Copyright (c) November 2011 by HumblePie.  All Rights Reserved.

Note:  This story takes place in the Phantomville Universe
created by the author C.D.E; an author with a decade long
reputation as one of the most skillful and creative storytellers
in the genre.

If you liked this story, I would encourage you to visit:
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/CDE.

Enjoy
----

          [TO BE READ BY ADULTS AT LEAST 18 YEARS OF AGE]


Keywords: M++/F, Cuck, Intr, Humor


     Another look into the slightly skewed world of Phantomville:




Crime Beat TV
Episode 34

by HumblePie


Scene:  On location outside the Phantomville PD station, Justin
Sayne and his cameraman are preparing for the days shoot using a
parked black and white police sedan as a backdrop.

Wearing a long black overcoat buttoned up smartly, he looks
poised and focused as a lovely blonde production assistant
scrutinizes his appearance and the cameraman inspects his gear a
final time before filming is to begin.

"Ready Nic?"

"It's a go, boss.  On my mark," Nic followed as he framed the
shot and Justin stepped up to his mark.

"Crime Beat, episode 34. 5-4-3-2, take one!"

"Good evening," Justin began, "we come to you this evening from
Phantomville where we will be riding along on patrol with
officers Stu Cummings and Tom Smith."

"With the help of these officers, we'll be given an inside look
at the implementation of the city's new Wife Protection Ordinance
from a law enforcement perspective."

"Known also by the acronym WPO, the new law authored by
councilman C.D.E. is a much discussed and, in some quarters,
highly controversial law that makes it incumbent upon a husband
to minimize the need for other males who find themselves aroused
by, or sexually attracted to his wife from pursuing her."

"Further, noncompliance with said ordinance in a lawful manner is
described under Criminal Code 5655-c as a minimum one year
confinement in Phantomville City Jail and a $1,000 fine."

"Some see it as a unique solution to an age old problem while
others are not so easily convinced.  Exactly what the truth lays
is what has brought us to Phantomville.  To look at the new law's
overall effectiveness in terms of the crime rate, and to examine
any new crime trends that may have emerged as a result of the new
law's enactment."

"Then we'll let you, our viewer, decide whether the new law will
ultimately become just another footnote in the annals of legal
jurisprudence, or the solution to an ago old problem that has
clogged our criminal justice system from time and memoriam."

As Justin Sayne finished his final remarks, two uniformed
officers came into view to be introduced to the TV audience.
Moments later, the two officers along with our investigative
journalist and his cameraman got in the black and white cruiser
and set off.

Turning right onto the expressway we find officer Tom Smith
behind the wheel negotiating his way through the late afternoon
traffic. Justin Sayne admiring his reflection in the rear view
mirror, and officer Stu Cummings getting into the rhythm and
mouthing the words of the program's signature song;

"Badboys, badboys, whatcha gonna do when they come for you . . ."

All of which spurred the first of Justin Sayne's questions
directed first to patrolman Cummings.

"So tell me, Officer Cummings, are you still finding plenty of
them bad boys out there?"

"Of course," he chuckled.  "Otherwise there wouldn't be anyone
left in this town to foot my 120,000 a year salary.  And we can't
have that now, can we?"

"Do I take that to mean that since the enactment of the Wife
Protection Ordinance you've not seen the same positive impact on
crime others have purported?"

"Off the record?"

"As agreed, you'll be notified beforehand."

"Well, you've seen the reports.  And from what I'm seeing,
assaults, domestic violence, burglaries, homicides, across the
board the numbers tell the story.  Heck, not even a single Code
Blue in over two months."

"A Code Blue?"

"Gang activity," he replied as they came to a stop at the light.
"Not that long ago these neighborhoods were nothing more than
shooting galleries, and now . . ." he paused.

"And now what, Officer Cummings?"

"Now look, I'm not saying I've seen a sea change here or anything
like that.  But look," he pointed out the window towards an old
man and woman on a leisurely stroll down the avenue.  "It's been
a while since folks felt comfortable doing something like that."

"One-Tango-13, respond."

"Copy Central," Officer Smith replied.

"Possible 504.  Vehicle, White Mercedes' CL600, year 2011,
occupants, 4 African American males, last seen traveling north on
Willow."

"10-4, we're on our way," Officer Smith replied, then quickly
turned right and headed down Fillmore until they reached Willow
and headed south.

"They must have seen you coming, Mr. Sayne," Officer Cummings
added in jest as they raced down the boulevard.

"How's that?"  Justin asked.

"You know, lights, camera, action; everyone wants their 15
minutes."

Officer Cummings had no more than finished that thought when they
spotted the vehicle they were looking for approaching in the
opposing lane.  Tom executed an immediate U-Turn, turned on the
flashing red lights and siren then fell in behind the vehicle as
it rolled to a stop.

A moment later with the camera rolling Stu Cummings cautiously
approached the vehicle.  "License and registration please."

After a quick perusal of the documents he had been handed, he
conveyed the information to dispatch and then waited for the
response he sought before resuming his questioning.  "Tell me,
Leroy.  Does Mrs. Ben . . . ahh," he paused, "over," he then
added, "know you are currently operating her vehicle?"

"Yes Sir.  We just scored us some 8-ball n' we're headin' on back
to her pad now."

"You know her then, correct?" Stu Cummings inquired, which caused
a stirring and then muffled laughter amongst the vehicles
occupants.

"Yo bro, you can say that, both me n' Jomo here.  Maurice and
Terrell in back too.  Is there a problem, officer?"

"Yes, well, the vehicle was reported to be in the possession of
persons unknown.  We attempted to contact her, but as we were
unable to do so I would ask you to please follow me to her home
where we can get a clarification on the matter."

A few minutes later, the patrol car pulled up to the residence
with The fabulously expensive Mercedes' following close behind.

The residence was a rather expansive Dutch Colonial in the middle
of an exclusive community.  Or what once was an "exclusive"
community.  Only officer Cummings wasn't so sure the same could
be said of it now.  Not with the lime green El Doraldo and the
purple metal flake Continental parked outside.

The disparity became even more apparent a few minutes later.
When in answer to his knock on the door he was greeted by the
property owner, Mr. Ned Benover.  A short, faint, unnoticeable
sort who could probably escape detection by radar if he were to
stand sideways.

He didn't look the type who would have had much luck in the
business world.  Or anywhere else that required the tenacity of a
rabid dog to compete and win against men who did.  But as the
luxury home, neighborhood and cars did show, he apparently had."

An odd contrast made even more salient when his soft spoken voice
could scarcely be heard over the pounding beat of Hip-Hop playing
in the background: "Face down ass up, that's the way I like to
fuck.  Pussy ain't nutting but meat on the bone; Suck it or fuck
it or leave it alone!" (1)

"Mr. Bend-over, Mr. Ned Bend-over?  Am I pronouncing that right?

"It's pronounced Behnover, officer.  How may I help you?"

"I'd like to speak with your wife.  Is she available?"

"I'm sorry, I believe she is busy at the moment.  Is there
anything I can help you with?"

"Yes sir," Officer Cummings started to say, then had to wait
while the four gentleman who had been driving Mrs. Behnover's
Mercedes nudged their way past and through the door carrying 3
cases of 40oz. malt liquor, a case of Glenfiddich 15 ear old
Single Malt and a bucket of chicken.  Extra crispy!

They weren't colleagues or professional types in any sense of the
word.  Rather, these guys were shirtless 20 something's with
pants hanging 3 inches below the crack of there ass, long strands
of beaded black hair and gangland tattooed all over them.

"I just wanted to verify whether your wife had given these . . .
these, gentlemen permission to operate her vehicle?"

"Yes sir," he managed with an affirming nod just as Mr.
Washington, the front man for the group, reached back and handed
him his wife's billfold.

Then with an arrogance befitting the man of the house, he told
Mr. Behnover that he needn't to replenish the cash pronto,
because Bosco, Andre and Kwame would be coming by soon and he
didn't think they had bought enough to go round.

"Thank you, Mr. Behnover," Stu Cummings followed up. "I believe
that concludes our official police business.  We're sorry for any
inconvenience."

"No problem officer," he replied, then asked while pointing
toward the cameraman, "May I ask why you are filming officer?"

That was the cue that our investigative reported had been waiting
for.  He immediately stepped up and with microphone in hand spoke
the lines so familiar to his viewing audience.

"Good evening sir, Justin Sayne from the weekly investigative
news program, Crime Beat.  I would like to thank for this
opportunity to ask you a few questions on behalf of our
television audience."

"Oh yes, I thought I recognized you," Mr. Behnover beamed.  "I'm
a fan.  I watch every week.  Would you like to come in?"

"Of course," Justin accepted the invite then along with his
cameraman followed him though his home toward his study, leaving
the two officers to wait in their car.

In passing the family room he happened to spot the four gentlemen
who had been driving Mrs. Behnover's fabulously expensive
Mercedes engaged in a game of dice.  Or Craps, he thought from
the way the vociferous young men were huddled together with wads
of cash in their hands (presumably Ned's), making a show of it.

To their right a stunning young blonde sat in a wingback chair.
"My wife," Ned casually acknowledged as they hurried passed on
their way down the hall.

Justin made a quick appraisal of the woman in passing, noting
that she wore a crop top cut so frightfully brief that if she
were to reach up and place her hands on her head, her tits would
be entirely exposed.

The same could be said of her skirt.  A skirt of black knit weave
that rode so far up past her stocking tops that daylight lit the
way up.

She seemed quite young as well.  Younger than her husband most
certainly, although not without a confidence that exceeded her
years.  A confidence he could see expressed in the shameless
manner in which she flaunted her rather sizeable assets.

And by the way she was dressed 9 parts naked 1 part not, you
could rightfully surmise those "assets" included a priceless
suite of jewels.  Two up, one down.  Or so it would seem from the
way she sat with legs spread wide in full commando mode.  Oooo!!!

Obviously this was a woman of strong character, bold and
self-assured, and not some bimbo needing her daily fix of cheap
trick thrills.  Which in his eyes spoke well of her, even in
light of her questionable taste in companions.

It was a lot to consider in such a brief instance in time.  They
were just passing though after all, on their way to the study.
But for our keen eyed investigative reporter, all the indications
were there.  It was the lady, ala absence the pants, who held the
reins in this marriage.  And by the looks of it, she had a pretty
firm grip on them too.

When they reached the study Ned poured himself a stiff shot of
brandy, then turned to face the glaring camera light to ask how
he could be of help.

It was Justin's first unobstructed view of the man.  A man not
only insubstantial in the physical sense, but seemingly equally
irrelevant in stature in his own home as well.

He also seemed rather gaunt, his skin colorless.  That is if you
were to exclude the vibrant red paint covering his lips.

"Lip balm," he wondered, "In Red?" he seemed rather doubtful.
"Some type of medicinal salve he might be using to minimize
exposure to the sun?  Or perhaps, simply a sign of more ominous
things to come?"

As of yet, he hadn't quite made up his mind.

"So what is it you wish to ask?"  Ned's voice cut through his
thoughts.  Only before he could response he heard a hoot n' a
holler coming from the Family Room they had just passed through.

"Hot damn, I'm next!"

"Let's hit the road, Jode, Cus I got me a load!"

"Is that your wife?  Jode?"  Justin asked, pointing in the
direction of the hallway where his wife and one of those dice
throwing palookas had just passed by on their way to somewhere
else in the house.

There was nothing backdoor or hush-hush about it.  In fact, it
seemed almost common practice for her to be walking down the hall
with her hands stuffed down the man's pants - both hands full.

The same could be said of the tall black dude she was latched on
to.  Both hands were full.  One hand latched on to Jody
Behnover's tits, the other grabbing her ass.

"Jody!  Jode is just a pet name," Ned replied.  "And Yes, we have
been married for 6 months now."

"Lucky man.  She's quite lovely.  She seems quite the socialite
as well."

"Yes, well, many find themselves attracted, even after coming to
know her.  Which is something not many are willing to do these
days."

Justin wanted to ask Ned to clarify his point when his attention
was momentarily drawn away.  To the sound of muffled voices and a
rhythmic thumping beat coming from elsewhere in the house.  A
very up tempo rhythmic beat at that.

"Ahem," Justin began again.  "As I was saying, Ned.  Do I take
that to mean folks just don't want to invest the time it takes to
get to know their neighbor anymore?"

"Yes, no one wants to waste time with the preliminaries anymore.
Now it's wham-bam thank you ma'am.  A by-product of our instant
gratification world, where everyone wants it now.   Buy now pay
later, instant food, instant karma, instant relief.  You get
beset by a primal urge and it's, 'I want it taken care of now.'
Good heavens, whatever happened to impulse control?"

Then he too paused, his attentions also drawn toward that
primitive thump, thump, thumping beat coming from elsewhere in
the house.  A thumping that seemed to be growing increasingly
louder, and if possible, even more up tempo then before.

"Unfortunately, I think it's become a casualty of modern life,
Ned.  Something we just have to live with."

"Yes, and I'm damn sick of it," he said, growing increasingly
more agitated.

"Now, now, Ned," Justin tried to reassure him.

"It's almost more than one man can take."  He followed, then
lowered his head and covered his mouth with his balled up fist in
an effort to stifle his emotions.

"Why don't you have a seat, Ned."

"No, no, I'll be alright," he sought to right himself while that
thumping beat continued to droned on and on in the background,
without sign of relenting.

But it did, eventually.  After what seemed an eternity.  And in
its place came renewed activity outside in the hall.  Activity in
the form of fist-bumps and lewd innuendo as two men crossed
paths.  One going to, and one coming from that "elsewhere"
located further on in the house.

"It's, it's . . .," Ned tried again to say before his emotional
state began to unravel.  His eyes watery, his state of distress
now a matter of record as the camera zoomed-in and Justin stepped
up and threw his arm around the poor man's shoulders.

"I know, I know.  Modern life can sometimes be a bitch.  The
rules almost seem to change by the day.  One day it's okay to
take umbrage when a guy becomes aroused by your wife.  The next
you're to blame for allowing it to happen.  Keeping pace with
changes like that can mess with a guys head, no question about
that."

"But chin up my man.  You need to dwell on the positives.  I
mean, you've got a killer wife and you've got the world by the
tail.  What more can a man want."

"Do y-y-you th-th-think so?"  Ned managed to throttle up his
voice over that rhythmic thumping sound that had begun anew.
Only this time the thump, thump, thumping was accompanied by the
sound of a shrill between the down beats.

"Oh hell yeah, Ned.  I mean just looking at those pin-up girl
knockers of hers, and those legs . . .  I mean we're talking all
American boner-izers here, Ned.  In fact, just thinking about it
gives me a . . ."

"Oh please, not you too."  Ned intervened.

"What's that, Ned?"

"Please don't say it," Ned tearfully replied between the thump
and the Eeeek!  The thump and the Yike!  The thumpedy-thump and
the Eeee-ouie!

"Say what, Ned?  Boner-izer?  Look, I'm just saying you ought to
be darn proud to be sleeping with a woman who could adorn the
fuselage of a B-1 bomber."

"Then y-y-you don't h-h-have a b-b-bone . . ?"

"What's that, Ned?"

"You d-d-don't want me to g-g-give you a b-b-blo . . ?"

"Ned, Ned, speak up!  Saddle up and get on your pony, cowboy.  I
can hardly hear you over all that noise."

"By the way, what is that noise anyway?"  He asked and Ned
answered with a shrug, pleading his ignorance while his eyes
scanned the floor looking for a hole to crawl into.

"Funny but I feel as though I should know that sound.  I mean, it
almost sounds like a headboard slamming up against the wall.  But
that can't be it.  I mean what or who could take a pounding like
that, huh Ned?"

"Oh well, I'm sure it will come to me."

"Oooh, y-y-you just don't understand."  Ned again buried his face
in his hands.

"Well that's why I'm here, Ned.  To find out how that new Wife
Protection Ordinance is working for you.  So unless I'm missing
something here . . ."

"Y-y-you d-d-don't know w-w-what it's like," Ned whined on, his
eyes watery on the verge of tears.

"Talk to me, Ned," Justin's followed sounding a bit more
strident, his ears tuned into that thump-thump-thumping and the
muffled shrills between.

A relentless pounding beat not unlike the sound of a train slowly
building up stream at an ever increasing rate in route to its
destination.

Then comes the screech and the grunt of mechanisms as the train
approaches the end of the line.  Climactic, earth shaking sounds
that drone on until the final release of steam signaling the
conclusion of the journey.

And that's what happened.  The whole affair had reached its
destination, coming to a climactic, grinding stop.  As did Ned's
weeping, replaced a few moments later by renewed activity out in
the hall.

The fist bumps, the snide innuendo of the two men crossing paths
played out just as before.  One going to, and one coming from.
Only this time the man coming from that "elsewhere" in the house
came to a stop in front of the office door.  Where he promptly
jacked up an elbow against the doorframe, leaned in and said,
"Yo, Fuck-Face!"

"I'm done with the dickin' and now I need me a lickin'," he
puckered up and blew, then pointed down toward a long-barreled
ridgeline that ran the length of his pant leg.

"I-I-I'm . . ." was all Ned could manage.

"What?" he asked.  "Too busy for me?" he sounded rather upset.

"Why ain't you the uppity lil'girlie bitch!" He sneered
contemptuously, then straightened back up and continued down the
hall.

"D-d-damn," the cameraman stammered and Justin had to agree.

"Fuck-Face, Ned?"  Justin inquired, but Ned didn't answer.  Then
again, he really didn't have to.

"Nevertheless, this was a prime time show.  And as it is with all
hit shows of this type, the audience is never content until
they've seen the blood.  Or in Ned's case, owning up to his
misbehavior on prime time TV.

"Talk to me, Ned."

"Oh please, don't . . ." Ned moaned and pleaded, feeling the
corner he was in narrowing by the second.

"Tell me what it's like, Ned."

"Oh!" Ned sniveled as the bell sounded, signaling the start of
round four.   Ding!  And by the sound of the thump, thump,
thumping with the shrieks on the down beat, it was quite apparent
both champs had come out swinging!

"Huh, Neddy, my boy?"  Justin prodded between the thump and the
"Umph," the thump and the "E-e-e-k," the thump and the
"Yeow-eee!"

"Is the new Wife Protection Ordinance working for you?"

"Are you finding it your cup of tea?"  He continued to poke and
prod and goad to get his caged bird to sing.  Only instead of
hearing Ned cough up the words he wanted to hear, he heard the
voice of a woman standing at the door to the Study instead.

"His cup of tea?"

She was an abundantly attractive woman in her late 40's who
shared Ned's diminutive stature and in many regards showed a
marked resemblance to him.  They both had the same naturally
curly hair, the same overbite and the same upturned nose.

She did have a rather stern, no nonsense expression on her face
at the moment however.  An expression that somehow fit her
unbending stance, as did the leather quirt she held in her hand.

"I'm not sure the correct word for what we serve up around here
is tea.  Although I can see the comparisons in that we serve them
both warm and milky just the way he likes it.  Isn't that right,
Neddy?"

"Y-y-yes, mother," he managed to stammer out.  With his head
down, he looked like a tongue tied, whipped mama's boy with his
balls in a vise and his mother's hand on the turn screw.

"Yes, well, fortunately for you I believe the milkman has left
just gobs of that rich sweet milk with your wife to add to your
tea.  So if you are ready . . ."

"Yes mother, b-b-but . . ."

"But, but what son?  But you have something more important to do
first?"

"N-n-no, mother.  It's j-j-just that . . ."

"Oh, I know.  That's just your way of reminding me that I need
arrange another appointment for you with the good doctor to
Straighten-Your-Ass-Out!"  She stated, while tapping the quirt
against her open palm with a menace.

"But first we mustn't neglect your wife.  She's in her room
waiting with a nice full pot of that rich and creamy tea you so
enjoy."

"So hurry along now son.  You can finish your business later.
When you've a full tummy and can concentrate on giving this nice
young man the very best Interest-only, high-interest rate load
you can get him to buy into."

His head could not have hung any lower as he quickly fled from
the room while the austere, motherly woman stepped inside to fill
the vacuum.

At that point, believing he had learned all he needed to know,
Justin thought it best to make a quick exit.

"I guess that's a wrap, Nic," he instructed his cameraman then
offered the lady his hand.

"Mrs. Behnover, I'd like to thank you for your hospitality.  It
has indeed been a pleasure."

"A pleasure?  I don't think we've shared one as yet." she
replied.  "But since you seem in a hurry and can't wait, I
believe I can find time to accommodate you."

"Both of you if you prefer, no trouble at all.  Although for the
life of me I can't imagine why you hadn't asked my son.  When my
daughter-in-law is busy he is usually a very conscientious host,
as am I.  So if you'll just step over there by the couch . . ."

"Ahhh, no ma'am!  As you can see we're on camera.  We've a
national audience.  Five million views to be exact."  He pointed
toward his cameraman who was getting an ever increasing tighter
shot of the lady as he inched closer in.

"Oh!"  The lady gasped.  Then she craned her neck to inch in yet
closer, gazing wide-eyed into the lens.

"I'm sorry.  I thought this was some kinky idea of my sons.  You
know, one of those porno documentary-type things."

"No ma'am.  My name is Justin Sayne.  I'm with the syndicated
weekly investigative news program, Crime Beat."

"Oh yes, I thought you looked familiar.  Is my little
spooge-gopher in trouble or something?  Embezzlement or has he
been cooking the books or something like that?"

"No, no.  We're come to Phantomville to see how the New Wife
Protection Ordinance has been working, and since your son kindly
volunteer . . ."

"I see.  Well my son is busy at the moment.  Perhaps I might be
able to help.  I am quite familiar with all the ins and outs of
the new law.  I also know how my poor defenseless daughter-in-law
suffered in defense of herself before enactment, and how it
provides for her safety now."

"Then please, by all means, Mrs. Behnover.  That is exactly what
our national viewing audience wishes to hear."

"Yes, well, perhaps we should have a seat as I feel a little
background is in order.  And please, you may call me Doris."

"Thank you," Justin replied, taking up a seat across from her.
"Now, as you were saying, Doris . . ."

"Of course.  Well first off I'm sure you've noticed that my son
doesn't quite fit the mold of the typical financial tycoon.
That's because he is not.

All this was secured by my late husband.  My son is simply the
beneficiary, just as he is the beneficiary of his job at the
bank.

I mention this only to dispel the false impression that he is
something he is not.

Is he a nice boy?"  You bet.  I raised him well.  Perhaps not
like his father would have liked, but to my liking, he is as he
appears.  A world class cream puff that has neither the
skill-sets nor the physical attributes to compete with real men."

"Real men, Doris?" Justin queried.

"Yes.  I am referring to those men who must wear slacks with
enough play about the inseam to accommodate the blacksnake that
runs the length of his pant leg.  Better men who when in a pinch,
can still stir the cake batter when his hands are full.

Men like that deserve respect from a little guy like him.  But as
you know, little boys just don't grow up respecting their betters
no matter how inferior they are.  That's the sort of thing they
learn the hard way, at the receiving end of a fist, a boot or a
poke in the hinny.

Of course, it didn't help having a father who had more of an
interest in his business dealings than staying home to teach his
son how to take a punch and get back up swinging.  Likewise, the
fact that he has a wiener the size of a Vienna sausage didn't
help his chances of becoming much of a man either.

If anything, his inadequacies only serve as a reminder of how
insignificant he really is."

"Whoa!"  Justin exclaimed, seemingly taken aback by her
bluntness.  "Don't hesitate to speak you mind, Doris."

"I won't, Mr. Sayne.  He is my son.  I care about him.  So what
kind of mother would I be if I lied to him, to you or to anyone
else with a need to know the truth.

"And that would be . . ?" Justin asked.

"That he is just as indistinctive on the inside as he is on the
outside.

Now, I say that not for want to diminish him anymore than he
already is.  Rather, I say it because everyman must come to terms
with who he is and to own it.

That's the manly thing to do.  Whether you're of exemplary
character, a bottom feeder, or a limp-wrist, mousy little
skeet-licker like my Neddy, there is no shame in owning who you
are.

Now I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking to yourself,
'If that's not gay I don't know what is.'

I mean, the thought of him fishing out his daily nutritional
requirements from his wife's gooey, gummy, gamy snatch filled to
the brim with her black lover's sperm-chowder does sound a bit
homo I suppose.  But as the facts do show, that's not an entirely
accurate perception.

I can say that because I know my Neddy is not gay.  He's as
heterosexual as Hugh Hefner, although unlike Hef, he lacks the
repertory of skills and the physical attributes to compete with
real men for the prize.

Of course just because his wife can tie him up in knots and,
should he complain, lay him out flat with a nasty left hook
doesn't mean he's a complete schlemiel.  He does have his
competencies.  It's just that those competencies are better
suited to fill a different sort of niche.

A niche in which he is better suited to compete I might add, and
if you think of it in terms of everyman needing to fit into his
rightful place in this world, becoming his wife's cum-guzzling
prophylactic fulfills a role just as valued, purposeful and
praiseworthy as any other.

Certainly no less so than your local cesspool cleaner when you
need his help cleaning out your pipes.  And you surely don't call
him gay, do you?

Of course not.  So what's the difference?  Whether the man-batter
is stored up in a hole in the ground or between your wife's legs,
it's all the same thing.  He's just like any other sludge control
expert with a job to do.

Still, I understand that perception is 99% of reality, so I guess
it's all in how you see it.

I know for the longest while, many, if not all of Jody's men
friends saw him as just another homo trying to cop some of the
action.  But that was then, while now, they see him quite
differently.  Less the bottom feeder and more the dutiful
husband, aka her cum guzzling prophylactic, with a job to do.

A job he is now required to do under the new Wife Protection
Ordinance, I might add."

"My heavens," Justin appeared taken aback.  "I had no idea the
mandates of the law were so far reaching.  But chowing down on
your wife's snatch after she's already been dicked is a little
like closing the barn door after the animals have already run
off, I should think.

I hardly find that a preventive measure, the likes of which the
law was designed to do."

"Yes, that's true.  But the law is also quite clear on the
consequences should a husband fail to protect his wife from other
men who have an urgent need to pursue her sexually.

Consequences that are especially dire for a man married to a
beautiful young woman like Jody - a woman that can coax a woody
out of a slab of marble.  So it's safe to assume that being
hitched to a beauty like that places expansive demands on his
time."

"So I can see," Justin followed with a nod toward the obvious.

"Yes, well, he does try.  But no matter how noble the effort,
when trying to juggle that many 'balls' at one time, some are
bound to escape his grasp and end up in bed alongside his wife no
matter how diligent he is.  And for those that do slip past,
what's to be done with the evidence left behind?  Evidence that
could land his ass behind bars if charged with noncompliance with
the law."

"Eliminate it?" Justin squinted, his face tilled a bit toward the
lopsided.

"Ah-hu, and given the eminent use of the forensic sciences
employed by law enforcement these days, what better way to escape
detection than for you to consume it before the incriminating
evidence consumes you.

Not at all a bad thing, all considered.  I mean, not only is it
Cheaper than the cost of child care n' nurseries and the like,
but it also supplies him with half his daily nutritional
requirements.

Not a lot of fat content, so it's kind of hard to keep the weight
on.  But there is always plenty on the menu.  Not much in the way
of variety, but if you like yours black, fat and meaty, there's
always plenty to go around.

All of which has only helps to strengthen the bond between
himself and his wife, and all of her men friends as well.

I mean, now there is no longer a need for snarls and threats to
get him to lick their dick clean when a simply snap of the
fingers will do.  No more ridicule and innuendo when simply
asking the sissy whore to clean out the slob from his whoring
wife's 'shank-tank' will get the job done.

In short, I'm proud to say, my wimp-ass son and his whoring wife
are currently celebrating their sixth month of matrimonial bliss.

Theirs is a happy and successful marriage.  My son still has a
set hanging down between his legs, not from his ears, and his
whoring young bride is now awash in the riches.  A wealth
measured not in dollars n' cents, but by the size of the huge
black cocks making daily deposits to her account.

Mmmm, Pure bless, no?  I mean what more could anyone ask for.

But it hasn't come about over night.  There has been a steep
learning curve for my little muff-diver to negotiate, no question
about that.

In fact, I couldn't tell you how many times Dr.
Straighten-His-Ass-Out and I had to work on ridding him of those
silly notions that somehow, chowing down on another man's schlong
is frightfully gay.

Less so often now-a-days, thanks to the good doctor's therapy
sessions.

Still there remain those lingering feelings.  Much like those of
a man who can still feel the presence of a lost limb, I suppose.
Those remnant feelings of manhood that occasionally still haunt
him.

Especially when the need for relief arises, when hoping against
hope, he tries his hardest to get that tiny little thing of his
to rise up and perform to even the most minimal of standards.

I know, I know.  A silly misguided notion, but an obstacle
nonetheless.  Much like all the name calling and we managed to
overcome that.  Faggot, sissy, cocksucker, cum-quat, you know,
the whole list which he now responds to as though they were his
middle name.

Again, another hard fought achievement.  Although if I need to be
truthful there are still occasions when someone will call him a
faggot and instead of dropping to his knees, he'll ball up his
fist, pouts and cry and isn't so quick to kiss and make up.

But when he forgets, when his testosterone laden brain tries to
convince him he's something he's not, I can assure you that both
the good old doctor and I are always here to straighten his ass
out."

She again slaps her open palm with the 2 foot long leather quirt.

"To remind him that being called a fag isn't necessarily a
derogatory term.  Nor meant to set him apart or imply he is gay.
Rather, that it's just the way real men express their gratitude
for a job well done."

"You whip him?"

"Yes, with a wire cord as well.  Only I'm not so crass as to call
it a whipping.  Instead I prefer to call it a therapy session."

"Why is that necessary?"

"As I said, it's a reminder.  Learning is a life long process
after all.  Especially when it comes to matters such as these.
Going against the grain, sort of speak.

I mean boys are not naturally blessed with the problem solving
skills employed by the peacemakers of this world.  Those are
strategies a boy must be taught.  Knowing how to peacefully
resolve conflict when confronted by a better, more superior man
is an admiral skill.  Not to mention a smart course to pursue if
you're the little guy who wishes to avoid a shellacking.

That's something we women have known since the days of the
caveman.  When papa bear entered the cave with a scowl on his
face and a club draped over is shoulder, we women would do what
we do best.  Throw up your arms, surrender and pay homage to the
savage beast.

Be it to grovel at his feet or lick his dick to win his heart,
love and affection makes for a peaceful coexistence.  That holds
equally true today.  The world is no less a jungle, with beasts
that still lug around those long meaty clubs in need of relief
from the tension and the stains of daily life.

So you see there is nothing new here.  These are the principles
that have faithfully guided we women since the days of the
caveman, so why not my Neddy?  Shouldn't he be able to employ the
same strategies to manage conflict and peacefully resolve issues
when confronted by better, more superior men?

Of course he should, and there's nothing gay about it.  Sucking
up the spooge, cleaning out a man's pipes or bending over and
spreading them are nothing more than a useful skill set.

A skill set with a proven track record I might add.  One that
sets him apart from the herd as a person who knows his rightful
place.  Content to follow the rear, his face buried in some
bull's ass rather than being stomped on by his hoof.

I know some in your viewing audience might find the picture of
him in a meadow with his face up some bull's ass a bit
distasteful.  I think differently of course.  To me, employing
the bonding skills not unlike those we women use to develop a
rapport to please our man is what the world needs more of.

There's nothing wrong-headed about that.  There's no shame in it
either. I mean all you need to do is pick up the local Gazette
and read how we're all getting fucked everyday anyhow.  By the
politicians, by corporations, by just about everyone who has us
by the short hairs.  We all spread'em and get down on our knees
when they come a calling, so what's the difference?  Nothing, and
nobody is the least bit ashamed of it, so either should my Neddy.

In fact, in my opinion he has every reason to hold his head high.
 Much like the brave heroes who wear their metals with great
honor, he too should feel equally proud of his kowtowing
emasculated ass.

He's not there yet, at least not in terms of commitment.  The
lipstick and the toiletries, yes, but he has yet to resign
himself to the earrings and pumps.

But the good doctor and I are working on that one too.  And I
feel certain someday quite soon he'll be on the company wagon.  A
first class sissy whore that Jody and I can be proud of."

"Yes, well I'm glad you brought Jody's name up," Justin
intervened.

"It seems to me that Jody and Ned are somewhat of a mismatch.
Jody with her pin-up girl looks, and Ned the milksop following in
her wake.  It does make one wonder how the two of them even
managed to hook up at all?"

"Ah, well wonder no more.  I'm the matchmaker, and contrary to
popular believe Jody is exactly the right girl for him.  I could
tell that the first day I met her a little over a year ago.

You see, a few miles from here there's a hair salon called Black
Braids n' Shades.  It's a small, nondescript place that caters
exclusively to African American males.

Of course I didn't know that at the time when I happened in,
thinking that the booming Rap music and the purple ghetto facade
all looked rather chic and new.  The type of place where I might
find someone young, talented and imaginative enough to breathe
some life back in to my hair.

That's were I met Jody.  And what a surprise it was to find such
a stunningly beautiful little gal working her magic amidst a jet
black sea of restless black thugs, communing as if owning it on
their tribal ground.

With her golden blonde hair and porcelain white skin, she truly
looked a singular bright star against the otherwise dark black
night.

Trust me when I say, the air was so supercharged you could almost
see the heady, masculine scene that permeated the room dripping
off the walls.

Anyway, that's where I first met her.  She'd just turned twenty
and it was her first job after graduating from beauty school.  Of
course with every seat in the house occupied by some guy who
wanted her to work on his hair, she had little time for me.
Still she was kind enough to offer to come over and style my hair
on her day off.

As promised she came over the following Saturday, having hitched
a ride on one of those low-riding sedans that bounced up and down
as it crept down the street.  And when I looked out and saw 6
super-sized guys step out of that car to give her just enough
room to squeeze out, I knew the girl was 'somekind of special.'

Especially after seeing her state of dress, or undress as only
the briefest bits were left to the imagination.

She was a girl after my heart.  Young, yes, but when she spoke to
my Neddy I could tell she wasn't just some slut without a voice
of her own.  She was both aggressive and commanding, insisting he
speak up when he mumbled, refusing to take no for an answer when
she asked him on a date.

A date I had suggested because my Neddy was so tongue-tied he
could scarcely string two words together.

It was to be a dinner date at our house, with a hot steamy movie
afterward.  Neddy would make the din-din, and Jody it turned out,
provided the dessert.

Nothing too exotic, she had promised me she'd keep her knees
locked tight.  He was a 33 year old virgin after all, and I
wanted him to stay that way until he found the right girl to
marry.

She agreed, but if you thought that might be a hindrance, think
again.  She's a resource girl I found out, evidenced by the state
of poor Neddy's face after her departure.  His cheeks were
flushed.  His nose was a bright red, and a crusted thin layer of
spooge covered his lips.

Yes, a very imaginative girl.  Not only was she aggressive and
commanding enough to tie up my Neddy body and soul within a week,
but she went about her business with such abandon as to leave no
question as to her intent.

First came the keys to his black Beamer which she took possession
of as if it were own.  Next came the use of the backyard pool for
parties, turning the picturesque scene of green grass and blue
water into a sea of black.

I was elated of course.  Not only because she attracted dick like
bees to a honey pot, but because she was quite willing to share
her embarrassment of riches with me, and graciously, my Neddy
too.

To me, that shows just how big-hearted and generous she is.  And
the icing on the cake, she controlled the very air my Neddy drew
in.  And not just when she sat on his face I might add."

"Yes, well I think I've got the picture, Doris," Justin again cut
in.  "She's as charming as she is drop dead gorgeous.  And where
the beauty and charm fall short, she's . . ."

". . . quick with the whip?" Doris was quick to complete his
thought.

"I'll let you respond to that, Doris."

"Well there's no doubt that she's as good at ruling the roost as
she is with the wrist action.  Both are persuasive, but not
always necessary, especially when a simple little chat will do
the job just as well.

Like the time he threw a hissy-fit over the comings and goings of
all her men friends, comparing the front door of our home to a
turnstile at the Boston Gardens.

She could have taken him down to the basement for a visit with
the good doctor right then and there, but she didn't.  Instead
she just sat him down and patiently explained to him where he had
gotten it wrong:

"A boner is a boner and the law is the law, sugar plum."  Jody
said to him quite bluntly.  "And it would seem to me you'd want
to think long and hard before deciding to disrespect either one.
Far safer and wiser, I think, to oblige both."

She then brightened up, albeit with a smile skewed toward the
wicked, and added:

"Or better yet, oblige and then cozy up some.  You know, freshen
up the lips, perhaps toss in a spoonful of sugar and look to
break a few hearts.  Otherwise you might find yourself breaking
the pocketbook bankrolling the truckload of black babies you're
going to be risin' if you don't step up and become a good team
player.

You might not get them all, but if you man-up n' suck in real
hard, you just might divert enough of those squiggly little
devils simply by changing the goal posts - from my eggs to your
tonsils."

"Well now," Doris then followed.  "That little homily pretty much
hit the nail on the head as far as I was concerned.  I mean the
marriage contract does state 'until death do us part,' does it
not, Mr. Sayne?"

"Yes ma'am, it does.  But I'm not sure I see the connection.  How
one follows the other?"

"Hum, why am I not surprised?  Men are so narrow and rigid in
their thinking that they can't see the forest through the trees.

Death do us part means that both husband and wife are tied
together, united as one.  What goes for the goose goes for the
gander as well."

"Yes, but . . ."

"Yes but nothing, Mr. Sayne.  There is little wiggle room for
individual differences when it comes to peaceful coexistence in
the home.  That's the secret of a happy marriage.  What holds for
one, holds for the other.

So it only follows that he should have the same deference for the
men who pass through their front door as she does, turnstile or
not.

Whether it's one, or a hundred and one, makes no difference.  One
for all, all for them both is what keeps a family vibrant and
strong.  Not to mention quite busy, I might add.

But it's the least we can do for those who find themselves
unexpectedly aroused by another man's wife I should think.  I
mean, that's what good neighbors are for, right?

To be there to help as the needs arise.  Whether they just need a
quick hook-up with Jody, or an after-date tryst with sweet
Neddy's lips, we try our best to deliver.  I don't think that's
asking too much, do you?"

Justin couldn't find the words.  With mouth open he just sat with
a glazed over look, seemingly lost in the logical construct of
her argument.  How she had gone from "death do us part" to
sucking a guy's dick because it was the least he could do to help
the guy out, was far above his pay grade to try and figure out.

"Women!" He finally mumbled under his breath, but left it at
that.

"Ahh, no ma'am.  I mean, yes ma'am.  I can see where that
arrangement would work out just fine."

"Well, no one has ever left disappointed yet.  Not during the
lovebird's engagement when my Neddy was still matching faces with
dick size, nor after the wedding when the Family Room took on the
look of the waiting room at the Unemployment office.

Only now, the Wife Protection Ordinance has made it virtually
impossible for him to say no to anyone even if he wanted to.

As for me, well I've been here all along.  Making sure my Neddy
follows the script exactly as taught.

Everything from seeing that his guests are well fed, to washing
the clothes left behind.  Jockstraps included I might add.  The
only problem is trying to match up the right one with the right
guy when all the washing and ironing is done.

Humbling?  Sure, but it's nothing more than a common courtesy to
see that everyone is properly fit and goes home tucked in nicely.
 Providing the Right strap for the right jockey, sort of speak,
with everything in its proper order.  A great bonding tool, no?

I think so.  I mean what better way to strengthen rapport than to
insure everyone goes home lovingly put away snug and secure.
It's also a good reminder of just how insignificant he is should
he happen to forget."

"All well and good, Doris," Justin again cut in.  "But I spoke
with Ned before you arrived and I have to tell you, he did not
sound like a happy camper to me."

"Oh?  I wonder how happy he would be if I hadn't introduced him
to Jody?  Hummm?  Or not having had access to those world class
tits, even for those few precious moments she allows him to get
near them at all?  Do you think that would make him a happy
camper?  I think not!

And what about that cream filled pop tart of hers?  Do you think
his world would be any brighter without that Penthouse perfect
snatch to chow down on each night?  No sir, not in this lifetime!

Oh sure, he might pout and cry and appear broken when asked to
gobble up yet another man's slop from her much used communal
snatch.  But if you think he's prepared to exchange his visually
stunning wife and her world class tits for his otherwise dreary
existence, then I have some land to sell you east of Miami Beach.

The same applies when he is confronted by a better, more superior
man.  He may act the part of the injured party, but you don't
need to be a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.  No
sir!

He knows it only makes sense to submit and give in, or take
what's coming.  Then out of respect, bend over and humbly pay
homage to win his trust and his confidence.  Not to mention his
heart, the secret to peaceful coexistence.

So yes, the new Wife Protection Ordinance has been a good thing.
It has benefited my Neddy tremendously by helping to remove some
of the negative social stigma usually attributed to men like him,
making it seem almost fashionable to be faggy.

It has helped Jody as well, having made it safe to walk down the
street knowing her husband's sweet lips are there to protect her.

Yes, the WPO has served my Neddy well.  Not entirely on its own
of course, but along with the good doctor's therapy sessions his
ass has been set straight.

Or at least he is as straight as he's ever going to get for a guy
who responds as readily to the name Dick Jockey as he does to,
'Ned, Bend-Over!'

Personally, I couldn't be more grateful for the courage it took
this city's fathers to enact a law that places humility,
resignation and compliance above all else.  Those are admiral
qualities build into the character of the peacemakers of this
world, and now, my little spooge gobbler too."

"Hum!  Well said, Doris.  I agree with you that the Wife
Protection Ordinance is having quite a positive effect on this
city.

The crime rate is as low as any city of its size.  Everyone is
getting along, blacks, whites, Chicano.  Heck, it's become so
peaceful around here one might expect the dogs and cats to cease
combat next.

All things considered, I'd say that's a remarkable achievement.
Yes, there have been some collateral damages.  But the benefits
far outweigh a few battered egos, tonsils and hinnies as far as I
can see.

A small sacrifice for a husband to make I should think,
especially given how laudable the cause.  After all, helping to
minimize the need for another man having to jump his wife's bones
when he's got a woody is not only a sensible prophylactic, but
promotes communal peace and stability as well.

In sum, I say hats off to councilmen CDE for a job well done.

On that good note I think it's time we bring our interview to a
close, don't you agree, Doris?"

"Why yes.  A perfect note I would think.  Besides, both the good
doctor and I do have an appointment to keep and we wouldn't want
to keep my Neddy waiting."

"Then I would like to thank you for your time and hospitality,
and I hope we might be welcome to visit again in the future."

"You are entirely welcome young man.  And our door is always
open."

"Thank you, ma'am.  Good day," he beamed that GQ smile and along
with his cameraman worked their way past the crowd (a good two
dozen strong) assembled in the Family Room.

Where fueled by all that exquisite scotch whiskey and equally
fine snatch, the frenzy bordering on insanity that passed as a
Crap game would have one-upped a shady backroom in a whorehouse
saloon.

Once outside they spotted officers Stu Cummings and his partner
Tom Smith sitting in the patrol car awaiting their return.  Upon
sliding into the back seat to join them, the radio again came to
life.

"One-Tango-13, please copy."

"Copy Central," Officer Smith replied.

"We've a 415 on Sycamore and Broadview.  The caller reported sees
a man in a dress running though her yard with several African
American males in hot pursuit."

"10-4, we're on our way."

"I guess the natives are restless tonight," said Stu Cummings as
he fastened his seat belt.

"It must be something in the air."

"Oh?" Justin replied, leaning back into his seat as the vehicle
sped off with siren screaming.

"Yeah, usually they don't have to chase them down.  They just
round them up and corral them."

"As he stopped to consider the imagery painted so eloquently by
Stu Cummings, Justin felt a stir in his loins."

"Say Stu!" Justin inquired somewhat distractedly.

"Yeah?"

"Do you think at the next stop we could . . . I mean I could . .
." he stammered while he pointed down as his boner rose up.

Stu turned around in his seat to face him.  "You bet.  It's
either bend over and enjoy the pokin' or spend the night in the
pokey."

Justin Sayne beamed like a man who found the new Wife Protection
Ordinance very much to his liking.  A clever piece of law finely
crafted and honed to insure peaceful coexistence for the
betterment of all - A law that was working out just fine.

Then with a smile to match the one on Stu Cummings' face, he
elatedly bellowed out . . .  "Gawd, I love this town!"


The End.

Ummm, then again, may be not. . .



Lyrics: (1) Banned in the USA. "Face Up, Ass Down," 1990, Luke
Records.



humblepie@gawab - That's with a (.com).  I appreciate the
comments



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