“Don’t” Please. Don’t Make Me! by Jo-Anne Wiley
A Snowball’s Chance…
The winter storm had done more than fill her lane-way; the snowplow driver was right behind. And he had filled her vagina!
It wasn’t like her. Sue had been alone since her husband had run off with one of the Bubble-Heads from the Mr. Bubble Car Wash, leaving her with debt and a delusional daughter. But the “snow cowboy” rescued her from the drifts; had driven her home. And she had been hospitable… Very!
Just a ‘quicky’ she reasoned; it had been years, after all. But he stayed the night. And showed up for dinner the next evening. One quicky leads to another, and another, and suddenly you’re in a relationship. The guy was coarse and hard, and she wasn’t at all convinced it could ever be serious. But he was just so damned good. But then again, he was getting lots of practice: Sue began to see the change in her daughter.
Doing Tricks and Driving Around Naked
She picked up the ketchup bottle and, encircling the neck with thumb and fingers, caressed it with long, finite strokes. Her friend’s chin lifted, eyes shimmering in surprise and excitement.
“You did that? To him? At the office?”
The clatter of knives and forks paled to the sound of her marriage imploding. Along with her job and her career. It started as a mindless diversion from a long day seated by the dental chair: The accidental brush of breast on arm, crisp nipple-play on skin, a friendly squeeze where one would not normally squeeze. It was all innocent fun. And Holly’s male patients didn’t complain. But Rich Cunningham saw what the others missed: An opportunity to make her perform. To satisfy his own warped sexual idiosyncrasies. And those of his son.
“He’s not going to call,” Holly maintained.
“Man like dog,” her friend Juan said, “sniffing ’round woman’s leg. He get service like that? He call. You be certain of that! And when he does, this is what you say…”
Plus, for fans of Jo-Anne Wiley, two bonus stories:
There Are No Rules, When The Lights Go Out
With the flick of a switch, her life changed. She was with the guys with whom she had worked and shared her daytime hours, for close to ten years. She had been a surrogate mother… damn, a surrogate priest, to most of them! So just like that, it’s over? Ten years swept away in a landslide of groping hands that washed over her like muddy floodwater. What insanity had impelled her? Why in god’s name, had she ever let herself be talked into hosting the bachelor party.
Linda-Lee’s dark brown aureoles were featured on the cover of the magazine with the caption, “Eat More Fortune Cookies.” The guys at work were going to go berserk. They had been betting on the size and color of her nipples for weeks. But he had declined the bet; it wouldn’t be fair, after all. He was already familiar with the size and shape of Tom’s fiancee’s breasts. All too familiar. What he didn’t understand was her compulsion to humiliate; to photograph him at his very weakest moment. For all to see.