I crashed a sprint car five years ago, and busted
myself up pretty good. I had been on top of the world,
with a new house in construction, a pretty loving wife,
a dream job, and all the shiny noisy toys I wanted. An
hour later I was in a hospital bed, wondering if my
legs would ever move again, if I would ever have
another erection.
After three months of surgery and rehabilitation, minor
miracles were accomplished and I was put back together,
almost like new. My boss saved my job; my career was
brighter than before. I had made my living with my
hands and tools, engineering degree and union card,
which were not much use flat on my back in bed. By
necessity, I learned to accomplish similar results with
the computer, fax and modem. By accident, literally, I
had removed a ceiling limiting how far I could rise.
My marriage was a completely different story.
Joan never understood my drive to compete on the
racetrack, and was devastated by the results of the
crash. We were in an intensely sexual honeymoon phase
of our marriage. There was a very good chance I would
lose that ability. We faced bankruptcy. Her dreams:
house, husband, and children, were in ruins. She very
nearly left me. She was in no way prepared for life as
the caretaker of a paralyzed invalid. I recovered, our
relationship continued, but in many ways things were
never the same again.
Joan kept working after we married, but it was more
pastime than career. Facing the mountain of hospital
bills, with a mixture of inspiration, desperation and
an inflated resume, she moved in a single step from
salesclerk to manager. She changed. She became tougher,
more independent, driven to control every aspect of her
life. Stress and hard work pared her lush body to slim
perfection. She became more aggressive in and out of
bed, more demanding of exactly what she wanted. She had
not been at the track; it had taken hours to find her,
now she had to know at all times, where I was, what I
was doing.
When I had recovered enough for my hospital bed to be
relocated to the ground floor of our townhouse, Joan
brought me up to date on our financial health. I had
taken a company bonus as a sponsorship instead of cash.
By legal fiction, and intervention by my boss, I was
therefore still an employee while on the track, and
entitled to some insurance benefits. Jack had gone even
further out on a limb for me than I had imagined. We
were still massively in debt, and will be for quite
some time, but Joan had cut deals with our creditors
that would allow us to move on and recover. Then she
told me about the house.
My design for our home was patterned on the New England
farm, house and barn connected by a screened breezeway.
The barn was built first, to house my toys and the race
shop. The connecting tunnel was poured, and footings
done for the house at the time of the crash.
The bank was forced to call the construction note. We
probably would have had to sell for pennies on the
dollar, if my buddy Jack hadn’t stepped in to rescue
us. He paid an almost fair price for a garage and a
roll of drawings. My street cars and bikes were sold
at auction. Joan would gladly have burned all the race
stuff, but Jack persuaded her to throw it in with his
deal, thinking, perhaps, at some point I could race
again.
When I was well enough to move back to the master
bedroom, she renegotiated our marriage. Joan would keep
her job; she would retain control of our finances. I
would carry a cell-phone at all times, and respond to
her every call. She was now on the pill, she would
decide when we were ready for children. If I ever got
within ten feet of another race car she would castrate
me! She tried to dominate me in bed also, but that just
wasn’t going to happen. We worked out an uneasy truce,
as semi-equal bed partners.
Jack approached me a month before this season started,
with a proposal to resume racing. His son, Mark, had
grown up playing around the race shop, now he wanted to
drive. He had convinced his parents, despite the wreck
still on the trailer in the hauler bay, that asphalt
racing would be much safer than the dirt track I had
been hurt on. He had a kid’s wildly optimistic idea of
how easily we could convert the frame I had been
working on, still tacked-together on the jig, to run
pavement. The racing bug had bit deep.
His dad had been bitten also. He had some surplus CAD/
CAM equipment, not quite the current generation,
available for the shop. “We had drafting and
manufacturing programs under license, didn’t we? I did
still design and prototype the odd repair part didn’t
I? Wouldn’t my old shop be ideal for that? Did a
milling machine or lathe really know the difference
between a compressor part and a racecar piece?”
So I started a secret second job. The second floor
workstation became an extension of my real office.
Phone, fax or e-mail didn’t reveal what desk I was
using. The shop really was efficient for turning out
the out-of-production repair part or odd adapter. Down
loaded data from the sensors hidden on the car helped
me put together something Mark could get around the
track. I wrote a couple programs for Jack’s laptop
computer that guided his adjustments at the track. Of
course, I couldn’t go with them, but Jack could call if
he got in over his head. Things were working well.
Until Joan’s cell phone rang.
Working with customers on the cutting-edge of
technology, we have access to the latest toys and
gadgets. Jack and I, and our families, have helped our
clients test and develop the next generation of cell
phones. Which was how I came to recognize the unique
tone of Joan’s. I had finished prepping the car, and
was winching it on the trailer, when I called my wife.
I could have sworn it rang in the office upstairs. I
climbed the stairs to investigate.
The mirror-glazed windows of the shop office face those
of the master bedroom across the short breezeway.
Joan’s cell phone sat on a desk by the wide-open
windows. Jack sat on the edge of the foot of his bed,
facing me, not ten feet away. Joan, naked, sat on his
lap, her back to his chest, impaled on his thick cock.
A dark-haired woman knelt between their legs, slurping
at the junction of their bodies. Mark stood on the bed
beside my wife,his hands on her shoulders, feeding his
cock into her mouth.
Joan’s phone pealed again on the desk. Stunned, I still
held mine in my hand.
Joan slapped Mark on the butt, he didn’t move. She
snapped her fingers, then pointed at the phone. Slowly,
as slowly as only a reluctant teenager can move, he
pulled his massive erection from her sucking mouth and
moved toward the phone. A horny teenager pulled his
hard cock from my wife’s throat and did as she
directed!
Joan tapped the woman on the top of the head. Her face
rose. Joan pointed at something on a table near the
headboard. As the woman stood, I recognized Jack’s
wife, Sharon. She walked to the head of the bed, and
returned with a tube of lubricant. Joan pulled Jack’s
hands off her breasts and stood. She nodded, and Sharon
applied a heavy glob of grease to the head of her
husband’s cock, working it around with both hands.
Joan thrust her hips forward. Sharon shook her head.
Joan glared at her. Sharon, reluctantly, nodded and
applied another dollop of grease to the first two
fingers of her right hand. Joan smiled as she began to
work it around her asshole, beamed when Sharon’s index
finger entered her rectum.
Mark returned with the ringing phone, and a sagging
erection. He held out the phone, but Joan waved it
away. She pulled Sharon’s lubricated fingers from her
ass, and placed them on her son’s cock. Joan made a
hand-job gesture, and Sharon began to stroke her son
back to full erection. Jack stroked his ten-inch cock
between my wife’s legs.
Joan put a hand on Mark’s shoulder, pulled him a step
closer to his mother.
Joan grabbed a handful of Sharon’s hair, tilting her
face up and forward. She stroked Mark’s cock over his
mother’s cheeks, smearing her face with lube and pre-
cum. She pressed Sharon’s lips against the head of her
son’s cock, twisted her handful of hair until she
opened her mouth and swallowed him in. Sharon’s eyes
rolled to the corner of their sockets, meeting Joan’s,
begging.
Joan slid her hand down to Mark’s butt and pushed them
tighter together. Sharon gagged when his cockhead
entered her throat. Joan gave her a moment’s respite,
then forcibly pressed her back onto her son’s nine-inch
cock, harder, until she had taken him full depth. Joan
removed her hands, but Sharon continued the full-depth
stroking, after another pleading glance.
Jack reached upward to cup Joan’s breasts. She slapped
his hands away, and knocked
him back on his elbows. She
leaned back against him, and reached between her legs
with both hands. One hand spread her cheeks, while the
other guided his massive cock to her anus.
Her head fell back on her shoulder. She gazed
sightlessly at the ceiling, an expression of intense
erotic concentration on her face, as she settled
herself upon that awesome prick. Her face twisted in
strain and discomfort, but then broke into a broad grin
as his cockhead slipped past her sphincter. She moaned
in ecstasy when her ass bottomed fully on Jack’s
thighs.
Mark was enjoying himself while Joan’s attention was
elsewhere. He had pulled his mother’s head forward and
tilted it back, flattening the angle where his cock
entered her throat. He held her head between his hands,
steadying her while he thrust into her face. Sharon was
taking him full depth now, with apparent ease, working
his shaft and balls with both hands. Mark would push
forward until his belly wrinkled her nose, then pull
back until his cockhead was just in reach of her
sucking lips, or extended caressing tongue.
His balls were tightening in their sack, his butt
clenched, he began to moan in anticipation of his
onrushing orgasm. His mom nodded, “Unh Hunh,” around
his thrusting shaft, indicating her acceptance of his
impending ejaculation.
An open-handed slap to the back of Sharon’s head
interrupted them. A fistful of hair pulled her face
back to Joan’s pussy. Joan seized Sharon’s hand and
emptied the tube of lube onto it. She crushed Sharon’s
extended fingers around her thumb, and began to insert
her hand, palm up, into her cunt. Sharon continued her
clit licking, as she worked her fingers into my wife.
Joan paused, halfway down on Jack’s cock, as the wide
flat of Sharon’s palm passed through her stretched
labia. A snarl of pain and tension morphed into a
satisfied moan, as Sharon’s fist formed inside her, as
she slumped down, taking my boss’s cock full depth in
her ass.
Joan caught Mark’s ear between her finger and thumb,
and pulled him up beside her. A quick dip of her head
and she had swallowed him to the root, restoring the
gleam to his lubricated cock. She took the phone from
him, pressing his hands against the sides of her full
breasts, forming a tunnel for his long cock. A cock
long enough to reach her lips and tongue as it fucked
her tits. Mark twisted her nipples between thumbs and
fingers, as he crushed her breasts against his pumping
cock.
Joan paused, placing a finger against her pursed lips
in a gesture commanding silence. When she was satisfied
all understood, motion was allowed to resume. She was
on her knees, straddling Jack’s thighs, high enough to
allow him to make six-inch thrusts upwards into her
ass. The tendons on Sharon’s forearm writhed as she
rotated her fist, as her arm plunged in and out of my
wife’s clasping pussy. Her extended tongue slathered
Joan’s exposed clit and tight-stretched labia.
Joan’s hands were on Mark’s asscheeks, holding her
upper body in position, two fingers worming their way
into his anus, as his cock plunged between her breasts.
She gave his cockhead a quick sucking kiss or lash of
the tongue, as it emerged from between her breasts,
before withdrawing again into her cleavage.
Joan leaned back, shook the hair away from her ear, and
flipped open the mouthpiece of the phone. She spoke for
the first time, “Hello?”
“Hey babe, it’s me. Just checking in. We still on for
Chili’s at seven?”
“I’ll be there. Don’t you, unhh, dare wear that ugly
green sweater.”
I disconnected.
I was aroused, but amazingly calm. I wasn’t mad at
Jack, or even at Joan. Jack may have initiated the
sexual relationship, in return for the help with the
insurance, but he had long since lost control of the
situation, and his family. Joan had the dominant sex
role I couldn’t provide her.
My plan wasn’t fully formed yet, but I knew that my new
knowledge would lead to some improvements around our
house. One thing I knew for sure: I was going back to
the races.