AKA Don't Stand Too Close to Me

My wife is perverted, sadly not in a sexual way. I call her perversion the 'Flowers in the Attic' syndrome, but a co-worker explained to me that description wasn't entirely accurate because while my wife was interested in secrets that families, especially secret prominent families kept, she is more interested in families that practice the various 'cides' in life; fratricide, patricide, matricide and any other ones that involves family murdering family she can find.

When we were first dating, she kept this secret obsession of hers from me and only told me on our wedding night. I was to rue the day, well it was actually night she told me this because for our honeymoon we were taking a driving tour of the bed and breakfasts in New England, a journey in which she was incredibly excited about completing she had said when we were making our wedding plans. She told me that first night because the bed and breakfast we were staying in was the site of a grisly murder. That first night, I laid in bed by myself in disbelief while my darling newlywed wife spent the next six hours exploring the home we had intruded upon, looking for whatever clues or sights she was interested in.

We did not consummate our wedding vows until the fourth night when a storm precipitated that we stop at a local motel early to avoid a washed out back road.

Sadly, it has been that way ever since. Oh, we settled down in our roles as husband and wife easily enough. We have had plenty of good times and our share of bad. That first year sex was phenomenal; the only time my wife denied my urges for her was during her monthly cycle or when we would go on vacation, which we did a lot; a long weekend here and a long weekend there. Each time to visit the site of another macabre location she had found out about or had an inkling to visit. With those visits, my wife was just too busy for her always randy husband.

Yes, apparently like most marriages, sex in our spousal bed did not hold up as strong as my wife's obsession. After the first year we slowed to sex about once a week instead of every day or two. A year or so later and it was once every two weeks and then three weeks. By our fifth year we reached our lowest plateau; we didn't have sex for over nine months and it wasn't because my wife was pregnant. She hates the idea of having rug-rats; always piping off about how if she ever had kids she would definitely kill them. No, my wife is too selfish to have kids.

At one time I thought I wanted kids but after my fifth year as a math teacher at the middle school; I have become quite content with visiting my siblings whenever they have a new baby around. Much easier for me to get my 'baby fix' and get to keep my sanity, too.

My frustrations with our marriage lead us to going to counseling, which my wife reluctantly agreed to. Agreed to with the stipulation that we could not talk about her obsession; it seems my wife was a tad embarrassed with her favorite pastime. She has her select friends she shares her obsession with and of course the occupants (if any) of the residences we visit, but to everyone else, she puts up a façade of a dreary life of a bored working wife. After our third visit, I figured because of the boundaries my wife was insisting on enforcing, the counseling was a lost cause so when she offered the peace pipe of giving more action in the horizontal bump arena, I signed on and we never went back.

She kept her word about the sex; sort of. We do it now about once a month, normally a week after her cycle ends when she is the horniest. It is good sex, real good, just not enough. So I do what those husbands in my situation that doesn't have the moral fiber of someone willing to act like a priest; well a legit priest. You know the type that should enter the pearly gates after they leave this plain of existence. Shirley there is one or two of them out there? Yes, 'shirley', after experience that end all of the great comic movies, Airplane and hearing the infamous "Don't call me Shirley" gag, I have since changed my lexicon; no longer to I acknowledge 's-u-r-e-l-y'; no it is now and always, 'shirley'.

Any way, like all normal, sexually repressed male whose wives would rather do something, anything other than fulfilling their spousal duties in the bed room, I surf porn. God Bless the creation of the internet and Al Gore too.

I used to have a nice porn collection on VHS and magazines. The wife would bitch at me a little but all I had to do is ask if she wanted to go to the bedroom so she could do her 'wifely duties' to shut her up. If I happen to be in a real pissy mood I would slam her about her own kinky obsession. That would get her running to her attic office in a huff, slamming every door along the way. I would have to sleep on the couch for a couple of days but I tend to get better sleep on the couch anyway. During the wintertime the wife's feet are like ice cubes and she insists on intertwining them with my legs. Frigid bitch my wife is.

So again we are on our way to a new locale and a new family murder site. I tried to get out of going on the trips but between the coke bottle glasses my wife wears and her piss poor night vision (yes, I am kinky, I love the way she looks in them), her subpar, well let's be honest, her crappy driving skills and the begging she does before each trip, I always seem to buckle under and agree to chauffeur her ever enlarging ass around.

That is not true, her ass isn't expanding, her ass is by far her best physical feature, it has such a curve to it, and it just begs to be squeezed. Sadly it is not fair game for spankings and fucking because that would, you know, hurt. Bitch. No her butt is still pleasing to the eyes, but her belly isn't. It doesn't hang down to her knees but it does stick out farther than her hand sized boobies. Her boobies are unique though. I have never seen any other like them; even on the internet. Her nipples are inverted. So of course she is very self conscious of them. They work fine, if she is horny or more often, cold, they puff up and stick out real nice. Yes, my wife has innie nipples vice outies. Deal with it. I like them just fine thank you.

We arrive at the Conrad Bed and Breakfast just before 5pm, enough time to get settled in our room and go down for dinner. There is some real perks for me to go on these trips. Home cooked meals definitely rank up there. I barely know how to heat water and the wife; she is good for burning water. Terribly cooks, both of us. So we eat out a lot or eat frozen pre-made meals. But when we travel? Nothing but the best home cooked meals for us. Yum!

As soon as the meal is consumed the wife disappears and I don't think nothing of it. Another perk from all of our travels is that I get to see all of the local sights, specifically the architecture. Why is that important to a math teacher you ask? Simple, I have a degree in architecture, not teaching. When the wife and I moved to that po-dunk town that we call home in Pennsylvania, it was under the pretense of me getting a job in an architect firm there. Well, our timing sucked and that firm shut its doors the week we arrived. So did we move back to Virginia? Oh, no, the wife found out about multiple murders and secrets in the surrounding hills and we just had to stay. Besides, her new job as a CPA was still there for her to go to.

After confirming that there was no jobs for me as an architect, I sat on my ass for a couple of weeks before boredom set, more rotten timing because that is when school was getting ready to start up and the middle school needed a substitute math teacher. By the end of the first quarter I was brought on full time and have been there ever since. And yet I still dabble in the architect biz; not because it is in my blood. Drawing the plans for doors and windows is boring shit, but I do have my own dreams. I want to build the perfect house, well I prefect for me, so while the wife is gallivanting around I go look at old houses, maybe take a picture or two for reference when I get back to the house and my auto-Cad program.

One trick I learned in our travels was to call the local realtors, in the small towns we constantly seem to visit there is one or at most two realtors. I give them a song and dance about possibly looking to buy one of their quaint houses for sale and they are all too eager to take me on a tour. I quickly learned which realtor knew about the wares they were pushing by asking about one subject: molding. Those that knew molding generally knew about all of the other small intricate questions I would follow with. If they didn't know molding, I wouldn't ask much and try to give them a vibe that they were blowing smoke up my ass.

The two mornings after our arrival and the wife actually joined me for breakfast. There are times where her subject matter will totally engross her even to the point where she will stop eating. It used to worry and bug me until I decided to see just how long she could be enticed. On that trip she must have found a gold vein because for three days she didn't come back to the B&B. Yes, I was worried. Jealous too. When she finally made an appearance she immediately waylaid me like her mouth was a machine gun. None stop did the words rapidly flow from her mouth. The dutiful husband that I am, I tuned her out. She was fine.

She joined us because she was frustrated. There was a murder/suicide with she was sure a dark secret behind it but she struck out. No one in this small burg was speaking to her. This wasn't the first time she had struck out trying to track down one of her killers but normally there is always some busy body who just loves to gossip; not so this town. No one will even acknowledge that something violent like a murder even happened, let alone give out the ghastly details. When the phone in the hallway rang, my wife looked up expectantly; as was her practice, she was handing out cards from the B&B telling everyone she could be reached there.

When the proprietor spoke out my last name, I couldn't help but smile in glee as my wife slunked down into her chair; that will teach the childish thing to think she was a 'modern woman' and didn't need to take my last name. Hell, the silly goose didn't even hyphenate it. Score one for the home team. I too gave out the B&B business card. Just one, to the local realtor whose fake blonde hair and her fake tits were matched by her fake knowledge of the houses she was pimping.

"Mr. Meadows?"

"Yes, speaking."

"I just got a call from a local who needs to sell her house quick and I immediately thought of you."

"Excellent. What time can I see it?"

"Well, that is the problem; would next weekend be good for you?" Uh, no you stupid bitch, I am only in town for one more day, I told you that already.

"Not really, I leave tomorrow. I don't know when I will be back this way."

"But this house is really worth it!" Then why does she want to sell her house quick?

"Sorry, today or tomorrow morning, that is your limit."

"But I am going out of town tonight; I have an appointment in Whitherspoon." And that means what to me your vaporous whore?

"Do you have to be there when I see the house?" Not that you know anything about architecture, let alone molding.

"Uhmmm." She hemmed and hawed for a few more minutes before asking if she could call me back.

I had just finished my second plate of Banana Foster on a Raft, damn good food but I knew I would pay for it later when the golden moron called back.

"Mr. Meadow, I talked to Mrs. Maloney and she agreed that you could come by this evening when she returns home."

"Evening? Don't you think the dark would impede my view of the house?" Of course you don't, you flaxen hazed bimbette.

"I am sorry Mr. Meadow's but that is when she will be returning back to her domicile today." Ohh, was that your big word for the day? Let me guess, you have a calendar on your desk that has the 'word of the day', don't cha'? "And she leaves early in the morning herself, so tomorrow is out, I am afraid." Wow, you were able to add two plus two? Brilliant!

"Well, I do have a couple of places that was recommended I give a look, so yeah, tonight is fine. What time is she home?"

"She said that anytime after 9pm would be fine."

"Okay, tell her I will be there."

After Ms. Know-nothing gave me the address, I went to go look at a Victorian that wasn't up for sale but maintained a public garden next to it. I figure no one would yell at me for looking more at the building than the flowers. Maybe I can worm my way into the house with a bathroom break. In a lot of older houses, the molding in their bathrooms is first rate.

I was not happy with the sunset at 7:55pm, no city lights made this town dark. I knew I wasn't going to be able to see shit on the outside of the house, so I went hoping it had some decent molding.

When I knocked on that door, I got no reply. There was a light on in the back of the ground floor and at least three lights on upstairs but no one deemed to answer my call. The house was a simple A frame on the side of a hill. I was sure it was picturesque and maybe I would swing by on the way out of town in the morning to see it. The front porch seemed nice, I just wished they would have left the front porch light on so I could get a good look!

In my frustration I hammered on the door one more time, figuring I would wait a minute, two at max before going back to my B&B for some of her delicious smelling apple crumb pie. As I was about to turn away from the door, I saw movement in the light from the back room, so I knocked again. After two dead bolts, the door cracked open.

"Yes?"

"Mrs. Maloney?"

"Who wants to know?"

"My name is Gerry Meadow's; I had an appointment setup with your realtor for me to see the house tonight."

"Oh shit. I mean, er, I am sorry."

"That is okay."

"I had a real rough day and all I wanted to do is soak in the tub and I completely forgot about your appointment."

I smiled, nodding, "I completely understand Mrs. Maloney. Perhaps we cancel?" I really wasn't that keen on seeing the house anyway.

"No, please. I am sorry. Now is as good as any to see the house." With that she threw open the door and reached forward to grab my hand, apparently afraid I was going to run off. Even with just the dim light from the back room, I could make out that she was in a robe and she had her hair rapped in a towel. Well, if she was eager, I could make the most of if. Sometimes I felt like a ham lying to people because I wanted to see the inside of their house, but mostly I didn't care. Like tonight.

"Well, if you insist. Do you think we could start with the porch?"

"The porch?"

"Yes, could you possibly turn on the light?"

"Oh, I am sorry, but the light is burnt out and since my husband died there has been no one to do the odd jobs around the house like replacing a burned out bulb."

"I can understand that, how about the front room then?"

Mrs. Maloney flipped the master switch and the over head light blared on. Blinking, I entered the A Frame house but not before checking out the front porch. Yes, it was very nice, except for the porch light that hung from the ceiling. Burnt out? No, shattered? By a rock? Definitely. Why did she lie? She really must be desperate to sell.

The front room was actually a great room dividing in three by two partition walls, one in the form of a book shelf four feet high that bisected the long room in half, separating the huge front sitting room; TV room really but there was no TV though because the TV case was empty. The second partition split the back half of the room in the middle to separate the dining room with the living room. Someone (not always the current resident) did this to break the two rooms apart but it was a mistake because the living room held a massive fire place that took up the entire back wall. When I looked into the dining room it was obvious that side covered up the slate stones of the fire place on the other side of the partition wall. Definitely a shame.

I, like always, ignored the furniture and concentrated on the building itself. Rustic, stained wood paneling, probably pine, except for the slate fireplace and drywall in the dining room. What was our friendly neighborhood retail tramp thinking? There is nothing special about this house.

When I went to examine the slate fireplace; a true piece of work, but out of place in this simple A Frame and its stained pine, Mrs. Maloney excused herself to get comfortable so I was surprised that when she returned, she was still wearing her burgundy robe and only the towel on her head was gone allowing her still damp blond air (this one not from a bottle) to hang limply on her shoulders. This was my first good look at her and while she wasn't drop dead gorgeous her face was not with out merit.

And then she lit up. Gahh, I won't be here long. Call me a prude or a priss, I don't fucking care but smoking is disgusting. Nothing cool about staining your teeth and fingernails brown or your clothes reeking of the evil stench. Thanks to the cartons and cartons that my mother smoked, if I am in a smoke filled area I will start to gag. So you still think it is funny, my dear old mom, to blow smoke in my face? Oh that is right, you can't answer because the smoke took your lungs from you. You didn't have a living will dear old mom so when it was my decision if we should continue to pay for you to be kept alive by an iron lung I had no regrets in saying no. Pissed my siblings off but I didn't care and I was the eldest. Yay me for being the first born.

I must of made a face because Mrs. Maloney quickly stamped the fag out (yes, the wife had to visit some of the killers in the English countryside too and ever since then I take great joy in calling those nasty tobacco aroma makers fags, especially to my neighbors. I had to stop using that term at the middle school when I went up on sexual harassment charges, charges which were dropped I might add).

"Sorry, one of my vices. Stressful days like this and they really do help." And I don't care you weak willed floozy.

"Thank you any way. Now, the rest of the house?" I inquired because the sooner I was out of here the better.

"Yes, this way is the kitchen and stair well that leads to the bedrooms upstairs and the basement."

"And how many bathrooms does it have?"

"Only one but it is basement..." The basement? Who the fuck puts the only bathroom in the basement? I guess I can forget about the molding there. "But it is a really nice bathroom. It has a hot tub and everything."

In the kitchen I was again disappointed, while the kitchen was very functional, it maintained the rustic look as the rest of the house and implemented none of the modern conveniences I was hoping to see. By this time Mrs. Maloney was flipping on all of the light switches which included the back porch and the prominent hot tub on its pedestal.

"Uhmm, you said there was a hot tub downstairs?"

"Yes, we have two of them." Alll-righty.

The stairway was a thing of beauty; metal slats circling up and down a central pole while the walls were more of the slate stone as the fire place. Rustic? Yes, but I liked the way it looked. Without thinking I pulled out my camera and heard a deep gasp from Mrs. Maloney behind me.

"Is there something amiss?"

"No one said anything about pictures being taken!"

"I am sorry, I should have asked, but this stairwell is a thing of beauty and I wanted to take a picture to show my wife." When she didn't relax her pose, I put the camera away and looked again at the stairway to memorize as much as possible.

Mrs. Maloney took me upstairs to a landing that had closets and cabinets on both sides of the wall before emptying into an open bedroom, whose bed which was occupied.

"MOM!"

"Jezebel, don't yell. We have guest."

The girl in the bed had a very startled look on her face as she yanked the blanket up to her neck. I promptly ignored the girl; one thing my teaching at a middle school taught me was that with girls in an awkward situation, ignoring the girl promotes the awkwardness away. The room was the same as downstairs, rustic looking pine paneling. Opposite of the walls with the doors the outside walls had windows installed vertically into the angled roof. Instead of protruding out from the roof, the windows protruded inward with the interior walls built to line up with the windows, this alleviated much of the lost space due to the walls being angled steeply but also cut down on the size of the room, which was less than half of the width of the rooms downstairs.

"Is this her room?" With the open stairwell landing, the room was very loft-like.

"Actually, it is my room, but Jezebel was needing some privacy."

"Privacy?" I blurted out and wished I hadn't.

Between suffering from girls who were starting to develop both physically and sexually at the middle school I had set a firm conviction that I was a math teacher and not a confidant, if the girls had womanly issues they could talk to one of the numerous female teachers. If a boy had growing pains, they could talk to one of their peers. Harsh you say? Bobby-cock, I say. I have been up on sexual harassment charges twice; once for telling that rude Mrs. Pierce to put her fag out (how was I supposed to know her son came out of the closet that previous weekend) and when one little 8th grader by the first name of Nikki (have to protect their innocent you know, so no last names please) told another teacher that she and I had 'special' liaisons.

Yes, I would talk to her, but always in the hallway, never behind a closed door and I kept my door locked so no one could invite themselves into my room. So the accusations flew and I was suspended baring an investigation, but little Nikki hung herself. I carpooled with two other teachers so her accusations of me taking her to a motel room on the way home didn't fly and of the supposed weekend getaways two of the dates she provided I was able to counter with my credit card bill showing that I was in the next state over and the third weekend we were visiting the arrival of my youngest sister's latest brood fifty miles away.

Poor little stupid Nikki. When these facts were made to her, she stood up and screamed that I took her virginity. That was when her red faced mother told her to shut up, it seems that Nikki was taken to her OB/GYN after the accusation came out and the doc confirmed that Nikki, while still having her hymen attached proved her own stupidity by not knowing what her hymen was. Nikki was removed from school and I haven't had an issue with another of those snot nosed hormonal vamps since.

Mrs. Maloney thankfully ignored my outburst. The door out of the loft bedroom to the rest of the upstairs room slid to the side on rails. This I found interesting. The next room was more of an attic vice bedroom. It was one long room, looking more rustic than the rest of the house because the wood here was darker, whether a darker stain or darker natural wood I wasn't sure but the pine paneling from the previous room was missing so the rafters could be easily seen. The room, for its size was very sparse; two beds, two dressers. There was a few boxes scattered here and there with only the front portion of the room appearing to be domesticated outlined by the furniture and three interwoven area rugs.

"Mom?" Another from the loins of Mrs. Maloney. When Mrs. Maloney pulled on the string chain connected to the over head light I was able to make out another daughter (younger than the first?). This one wasn't as shy as the first because she didn't attempt to yank her blankets up, instead the blanket laid across her chest, thankfully covering whatever may have been growing there and her arms. That can't be right, her arms looked like they were ... well, the blanket above her crouch was rippling. Turning away I looked at Mrs. Maloney, trying to get my bearings.

"So, this ... this only really a one ... one bedroom house?"

"Well, no, it is two."

"But this room is unfinished."

Her smile added to her way of looking at it, "I prefer to think of it as this room is a bit big for just the two of my daughters."

I went to look out the far window on the back wall. The front of the house was still dark and the overhead light was too weak to allow me a proper look of the window frame which was a shame. When I turned around Mrs. Maloney was gone so I moved to follow her exit.

"Are you going to be my new daddy?" What the fuck? Where did that come from? I looked at the girl in the bed who was now sitting up and while she held the blanket up to her chest, since I was facing the side of the bed, I was easily able to distinguish that she was naked underneath the blanket as the side of her thigh, hip, waist and torso was in plain view.

"Uh, no, I am just here to look at your house. That is all."

"That is a shame." Uh!?

"Why is that?"

"Because you are nice looking man, I would love for you to be my new daddy."

That was the last thing I expected to hear visiting this house. Next to her bed was a full length mirror and I looked at myself. I am not narcissistic so the guy on the other side of the mirror was a bit of a stranger to me. I guess my wife's stomach wasn't the only one to have gone to pot, but I guess I was okay looking. My eyes always get me compliments. They are 'friendly' looking blue eyes is what everyone tells me, and for a long time I thought that meant girls wouldn't be interested in me. My beard was full and red; though the rest of my hair is real dirty blond (that would be the Irish from my dear old mum). I am not a tall man; at five eight, the low ceiling in this attic didn't threaten me. And here this girl and yes, she was a girl older then ten but probably not older than thirteen or fourteen, was telling me I was good looking. Well nice anyway.

"What happened to your dad?" Shit there I go again blurting out questions.

"He was defending my honor." What?

"And how was he doing that?"

"Gamora!" So that was the pretty girls name, she took after her mother. More so than Jezebel.

We both turned and saw Mrs. Maloney. Arms crossed, pushing up her robe, splitting the opening wider and displaying an amount of cleavage I didn't think she owned. Fuck, I need to get out of here if she is going to keep doing that. Yes, I am a tit man.

Unlike most men, I can tell you when I became some an aficionado of the female mammary glands. I was eight or nine and my younger sisters, all three of them had more Barbie dolls then they ever needed. Now my mother's bosom was not on the large side, yes, she had some but they were closer to my wife's than Barbie's. One thing that really irked me was that my sister had a plethora of Barbie's and I didn't have a single GI Joe. Not the six inch freaks that came out with the A-Team style cartoon but the twelve inch bearded one my next door neighbor Joey had. So one summer rainy day, I started playing with three Barbie's my sisters had left laying around. My mother thought that my playing with the girls toys was cute and even made me a couple of green camouflage outfits for them to go to war in. The first couple of times I changed the Barbie's into their war gear nothing electric happened. But the third time was an enlightening moment.

I was again bored because I was stuck inside with chicken pox and I ran across the camo outfits my mother had sewn and three different Barbie's on my sister's bedroom floor, not far away from the clothes. This time though, the Barbie's were actually dressed and I would have to undress them. My youngest sister especially likes to strip all of the Barbie's and then go play with something else so most of the Barbie's were always undressed. As I started to pull on the Barbie's top the vision in front of me made me feel funny. Over and over again, I removed Barbie's top, only to put it back on just so I could remove it again. I was enthralled but by what I didn't know.

For weeks that summer I could be found hidden under one of my father's two over sized rocking chairs playing with Barbie's. After a while my father started to grouse to my mother that she was turning me into a girl like my sisters, but he was so far from the truth. Those plastic Barbie's changed my outlook on life, suddenly I had a new favorite Aunt, Aunt Wilma, whom I use to despise because she would squeeze my ruby cheeks and try to suffocate me in her fat chest. That chest I had suddenly realized wasn't 'fat' afterall. (Well, it was, but it was fat that was meant to have that shape, a shape I found myself constantly dreaming of).

After my outlook on Aunt Wilma changed, she suddenly found plenty of reasons to visit us and gave me plenty of hugs and teased me, though at the time I did not know she was teasing with all of the rubbing of her teat flesh against me. Sadly, she died not long after my self-revelation. My father was heart broken at losing his only sister, though my mother didn't seem as heartbroken.

It is funny how a flash of skin can prompt memories from your subconscious. Mrs. Maloney directed me to the door so she could show me the basement and I lethargically followed. In room occupied by Jezebel who still had the blankets up to her neck, Gamora called for her mother and excused her self to answer her daughter's summons. I told her I would be fine and would take the opportunity to look over her circle stair case one more time.