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Subject: {ASSM} Deferred Pleasure (MF FMF MFM Oral Anal) {Kellis} [1/7]
Date: Mon, 3 Jul 2000 01:10:29 -0400
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Deferred Pleasure
a Novelette by Kellis
Copyright (C) June, 2000, Kellis
Chapter 1: Stepping in It
"Oh!"
The woman who snatched the door open was wild eyed and clearly
upset. Her medium brown hair, probably of shoulder length, was a
tangle. She wore no makeup, though one cheek, the left, was
bright red. Her expression was either one of intense surprise or
terrible disappointment. She was bent slightly forward at the
waist, wearing an almost sheer green robe, held crossed over in
front by one clutching hand. Her nipples were faintly visible as
dark smudges beneath it.
"Are you all right, ma'am?" Gerry asked, standing on the top step
in polo shirt and jeans, dangling an attache case, every inch the
college boy selling magazine subscriptions that in fact he was.
She stared at him. "I ... I ..." He had the distinct impression
of wheels turning behind her wide brown eyes.
He smiled insincerely. "I've picked a bad time, haven't I? I
can come back this afternoon."
She straightened up. To his surprise her face instantly composed
itself. She smiled confidently in return. "You're selling
something, aren't you? Come in and tell me about it."
"Rock magazines. If you have teenagers, they're just the thing.
I've got *Blue Metal*, *Rocking Rap*, *Pink* --"
"Please come in," she interrupted. "I want to see."
Gerry could not quite prevent his mouth falling open. In the
last hour this was only about the fourth house with anyone
responding to the doorbell. An actual invitation to enter seemed
too good to be true. When she stood aside he lurched past her
into the room: a foyer opening into a living room with a wide
doorway on the left looking into a cozy den. He automatically
marched into the den as she closed the front door solidly behind
him, and laid his attache case on the coffee table.
She was right behind him. "Won't you have a seat on the couch?"
"Yes, ma'am. Thank you. I'll j-just open this case ..."
He took the indicated seat. She sat close beside him, her knee
in contact with his. He smelled woman, an odor he had noticed
around girls whenever they indulged him in a game of tennis.
This one chuckled slightly. "You're nervous, aren't you? You
mustn't be, not around me. Are you a college student?"
"Yes, ma'am, from Polytech, just up the street."
"I thought so. What's your name?"
"Gerald Ballard."
"Please to meet you, Gerry." She smiled and her hand fell
naturally to his leg.
He took out a magazine. "The is *Pink Baton*, which has the
largest circulation. Notice how thick --"
Her hand rose and pushed the periodical gently away. "Gerry,
will you help me with something else first, something personal?"
"Why, uh, if I can." He gaped at her.
"As you probably noticed, I just woke up. I had the most
terrible dream. It has left me all ... throbbing and ...
tingling. The doorbell woke me up before it could -- before *I*
could ..."
"Could what?" he asked, eyes wide.
"Finish. Will you help me finish, Gerry? Please?"
He studied her. Could she really mean ... "Finish *what*,
ma'am?"
She took a deep breath. "This, Gerry." She leaned against him,
nuzzling above his shirt collar. He felt a kiss on the side of
his neck, then her tongue, then a delicious cold chill. Her hand
crept up his leg to his crotch and grasped through the cloth
everything it found there.
"Kiss me, Gerry," she whispered, her breath tickling his neck.
*No woman is* this *friendly!* warned the cynical side of his
personality. *Shut up!* retorted the side ever hopeful of
getting laid. Hesitantly his arms went around her as their lips
met. Her tongue came forward against his. He thrust in
response. Her tongue immediately withdrew, allowing his to dart
into her mouth, where she sucked it and wrapped it in her own.
After a bit he was aware that cool skin stroked his erect penis.
Surprise! She had opened his fly while he was concentrated
elsewhere. In another surprise she pushed herself away from him,
separating their mouths, and bent over his groin instead. Her
head went down and down and enclosed most of what she had raised
there. He stared in fascination at the back bent under the green
garment. With nothing else for his hands to do, he stroked it
with the heels of his palms.
"Oh, god, ma'am!" he muttered as his fluids rose.
Immediately her head came up. "I need it, too, Gerry." She
backed away, standing up and opening her robe. "Will you hurry
with your clothes?"
Oh, yes, he would hurry! -- though he could hardly take his eyes
off her. He threw off shoes, jeans and underpants, heedless of
where they fell. The woman pushed him backward onto the couch
and squatted over him. Her hand guided him to her hot, wet
center. He did not miss the opportunity to raise his hands to
cup her full breasts. She leaned forward into them,
straightening her legs behind her, as their hips began to plunge.
"Let me kiss you," she demanded. When he released her breasts,
she sagged upon him.
"I'm coming!" he warned, but her lips closed off further comment
and her tongue probed deep into his mouth. Both of them groaned
nasally in time with each long spurt of semen.
It was over so quickly that neither was out of breath. She
raised her head and declared, "Wow!"
He stared dazedly up into her smiling eyes. "Did that finish
it?"
She chuckled deep in her throat. He could feel its effect around
his manhood, still buried within her. "That finished the dream.
Thank you, Gerry. You are very sweet."
"I ... I'm very glad I could help you," he said truthfully.
She rocked back on her knees, then stood up beside him. "You
could help me with one other thing, if you would."
"Just tell me."
"I'll have to show you. Come with me, please." She threw off
the green robe as she turned away, grinning at him over her
shoulder. "Guess I don't need this." He noticed a long red
scratch on the inside of her left arm, running from the armpit
half-way down the forearm, deep enough in a few places to bead up
with drops of blood. He was certain that no way could *he* be
responsible for such a mark on her and dismissed it from his mind
as he followed her beyond the den.
She led him into a bathroom and pointed to a large red monkey
wrench lying across one corner of the sink. "Do you know how to
use one of them?"
"Yeah, sure. You just have to turn them the right way."
"Well, would you tighten the big nut on the sink drain for me?
It leaks and I just can't seem to work it." She reached past him
to open the spring-loaded door allowing access under the sink.
The enclosing cabinet was made of formed sheet-metal, finished in
smooth white enamel.
Taking the heavy wrench, he dropped to his bare knees and looked
under the sink. "You mean that inch and a halfer on the drain
pipe?"
"Yes, the big one."
"Hmm. Not much room to swing the wrench, but I can do it if I
take my shirt off before I get it dirty."
"You're wonderful, Gerry! Go ahead. Hang your shirt on the
doorknob. My douche kit is in the other bathroom. I better take
care of that. I'll be right back."
She disappeared into the hall. Gerry smiled, thinking he'd be
happy to fix a girl's sink in exchange for a piece of her ass any
day of the week. His shirt came off over his head to dangle from
the door knob. He crawled under the sink, frowning at the puddle
beneath the drain. It had been leaking, all right, for a long
time from the looks of the crusty edges. Anyone could see that
the nut wasn't screwed up all the way. Cross-threaded, maybe?
He engaged the wrench in the un-tighten direction. As expected,
it took real determination to start the nut turning. Definitely
cross threaded!
He unscrewed the nut and let it fall down the pipe. Hadn't he
noticed a metal nail file in the tray at the back of the sink?
He crawled out and looked around: a typical bathroom, tub and
shower across the opposite end. He was impressed with the room's
sparkling cleanliness. His amorous hostess even kept her shower
curtain closed. It had a tasteful pink design that blended well
with the tile on floor and wall. The neat room had only one
jarring note. Someone had once spilled dark red enamel on the
wicker clothes basket. He had to agree with the imagined
argument that a little paint wouldn't hurt its function as the
collector of soiled clothing.
Retrieving the file, he crawled back under the sink and located
the damaged threads. He was cleaning out the broken metal when
he heard bare feet padding behind him. The woman knelt, cutting
off part of his light.
"How's it coming?"
"Just about finished. In fact I think I'm ready to put it back."
"What did you find?"
"It was cross-threaded, of course."
"Cross? As in 'out of sorts?'"
He chuckled. "That's pretty close. It's going to hold water
now." He ran the nut up hand tight, then gave it another full
turn with the wrench. "Turn on the water full blast."
She raised up and water rattled into the sink. He shouted above
it when she knelt beside him again, "Feel of the drain pipe."
With her hand on it, he added, "Feel the cold water coming
through? But it's not leaking anymore."
Both backed out from under the sink. She turned off the rushing
water as he laid the wrench across the corner where he had found
it.
She put her arms around him and pressed her full breasts into his
naked chest. He could distinctly feel her nipples.
"Gerry, you're a wonderful guy. I could never have done that."
"Oh, it was nothing."
"You don't know how long that sink has been leaking! I want to
reward you."
She dropped to her knees in front of him, caught his partly risen
penis in her hand and passed it between her lips. He grunted
with the surprise of it, stuttering, "M-ma'am, you d-don't have
to do that."
She turned her head up and smiled at him, the penis held just
beyond her lips. "I know I don't, Gerry, but I do love to suck a
cock. Do you mind?"
He took a deep breath.
She winked. "Don't men *love* to have a kneeling woman suck them
off?"
"God!" he exclaimed, involuntarily thrusting himself against her
lips.
She laughed once, then sucked him into her mouth. One of her
hands cuddled his testicles. The other pushed past until he felt
a finger enter his rectum. Her head moved back and forth. Soon
his hips began to plunge. She ceased to move her head, leaving
the work to him. On withdrawals he could feel her tongue laving
the glans. When thrusting he was amazed at the depth she
permitted him to reach in the back of her throat.
A melodious chime sounded somewhere in the house. He felt her
mouth tighten. He froze. Suddenly a thunderous knocking
resounded from the front door.
She backed away and looked up to him with huge eyes. "Good god,
it's my husband! Listen to that temper, pounding just because
I'm not right there. He'll find his key in a minute and -- God,
he'll *kill* you!"
"Where's the back door?" Gerry demanded.
"Right down the hall. Here!" She snatched his shirt off the
doorknob. "Oh, god, please hurry!"
Except for socks, wristwatch and the shirt in his hand, he ran
naked down the short hall. He understood the deadbolt on the
back door at a glance and released it. He snatched the door open
and jumped clear of the steps into backyard grass. A picket
fence surrounded the backyard except between house and shed. He
darted for that opening.
Suddenly a body in dark clothing loomed up before him. Before he
could swerve he ran head-on into it. Arms closed around him but
he forced them apart and twisted away only to be slammed off his
feet by another dark-clothed body. He fell painfully to knees
and elbows on concrete. His hands were wrenched behind him,
dropping his chest and face also to the ground. His chin struck
the concrete and for several seconds his vision went black except
for swirling stars.
When he could see again, he raised his head to look around. He
was lying naked in the concrete driveway of the house where he
had just managed to get laid for the third time in his young
life. Third and a half time, he corrected. The two men standing
over him were ... cops? Yes, cops. One, a husky young man, was
talking into his shoulder mounted radio, something about "suspect
apprehended." Gerry could barely see the other by rotating his
head as far around as it would go. This was an older man with
salt-and-pepper hair. As Gerry watched, that one bent and
retrieved his officer's hat, which had apparently fallen to the
ground.
Gerry's elbows, knees and chin were smarting painfully. His
hands were immobilized behind him. He realized two things: he
was in handcuffs and the cold concrete was freezing his dick.
He said to the older man, who looked a bit less formidable,
"Please, don't let her husband get at me."
* * * *
"Gerald Ballard?"
Gerry looked up from his dazed slump. A black guard stood just
beyond the cell door. "Yes, sir."
One of the black teenagers in the cell with him cried derisively,
"'Sir!'"
The other said, "Watch that ass kissing," to which the first
cracked, "He's a honk. Kissing ass is natural."
"You niggers shut your mouth," ordered the guard. He opened the
barred door. "Come out, Ballard."
As Gerry passed through the door, one of his cellmates called
after him, "Keep it puckered!" The other added, "At both ends,"
and both dissolved in laughter.
"Put out your hands," the guard ordered. Shortly Gerry found
himself wearing handcuffs again. At least now his hands were in
front.
The guard led him down a long hall by pulling on the chain
between his wrists. They passed other cells full of noisy
inmates dressed in orange jail suits the same as Gerry's, but
none paid him any attention. Soon they passed into a
smooth-walled section of the building, contrasting strongly with
the steel bars and cinder blocks of the jail, and the guard led
him into a room marked *Interrogation C* on the door.
"Sit in that chair on the other side of the table."
He obeyed dumbly. The guard closed a padlock between Gerry's
wrist chain and a steel hasp on the ledge of the immovable table.
The guard went out and closed the door, leaving him alone. The
room had a large mirror on one wall, hard to see because of the
bright floodlight mounted above it and shining into Gerry's eyes.
Several padded chairs were grouped around the table on the
floodlit side. Gerry's unpadded chair was alone on its side of
the table.
A young man in a rumpled business suit entered. He stood across
the table from Gerry and extended his hand. "I'm Philip Scones.
The court has appointed me your attorney."
Gerry stood up and extended his hand to the limit of the chain.
They shook hands. He searched for something to say and finally
blurted, "Glad you could come."
The man grunted. "I didn't have any more choice than you did."
He opened a briefcase on the table, took out some papers,
transferred the briefcase to the floor and sat down. "Let me
verify a few things first."
Gerry sagged into his own seat.
"How are your cuts?"
Gerry felt of the band-aid on his chin. "Healing."
"Knees and elbows?"
"All right."
Scones read from his paper, "You are Gerald Arthur Ballard, age
20, currently a student at Central Polytech and living on campus,
right?"
"Right. Where'd you hear my age?"
"They've got your wallet."
"Oh. Of course."
"They may want you to identify the stuff they found in the
victim's house."
"The whose house?"
Scones stared at him. "The house you ran from." He glanced
again at his paper. "Actually that may be a good point. Do you
admit being in the house of W. W. Moore at 408 Devonshire
Street?"
Gerry's eyes narrowed. "I don't know the name but that number
sounds right."
Again Scones stared. "You didn't know their names?"
"Whose names?"
The lawyer took a breath. "You do know what you're charged with,
don't you?"
"Uh, yeah: indecent exposure and assaulting a police officer.
But that was a mistake. He popped up and I ran into him before I
could dodge."
"The charge has been amended," Scones said dryly. "You still
have those charges against you, plus second degree murder and
first degree rape."
Gerry's face turned pale. His eyes grew large. "Murder! Who do
they say I killed?"
"One William W. Moore, husband of Holly N. Moore, who charges you
with rape of her person."
"It was not rape. And her husband was trying to kill me!"
"So you killed him in self-defense?" The man shook his head.
"Then you shouldn't have tried to cover it up."
"What?" Gerry's face showed his puzzlement and consternation.
Scones sighed and took out a large blank pad. "Why don't you
tell me your side of it?"
"At last!" Gerry blew out his breath. "At last somebody wants
to hear my side of it. I've been wondering why the cops didn't
ask me anything."
"Huh! They don't need anything from you. The evidence they have
already is overwhelming. Do you claim self-defense?"
Gerry's eyes flashed. "I tell you, I never killed anybody! I
never even *saw* a man there. I just heard him pounding on the
door. And it wasn't rape. She sucked my dick to get me
started."
The lawyer shook his head. "Start at the beginning."
Taking a deep breath, Gerry told his story.
At the part about working under the sink, Scones suggested, "You
must have handled that nut a lot."
"Well, I did!"
"Good. Your fingerprints on it will go a long way toward the
credibility of this claim." He scribbled furiously on his pad.
"Go on."
"That's about it. She said it had been leaking a long time --
quite a puddle under that sink -- and she wanted to reward me for
fixing it. She started sucking my dick again and the husband
came home."
"What do you mean, 'the husband?'"
"Pounding on the door. She said he had a bad temper. He was mad
because she wasn't right there to let him in, he'd find his keys
any minute and when he got in, he'd kill me. So I ran out the
back door and into the old cop."
Scones added to his notes, then looked them over. "What else
happened?"
"Nothing that I can think of. I never did get to make my sales
pitch."
"Well, you've accounted for your fingerprints all over the murder
weapon, but didn't you notice the blood and hair on the tang?"
"What blood and hair? When I last saw it, that wrench looked
brand new."
The man grunted, still scanning his notes. "You admit to having
sex with the wife, Holly Moore?"
Gerry grinned sheepishly. "She never told me her name. She has
brown hair, brown eyes and big tits."
"Yeah, the police sergeant noticed her tits, too. What did you
tell the cops?"
"Nothing. My name. That's all they asked. And I signed the
fingerprint card. Uh, Philip, where did they find the husband?
The wife must have killed him after I left."
"The husband's body was in the tub of the bathroom where you
worked on the sink. Funny you didn't notice it! The curtain
wasn't even closed. And she didn't have time to kill him after
you left. That was the cops pounding on the front door."
"The ... the *cops*? But she said ..."
"How do you think the cops got there, Ballard? She called 911 on
you. When did you let her do that?"
"*Let* her? Oh. She went to the other bathroom while I fixed
the sink. She said she was going to take a douche."
"Huh! She never took a douche. They scraped a load of semen
from her cunt. She told the cops you locked her in a closet
while you cleaned up the mess. It so happened that her husband
kept a cell phone on charge in that closet. Bad luck for you."
"She said *what*?"
"About time you were asking that. She said you overpowered her
at the front door and raped her once. Her husband caught you on
top of her. You slugged him with the wrench, saw he was dead and
stuffed him in the tub while you cleaned up the mess, then were
raping her again when the cops arrived. And let me tell you,
she's a confident witness. Unless you can tell me something a
lot better than you have so far, the jury will believe her."
* * * *
Gerry was returned to a different cell, barely large enough for
him to stand up off the bunk. At least he would be alone, he
thought.
The guard studied him through the bars after the door clanged
shut. "Kid, is there anyone we can call for you?"
"Huh?" Gerry spun around, taken aback by the unique note of
sympathy.
"I notice the things that get checked off on my prisoners. You
never made the phone call the law grants you and nobody's asked
about you but your lawyer. Where's your folks?"
"Don't have any."
"None at all? Then who raised you?"
"The Periwinkle Orphanage."
The guard stared, then shook his head. "Tough. Anybody there
who would remember you?"
"Maybe, but nobody I want to see. I left there two years ago and
I've never been back."
"Okay." The man shrugged. "It's your business. You know what's
going to happen to you, don't you?"
When Gerry only stared, the guard shook his head again. "Hang in
there, kid."
Three days passed with the noise of arguments and fights from
other cells, but Gerry saw no one except the orange-suited
trustee who slid his meal tray under the door. In his mind he
went over the events on that fateful morning many times, but
without discovering any additional fact of significance. At last
the guard came for him again and conducted him, this time without
handcuffs, to the same interrogation room. Philip Scones was
waiting.
"Take a seat," he said, gesturing to one of the padded chairs.
"Have they treated you okay?"
"I guess. Did they find my fingerprints on the nut?"
"No, they didn't." The lawyer squared his shoulders. "I went
back out there with them, too. It's suspicious that the bottom
of the stainless steel sink, including the nut and the water
pipes, was clean as a pin. Not a single fingerprint. Somebody
had cleaned out the whole underside of that sink. There was no
sign it had ever leaked. They did find one thumbprint of yours
on the inside wall. The lab guy guessed that's where you touched
it when you were taking out cleaning supplies to get rid of the
evidence."
"Good god!" Gerry's chin sagged.
Scones took a paper from his briefcase. "The DNA results are
back. The semen in the wife was yours; no surprise. I also have
the medical examiner's report. Its most telling feature is the
contents of the deceased's stomach: digestion is consistent with
death at eleven A.M., as the wife says, after eating breakfast at
9:30, as she also reports. The only factors in your favor,
according to the M. E., is that the body was cooler when he saw
it than he would have expected and postmortem stain was faintly
present in the shoulders and buttocks, which he thought was a lot
sooner than usual. Taken together they could indicate that the
death occurred up to an hour *before* eleven, but the accuracy of
those indicators is worse than an hour. The digestion is the
best, and it's right on.
"Gerry, I have to tell you, nothing has been found to
substantiate your version of the crime. Nothing at all.
Everything is against you. Your fingerprints are the only ones
on the murder weapon. The wrench you admit handling *is* the
weapon that killed Mr. Moore. The tang covered with blood and
hair matches the dent in his cranium. The wife says you subdued
her by blacking her eye and scratching her arm, raped her, picked
up the wrench and killed her husband when he caught you, locked
her in the closet while you tried to hide the body and clean up
the blood, then raped her again until the cops got there and
scared you off."
He studied Gerry closely. "I presume you continue to deny all
that."
Gerry nodded fiercely. "Yes, I do! I never killed or raped
anyone."
The man nodded. "Then, as your attorney, I must also tell you
that you are certain to be convicted of second degree murder and
maybe first degree rape and sentenced at least to 25 years to
life in prison -- maybe 35 years if the rape sentence is made to
run sequentially. You could be 55 before getting parole."
"Good god!" Gerry's face sank into his hands.
The lawyer sat quietly, watching as tears escaped from under the
young man's palms. After a while he said softly, "A way exists
for you to get out in as little as six years."
"Six?" Gerry looked up wet eyed.
"I've talked to the county prosecutor, told him your story. He
laughs at that; this evidence is too damning. But he's not a
heartless monster. He offers you a deal. I couldn't believe it
and made him tell me what was behind it. He says the wife is
crazed by grief. She absolutely refuses to testify, says now she
can't remember anything that happened that day. She never saw
you before, doesn't believe her husband is dead, can't even tell
when she cooked him breakfast. Of course, they've still got the
dead body, your stuff in her den, your spunk in her cunt and your
fingerprints on the murder weapon.
"Considering your spotless record and that this was a crime of
passion not likely to recur, the prosecutor is willing to save
the county the cost of your trial. If you'll plead guilty to
Manslaughter One, he'll drop the other charges and recommend a
sentence of six to 25. With good behavior you'll be out of
prison in six years. You'll only be 26."
Gerry wiped his eyes on an orange sleeve. "Y-you think I'd lose
even without her t-testimony?"
"In my opinion you'd win on the rape charge. That's why he's
willing to drop it. And that's assuming she doesn't change her
mind again. But either way they'd convict on murder two and
you'd get 25 to life. The judge *could* sentence you to a 50
year minimum. I think it stinks that you can be treated so much
worse just for pleading Not Guilty, but that's the way it is."
"What would I have to do?"
The lawyer took out another paper. "Sign this confession."
[Next: Chapter 2: All Over the Shoe]
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