Chapter 10

My slumber was disturbed before the dawn, by somebody energetically bouncing upon the bed, nearly tossing me upon the floor. Once my eyes started to focus, I beheld my wife, and Linda, smiling sunburst smiles, and leaning to the whispered briefing that Britney, still naked, was providing.

I rolled over, attempting to regain blissful slumber, but it was not to be. Britney’s tale was interrupted from time to time by muted squeals of “Oh, he didn’t!”, and “Five times? Really!”, and similar protestations of disbelief.

It appeared that The Sleep Fairy had abandoned me (Wretched sleep fairy! She had been my favorite!), so I stumbled my bleary self to the bathroom, there to drain the radiator, brush my teeth, and attempt to splash some sensibility into my fogged brain.

I returned to the bedroom, and was ambushed by Brenda, who enveloped me in a crushing hug. “Oh, you wonderful man! You have given this girl the very best first time, any girl ever had! I just knew you had it in you!”

Further conversation was obscured by the kisses she peppered me with, and the noises of approval contributed by Britney and Linda. We broke the clinch, when I make clear my need for coffee, and we reconvened in the kitchen. The scurrying around accompanying breakfast, and my attempting to speed up the production of coffee with my psionic powers (horrible fail), precluded any meaningful after action report.

Once the meal was concluded, the women decided that they had to talk, and I was left to washing the dishes. Once they returned, gleaming kitchen speaking to my domestic prowess, I drew Brenda in for a hug, and inquired, “So, what are your thoughts about my getting a rematch?”

She looked at me askance, and asked, “Did you not get enough lovin’ last night, from yon hard bodied teen? She spun a tale of sexual bliss that Penthouse Letters could only wish that they could publish! And, you want more?”

I stuttered for a bit, much to the amusement of my audience, before settling on a rejoinder. “I merely worry that this tender innocent urchin might feel deprived, now that she has sipped from St. Valentine’s cup, should I not offer her another serving of erotic bliss!”

My Darling Wife reassured me that everyone would get their itches scratched, and that the women had developed a schedule to assure so. And, I should wait.

Following the principle that, since my wife’s machinations had wound up very well for me, I ought to follow directions, I shut up and followed directions.

As it developed, in the following weeks, when Ben was home, I pleasured (and was pleasured by) my wife, with occasional evening or weekend visits from Linda, or Britney, or, one memorable evening, both.

Time passed, and I was eagerly anticipating another weekend of delights, idly wondering what particular form they might take, when I entered my home one Friday. I found all three women seated at the kitchen table.

Brenda directed me to sit. She sipped her tea, as if to organize her thoughts, when Britney bubbled over. “I’m pregnant! We’re gonna have a baby! You and me!”

The other two women glared at her, until Linda cleared her throat, and contributed, “Well, Sam, it appears that you have caught all three of us. I’m pregnant as well. Brenda and I thought that you ought to hear it from us, before I tell Ben. He’s likely to be, at the very least, surprised.”

Brenda picked up the briefing at that point. “Honey, Linda expects that Ben will be home this weekend. When she tells him, she will also tell him that Britney is pregnant. He’s gonna wonder who the fathers are, and might already suspect you as Linda’s baby’s father. Between Linda refusing to have an abortion, and Linda telling him you’re the father of Britney’s baby, that may well be when he explodes. You ought to know.”

We chatted further, Brenda and Linda anticipating likely scenarios. Brenda presented the finish-the-basement-and-furnish-a-nursery scenario, and the women dissected it, in painful detail. I excused myself, and went upstairs to consider how my plans for happy fun times had changed. Shit. It appeared that my weekend was summed up in the admonition, ‘No Nookie For You!’.

I was puttering around upstairs, folding laundry and putting towels away, when there was a vigorous pounding upon the front door. I tucked a pistol into my belt (‘Be Prepared’ being The Scout Motto), and went to answer it.

Ben was there, and Ben was pissed. Well, he appeared angry as well as intoxicated. If I heard him correctly, he had found two positive home pregnancy tests on the bathroom counter, and assumed that Britney was the owner. I was not about to open the screen door for an intoxicated guy with poor judgment, so I let him carry on for a while. Linda and Britney appeared at my side, and Ben kicked things into higher gear.

He initiated his short lecture series on “Sluts, And The Slutty Sluts Who Don’t Control Them”. From the prologue, it evidently featured Britney and Linda, and that served as an intro to his plans for aforementioned “slutty sluts”. (he seemed to suffer from a poverty of conversational themes) When I observed that there would be no laying-on-of-hands ceremonies on my property, he seemed to take that as an invitation to enter my home, an invitation that I HAD NOT presented.

Right around that point, I slammed the door, not seeing this as a teachable moment for Ben. I invited Brenda to call the police, to invite them to referee this debate.

So, when you kick in a screen door, you are able to reach in and release the lock of that screen door. That gives you the opportunity to attempt to kick in the door. When you attempt to kick in an exterior door, if the homeowner has given this some thought (as I had), you are attempting to kick in an industrial steel door, with 6 inch lag bolts securing the frame to the structural members of the house. Makes for a long time kicking, as it develops.