Chapter 3

That had all started and ended three months ago. Now it seemed more like a passing thought than actual events. Janet and I haven't been together since, although on occasion I see evidence of my car windows being cleaner than I remember leaving them. I swear the Jag runs a bit faster on certain days, too. But things haven't been going well lately, for either of us.

The first thing of note that happened was an industrial accident at the mortuary where Darrin worked. It seems he was making some final adjustments or something to the body of one of the deceased prior to cremating it. Somehow, the lid of the coffin accidentally slammed shut on him and latched itself in the locked position. No one ever did figure out why Darrin had to climb all the way into the casket with that dead young woman, leaving his shoes, socks, pants and underwear lying on the floor where the next shift found them. Strange, no?

Even stranger, although the manufacture of the cremation oven swears it is impossible to do so, the automatic conveyer feed into the oven turned on all by itself! Since the coffin was already in position on the feeder track, the coffin along with Darrin and the dead woman was into the raging fire before anyone could do anything to save poor Darrin. As his widow, Janet had to settle for a mere multi-million dollar settlement for the horrible loss of her beloved spouse. So young, so beautiful, and now, so rich. So tragic, no?

My luck was even worse. It couldn't have been but a week after Darrin was burning in Hell, that both of my wife's brothers had been mysteriously murdered. The police reports concluded that one or more of the spouses of their clients (a.k.a. the victims) apparently decided that the world would be a better place without the two brothers.

One of them, Seymour, was run down by an 18-wheeler. Normally, this would have looked like a traffic accident, except for the fact Seymour was getting an erotic massage in a seedy motel room at the time. The truck had exploded through the flimsy wall of the motel and the front wheel ended up parked right on top of his wallet. I thought that was appropriate, somehow, as his wallet was in the back pocket of the pants he was still wearing. Ouch!

That same tragic night the other brother, Harold, had died as well. I guess he should have known not to have electrical appliances plugged in and setting so close to the bathtub. It is just too easy for something to fall into the water and cause an accident. The authorities couldn't figure out what he was doing with a steam iron in the bathtub, but they were still almost willing to rule it an accident. Maybe Harold what just ironing out his legal briefs? (Sorry, I couldn't resist... )

Anyway, this incident might have been ruled an accident, except for the fact that it is really hard to fall on an iron and embed it in your skull. Especially from the back. Then to reach back and plug it in. To my way of thinking there were just a few too many inconsistencies for this to be an accident. Gee, you think so?

The cops, however, had way too many suspects. They must have interviewed half the folks in town and it seems everyone they talked to that had dealings with one or both of them had a motive to kill them. Most of them almost justifiably. And those two boys had been really busy over the last 20 or so years, too. There were hundreds of clients, therefore, hundreds of victims and hundreds of suspects. Interestingly, I never was considered as a suspect. When all of this had happened, well, shortly after Darrin had burned up, I was in Hawaii for a seminar that whole week. Hundreds of people saw me give my presentation. Won a fucking award for it, too.

The upshot of those two unexpected and happy endings was that my wife was suddenly the front, and only, runner for Momma's inheritance money. I thought she may have jumped the gun a bit, but the day after the dearly departed's funerals, she filed for divorce. I couldn't believe it. If I had known it was that simple, I would have gotten rid of those two motherfuckers years ago. Years!

My lawyer got together with her lawyer and worked out a settlement. She was in such a rush now that she was obviously going to get Momma's money, she would have agreed to anything. It seems she wasn't interested in anything from me but the furniture she had been collecting and storing in the garage for the past 25 years. That antique crap filled all three bays. Some fucking French shit. It was as uncomfortable to sit in or sleep on as the furnishings made for the actual Inquisition. Which seemed fitting, somehow.

The bad news for Janet and I wasn't over though. Janet's dead husband's Momma decided to move in with Janet, to "help her grieve" and to help her spend her settlement money. As she was packing up her old house to move in with Janet, she somehow had a terrible accident and fell down the stairs to her death. Trouble was, some of her old biddy friends told the cops she never, ever went upstairs. She was deathly afraid she would fall down and hurt herself. Damn! No wonder that old bitch had put up such a struggle. The first and second times I carried her up those stairs she really put up a fight. By the fifth time, most of the fight was pretty well gone. Fortunately, the detectives ignored that lead and didn't pursue it. If they had looked too closely, they might have found the tiny little injection site behind her left knee nor did they do an autopsy, which might have shown some interesting chemicals in her blood. Like I say, never leave an accidental death to chance...

To continue with the bad news, shortly after Janet's mother-in-law passed away, my own mother-in-law suffered a fatal accident as well. She apparently slipped on a throw rug while preparing to go to her weekly knitting class. She was still clutching those sharp knitting needles in her hand when my soon-to-be ex-wife found her. The needles had gone right through her heart, which I found ironic. I would have sworn she didn't have one.

I would have also sworn that Momma had never so much as touched a pair of knitting needles much less owned a set, but my almost ex-wife told the cops that she had taken an interest in domestic things of late.

I just about choked on that one. But the cops believed it. My soon-to-be ex-wife suddenly inherited Momma's money, as the Will had not yet been changed to give it all to the cats.

My favorable divorce agreement suddenly promised to make me very wealthy. The lawyers had agreed to an arrangement that we would split half of everything. My wife had agreed that half of everything I had was the furniture in the garage. But she didn't realize that the settlement went both ways. God, I love that Equal Rights shit! She nearly had a hemorrhage when she realized I was going to get half of Momma's money and that she had already signed the papers.

Not a bad arrangement, I thought. I got rid of my bitter old wife and a truckload of old shit and in return I got a ton of money and my garage back. Not bad at all for 25 years hard labor. Except that my wife pulled a fast one. She sucked up to an old judge friend and got him to nullify her original filing for divorce. Oh, well. I still got my garage back. And even though we weren't getting a divorce, my wife decided to live on in Momma's house. So, three out of four ain't bad, right?

What happened next was just terrible, though. The movers came and loaded the truck with all the furniture and the antiques from my garage. I had been out of town for three weeks straight when they came to clean out the place. My wife, not trusting the movers, had driven along behind them. After they had loaded everything up, under close supervision, as they were headed out of the state, one of the brakes on the truck must have over-heated. It started a fire under the dry wood of the truck flooring. That old furniture lit off like a rocket, almost as if there had been incendiary devices, like bags of gasoline and stuff hidden in all the drawers and taped under the tables.

No one expected my wife to try to rescue that old shit. But she did. Before anyone knew what was happening, she dashed into the burning truck and started hauling out pieces. She actually got three chairs out of the van before the fire and smoke overcame her and she burned up along with her precious furniture. The two drivers of the van and all the passers-by were helpless to save her.

The funeral was three days ago. After the funeral, I just flushed her symbolic remains down the toilet. I felt that was symbolic, too.

I was back out in the garage, my empty garage, sweeping up and getting ready to finally get my tools back out. For twenty fucking years I had wanted a workshop. We never had any extra space, or she had been afraid that there might be some dust or shit that would get on her precious furniture. Well, that was all gone now, and her with it.

The garage was empty except for the beginnings of a motor hoist in the third bay. For years I had been planning on restoring an old '57 Chevy I had found in a run-down barn a couple of counties over. No one owned it, and the farm was abandoned as far as I could tell. I had installed a heavy chain and a winch up in the rafters 20 years ago, and it still looked good as new. I had made a couple of three-foot bars of iron with center rings that could be hung from the hoist chain and then used to lift a motor block out of the car. I had cleaned up the area pretty well getting ready to pull the rusted out hulk in from the back 40 where it was tarped. I was busy sweeping and straightening.

I heard the 'click-click' of her heels echoing off the bare walls. God help me, my prick got iron hard even before I turned to look at her. When I did, she was everything I remembered and more. A wet dream come to life.

A tiny smile played across her lips as she noticed the tent in my pants. Her long erect nipples were doing a nice job on the front of her tight shirt as well. If that's what you could call what she was wearing. It was one of those sleeveless T-shirts that was cut short, just under where her breasts rested on her chest. The rest of her outfit consisted of a micro thong and a pair of very high stiletto heels. She had come to get fucked. I had thought I was ready, until I saw her. Now I wasn't so sure if she wasn't more woman than I could handle.

She stopped in front of me, a curious look on her face.

"No glasses, John?"

"I got contacts."

"Oh! Well, do you like what you see?" She did a slow pirouette in front of me, gradually lifting her arms above her head as she pivoted. That motion exposed her perfect tits to my view as the hem of the short shirt raised up with her arms.

"Yes. Yes I do!" I deadpanned a big sigh and went back to sweeping. I wanted to see how far she would go to get fucked.

I could sense her confusion when I didn't jump her right then. Unsettled, she wandered around the cavernous room. I was watching her from the corner of my eye as I continued sweeping. She touched an item here and there, then stopped to seriously look at something on one of the shelves. Something had caught her interest. She picked it up and brought it over to me. When she held it out and I saw what it was she had in her hand, it was like a fist had grabbed at my stomach and twisted.

She held an old dog collar that I hadn't seen in more than 20 years. I had forgotten about it until now, pushing those memories down below the surface and now all the pain of tragically losing a faithful pet came rushing back to me.

When I could talk without shaking, I explained to Janet that the collar belonged to my Springer Cocker Spaniel, Lady. Lady and I had been together since High School. I had seen this scraggly little runt of the litter in a pet shop window on my way home from school and had been irresistibly drawn to her. She seemed to feel the same about me, as the owner finally gave her to me. He flagged me down a couple of days later as I walked by on my way home. He said she cried the entire time I was out of her sight and would bark wildly whenever I was in sight. I offered to work for him for free to pay for her, and got my first job that way.

My parents like the idea of me getting a job, but objected to me getting a dog until Lady won them over. She was that kind of dog. It took her all of about two minutes. From then until she died we were inseparable. No one knows how she died, but the theory was that Lady's leash somehow got caught on the bumper of the car my wife was driving without her knowing about it. All that was left of Lady when my wife got back from town was the leash and this collar. That, and a 2-mile long bloody smear where her legs finally gave out and she couldn't run any longer.

Janet stared at the collar in shock as I finished the short tale of Lady, ashamed and embarrassed at the raw nerve she had touched. But she was a trouper.

She undid the buckle on the collar and slipped it around her own neck. It was a tight fit, but she got it fastened. It looked damn good on her. Better than I remember it looking on Lady. I was visibly shaking when she looked up at me and she misinterpreted my lust for anger. She paled.

"I — I'm sorry, Sir! I didn't mean to make you angry."

"I'm not angry. What did you mean to do by putting it on."

"I don't know. I just thought all of a sudden that, well, it kind of looked like a slave collar, and, well, you know..." She tapered off.

"You want to be my slave?"

"Oh, no. I mean, yes! I mean, I..."

"Yes or no? Which?"

"Yes," she said.

"My SEX slave?

I saw a shudder pass through her as she began to realize what she had gotten herself into and where this was headed. Then, "Yes, Master."

"Stay here." I walked over to where she had picked up the collar and got a couple of items. Then I moved a couple of things around, arranging them to fit my purposes. I had no idea what I was going to do, and was stalling for time. As I was looking through my toolbox, the glimmer of an idea hit me.

I quickly left the garage and ran to my bathroom to grab some things I needed. Then I dashed back and found her standing right where I had left her. So far, so good.

I moved set up a video camera on a tripod, put in a fresh tape and turned it on. I rechecked the angle and the lighting. It was good. Then I went over to the sawhorse I had placed in the center bay. "Come here, Lady! Come on, girl." I slapped the leash against my thigh a couple of times to indicate where I wanted her to come to.

'Lady' got the strangest look in her eye when she realized who — or what — I was referring to. She hesitantly came over to me, a questioning, fearful expression on her face. I think she already sensed it would be a mistake to speak.

"Good girl! That's my girl!" I scratched her familiarly behind her ears, as one would an animal. Then I snapped the leash on her collar. I let it hang down between her breasts to let her feel the weight of it. I intended her to feel the sting of it later. Just for the Hell of it, unless she would give me an excuse to really punish her.

I turned her so that she was standing with her back to one end of the sawhorse and sat her down on the end of it, facing away from the other end. I took duct tape and firmly taped one ankle to one leg of the sawhorse, the other ankle to the other leg. Then I helped her lie back along the top of the horse, the narrow top board barely supporting her spine. After both wrists were taped to the other legs, she was completely helpless and more than a little uncomfortable. The sawhorse was sturdy but inflexible.

I kissed her hard on the lips and then quietly asked her if she was sure this was what she wanted. She thought about it this time, but the lust in her eyes when she nodded was an inferno. I wondered briefly at that time just who was controlling whom in this relationship. Then I saw her nipple peek out at me, and didn't give a second thought.

I reached down with my hand and got a firm grip on her thong panties. I had always wanted to rip a pair of panties off of a woman, and I did it now. I won't say it's over-rated as a fantasy, but if you ever do it, make sure they are either the cheap kind or really old, or ever better, the old, cheap kind. Thank goodness this pair was miniscule, because as it was, I was barely able to snap the seams. Any more fabric and I would have hurt myself - or worse, Janet!

They came off in a quite dramatic fashion, ruined and smelling of cunt. I savored them for an appropriate amount of time and then stuffed them into her mouth. I made sure they stayed there by applying two strips of duct tape across her luscious lips. I think it was then that she realized she might have been in over her head. She could trust me or panic. Thank God she decided to trust me.

One of the very few mementos I had from my grandfather was an old fashioned straight razor. It was exactly like the kind they use in horror movies to slit people's throats, dismember bodies, and to cut off other body parts. I held that up now for her to see, and with a flick of my wrist, opened it up so that the gleaming blade was exposed. It took her a minute to realize what she was looking at. The fighting began when she did. I thought she was going to rip that sawhorse apart with the struggles she was putting up.

Carefully, as she was still bucking, I made three cuts in the material of her top. One at each shoulder and another from the bottom to the neck line, right up between her tits. No more Mr. Macho for me. She froze the moment I moved the razor close to her body. I slid the ruined shirt from her body and left her naked, but for those fabulous shoes and a small patch of hair, which I intended to remove next.

I lathered up the shaving brush, whipping up a big glob of foam. When it was nice and thick, I applied it to her pubic area, lathering it up much more than necessary. It took a second for her to comprehend what I was doing, but when she did, she began to violently shake her head from side to side. I decided to ignore her protests and to pretend instead that she was in the throes of passion.

Urging her to stay still, I lightly stroked the razor through her already neatly trimmed bush. In three or four strokes, it was all gone. I got the hot towel I had brought down with me and laid it on the newly denuded area. That got a completely different kind of reaction from my new slave. She was much more appreciative this time, keening into her muzzle and thrashing around my finger I had 'accidentally' slipped into her cunt.

Her orgasm was explosive and left her drained. She must have been primed for weeks before she had come over today. I know I sure was.

I stood back and admired my handiwork. She was laid out on the sawhorse like a feast at a banquet. Sleek and bare, sexy as any woman I could have ever imagined. It was beyond my wildest dreams, and, to be honest, I was quite at a loss as to how to proceed.

Janet seemed to want to pursue the Dom/Sub relationship. I was more interested in fucking the Hell out of her every night for the rest of my life, which would be significantly shortened in span if I did exactly that. I didn't care, I intended to make her the offer. In addition, I didn't want our first fuck to be the result of a kinky bondage session. Somehow, I wanted more romance, soft light, roses, candles, tenderness, that kind of stuff. Call me a romantic, call me soft, just be sure to call me for all your insurance needs — Oh, sorry. Got a bit carried away. Professional hazard.