards the more
interesting, driving me into a way of life that I never would have
believed had I read about it somewhere. It began with the park and
still centers around it.
Adjacent to the elementary school my daughters attend is a small city
park. It has a sandbox (actually sawdust), some swings, some monkey
bars, some spring mounted rocking horses. Along the concrete paths,
which encircle the children’s play area, are several sets of metal
benches where parents can watch their children recreate. I developed
the habit of walking the girls over there after school so they could
play for a half an hour or so when the weather was tolerable (in
Seattle, tolerable has a different meaning than in other places; we go
outside and play in conditions that would keep people in normal cities
boarded up inside their homes). I quickly noticed that I was not the
first one to have this idea.
As I’ve mentioned before, I live in a fairly affluent suburb. The
houses are all over four hundred thousand in price range and are
occupied by just about what you’d expect in such a place. As I’ve
discovered, the husbands of these households are typically
professionals of some sort that make pretty good bank at their
respective positions. For the most part, the wives are young, college-
educated housewives that maintain part-time jobs at best. They tend to
be very attractive, doting mothers of an average of two children. They
are your PTA members, your church volunteers, and your charity drive
leaders. They gather at the park along with me each day to do the same
thing that I do, watch their children play on the park’s enticements.
They noticed my presence immediately once I began hanging out there.
There was no way they couldn’t have; I am usually the only male in
attendance at those hours. I don’t know what they thought of me at
first. Probably that I was an unemployed husband whose wife was
bringing home the coin, or some such thing as that. They could tell
that I wasn’t a child molester or anything since I had my two daughters
consentingly with me at all times. I always had the bench to myself,
even if there was standing room only at the other benches. I believe I
even sensed some vibes of disapproval and mistrust radiating off of
some of them. None of them ever talked to me or approached me for the
first several months.
Children however, share no such preconceived prejudices or notions.
Becky and Sarah would romp and play with their classmates on the toys
and none of the mothers ever had any sort of problem with this. One
day Sarah, who had not perfected shoe-tying yet, came over to me to
have me secure her Nike (no, I didn’t get any money for mentioning that
shoe-brand, they wouldn’t have put up with the implication that their
shoes are difficult to tie). Another little girl, who’d been playing
some game or other with her, followed her over to me.
As I tied my daughter’s shoe the other girl looked at me curiously.
“Hi,” I said, as I finished up, offering her a friendly smile.
She smiled back and placed her foot on my leg. “Me too,” she told me
innocently. I saw that her shoestrings were also flapping loosely.
Without even considering the reaction, I reached down and began tying
her shoe for her, as any moral human being would do; something that,
had I been a woman, wouldn’t have drawn a second glance. The reaction
from the ranks of mothers was immediate. With my peripheral vision I
could see them staring at me like mother bears whose cubs are
threatened. One of them popped up like a jack-in-the-box and headed
quickly over.
She was attractive in a classy sort of way. Blonde, maybe ten pounds
overweight, with firm, jiggling breasts. I could instantly see the
resemblance between her and the little girl whose shoe I was tying.
Her face was set, her eyes nearly boring into me.
“Megan,” she said firmly. “What are you doing?”
“Oh,” Megan chirped brightly. “My shoe untied. Sarah’s Daddy’s
helpin’ me.”
“I see,” Megan’s mom replied carefully, continuing her approach like a
cop approaching a dangerous suspect.
She seemed about to say something else, something that might have
changed the entire course of what was to follow, but I spoke first. I
smiled at Megan’s mom with my sincerest, friendliest face. “And I’m
glad to help,” I told her. I then turned to Megan and gave her my
parental voice. “But you know Megan, you should be careful about who
you have tie your shoe for you. There are dangerous people in the
world. You should always check with your Mommy first before you talk
to a stranger.”
“You’re not a stranger,” Megan scoffed, withdrawing her foot. “You’re
Sarah’s Daddy.” With that she bounced off, Sarah in tow, towards the
monkey bars once again. Mrs. Megan remained standing before me. My
words had had the desired effect. She seemed slightly embarrassed by
her concern.
“Hi,” I told her, smiling again. “Sorry if I alarmed you or anything,
but she DID need her shoe tied.”
“Oh, it’s okay,” she assured me. “It just bothers me sometimes how
quickly she approaches…., you know, strangers. I hope I didn’t offend
you or anything.”
“Not at all,” I said, although I HAD been slightly offended. “I’m glad
to help and I know how things are these days.”
She smiled and, perhaps sensing an opportunity to interrogate the male
that had invaded their park, introduced herself to me. “I’m Karen
Winslow,” she said, stepping forward and holding out her hand.
I told her my name and shook with her. Her hand was smooth and baby
soft, as if she’d never done a day’s work in her life. While I shook
her right hand I glanced at her left hand. On her ring finger were an
engagement/wedding set that probably cost about as much as I’d made
from the Tobacco Company the previous year. The diamonds were so large
as to be gaudy.
“So are those your two girls?” she asked, sitting down next to me.
I diplomatically gave her some room. “Yep,” I told her. “The loves of
my life. Kids are great, aren’t they? And I know how you feel.
Sometimes mine are a little too trusting of strangers also. But I
assure you, I’m pretty much harmless.”
Professing my love for my kids really served to warm her up to me. She
began chatting profusely while our kids played. She told me at one
point that she worked as a substitute teacher for the school district
now and then (she was an English major, if you can imagine that). This
really opened up the conversation when I told her that I too used to
work for the same district. We discussed mutual acquaintances and
administrators, which served both to convince her of my bona fides and
to catch me up on certain details of my former life that I hadn’t
realized that I still cared about. Gradually she worked the
conversation skillfully around to what my current story was.
“Well,” I told her, “I’m a full-time writer these days so I don’t have
to teach anymore. It pays the bills and lets me be home with my kids
every day.”
“A writer?” she said, wide-eyed. “No kidding?”
“Yep,” I confirmed. I named off a few of my books. She’d never heard
of any of them but didn’t seem to doubt my story.
“What about your wife?” she asked at one point. “What does she do?”
Now I know damn well that she’d noticed the lack of a wedding ring on
my left hand, not much slipped by Mrs. Winslow. Still, I answered
honestly. “I’m divorced,” I told her simply. “I have full custody of
the children. The mother’s not really in their lives anymore. I guess
I’m Mom AND Dad combined now.”
“Oh, how sad,” she commiserated, not pressing for further details,
which I had no intention of providing anyway.
We talked for another twenty minutes or so, which extended the time I
usually stayed in the park by double. Finally I bade her farewell,
explaining that I had to start dinner pretty soon, and made my leave.
I noticed that while we talked the other mothers were keeping a close
eye on the two of us, many of them also staying beyond the time when
they typically departed. As I loaded the two kids in the car I saw
Karen back among them, undoubtedly briefing them in on what she’d
learned.
Over the next few weeks I talked to Karen Winslow frequently. When I
dropped the kids off at school she made a point of strolling over to
chat with me. When I stopped at the park after school she also came
over frequently. She sometimes brought other members of the mother
clan with her, introducing each in turn. They were all very friendly
now that they knew the basic story on me. Two of them had actually
read some of my books before and professed to have liked them.
As our chats grew friendlier I heard the story of her husband. He was
a middle-level accountant in an insurance company, raking in
respectable bucks at the cost of working eighty hour weeks most of the
time. She complained that she rarely saw him and that Megan, their
only child (we don’t have time to make another one! She complained)
hardly knew who he was. She used the term “good provider” a few times
but never the word “love”. I began slightly infatuated with her to a
mild degree, the way that men are with the unobtainable. I would
frequently abandon the endless litany of Internet postings in favor of
her mental image when I masturbated.
It took the longest time before I realized that she was openly flirting
with me each day. She practically had to hit me over the head with a
hammer to bring it home. I finally clued in when she invited me to the
coffee shop for “a mocha or something” one morning after we’d dropped
the kids off. She named a coffee shop that wasn’t exactly the closest
one to where we were and insisted we break contact at that point.
“Wouldn’t want anyone getting the wrong idea now, would we?”
“Of course not,” I’d agreed, heading for my car, trying to convince
myself that I was misreading the signals that she was giving.
I wasn’t. She talked very intimately to me over double mochas that
day. She expressed her frustrations over her sex life with her
husband. “He screws me maybe once a month,” she explained bitterly,
“and then it’s like taking a hot bath with a three gallon water
heater. Just enough to entice you and then it’s over.”
“That’s a bummer,” I said numbly. Pretty weak I know, but I was new to
this.
“So where EXACTLY do you live in our fine neighborhood?” she finally
asked, her bare foot creeping up the pantleg of my left leg.
I told her to give me fifteen minutes and then to meet me at my house.
I drove home as fast as I could and did a semi-decent job of converting
the house from it’s bachelor-with-messy- kids state to something
approaching inhabitable. I threw laundry in the washing machine
without regards to color. I stacked dirty dishes in the dishwasher by
throwing them in. I picked up toys and piled them in the kids’ closets
pell mell. When she finally arrived I was just stowing the vacuum
cleaner back in the closet.
“Come in, come in,” I told her, sweat on my brow from my frantic
sterilization efforts.
We sat down on the couch and I poured us each a glass of white wine
from the refrigerator. The radio was tuned to a classic rock station
at low volume. Before a quarter of a glass was gone I was kissing her
puffy lips and swirling my tongue with hers. Her hand dropped to my
pants and undid them, freeing my rigid cock. She was panting in
excitement, as was I.
Our first encounter was quick and to the point. She pushed my pants
down to my ankles and then unbuttoned her own designer jeans and cast
them aside along with her shoes, socks, and pretty pink panties. Her
bush was blonde, like her hair, her pussy lips swollen and inviting.
“Fuck the shit out me!” she said, lying back and opening her legs.
I mounted her and planted my straining dick in her wet pussy. I slid
in easily, feeling her grip me, and began thrusting. Her arms came
around my back as her legs wrapped around my thighs. We kissed
frantically as I fucked, my lips traveling from her mouth to her neck
to her ears and back to her mouth again. Her pelvis slammed
desperately into me, nearly causing pain. My hands probed beneath her
sweater to her bulging tits, squeezing them. Her hands gripped my ass,
pulling me harder within her.
It wasn’t five minutes before she screamed and bucked her way through
an orgasm. I was right behind her, pumping out a three-day old load of
my sperm into her hungry cunt.
I remained within her after my orgasm, thrusting gently within her now
slimy pussy with my semi-rigid dick. We kissed softly, sensuously as I
did this, not speaking, just feeling. I removed her sweater and bra,
leaving her naked before me. I sucked on her beautiful tits as I
thrust, my dick hardening once again. She moaned blissfully as I did
this. Her nipples were large and tasty, her tits firm and pliable.
I gradually hardened into a ramrod once again, my thrusts increasing in
power. Her moans became louder, more emotional, her fingers pulling at
my own sweater. I let her remove it while I kicked off my shoes,
socks, and pants, never flagging in my pelvic motion within her sucking
cunt. I squeezed and kneaded her tits with one hand while I put the
fingers of the other in her mouth allowing her to suck them. Our
fucking picked up in pace once again.
She came two more times, each more violent than the last before I felt
the inevitability of my own ejaculation approaching. She squeezed my
ass painfully as I came for the second time.
I pulled out of her and dropped to my knees on the carpet. Her slimy,
drooling pussy was before me, giving off an odor that only an intense
copulation session can produce. I buried my face in it, plunging my
tongue in and out, tasting my own seed combined with the juice of her
glands. Her legs came around my shoulders, pressing on my neck and her
vocal cords produced a variety of interesting noises as I took her
rigid clit between my lips and commenced sucking on it. I kept my face
there through at least three more confirmed orgasms. Finally she
pulled me upward and, with a wild look in her eyes, pushed me to my
back on the carpet.
My dick was hard once again, something I wouldn’t have thought
possible. She attacked it with her mouth, slurping me all of the way
in. She sucked up and down, jacking me off with her hands at the same
time, bringing me to the brink of orgasm again and again before slowing
down and letting me recover. Finally, panting, with a mad, nearly
insane glint in her eye, she pulled herself atop me and planted her
blonde pussy on my cock once again.
She rode me hard, screaming her way through one more violent orgasm
before I finally shot off for the third time inside of her body. We
collapsed naked to the carpet, holding each other tightly while we
allowed our bodily functions to return to a level approaching normal.
“That was incredible,” she whispered to me after a while, looking at
me. “I’ve never been fucked like that before.”
“Me either,” I replied.
“This is probably a bad time to ask,” she said, embarrassed. “But I
don’t suppose that you’re…. well.” She paused, miserable. “Oh never
mind. Too much to ask. I can’t believe I did this with you.
“I’ve had a vasectomy,” I told her. “After Sarah was born. We didn’t
want any more kids after that. And I don’t have any diseases. I’ve
been checked.” And boy had I. After the incident with my wife and the
IV crank addict, I was tested every three months for two years. All
negative. “I wouldn’t have done this if any of that was to the
contrary.”
Relief was evident on her face. “You have?”
“Swear to God,” I told her. “I even have a microscope in my daughter’s
room if you want to take a sample and look at it for confirmation.”
She stared at me, shocked, and then burst out laughing.
That was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.
Now I’ve kept my mouth shut about her and I’ve fucked in her in varying
positions more than thirty times now. I know what her asshole feels
like with my cock inside of it. I know what it’s like to fuck her in
the bathroom of the coffee shop. Nobody’s ever found out about this
from me.
But apparently Karen likes to run her mouth among the mother’s club.
It wasn’t two weeks after our first intimate encounter with her before
Barbara Bowser, a tall, sultry member of this same club approached me
at the beginning of the school day.
“Perhaps,” she asked me, smiling sexily, “you’d like to join me for a
coffee today?”
Send all comments to al_steiner@hotmail.com
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Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
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