Essentially Cured
"In&Out" photo by Flickr user bass_nroll (for more: http://temp.sickgirl.it)
My wife used to tie me up and burn cigarettes on my ass and thighs. Her old babysitter, Craig, did that to her years ago. My wife has concluded regular therapy and/or support groups don’t help. Usually, while we’re both still crying, she begins jerking me off really fast. When I start to cum, she aims it at my face, for obvious reasons.
Today I left work at 1:00 because I just felt overcome with malaise. When I got home I thought I’d walked into a bad 80′s movie: all sorts of loud moaning and yelling from upstairs. In the guest room, I found my wife fucking Carl, the college kid who cuts our lawn every Saturday morning. She had Carl bent over the bed and was going to town with the red and green dildo I’d bought her for Christmas. His eyes widened when he saw me and he yelled something into the ball gag, which I hadn’t bought her. She smacked his head and then pointed at me.
“Get out!” I got hard as hell when she yelled that.
I hung around the basement until Carl left. Later that night, my wife and I had a long talk. Well, since I stutter, my conversations veer toward the long side so this was a longer conversation. Shortly thereafter, I was in the bathroom scrubbing her Christmas gift while she rinsed the ball gag in the sink. A few minutes later we were in the guest room.
We found a new kid to mow our lawns, one who was short, but long on acne.
One night, while drinking, I decided to find Rose’s phone number. A friend e-mailed me that Rose’s speech therapy license had gotten yanked and her husband walked. My friend mentioned seeing her at the mall. ”She still has that a-a-ass.”
Rose didn’t remember me but said I had a genuine stutter. “Come on over.” Since then, I’ve been going
to Rose’s condo every Wednesday night while my wife thinks I’m at Toastmasters. From 7 to 8 pm, Rose sits on my face, making me practice deep breathing techniques and easy onsets into her multi-colored thongs. As she cums, she tells me that I’m almost cured.
XXX
David Erlewine lives outside Annapolis with his poor wife and kids. On the train to and from work, he scrawls little stories in a notebook. At night he gleefully types them into an old computer while his family sleeps. His stories appear in approximately sixty journals, including The Pedestal, SmokeLong Quarterly, Elimae, Titular, Flash Fire 500, Flash Shot, Tuesday Shorts, Word Riot, decomP, 971 Menu, and In Posse Review. His sad little blog is whizbyfiction.blogspot.com. He edits fiction for Dogzplot. He hasn’t come up with a good pseudonym like Richard Bachman.
