by Mr. Mallard ©
Concentration is an act of will power, an act of mind over matter, an act of focusing on something to the exclusion of all else.
All the concentration in the world is not helping you, this fine spring morning, focus on the line after line, page after page, of COBOL code spread out on the desk.
The job seems insurmountable.
The problem seemed simple enough on the surface. Someone had lost a decimal point in the program, just a simple little dot, a period. Common sense would lead any simpleton to believe it should not be too hard to find.
The problem is simple, easy to detect, and potentially disastrous. It moves the decimal point one place to the right in all calculations that the program makes. So ten times ten reads one thousand and so on. A clear, concise problem, one that could increase a dormant savings account with $100.00 in it to $100,000,000, In just a few months of monthly interest calculations.
Clear and concise it may be, but easy to find it is not.
"Jesus", you muse to yourself, "This is not complicated. This is not Albert Einstein math. This is a simple glitch in a program. Any competent moron should be able to find it". Competent you are, there is no doubt about that. You are the highest priced independent software consultant in the area and are good enough to command $250.00 an hour for your services, and get it fairly regularly but the success has not been without a price in your personal life.
Frustrated, eyes sore from staring uncomprehendingly for hours on end at endless sheets of code, you raise your head once again to examine your temporary surroundings.
Cyber Solutions, your current temporary employer, occupies 5 floors of this Seattle high rise, and is expanding monthly, or rather will continue to expand, if you find this glitch. Seated in your glass enclosed office, in the center of the floor you have the facility to look in all directions through the Thermopane, sound deadening glass at dozens and dozens of small work cubicles each filled with computers, monitors, printers and dozens of little worker bees doing their assigned tasks.
"God, if I could only do my job like they are doing theirs maybe they could look forward to having a pay packet beyond the next one." The fact is if they were paying you $.25 per hour you would be over charging them.
Your temporary office is sound proof and the hustle and bustle of the main office should be visible but you should not be able to hear the whirling of the computers and the clicking of the printers. However, you can. The sound is penetrating the room as a result of the efforts of a maintenance man who is replacing the sound proof glass, sheet by sheet, with a thicker, tinted variation to add to the visual privacy of the exposed office. It would also appear that the glass is of the one way variety.
The installer, intent on his task, totally ignores you as he diligently works away at the job, sheet by sheet. Subconsciously, you would like to lash out at him, blaming him for your inability to concentrate, but deep down you know that would be unfair, yes, untrue. Just an ordinary man doing his job.
The problem with the lack of concentration has nothing to do with this task or the workman. Deep down you can admit this only to yourself. The problem is totally personal and one that cannot be discussed with anyone not even your best friend if you were lucky enough to have one, which you are not. Another byproduct of the career you have chosen another personal sacrifice to the hours you have to keep.
Your marriage, after years of decline due to your neglect, has ended in a nasty, vindictive divorce. Publicly, you blamed your husband, but, secretly, you know it is your fault. The lawyers have finally finished picking the bones and you, and your ex-partner are finally free of each other to build a new, separate life. However, it is not as easy as it once was.
Years of mental turmoil at home and the demands of an uncertain job market in the field of software consultancy have taken their toll. You smoke far too much, you are seriously overweight, bite your nails, and have a quick furtive manner about you much like a timid hunted animal caught in the mesmerizing lights of a car.
Physically and mentally you are not ready for the singles life. Deep down in your heart of hearts you know why you cannot concentrate. Like the computer problem the symptoms are abundantly clear, at least to you. As like the computer problem the solution is far more elusive, if not unattainable.
Your concentration is being spoiled by frustration, pure and simple, sexual frustration. You miss getting regularly fucked by that asshole to which you were married. Useless for everything else, he sure knew how to press your buttons.
Just the thought of some of the things, the private things you did to each other and the places you did them makes you start to moisten. Nothing can replace that big, warm, thick cock pounding up your channel, probing, prodding, inching its way up until you thought it was going to worm its way past your tonsils and out your mouth.
God, you miss that, but only that!
You mentally blush at such lewd thoughts.
You shake your head in an effort to return to reality and regain your concentration.
The fact remains that the fucking you were getting was not worth the fucking you were taking from that asshole.
So, here you are, at 49 so sexually frustrated that you cannot even concentrate on your job and no possibly solution on the horizon. Your hormones, if nothing else, tell you exactly what you need to regain your power of concentration.
To put it in simple, basic terms you need to get fucked. You need some moronic stud to lay nine inches of All-American muscle into you. You need to lay on your back with your knees splayed apart and your cunt totally exposed while some nameless, faceless walking dick drives it into you so hard, so fast and so deep you walk around for two days, bowlegged, with a silly crossed eyed grin on your face. You need him to dump a lot of his seed into you that is so massive that you need to wear Tampons for two days just to keep it from running down your legs. This, and only this, is going to return your powers of concentration. What you need is clear. How you're going to get it is another matter entirely.
Sexually frustrated, your low self-esteem prevents you from being aggressive on the singles scene.
The lousy bastard knew all the hurtful things to say. The constant cracks about your weight, your mammoth breasts all hit home. Every hateful word was like being pounded by a baseball bat but it didn't stop with the utterance. The hurt still lingers long after he has passed from the scene.
Your opinion of yourself has sunk so low that you are incapable of making a pass at a man or reacting to one, if by some miracle, some fool made one.
You would even be grateful for a mercy fuck at this stage of the game. Anything, even a rape, would be preferable to returning home again tonight to an empty apartment and your cyber sex pals on the net.
"God, what I wouldn't give for 6 inches of real meat between my legs rather than twelve inches of fantasy", you think.
Reluctantly, you drop your eyes back down and try, once again, to concentrate in finding that elusive mistake in the program which makes the half million dollars invested in writing it a total waste of money.
You will yourself to work, to concentrate.
It's mind over matter, brains over hormones, intellect over emotions.
You bear down on the task at hand as your pussy continues to itch and you constantly squirm in your seat.
Line by line you plod on with the code. Page by page with no guarantee that you will recognize it when you see it, or for that matter, you have not already unknowingly passed over it.
Approaching 10:00 A.M. and coffee break time you receive yet another visit from Richard Rogers, the head of the department responsible for the useless program.
Richard has visited six times a day since you started this assignment. You understand his concern, his anxiety about the program but the pressure is not helping. After all, they would not have brought you in unless they had been totally stumped.
Richard enters your temporary workspace with a superficial smile on his face, which unsuccessfully masks his inner concerns.
The $2000.00 per day fee is eating into his contingency fund very quickly.
"How's it going, Phyllis? Anything I can do to help?"
You smile wanly at him.
"Yes"
"Name it and you got it". He answers eagerly.
"Give me the brain of Albert Einstein and the concentration of an IBM mainframe", you quip.
"If I could give you those I wouldn't need you, would I?"
"Finding it difficult to concentrate? Anything I can do to help? Is Randy disturbing you?"
For the first time in an hour you glance at Randy quietly working on the window frames on the far side of the office and, involuntarily, do a double take.
The hair is cut differently and he has a salt and pepper moustache, but Richard and Randy look enough alike to be brothers, even twins.
You look again even more closely.
Yes, they are twins.
You look askingly at Richard.
He smiles at you.
"Yes, my younger brother, my younger "twin" brother. He was born five minutes after me and I never let him forget it."
Turning away from you, he catches Randy's eye, and, raising his hands, he begins to talk to Randy using sign language.
They talk for several minutes and, finally, Richard turns his attention back to you.
"It is unfortunate, but Randy was born deaf and dumb and has had to struggle all his life to overcome this handicap."
"It is amazing how much prejudice exists towards the handicapped people in this world."
"When I was promoted to this position I was able to get Randy hired in the maintenance department. He is very good with his hands, among other things. He never married so his needs are not as great as others."
You look at Richard in a new light. You see him as a considerate, caring family orientated man who realizes, if you fail to find the problem, he will lose his job and his brother, totally blameless, will also pay as well with no one to protect him.
It's almost as if you can read Richard's mind at this moment and he yours.
"Yes, Phyllis, you could say I have a lot riding on you right now."
He pulls out the visitor's chair in front of your desk and sits down looking directly at you.
"Is there anything, anything I can do to help with your concentration?"
You simply shake your head and, flushing deeply, caste your eyes back down on your desk.
"I see," he says.
Embarrassed, he looks down.
Quickly, he says, looking at you again,
"We all get lonesome and have our needs."
"It must be hard, being recently divorced, on your own, working the hours you do, to find suitable male acquaintances in a social situation."
As you start to protest that he has misread the situation, you hold back the lie and let him continue.
"I am married, but there are times that I resort to relieving the stress that I experience in the work place, not with my wife, but in my own private fantasy world. I find that by escaping into my mind, briefly, I can refresh myself and re-focus my concentration."
"For example, what if you fantasize that when you went home to-night and had supper and a nice warm shower or bubble bath, and then you got into your nightie and bathrobe and slippers?"
"Then you went into the living room at 7:00 P.M, sharp and unlocked the front door. You turn on the television and sit on the sofa with a sleeping mask over your eyes."
"You would have all your senses available to you except your sight."
"What might happen to you? Nothing, probably. But maybe, just maybe, a burglar might try the door or a rapist might try to enter. I always find that the fantasy, tinged with reality, is almost as good as the real thing."
"You never know, maybe even I might drop by and try the door. If I find it unlocked I will know that you are receptive to my advances and if it is not, well, no harm no foul."
Shocked, you say nothing.
Richard says nothing further.
He gets up and leaves with this parting comment:
"I have a lot riding on you. I will do anything to get you focused."
"You are the best there is."
"If you can't help our goose is cooked. We will all pay the price."
He looks at his brother one last time and gives him a friendly wave good-bye and is gone.
The suggestion is so bizarre that you almost dismiss it out of hand.
Then again, what did he suggest?
Did he simply offer the concept of fantasy as a way to relieve stress or, did he offer to stop by your house and throw a fuck into you to get you re-focused on the critical job at hand?
It goes without saying that Richard must be desperate to make, or even to suggest or allude to such an offer if that is, in fact, what it was.
It is obviously not something he has ever done. No one could possibly mistake him for a stud, not that he is the opposite. In his late 40's, salt and pepper hair, clean-shaven, he is the arch-typical, middle level bureaucrat. Quiet, refined, normally well mannered and respectful of all his employees, he is a role model for being politically correct. There has never. ever been even a whisper in the industry that he has even been anything but correct around female co-workers.
You, on the other hand, may not be Jane Fonda but you certainly any dog.
Stressed and overweight, you do the best you can with the assets you have available to you. You select your clothing carefully, your jewelry is tasteful and never overdone and your hair is always done in a modern, sassy way.
Your best feature are your deep-set chocolate eyes, sloe eyed you have read somewhere. Many a man has said they are like a flashing neon sign, which reads "ready, willing and wet, come fuck me."
Your cunt, while temporarily undergoing a dry spell, no pun intended, has seen more than its share of action and variety over the years and you have learned a few tricks that would even make a water front whore blush.
Certainly no man fortunate enough to get your ankles up around his ears could say to his drunken buddies, "she was a dog, boys, but I put a flag over her face and did my duty for God and country."
Finally, you file the conversation away in the recesses of your mind to return to and play with each time you need a break during the rest of the day. Maybe, just maybe, you will play mentally with yourself tonight. After all, while it may be a poor alternative to the real thing, it is all that you are likely to have available to you tonight.
As the day draws to a close and the clock move towards 5 P.M. You find yourself no closer to the problem than you were at 8:00 A.M. this morning or the previous two mornings for that matter.
The thought of playing a game of fantasy at home alone this evening has, for some strange inexplicable reason, enabled you to concentrate on your task to a far greater degree.
As you returned to the proposition off and on during the day you reached the decision that you would follow through on all of the suggestions Richard made with one exception, that you would not unlock your door.
It is one thing to be horny and is another to be totally foolish in today's age.
You have decided that in lieu of leaving the door unlocked you will put your vibrators and hand lotion on the bedside table in case your imagination becomes so vivid that physical instruments of self satisfaction are required.
Entering your apartment you have a momentary let down. Your effects are certainly not out of House and Gardens and while you make excellent money when you work there never seems to be enough for all the nice things that you crave.
The apartment is not dirty or even messy but does show the signs of being lived in by someone who spends far too much time confined by its bare walls.
Too lazy and tired to cook, you put a frozen dinner in the microwave and pour a double scotch in an effort to take the edge off your jangled nerves.
As you sip the scotch and watch the 6 o'clock news, you process the daily litany of horror and suffering in the world. The glass is soon empty and by the time the weather report comes on you are on your third double.
Mellow is the word to describe you right now, you chuckle to yourself.
"King Dong...no Kong", you correct yourself, "could come in here and slip it to me and I wouldn't object," you snicker to yourself.
The scotch has masked your normal inhibitions while doing nothing to soothe your sexual desires.
Rousing yourself form the lethargy that has set in and the self pity which, you know, will soon follow you stumble to the bathroom and, shedding your clothes, you enter the shower while you are still capable of turning it on.
The hot water, the fragrant soap and your roaming fingers do nothing to assuage your raging hormones. Your fingers dance over your clit and up your channel but it is so mechanical and promises to bring no real satisfaction.
You eye the enema bag hanging on the back of the bathroom door, but after briefly considering it in your foggy mind you discard the thought. After all, you think, " if I don't unlock the door there is no possibility of having my cornhole reamed, therefore, why bother cleaning out my shitter."
Finally, the water starts to cool from the showerhead. A sure sign that once again you have drained the tank.
Stumbling from the shower you don a pair of panties and a loose flowing kafkan which, while colorful, goes a long way to hiding you're plus size.
The urge to sit on the throne and wallow in self-pity is almost overwhelming. The sexual frustration, the problem with the computer code, your secret private opinion of yourself and your role in the universe all compete for your attention and compete unsuccessfully because your booze clouded mind is virtually incapable of rational thought.
You go into the bedroom and take your sleeping mask from the bedside drawer where it rests among all your private little toys. Too blitzed to even realize it, you stumble into the livingroom without closing the drawer.
Every human being during the course of their indeterminate life span, makes a number of decisions which seem meaningless, mundane even, thoughtless at the time, but which in retrospect can be attributed with causing you to travel down an entirely different road with your life. Minor, inconsequential decisions, which have, major repercussions.
You make one of those momentous decisions now the import of which will only become clear in the years to come.
A stupid, inconsequential decision. Stupid and dangerous. One you would never make if you were in full command of your facilities. One you would never make if you're thinking process was not clouded by liquor and every nerve ending in your body screaming for a thick, hard cock.
Without conscious thought, without reason, without clearly thinking of the ramifications, you unsnap the dead bolt on the front door and sit on the couch, having tuned the television to TNN, and put on your sleeping mask.
In the years to come, with all the joys and sorrows this decision brings to you, you never cease to marvel at what a truly senseless act this truly was. Who, in their wildest fantasy, could ever predict the long-range consequences.
The answer is simply no one.
As many times as you reflect on it over the years to come you can never, ever remember actually, physically turning the deadbolt. You did, you know you did, because there was no one else there to do it and the consequences have been real but, as drunk and horny as you were you can never remember doing it.
Strange, oh so strange, that whole lives could revolve on such a simple inconsequential act, potentially dangerous but inconsequential in itself.
Sipping your sixth or maybe your seventh or eighth double scotch your head drops and your eye lids droop to the soft crooning sounds of George Strait.
"Click."
Your eyes partially open and your head comes up.
Was that the sound of the doorknob turning or just your drunken imagination?
Groggily, you wonder, "what time is it? How long have I been asleep or passed out?"
The television provides no clue as Jo-Dee Messina belts away.
Just as you hand reaches for the sleeping mask you hear the squeak of unoiled hinges.
Terror streaks through your body.
Your heart races but you cannot move a muscle.
You are totally immobilized by your terror.
"Please, God, " you fervently pray for the first time since you were a small child, "let this just be a product of my drunken imagination. I promise if..."
Snap.
"Oh, God, oh, oh, my GOD," you silently scream to yourself.
You are totally frozen in place.
As you life flashes before your eyes you can only think, "if I could only live I would make my life count, I would..."
As two hands touch your neck from behind in a gentle unthreatening manner a mechanical, hoarse voice whispers to you,
"Easy, Phyllis, you are safe."
You collapse.
The tears start to flow down your cheeks and you pee yourself.
The acrid smell of ammonia wafts through the room.
The intruder kneels on the floor behind you and slowly starts licking and kissing your neck. The palms of his hands slide over your collarbone and down inside your kafkan. They cup your pendulous breasts and your turgid nipples slip between his fingers. Ever so gently he begins to manipulate them, pulling and stretching, exciting them.
Isolated from all visual sense, your mind clouded with alcohol and sleep you wonder,
"Is this a fantasy?"
"Oh, my, God...the power of the human mind."
As your taunt nerve endings take over command of your body from your mind you dismiss the question as not relevant.
Your cunt starts to moisten and your juices start to leak out dampening your panties and the front of the kafkan.
Almost involuntarily, your hand sneaks to your face to remove the mask but another hand detaches itself from your tit to intercept and prevent it from completing the act.
The intention of the intruder is clear.
The mask stays.
Suddenly, all contact is broken.
There are sounds of movement. Your head swivels, your ears pricking for any sound of danger.
You sense, rather than hear or see, the intruder standing in front of you.
Tentatively, you reach out and a hand touches yours, the fingers intertwining with your urging you to stand.
As you struggle to rise your head swims. Deprived of your sense of equilibrium provided by your eyes and your other senses dulled by the scotch, you stagger and start to collapse. The intruder firmly grasps and steadies you as he leads you to the bedroom.
You resist the almost overwhelming urge to remove the mask intuitively knowing that it will destroy the mood, the ambiance, of the moment. The fantasy, real or imagined, might disappear like an errant wisp of smoke. Befuddled as you are, you know that what your senses, your nerve endings, are screaming for a big, thick, All-American chunk of gristle, muscle and blood to be driven unmercifully up that insatiable, gaping, dripping hole between your legs.
Almost any cock will do the bigger, the rougher, the better.
The cock doesn't require a face, a body and person attached to it.
Love, affection, friendships have nothing to do with your current needs.
You simply need to get fucked, hard, fast, and even brutal.
No soft words of endearment are required. No promises, no professions of love, just hard gristle, properly pounded into you.
Your needs are simple and basic.
As you enter the bedroom, he turns you around and urges you to sit and then lay on the bed on your back with your legs from the knees down hanging over the edge, you feet flat on the floor.
His hands snake up your body and unbutton your lounging outfit from throat to crotch.
Silently, he stands.
In an instant he has reached down and seized the light material by the collar and totally ripped it from your body.
Even though you can see nothing there is no doubt what has taken place. A hundred-dollar outfit totally ruined, but somehow you don't care.
The sum total of the effect is not frightening, not threatening, it is totally unbelievably erotic.
It is as if he has said to you,
"Get ready woman, I am about to ram it to you."
"I'm going to drive my cock into you so hard, so deep, your going to think you have been impaled on a fence post."
He does no such thing.
Instead you sense he kneels on the floor in front of you.
His hands take your knees and he spreads your legs. His fingers slip into the waistband of your panties and you life your hips to help him snake them down your legs.
He slides both of his arms under your thighs and the palms of his hands caress their way up the back of your legs and under the cheeks of your ass to cradle and massage them.
He pulls you ever so slowly but insistently to him and buries his face in the hair on your cunt.
"Oh, Jesus, ...oh, fucking, Jesus."
"Oh, my God..." you hiss raggedly through your twisted lips.
Your fingers splay out and you clutch the bed sheets as your muscular tension increases.
His tongue begins to lick around your gaping, weeping hole.
Your juices, running like a veritable river slide down the crack of your ass and begin to puddle on the sheet.
Beneath the mask your eyes flash wide open as you feel what he has just done.
Wetting his middle finger in your lubricating juices he has wormed it into your ass, first to the knuckle, and now, as your sphincter muscle relaxes, all the way in.
"Oh, Christ..." you moan in an anguished tone, as you think to yourself, "why, oh why, didn't I do the enema to clean out my shithole. If I had only believed that this was going to happen!"
This momentary recrimination is lost in the raw sexual arousal of the scene.
His finger pokes and prods, insistently wiggling all the time trying to find a new crevice to explore, a new channel to invade, that it has not previously delved into. Deeper and deeper it worms.
You raise your legs and place the soles of your feet flat on the bed to give him greater access.
Idly, you think if you spread your legs any wider you will dislocate your hips.
His tongue starts to probe your channel, flicking in and out, touching, teasing, and then moving on, never staying in one place for more than a second or two.
You begin to shake ever so subtly on the bed, your fists clenching and unclenching, a sure sign an orgasm is starting to build.
"Don't stop, please don't stop," you beg the intruder, if indeed there is someone in the room other than your imagination goaded on by your overactive hormones and the scotch.
Suddenly he stops just as you begin to spasm.
The moment is lost.
Are you waking from your drug-induced wet dream?
As you start to rise unseen hands grab you violently by the hips and roll you over on your stomach, a pillow is forced under your hips, and a pair of knees is unceremoniously placed on the bed inside yours.
Your legs are forced apart and he lays upon you in a frog like position for copulating.
You feel a massive log worm its way between the fleshy cheeks of your ass.
His arms and his hands extend above your head and his fingers intertwine with your clutching in a death grip.
With an audible pop he slips through the outer lips of your pussy.
"Oh, Jesus, stop, please stop."
You realize, for the first time, how truly massive he is. It feels like the head of a baseball bat has been slipped into your entrance.
"No, no...NO... I can't take that. You're too big. You'll tear me apart."
"No, stop."
"Oh, please, stop."
You whimper and start to cry.
He ignores your crying and begging.
He forces your legs even further apart.
Hunching up on his knees for greater purchase he starts to work his cock up your channel.
At first your muscles tense, but as he slowly, insistently, poke and prods, they relax, distending, allowing his obscene sized cock to inch its way up your cunt.
You realize that you can survive this and relax, beginning to enjoy the feeling of being well and truly fucked, not loved, not cared for, just well and truly fucked.
You start to flex your muscles grabbing his weapon, squeezing, pulling, and encouraging it to go deeper and deeper.
Your fingers flex grasping his.
Your muscles begin to tense as you feel your orgasm beginning to build once again.
Inch by inch he works his way up...six inches...eight inches...ten inches until the spongy head has slipped past your cervix and is prodding at the entrance to your womb.
You moan and begin to whisper almost incoherently.
"Harder."
"Deeper."
Your muscles flex, grab and milk his cock.
He starts a slow rhythmic seesaw in and out of you.
The slurping sounds of his cudgel entering and exiting your sloppy wet hole seem to bounce off the walls of the bedroom like rolling thunder.
The sounds contribute to the overall erotic effect.
He increases the pace.
As your orgasm builds and starts to race through your body he senses it as would any good lover.
He releases your hands and sinking each one into the rolls of fat on each side of your hips, grabs you and pulls you up so you are resting on your widely spread knees and face.
You are obscenely exposed. Totally defenseless and he is still deeply embedded in you.
He draws back and drills you.
"Oh, Christ," you scream.
"You're killing me, you're tearing me apart."
Your mind, your rational processes are screaming, "STOP."
Your hormones, your pussy are yelling, "FUCK ME."
"...fuck me deep, hard..."
"drive that cock into me..."
You lose control.
"Nail me, oh please, nail me."
You hear him reach into the open drawer of the bedside table.
"Buzzzzzzzzzzzz..."
The sound alone tells you what he has.
Your long stemmed anal dildoe with the batteries has been turned on.
Forcefully, even violently, he drives it up your ass without any lubrication, without relaxing the muscles, without any warning.
The sensation is almost indescribable.
For the first time in your life you understand what it is like to get truly stuffed with cock. It is too bad the Christmas turkey could never appreciate the sensation.
He manipulates the probe in your ass, the vibrations quickly bring you to the edge once again.
He plays with the probe and turns it so it is massaging the tip of his cock through the thin membrane of your bowel somewhere in the vicinity of you belly button.
You lose control screaming, as one warm wave after another of your orgasm sweeps over you.
As you lose consciousness and start to collapse on the bed you feel him pulsing, depositing his load of pent-up semen deep in you.
You come too as the rays of the early morning sun beam through the window and warm the cheeks of your face.
Pain, excruciating pain, flows through your body as you emerge from your drug induced sleep. Piercing bolts of pain flash through your head as you gingerly reach up and remove your sleeping mask.
You move your head to avoid the direct rays of the sun shining in your eyes and survey your bed.
You are lying atop the bare mattress with the sheets and blankets in a twisted mass on the floor. Naked, you lower belly and thighs are covered in a dried substance that you can only conclude are your dried juices, the product of the most satisfying sex you have even had in your life or, for that matter, ever dreamed of having.
Was it real or was it a fantasy?
Did Robert really come to visit an throw a self serving mercy fuck into you to get you focused on the task at hand or was it all a product of your imagination induced by the idea planted earlier in the day and fueled by the alcohol and the sensory deprivation provided by the mask?
Regardless, you are mentally rested. It has had the desired effect. Your nerves are no longer singing and you are mentally at peace. Your hormones, so rampant yesterday, are slumbering know. Focused for the first time in days you mentally prepare for the challenge of the task at hand convinced that you would be able to concentrate.
Lethargically, you rise from the bed and pick up the stained anal probe from the mattress. You winch from discomfort from your asshole and pussy as you put your weight on your ass for the first time sitting on the side of the bed.
With trepidation, you push and probe with your fingers, but find no evidence of bleeding. However, there is a need, a pressing need, to wash your hands.
A long, hot shower goes part of the way to physically reviving you but does nothing for your raging hangover consisting of a blinding headache and bloodshot eyes.
As you look in the mirror, bleary eyed, you cannot help but think,
"I look like the wreck of the Hesperus. My eyes are like two pissholes in a snow bank."
"Well, dark glasses are the order of the day. I can tell them at the office that the lights are hurting my eyes."
As you reach for the front door knob to exit your apartment you stop dead in your tracks. It's as if you have been it right between the eyes with a sledgehammer. The thumb latch, which engages the dead bolt from inside, is in place. The door is locked. The only way to lock it from the outside is with the key, which is still on your ring.
Your erotic adventure was a figment of your imagination. It is that simple. Yet it was so real, so satisfying. How could anything that good be only a dream?
As you insert you key to lock the door behind you your spirits sag. Somewhere deep in you heart you were hoping that it was something more than an erotic wet dream induced by too much scotch.
The forty-minute drive to your temporary office is interrupted only by a stop at the Dunkin Donut Drive Through for one extra large black coffee.
Ensconced in your office, alone except for Randy who is quietly working on replacing yet another window you put your purse away and consider your options.
You are focused and ready for work for the first time in days.
The question is simple. Do you start again from page one and not bill for the last three days or do you continue on hoping you didn't miss the mistake.
Self-interest wins out.
You cannot afford to give up three days pay so you will continue on. If you have to do it over again, you will give them a substantial discount.
Head down, ruler in place, you start at page 156, line by line, symbol by symbol, only occasionally raising your head to take a sip of black coffee.
You hear nothing, lost in your own little world of computer language not even the quiet noises of Randy as he works away in his own little world, deprived of all sounds around him.
You lose track of time.
Suddenly, you silt bolt upright in your chair.
"No, it couldn't be that simple you say to yourself," but, intuitively, you know it is that simple.
The company programmers have been working from this tattered printed copy of the program trying to find the problem. 312 pages, 38 lines of Cobol per page.
There it is on page 176 line 37.
A malformed decimal point. It looks like a blemish on the paper and as such would have been dismissed by someone not looking carefully but it is really a decimal point not properly formed due to the improper flow of ink through the printer.
You whirl around in your chair and bring the program up on the screen of your terminal.
It is anticlimactic because you know that you have it.
Scrolling...scrolling....
"Bingo, got you, you little fucker," you silently scream to yourself.
You swivel the chair back around and lean back smiling at Randy who returns your smile warmly as he silently works away.
"God," you wonder, "he is handsome. He doesn't appear as rough as some tradespeople, and he has such a nice smile. How do you let a deaf and dumb person know you might be interested?"
As your mind starts to think nasty erotic thoughts once again, freed of the mental challenge of the last three days, Robert comes bouncing through the door.
He doesn't even give you a perfunctory morning greeting.
"Jesus, Phyllis, that was a pretty miserable trick to pull. If you weren't interested all you had to do was not unlock your front door."
"What did I do?"
"Don't play innocent and stupid."
"You called my house and told my wife that if she valued her marriage she would make sure that I didn't leave the house last night."
"Thank God I hadn't yet told her that I had to return to the office to work on the problem. As it was it took me all evening to convince her that it was a crank call. It certainly helped that, who ever the son of a bitch was, they had a strange mechanical, hoarse voice. Like it was coming from a machine. She was suspicious from that, too."
The look on your face says it far better than any words could.
"You didn't call her?!!!"
"No, it wasn't me."
"Then who did?"
"I don't know."
"...But no one else knew of our arrangement. I didn't tell and I suspect you didn't tell anyone."
"Did you leave your door unlocked?"
"Yes, I think so."
"What do you mean, I think so?"
"Well, I had a couple of drinks, or more like a few drinks and I am not sure whether I left it open or not."
"Well, did anyone come?"
"I don't know."
"What!!!!!!!" "You don't know?"
"I had some drinks, I put on the face mask..."
"And?"
"I sat on the couch and I had he most sexually satisfying experience of my life."
"So, someone came in?"
"I'm not sure."
"What do you mean, your not sure?"
"I don't know if it was real or the figment of my imagination, but it was the most incredible experience of my life."
"Are you telling me the truth? You really didn't come to visit me last night?"
"Honest to God, someone really did call my wife."
You are both totally perplexed. There is no logical explanation.
You muse for a few minutes.
It could be dismissed as a highly successful fantasy produced by a powerful suggestion, involving sensory deprivation and alcohol if it were not for the telephone call.
The again maybe, just maybe, he is lying.
There is no way of finding out from his wife.
You can't ask, "Oh, by the way, did your husband come over to my place last night to lay a hosing to me?"
Maybe he is just too embarrassed to admit it? Or, maybe It was just the product of my imagination, but it was so real.
After all, the deadbolt was in place when I left for work this morning.
Finally, you return to your conversation.
"Well, we may never know the truth. The good news is my relaxing evening was successful and I found the problem."
The smile on his face and the words of appreciation which flow from him are genuine but not nearly as rewarding as his promise to spread the word among his colleagues which will guarantee you all the work you can handle.
Finally he rises to leave after telling you to take the rest of the day off and billing it to him.
He turns to the door and starts a brief sign language conversation with his brother that becomes rather animated.
He concludes his conversation and sits back down with a sly smirk on his face.
"My brother says to tell you that he is pleased you found the problem. He understands the significance of what you have done for all of us."
"He hopes you had a relaxing and enjoyable evening last night."
"He would like to know if you would have dinner with him this evening?"
"He promises to do his best to entertain you and hold up his end of the conversation, He is able to converse with a mechanical sound box which attaches to the side of his throat at his larynx."
"He says it would give him an opportunity to return your spare key which he found in the bottom of your purse."
"I guess it is obvious that one of my brothers extra special talents is his phenomenal ability to read lips."
That not his only special talent you think salaciously, as you nod your acceptance.