Barbara Gets Shelved

by Vandemonium1 and CreativityTakesCourage writing as SemperAmare

We have seen comments on our own stories, as well as those of other authors, along the lines of, "That was too far-fetched; the unbelievability of it detracted from my enjoyment of the story."

This is another unbelievable one.

Following a recent trend, this is a story of an overheard conversation and has a twist at the end.

A bit of info to help readers - As most readers know we're Australian, so a conversion for imperial users... 100km is equal to approx. 60 miles.

Many thanks to Charlie and Jeff for their invaluable comments in the draft stage.

This one has been independently scored around 3.5/5 pickaxe handles on the BTBometer.

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OKAY, I ADMIT IT, I'm a people watcher. Naturally introverted, I like sitting back, watching people, then trying to guess what they do for a living, what they're thinking, etcetera. I do it more when I'm bored or trying to distract myself. It started when I was a kid and involved in a six-car pile-up on the Hume Highway. Luckily, neither I nor my grandparents were killed, but things got broken. Lots of things got broken, like both my legs, my wrist, my collarbone, a few vertebrae. The list goes on.

Anyway, the long and short of it is that my parents didn't want me falling behind at school so me, my wheelchair, and my carer continued to attend classes. Unable to participate in games, sport, parades and the like, I amused myself by watching everyone, seeing how they interacted. Initially, it was more about guessing who was interested in who, who was dating who, who was cheating and so on but over time that morphed into speculating professions, hobbies, and sporting preferences. Sometimes, after making my predictions, I'd even go and talk to the person I'd been studying to see how close I was with my guess, or, if they had a companion, listening in on their conversation to see if I could gauge my accuracy that way.

In that emergency room, one hundred kilometres from home, as the clock approached the witching hour, I was in need of distraction. The room held the usual frustrated and worried collection of people you would expect in such a place. Parents who hovered over injured children; the child's injuries much worse in the minds of their mummy and daddy than what the triage nurse was telling them. Wives and husbands, either comforting the injured member of the union, or waiting, shoulders tense, hands wringing, for them to return from within the inner sanctum via the double doors. Occasionally, a doctor, tired and all-business, came through the doors, clipboard in hand, and spoke a name to the worried collection of patients or escorts.

There were twelve people that night. All fitted one of the stereotypes above, except one guy. Tall, and muscular, he appeared to be in his mid-twenties, and, if his ring finger was telling the truth, unattached. He looked bored rather than worried. Waiting for someone, obviously. But not a child, or even a wife; too unworried. A friend maybe? By the depth of boredom on his face, I guessed he'd already spent an hour or two waiting.

When I first arrived, twenty minutes prior, the triage nurse told me that multiple road accident victims had just come in by ambulance and it was an all-hands-on-deck scenario behind the double doors. I felt for them, both the victims and the medical staff, remembering my own night of pain and fear. My night had been over thirty years prior, but some things you never forget.

As my wife's injuries weren't life threatening, I was asked to be patient and wait for a staff member to show me through to her as soon as they could spare someone.

When the federal government crisis response team operator called me, it was nine o'clock on a typical Monday evening. Typical meaning I'd been channel surfing trying to decide which garbage to watch in an effort to numb my brain. I'd just decided on a re-run of an episode from Law and Order: SVU. The call ended any idea of mind-numbing; my wife had been in a car accident and was in Goulburn hospital.

They took the time to explain that, while serious, my wife's injuries weren't life threatening. Did that stop me having kittens, jumping straight in my car, and nudging the speed limit on the one-and-a-half-hour drive from our house in Canberra to Goulburn? You bet it didn't.

On the way, I called Marie from the car—thank god for hands free. Aah, but I'm getting ahead of myself. I've just thrown in names of people and places without explanation.

So, a bit of background. My name is Dave Brown and I'm an electrician. My wife is Barbara and she's a Human Resources Officer for a federal government department. Our one and only child, Marie, left our home in Deakin six months ago to attend the University of New South Wales in Sydney.

The sudden lack of a genetic purpose struck Barb pretty hard and she struggled for a while to come to terms with it. I suggested cruises, hobbies, dinner with friends and the like, but didn't get much traction; Barb continued to mope and look lost.

Then, two months ago, there'd been an upswing. Every month, operatives from her office, were sent to regional sites for a few days, doing whatever it is human resources people do in large organisations. Thus far, Barb had avoided those trips as no one liked doing them. Out of the blue, she decided to do one. It meant a three-day, two-night trip to Goulburn.

She returned, enthusiastically raving on about how nice the town was and the new systems she'd shown the Goulburn office. She tried explaining why a HR officer was involved in budget reviews, but, frankly, it went over my head. The next month she volunteered for Goulburn again. This latest one was her third trip.

The husbands among you will know what a relief it is when your wife comes out of a funk, especially when it's accompanied by a strong resurgence in your sex life. Let's just say that beginning from when she returned from the first trip, well, I was a happy man. For the first week she was back, it was once a night. This dropped to about three times a week, until a fresh resurgence of nightly action just before the second trip. That pattern repeated itself before the third trip.

Did the suspicion that a third party was involved in my marriage cross my mind.? After all, at thirty-nine it was doubtful menopause could be a factor in her running hot and cold. I must admit, it didn't. At least, not in a huge way.

In our whole marriage, Barbara had never given me any cause to doubt her fidelity. When I questioned her about her better mood and what I could do to continue her renewed libido, she just said that with Marie gone and after years in a boring, dead-end job, it was nice to feel needed again and to be able to teach others and share the latest and greatest techniques with her 'backwards cousins in the bush' as she described them.

I was satisfied with that explanation. After all, everyone needs a purpose in life. When she was no longer required as a mother, she'd fretted. I was just glad she'd then found another group who needed her.

She so enjoyed her new role helping regional centres that she'd even talked about not only visiting Goulburn, but volunteering to do the runs to Newcastle, Nowra, and Broken Hill as well. It would mean a trip away every two weeks, but if that gave her life purpose, then I was fine with it.

But if it led to car accidents, late at night, then I'd have to review my endorsement.

What was she doing in a car that late, anyway? Being a public servant, she only worked until five, and, according to her nightly phone calls, just ate in the motel restaurant before having an early night.

As I sat and waited, I wondered if she'd get in trouble for crashing a government pool vehicle. It would depend how it happened, I supposed. If she'd been drinking, then jumped in the car, she could well be in a whole world of pain, workwise.

A thought struck me, and I jumped up to ask the triage nurse if anyone else had been admitted from the same accident. No. Still worried and impatient, I returned to my seat and my guilty people-watching habit.

The out-of-place guy was still there, half asleep. Why did I feel he was out of place? He had blood on his shirt—and if blood was fitting in any venue, it was an emergency room at a hospital—though he himself appeared unharmed. Had he come to the rescue of someone and was waiting to see how they'd fared? Was he a hero?

Then I noticed something. Every time the door opened he looked up and assessed the entrant. The guy was waiting for someone. Perhaps the relative of the injured person whose blood he sported?

It was just past midnight and the triage nurse had been relieved. Her replacement looked crisp and fresh. Suddenly, the door leading to the corridor through which I'd entered, what seemed hours ago, opened and a thirty-something woman entered. She looked out of place too. Mainly because of the lack of haste or concern about her demeanour. She paused just inside the doors and looked around, spotted blood-shirt guy, assessed him and walked over and pressed her hand to his.

It was obvious they didn't know each other but had organised to meet. That was intriguing. Who organises to meet in a hospital emergency room? So, as much for the distraction as actual curiosity, I decided to stretch my legs. I got within hearing range, just as the lady was finishing her apology for being late.

"I'm sorry, John. I was on my way over here, when my editor rang. There was a rather embarrassing accident we'd been notified of. As you know, we pay people to notify us of any newsworthy stories. A guy rang to say he'd witnessed an accident. I shouldn't be telling you this, but, what the hell, you'll read it in the paper tomorrow anyway. He said a car hit a tree outside his house. Both airbags went off, which saved the passenger, a woman, from serious injury as she wasn't wearing a seatbelt."

"What, in this day and age?"

"Yup. According to the source, she had tingling in her legs, so, maybe, lower back trauma, but it was the guy's injuries that were the reason he called us."

The smile, really, more a smirk, on her face was at odds with what she was describing. I felt mildly repulsed by her behaviour. Blood-shirt guy waited eagerly for her to continue. His eagerness reminded me of a hyena pacing in the bushes waiting for the lions to finish gorging themselves so it could scavenge the remains.

"The guy that rang me was a first-aider, following his training, he ignored the screaming one—the guy—and went to the quiet one. The woman had blood all over her face. You'll never believe it; the blood was from the guy's penis. They were driving along, she was unbuckled, sucking his cock when he lost it. With the impact, she bit the end of his dick off. It was fucking hilarious."

At that the woman burst out laughing but quickly clapped a hand over her mouth, realising, I supposed, how inappropriate her humour was.

"Anyway, they're both in the hospital now and I've been trying to get a doctor to tell me if they can sew the end of his dick back on, and, if they can, whether it will work again or not. The slut was married too; just not to the guy, if you know what I'm saying."

She winked at blood-shirt guy, like they were sharing an in-joke. I cringed in disgust. Like most people my age, I'd witnessed what infidelity could do to families. Why did these people marry if they still wanted to play the field? I sent up a silent prayer there were no children involved in the woman's marriage. With such a humiliating public exposure to the affair, her marriage was toast, for sure.

Both man and woman were now chortling quietly. Apart from the fact of where they were—people could be fighting for their lives, or worse, dying behind a set of double doors not four metres from where they stood—it was sickening to watch them take pleasure at other's misfortunes. I was about to return to my seat when the reporter, as I now knew her to be, spoke.

"So, what's your story?"

"Before that, what sort of money are you going to cough up for me to tell you?"

"Depends on the story. If we can use it, then I can give you what I think it's worth. Anywhere from two hundred bucks up. I have to get the go ahead from my editor to promise more than a thousand, though. You tell me the story; I'll tell you what it's worth."

"Well, now you've told me that one, mine sounds a little dull."

"I'm here now, so you may as well blab."

"Okay. Well, as part of it I need to reveal a little secret; I have a thing for MILFs, okay?"

The guy sounded defensive. That intrigued me enough to stay and listen.

"I think it started when I realised how much the guys my age outnumbered the women in small-town Australia. I guess there's more work available to the men or something. Anyway, a lot of the good-looking girls move to the big cities, meaning there is a shortage here and the ones that stay know it.

"So, anyway, one night I banged a recently divorced MILF and to say she was a firecracker would be the understatement of the century. It was like she was trying to get back at her ex-husband by doing all sorts of shit she'd never done with him. Within a week we were doing it where we could be caught and a week after that she gave me her ass."

"Yeah, I've met a few women like that. Go on."

The woman didn't sound too interested. She was a reporter. What was newsworthy about a guy into MILFs and a woman out to screw her way back to some self-esteem? Where could he be going with the story?

"Anyway, she moved out of town after about a month, but, by then, I'd developed a thing for older women. I started targeting them and it soon became clear that if you could just get past their initial reticence, then many of them would put out. Not only that, but once started, they were like the Energizer Bunny, they would just go and go and go.

"I found the best way to relax them was with a couple of drinks. That and giving them attention is all it normally takes to bang them that first meeting. My record for getting one into bed is about one-hour-thirty."

"All right, I get it. You're a stud. Now can you please get on with it. I would like to get some sleep tonight."

I scowled at blood-shirt's back. I hated guys who felt the need to boast.

"There's no need to be rude-"

The reporter glared and the guy seemed to rethink the rest of his sentence.

"Well, anyway, a while ago it was mid-week and I was cruising my favourite hunting ground pubs. Too much competition on the weekends. In the second one, there she was. Dressed to the nines, drinking wine on her own, and looking nervous. She can't have been there long as there wasn't a queue and her glass was still three-quarters full. I made her straight away, I've seen it so many times. Just out of a divorce, I reckoned, worried about whether she still has it or not, and so long out of the game she was unsure how it worked these days. Maybe, she didn't realise it, but I sure as hell did. She just wanted to be banged."

I flinched, embarrassed for the woman he was talking about. What would she have thought had she been able to see into his mind? Hear how he spoke of her; like she was a slab of meat. Even at my most promiscuous, I felt I'd treated the women with respect. I moved to the other side of the pair, pretending to read a poster on CPR. Seemed like the reporter was having similar thoughts because she looked at blood-shirt with distaste.

"Will you please just get on with it? I hope this is all relevant. Was this the same woman you were with tonight?"

"Yes, it was. I sat next to her and looked for a wedding ring. There was none."

"How fucking noble of you. Even the great predator has some morals."

I hid a smile. Reporter or not, you don't diss a sister.

"Yeah, well, it isn't like that. I banged a married one once for about a month. Her fucking husband came home early one day and caught us. Cunt broke my fucking nose. Threatened to bloody kill me but I got away."

While the guy grimaced at the memory, the reporter smiled. I mentally high-fived the husband. We were all distracted when the door to the inner sanctum opened and a white-clad doctor came out. We watched as he went up to a grazed knee kid and his worried parents. The reporter prompted the guy to continue.

"Anyway, she said her name was Jenny and she was down from Sydney. I've found it's not good to push them for too many details, and, frankly, I don't care anyway."

"You're drifting again."

"Sheesh, pushy or what? I thought you people liked some background."

The guy was miffed. He clearly liked talking about himself. My bet was he told his mates tales of his escapades regularly and they probably hung off his every word.

"Look, I don't work for the Sydney Morning fucking Herald. My newspaper is read by people with an attention span slightly less than a mouse being chased by an anaconda. Just get on with it."

"Right. Well, two hours and four drinks later, she stopped playing hard to get, let me take her back to her hotel and fuck her. It was like she hadn't had a root in years, and she was a real goer. She wanted to go all night. She wore me out, I can tell you."

"Straight sex?"

I frowned. What kind of news rag did she write for?

"Yeah, nothing too unusual. I started out growling her and she loved it. I could tell she was a bit sensitive about her C-section scar, but soon got over that when my talented tongue hit her honey pot."

I rolled my eyes. Talk about big-noting himself. Talented tongue? Who on earth said that about themselves? It sounded like a sales pitch.

"Wouldn't let me stop even after she came. Just held my head down there. Finally, I escaped, put a condom on and did her. We started off missionary but then she wanted to try all sorts of positions. I really hit the jackpot that night. She made it easy for me. I like to make the first meeting memorable so they come back for more."

He reminded me of my college years when I was free and easy and screwed anything with no dick and a heartbeat. Years where morals and ethics fell way behind getting it on and off as often as I could with as many chicks as possible.

Like all married guys, I looked back on those years with fond, rose-coloured glasses, and, I admit, a small part of me envied the guy his freedom. Suddenly, in the midst of the show-reel playing in my head of my misspent, but ever-so-fun youth, an image of Barbara on our wedding day flashed in. Another of her holding newborn Marie, and suddenly those hijinks paled in comparison.

Having said that, I found the guy's description of performing cunnilingus on the woman slightly arousing. It brought back fond memories. In my aforementioned misspent youth, I'd loved doing it and had had a girlfriend that behaved very similarly to his description of his bedmate's behaviour. If I wanted to stop licking her out for such trivial reasons as needing to breathe and the like, she would throw me on my back and sit on my face. A couple of times, I almost passed out from lack of oxygen, but she obviously got off on it so much that I loved it anyway. And, hey, what a way to go!

I sighed. Those were distant memories. Barbara had many admirable qualities as a wife, but sexual adventurism, alas, wasn't one of them. Right from the start, her sexually conventional nature meant she refused to perform oral sex on me, and by reciprocity, wouldn't allow me to perform it on her, no matter how much I begged, and I did beg.

In the end, I gave thanks for having been a bit of a wild child in my youth as my married sex life could only be described, generously, as conservative. All my requests or attempts at anything out of the ordinary were gently but firmly rebuffed.