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 a hospital bed to be located on 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 a more than 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 the 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 machine tool part and a racecar piece?"
So I started a secret second job. A 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 illegal 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.