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Introduction:

A young man engages in sex with 31 different women before fallling into the dark, gay underworld.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

It is the middle of March. Winter is beginning to lift in the Midwest. Fourteen and a half months since setting the record. Fourteen and a half months of no females.

Yes, I’ve got it. Loud and clear.

I have a problem.

Eight weeks have passed since my second visit to the House of God. I am fully recovered, not a hint of a bruise or a mark. I have worked hard in the gym and feel strong and healthy. I am not thinking of the H.I.V., nor am I going to get tested for it. My body and mind are sound. The physical machine called me can crush anything coming my way. I have never been sick, never had surgery and never required a hospital stay. I see doctors only for annual workplace checkups. My teeth are white and perfect. I have had one cavity in my entire life. I don’t get colds or the flu or coughs or fevers or sinus attacks. Sickness is for wimps.

Those incidents, those two Stevie incidents, are firmly in the past. They are a one of a kind thing, and will never, ever happen again. Next week, I have a date lined up with the hot receptionist from the gym. I have been working on her for a while, and finally, it is going to happen. I have yet to come up with an explanation for the tattoo, and am thinking more and more, it doesn’t matter. A lot of tattoos go on at the spur of the moment, or during a drunken haze. This is why they are meaningless and look stupid.

Also, unlike the fag sex, I don’t anticipate the gym chick will be spending a lot of time behind me. In fact, it will be the opposite. There. Done. My explanation for the tattoo, should I need one, will be a night of drunken stupidity. No chick on the planet, and no straight guy on the planet, would connect the House of God tattoo on my ass with the House of God fag joint. Those separate worlds would never intersect.

Could never intersect. But they had.

The DVD. From the House of God, to my house. Via the U.S. Postal Service. Shit sakes.

I am sitting in my car. In the parking lot. Across the street. From the House of God.

Hold on you might say.

Why am I here?

Well, for starters, I am not drinking. I have no beer in the car. I don’t plan on drinking anything tonight. Not a single drop. No sniffing from bottles, no leathers, no boots. No nothing. Nothing to help nudge me down the sick pathway.

For two straight weeks I watched the video. Jerked off to it at some point, every time. Ridiculous. I tried to toss the disc in the garbage, but couldn’t quite get there. It is tucked away in my closet. Yes, the evil closet full of secrets. For sure I need to destroy the DVD, and I will, because my face is all over it

Some progress is happening. For the last four weeks, I have resisted the urge to pop it in the machine and watch. I am in withdrawal, but I know I can beat it.

Withdrawal?

Was I hooked on gay sex and ass fucking?

I don’t think so. Of course not.

But it is time to return to the proper side of things. To the right side of the street.

The only good thing coming out of this mess is the excellent video recording system installed in my bedroom and living room. Small, powerful cameras from the electronics specialty store. A DVD recording unit, and presto, I can make my own high quality movies. I did a short one already, featuring me. Mostly to learn camera angles and correct lighting requirements. I was wearing my leather pants and boots. I oiled my torso as a special effect. Awesome footage.

This new technology doesn’t require much lighting. It will be a breeze to nail down some sweet video. I was happy to deep six my previous recording system, the cheap ass shit from the big box store. If the light was perfect, you got some decent footage. Very hit and miss, and crappy black and white. The first movies I made seemed pretty cool, because it was new and it was illicit. My upgrade system included full color and surround sound audio. The hot gym receptionist was unwittingly going to be my first co-star. With her super tight body and my ripped carcass, we would be creating magic.

Let’s get back to the present.

It is Thursday night. As I said, no drinking. I have to admit, I had been hitting the bottle pretty good since the New Year began. Especially on the weekends. No more. Not a drop for over a month. Health and fitness are my new mission. No way is the H.I.V. going to incubate in me.

My buddies have been a little curious regarding my new hibernating self. I told them I was taking a bunch of internet college courses, and wouldn’t be hanging much for the next while. Danny is still carrying a grudge, a giant cross on his back, nearly fifteen months now. Especially strong since he officially got back together with little Susie, about eight months ago. By offering her some sort of promise ring, or engagement. He was happy I wasn’t around. Whatever dude, I fucked your girl, you asked me to do it, it was over a year ago, obviously you forgave her, so what’s the problem you’re having with me?

Don’t forget, you smarmy little prick, remember what you did for me? Do you? I bet you conveniently erased that from your memory, didn’t you? Funny, how selective memory can work. Asshole.

Not for me though. I remember what you did.

Back to the parking lot.

The street action is steady. Cars and pedestrians move about their business. The cold grip of winter is waning. The House business looks to be hopping. The cretins are slinking in, making ready to find their nirvana. My dashboard clock says five minutes before ten. The traffic was clear and I made good time. Two hours and forty minutes, total. I am definitely reducing my driving time as I find different routes into the big city.

What the hell am I doing here?

Good question.

I thought I knew the answer. For the past two and a half hours I thought I knew the answer. Sitting in this parking lot, across the street from the House, I am not so sure. A tiny tingling is running through me. I used to get this before football and basketball games in high school. Nerves. Adrenalin. Good old anxiety. Not sure what to expect. Not being sure what to expect can be very exciting. Or it can be a disaster.

I was here for the same reason as my last visit. To confront. To get information. To get redemption. To prove to myself, this is not the way for me. I am in this parking lot, this close to the House of God, this close to room one twenty-nine. Room one twenty-nine, the scene of my debauchery, the scene of the greatest sexual explosion I have ever experienced. The tingling is definitely running through me. No longer am I a hundred per cent sure why I came. Despite the blast to my ass, the ramrod down my throat, the punch out, the choke out, the potential death sentence from H.I.V. and the damn tattoo, I am here.

Because I have been thinking.

Thinking about how to ascend from dominated, to dominant.

What?

Is this what I want? To be dominant? With men?

I was all that and more in my past life. I was god. God to the women.

Who couldn’t rule a woman?

Because women were, in their nature, meant to be ruled.

Where was the challenge?

Slap her around. Boss her around. Yell at her. Intimidate her. Bully her. Fuck her. Fuck her anyway you want. Put her on her back where she belongs. Put her on her knees where she belongs. Dominate her. Abuse her. Beat her.

Big deal.

Who cares?

Men are a different story.

How does one dominate a man?

By being the boss? A cop? A politician? By being a biker? A boxer? A fighter? By being filthy rich? By carrying a gun?

How? How truly, do you dominate a man?

Well, I know the answer. By surviving a night in the House of God. By thriving in the House of God. By ascending in the House of God. Because money, guns, job description, badges, power, physical strength and position mean squat in there. It is a true level playing field. Maybe the only level playing field left on this earth.

How could I ascend from dominated to dominant? Why do I want to?

Because dominant is my true nature. My true animal self. Not the piece of shit on the bottom. There is no joy in bottomville. Regardless of the size of my orgasm. Bottom was wrong. Top was right.

Tonight, I was going into the stupid fag club. This would be a reconnaissance mission, more or less. Tour the second floor if I want to find out more about these sick fuckers. For information reasons only. Find out about this god dude, the author of my tattoo. Punch Stevie square in the head. Walk out.

Tonight, I didn’t need to be the fag on top. Because the fag on top was as wrong as the fag on the bottom.

There.

Done.

Simple plan.

In, and get out.

Avoid the booze, the sniffing bottles and the Pit Bull Man.

What did the Pit Bull Man actually do to the, what was the idiot’s name? Mental Man? Mentor Man. What did the steroid head do to the stoned out Mentor Man?

Who cares, moron?

Did I need to know the answer?

This stupid curiosity is going to kill me.


CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR


We all knew the librarian. Cindy Waterford. The next door neighbor of my parents. Cindy the librarian. Married, about thirty-two years old. An older woman. Very classy, very busy. Volunteer boards, committees, all of the community shit to go along with her full time job. Two kids at home, about eleven and nine years of age. Husband is a teacher, short, fat, prematurely bald, the classic pussy beard around the mouth. A onetime athlete gone soft. Miserable, pompous, entitled jackass. Cindy had married the stud early, after graduating out of grade twelve, raised up the kids, then returned to college.

The rumors around the bar scene said she fucked.

Single guys.

In the library.

After hours.

Rumors in small towns are seldom true. They are the product of small town boys setting up fake fantasies to jack up their mundane lives.

About four years ago I noticed the life change in Mrs. Waterford. She was tall and reasonably attractive, but she was always covered in ugly clothes. Mom clothes, librarian clothes. Long clothes. American burqa clothes. The short, business bob haircut. You know the look. The ‘I never fuck because I am too busy working and careering and raising the kids’ hair style.

Suddenly, she was jogging every night. Suddenly, she was bare legged, short skirted and high heeled. Suddenly, she was polished, coiffed and made up. Her hair grew thick and long and flowing. She looked pretty hot, except for the fat blob on her arm and the two brats underfoot.

Since I was spreading my wings here, I was prepared to tackle some of the older ladies. Of course I was apprehensive. Because they were older, possibly more experienced, and most worrisome of all, maybe they knew exactly what they wanted from a guy. And the guy better deliver. Or, they were simply old, and useless, and frigid, and washed out of the sex game.

I was curious and anxious and excited to try. Absolutely. Christ, I had already done the attitude twins with their bodywork, the milk chocolate girl, the slanty chick, the raggedy girl and the college preppy chick with the security guard watcher. Of course, I would never forget the wet nurse and my cum fingering pal. I shuddered at the thought. Yuck. Let it go. Let it go far, far away.

I sensed this journey was going to take me into bedrooms and situations I would have never considered, twelve short days ago. What a valuable education I was receiving. I would definitely be the All American Fucking Pro when this was done.

At ten after eight in the evening, I was perusing the stacks at the downtown library. It was a quiet night in book land, a few nerds scattered about and another librarian manning the desk. Mrs. Waterford was in the very back aisle, putting books away off a rolling cart. Mrs. Waterford. Right on.

I was mulling over an excuse to be here in book land, but not needing one. I didn’t care anymore. I needed to fuck.

Mrs. Waterford was indeed bare legged, high heeled, and short skirted. Her legs were long and longer. Shapely. Well trained from the running. She had perfect feet in perfect shoes. The shoes were some sort of acrylic. Totally see through. The classy skirt was a glove on her small ass. The long, thick brown hair trailed nearly down to her rear end. When she twisted for more books I could see the profile of firm tits in her expensive, tight sweater. Hard to believe she had calved out two kids. The breast feeding had ended years ago, and she probably got no action from her old man. Her tits had firmed up again. I guess.

What did I know about such things?

She had sort of a young Cindy Crawford look about her. Classy, and smoky, and super sexy. Cindy copying Cindy. Good enough for me. My cock was twitching already.

Mrs. Waterford was wearing black designer glasses which completed the librarian look. I wanted to fuck her with the glasses on. This might be the smartest woman I would ever do. Listen to big shot me, already banging away, without speaking a word to her. Eleven chicks in eleven nights will do this to your confidence level. Push it through the roof. Believe me, everyone around picks up on it.

I amble back to the far end of the stacks. No one else is around. Forty-five minutes to closing. I am watching Cindy twist and contort, working on her books. She sees me, smiles, calls hello, can she help me?

“Hello back to you,” I say.

She recognizes my voice, and then me. She is surprised to see me in the library. She should be. I haven’t been in a library since grade ten. She flushes, she isn’t an idiot. She knows I have been checking her out. These ‘born again’ women have a sixth sense about being checked out. The precious fuck years have been wasted, by acting and dressing as prudes. By conforming. When the ladies re-enter the hot zone, they know exactly what they want. They fear a time constraint might be attached to their hotness. Ergo, the never ending jogging, and yoga and starvation diets and classy but slutty clothes and footwear. The seductive makeup. The loud perfume. ‘Attract a man’, they are screaming. Making up for the lost years. Good on me for helping them achieve their new goals.

“What brings you here?” she asks.

I am close to her now. Three feet away. I can feel her heat. I can feel her butterflies. Eleven chicks in eleven nights is making me sensitive to the ladies. My insatiable appetite is bridging the three feet between us. The testosterone has to be blasting off me in every direction. My cock twitches again, beginning to grow in my pants. I hope it grows to full size and I hope she sees it. It would be homage to how hot she has become. Homage to her hard work and fantastic clothing purchases.

My nose twitches.

What is in the air?

It isn’t love, but it could be. It is something much more primitive, handed down to us through evolution. Way before we civilized and labeled it love. Yes. Definitely pussy. The faintest hint, caused by a body temperature beginning to rise. Rising to meet the call of my testosterone.

I can imagine this proper librarian, a droplet of wet leaking from her pussy, running down the inside of her thigh, down her calf to her ankle, landing in one of those classy but sexy, clear, high heel shoes. Me sliding to the floor, bending and licking the drop out of her clear shoe.

“Not much,” I answer.

My cock is definitely stirring in my underwear. I can feel the head begin to flush, feel the material stretch as the bell engorges itself. Next, the rod will stiffen, pushing the whole thing to the front of my pants. Bulging the zipper out. No way will she not notice it then, especially with the glasses on.

“Killing time before I meet the boys.”

She looked at me, a deer caught in her own headlights. I was ever the planner, the man of detail. I had picked up an important detail. Her car was not in the parking lot when I first arrived. A quick drive-by of my parent’s place showed two vehicles lined up at the Waterford home.

“I didn’t see your car out there in the lot. I am heading over to my parents before I go out. Do you need a ride home?” I offer.

Always the helpful guy.

She dropped a book off her tray. Flustered? I was quick, bending and snatching it up and handing it back to her. This changed the position of everything in my pants. It all let go from the underwear binding. The bulge was clearly visible now.

“Well, okay, if it’s not too much trouble,” she stammered, eyes now fixed on my crotch.

I felt warm inside. Hot. Flushed. As if I had been caught.

“No trouble at all. Do you want me to wait outside for you, or….?”

She was more flustered now. She glanced at my face. Back at my crotch. Then back at my face.

“No. Wait in here. I will lock up and we can leave together.”

Bingo. It was true. Or it was about to be true.

Small town rumors, indeed.

This one was going to be strange. Cindy and her hubby had lived next door to my parents for what, twelve or thirteen years? I remember tossing the football around with the guy on the street out front. Playing baseball catch with him as well. The guy had definitely been an athlete. Cindy, she was at least five years older than me. The older woman syndrome. The next door neighbor syndrome. The married woman syndrome.

I couldn’t wait for nine o’ clock. I needed a good ‘man/woman’ fuck to erase last night. Last night was eating away at me. Donny, touching my sperm. Scooping it up with his fingers. Albeit to feed a chick. Kind of hot, I guess.

Shit, was it?

You would never, ever catch me touching another guy’s sperm.

Not for any reason.

A great, big ‘hell no’.

Wow, was the guy that horny?

Or did he not think it was a big deal?

How many other guys’ sperm had he touched?

What about the grabbing of my shoulders from behind, while he was humping the nurse?

My back was to him, he was thrusting and pounding, I could feel his heat and the energy he was expending. Then he scooped up my cum. Whoa. Enough.

It was two guys fucking one chick. How is there not going to be some interplay?

I was learning tons of new shit on this sexual conquest journey.

Could one learn too much? Experiment too much?

Travel too far off the path?

Somehow, not be able to come back?

With these thoughts in play, I was mindlessly leafing through Hot Rod magazine when the overhead fluorescent lights began to click off. The night lights came up, soft and glowing.

A sensual mood being set?

It wasn’t going to happen here, was it?

Was I about to confirm the rumors nobody truly believed?

This would definitely be a gigantic ‘one up’ on the tubby, sloth of a husband. Nothing he could ever do to catch me on this one. Mr. Superior Waterford was either the biggest fool in town or his dick had fallen off. Or, he was plugged into some other wavelength and not understanding the massive change engulfing his wife.

How could he live with her and not see it?

In the guy’s current condition, I couldn’t think of a chick on the planet who would fuck him. Not a decent looking chick, anyway. Certainly not his wife. His time was definitely past. It was Lazy Boy chairs and TV watching from here on in.

After fucking her, I would drive her home to her hubby and kids. The proper thing to do. For nesting time. For family time. Bonding and truth and honesty and faithfulness and all such crap. Mommy would be flushed out and would want a hot bath and a stiff drink. She would be full of wonder and inner peace when she tucked the kids into bed.

What a satisfying job mommy must have. Books were amazing things to be around.

[to be continued………………….]

Download the entire 164,000 word novel from SMASH WORDS, BARNES & NOBLE, KOBO or FLIPKART.

Watch the YouTube video, ‘Trailer for Thirty-One Days’.

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11 comments

Anonymous readerReport

2014-11-13 19:31:10
So many hot women work at the libraries. A fantasy come true!

Anonymous readerReport

2014-07-12 15:11:26
O.M.G. is all I can say. But I have to say more. Shocking, but I was unable to put it down. The story is amazing and is told with such depth. Holy crap. This Derek Helton character should be strung up and........... Anyway, a great read, over all. Not what I expected. I don't think it is what anybody would expect.

Anonymous readerReport

2014-03-02 09:52:19
why does he keep going back?

Anonymous readerReport

2014-03-01 09:37:51
the house of god is a creepy place. beware to those that enter.

Anonymous readerReport

2014-02-26 19:35:02
this librarian is smoking hot. early thirties and ignored at home.

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