IC: "The Night the Lights Went Out"
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HumanBean
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Nicky Long (profile), with Samantha "Sammi" Evans (profile)
Eugene, Oregon
About 2:15 am, local time (~30 minutes after TLWO):
(OOC: Just to assuage any fears from the Moderators, even though there might sometimes be comments about Nicky's interest in women in their teens, there will NEVER EVER be anything in his posts that violate Literotica's rules. No sexual roleplay, no physical descriptions of little girls, etc. I promise.)
Nicky couldn't help but smile at Sammi. She was a doll. She looked younger than her 18 years of age. That didn't prevent Nicky from being intrigued by her, of course. He liked them young. They were more easily manipulated by a man like him.
She was intrigued by him, too. He could see that in her expression. Her smirk. Her scanning of his physique. Her excited introduction. "I'm Sammi. Samantha, actually. But you can call me Sammi."
"Nicky," he responded.
"Go back inside," Carl said. "It's cold out."
The man was correct about it being cold. Nicky could feel it. He could see that Sammi was feeling it, too. Without a bra underneath her tee, her nipples looked as big as a Hershey's Kiss. Okay, maybe not that big. But Jesus, they were swollen. Was it the cold? Or was it excitement for Nicky? He didn't care. He just enjoyed looking at the peaks of her firm, round mounds.
Carl continued, "Head back inside. I'll be there in a moment."
The teen didn't depart, though. She continued to just stand there, eying Nicky. Her father snapped, "Sammi!"
Nicky almost laughed at the girl's reaction. Even in the dim light of the lantern, he could see her face explode in a deep red blush. Carl ordered, "Go inside, honey. We men have this handled."
Sammi departed after one last look at and smile to Nicky. Carl looked after his daughter a moment. Then, turning to Nicky, he said, "Sorry for that. Sometimes she doesn't understand..."
Carl went quiet. He'd been about to speak about the dangers of the world. How did he do that without applying that Nicky was one of those dangers? "So, is there anything else you need, sir?"
"No, no, you've done enough already," Nicky replied. "Thanks. I've got everything I need."
Carl offered out his hand. Nicky stepped closer, taking it. He repeated, "Thanks. You're good people."
Sammi's father headed out, closing the door behind him. He hoped he wasn't making a mistake. He returned to the house, finding his daughter already departed to her bedroom. Carl kissed and hugged his wife. "Pamela, you go ahead and go to bed. Fire up the propane heater. The big one, with two bottles. We might need it. It's gonna get cold."
She left, and Carl went to the window to look out upon the tiny house. A moment later the lantern there dimmed almost to the point of being extinguished. Looking beyond the tiny house, he could see the flames of one of the earlier plane crashes. What the hell happened tonight? he thought.
He retrieved the shotgun from where his wife had leaned it against the wall. He dropped into an arm chair that looked out the big bay window. With the lantern at his feet off, he could see the tiny house well enough to know if Nicky left it.
Eugene, Oregon
About 2:15 am, local time (~30 minutes after TLWO):
(OOC: Just to assuage any fears from the Moderators, even though there might sometimes be comments about Nicky's interest in women in their teens, there will NEVER EVER be anything in his posts that violate Literotica's rules. No sexual roleplay, no physical descriptions of little girls, etc. I promise.)
Nicky couldn't help but smile at Sammi. She was a doll. She looked younger than her 18 years of age. That didn't prevent Nicky from being intrigued by her, of course. He liked them young. They were more easily manipulated by a man like him.
She was intrigued by him, too. He could see that in her expression. Her smirk. Her scanning of his physique. Her excited introduction. "I'm Sammi. Samantha, actually. But you can call me Sammi."
"Nicky," he responded.
"Go back inside," Carl said. "It's cold out."
The man was correct about it being cold. Nicky could feel it. He could see that Sammi was feeling it, too. Without a bra underneath her tee, her nipples looked as big as a Hershey's Kiss. Okay, maybe not that big. But Jesus, they were swollen. Was it the cold? Or was it excitement for Nicky? He didn't care. He just enjoyed looking at the peaks of her firm, round mounds.
Carl continued, "Head back inside. I'll be there in a moment."
The teen didn't depart, though. She continued to just stand there, eying Nicky. Her father snapped, "Sammi!"
Nicky almost laughed at the girl's reaction. Even in the dim light of the lantern, he could see her face explode in a deep red blush. Carl ordered, "Go inside, honey. We men have this handled."
Sammi departed after one last look at and smile to Nicky. Carl looked after his daughter a moment. Then, turning to Nicky, he said, "Sorry for that. Sometimes she doesn't understand..."
Carl went quiet. He'd been about to speak about the dangers of the world. How did he do that without applying that Nicky was one of those dangers? "So, is there anything else you need, sir?"
"No, no, you've done enough already," Nicky replied. "Thanks. I've got everything I need."
Carl offered out his hand. Nicky stepped closer, taking it. He repeated, "Thanks. You're good people."
Sammi's father headed out, closing the door behind him. He hoped he wasn't making a mistake. He returned to the house, finding his daughter already departed to her bedroom. Carl kissed and hugged his wife. "Pamela, you go ahead and go to bed. Fire up the propane heater. The big one, with two bottles. We might need it. It's gonna get cold."
She left, and Carl went to the window to look out upon the tiny house. A moment later the lantern there dimmed almost to the point of being extinguished. Looking beyond the tiny house, he could see the flames of one of the earlier plane crashes. What the hell happened tonight? he thought.
He retrieved the shotgun from where his wife had leaned it against the wall. He dropped into an arm chair that looked out the big bay window. With the lantern at his feet off, he could see the tiny house well enough to know if Nicky left it.
Alice2015
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Angel (profile) and Flynn (profile)
Bearview Cabins
Northwest of Durango, Colorado
About noon, local time (9+ hours after TLWO)
(OOC: The green text below is text that was added after my writing partner posted below. I'm only doing the color change to indicate to him what I changed so that he can easily find it. It's not a big deal.)
After their handshake and reintroduction to one another, in an attempt to get past the initial hostility they'd shared, Angel suggested, "Flynn, why don't you come with me. I'm going into Durango. Gonna sell some of the things I brought with me and try to get some answers as to what the hell is going on here." She played on his obvious ego by adding, "It'd be nice to have a big, strong man with me."
Angel headed out to the street with the dogs to survey her surroundings again. It was just more of the same, with no sign of anything electrical operating. Far off in the distance, she saw black smoke rising from where -- unknown to her -- a small commercial prop plane carrying ski trip tourists had gone down when TLWO. Flynn joined her, and off they went.
About 1:45pm, ~11 hours after TLWO:
The walk toward Durango got weirder and weirder as the minutes passed. They saw more of what they'd already seen: cars stalled on the road or down in ditches. Occasionally there were drivers with their heads under the hoods trying to figure out what had happened, but for the most part, the autos were abandoned. As the trek continued, it became obvious that anything and everything that used electricity was simply dead.
They arrived at the front door of Ye Old Curiosity Shoppe. The business was rather hard to describe: one-part gift shop, one-part second-hand store, one-part natural goods store, and one-part coffee and pastry shop. It was owned by an older woman named Phillis who Angel had known since she herself was a child. Phillis answered the door, smiling in delight at Angel. "Come in, my dear, come in."
Waving her visitors inside, the 80-year-old lady pat the dogs, telling them, "Nutter! Butter! It's so good to see you boys, too! I have something for you, of course." The dogs were excited to see Phillis, knowing what her next action would be. The shop owner pulled dog treats from an old metal container and tossed one to each of the dogs. Looking to Angel, she asked, "What do you have for me today?"
For years, Angel had been bringing in things she'd found or made to trade with Phyllis for whatever the old woman might have to trade. Today, though, Angel's response was, "Questions. What the hell's going on?"
"That's a very good question," Phillis answered. "Here's what I know..."
They spent almost two hours just chatting about what each of them had seen today. As they talked, used the firewood and/or propane heated stone oven, natural dehydrator, and barbeque pit that were out back of the Shoppe to cook everything that had been thawing out or otherwise faced going bad in Phillis's freezer and refrigerator. While they cooked, neighbors came by, looking to buy stuff, sell/trade stuff, or both. Phillis did what she could without any sort of price hikes for the good neighbors with whom she'd done business for years.
For the tourists whose big city money had for years caused the cost of living in Durango to be too high for its poorer residents -- like Phyllis herself -- she charged a heftier price for the things they needed. She couldn't take credit/debit cards, obviously, and -- not knowing whether this blackout was only the start of the fall of civilization -- she wasn't about to take cash either, knowing that tomorrow it might be worthless. Instead, she took things in trade that she could either use herself or sell to her neighbors. Angel had always been impressed with Phyllis's shrewd business acumen, but today she found herself in total awe.
"Been to see Roger yet?" Phyllis asked at one point. She looked past Angel to the man accompanying her, whispering, "Or have you found another boytoy to quench your thirst?"
Angel's heart skipped a beat at the mentioning of Roger, an excitement that was replaced by a laugh at the implication that perhaps she was fucking Flynn in the other man's place. Glancing back at the real estate man to ensure that he couldn't hear her, Angel told Phyllis about Flynn, "I don't think he likes me much. I kinda step over a line ... got on his nerve."
She looked at him again, as he was milling about the Shoppe. As he turned this way and that, Flynn's manly form caused Angel to almost growl with hunger. She whispered to the other woman, "But I'm contemplating him, though. He's kind of a hunk."
The 80-something great-great-grandmother laughed. "If I wasn't old enough to be his grandmother ... oh hell, I don't care. I'd do him, too."
The two women laughed together before getting back to their cooking. Angel thought about her on-again, off-again lover, Roger. He, too, was a beefcake, and she'd initially planned on going straight to his hardware store before the Shoppe. But plans had changed when they'd seen just how crazy Durango had gotten overnight.
"Where you staying tonight then?" Phyllis asked. "I have a mattress we can throw down in the back room."
Angel wasn't sure how to answer the woman's question, as she and Flynn hadn't talked about whether or not they were sticking together once they reached town. However, he would answer the question for her before she had a chance to consider a reply.
Bearview Cabins
Northwest of Durango, Colorado
About noon, local time (9+ hours after TLWO)
(OOC: The green text below is text that was added after my writing partner posted below. I'm only doing the color change to indicate to him what I changed so that he can easily find it. It's not a big deal.)
After their handshake and reintroduction to one another, in an attempt to get past the initial hostility they'd shared, Angel suggested, "Flynn, why don't you come with me. I'm going into Durango. Gonna sell some of the things I brought with me and try to get some answers as to what the hell is going on here." She played on his obvious ego by adding, "It'd be nice to have a big, strong man with me."
Angel headed out to the street with the dogs to survey her surroundings again. It was just more of the same, with no sign of anything electrical operating. Far off in the distance, she saw black smoke rising from where -- unknown to her -- a small commercial prop plane carrying ski trip tourists had gone down when TLWO. Flynn joined her, and off they went.
<<<<<<< >>>>>>>
About 1:45pm, ~11 hours after TLWO:
The walk toward Durango got weirder and weirder as the minutes passed. They saw more of what they'd already seen: cars stalled on the road or down in ditches. Occasionally there were drivers with their heads under the hoods trying to figure out what had happened, but for the most part, the autos were abandoned. As the trek continued, it became obvious that anything and everything that used electricity was simply dead.
They arrived at the front door of Ye Old Curiosity Shoppe. The business was rather hard to describe: one-part gift shop, one-part second-hand store, one-part natural goods store, and one-part coffee and pastry shop. It was owned by an older woman named Phillis who Angel had known since she herself was a child. Phillis answered the door, smiling in delight at Angel. "Come in, my dear, come in."
Waving her visitors inside, the 80-year-old lady pat the dogs, telling them, "Nutter! Butter! It's so good to see you boys, too! I have something for you, of course." The dogs were excited to see Phillis, knowing what her next action would be. The shop owner pulled dog treats from an old metal container and tossed one to each of the dogs. Looking to Angel, she asked, "What do you have for me today?"
For years, Angel had been bringing in things she'd found or made to trade with Phyllis for whatever the old woman might have to trade. Today, though, Angel's response was, "Questions. What the hell's going on?"
"That's a very good question," Phillis answered. "Here's what I know..."
They spent almost two hours just chatting about what each of them had seen today. As they talked, used the firewood and/or propane heated stone oven, natural dehydrator, and barbeque pit that were out back of the Shoppe to cook everything that had been thawing out or otherwise faced going bad in Phillis's freezer and refrigerator. While they cooked, neighbors came by, looking to buy stuff, sell/trade stuff, or both. Phillis did what she could without any sort of price hikes for the good neighbors with whom she'd done business for years.
For the tourists whose big city money had for years caused the cost of living in Durango to be too high for its poorer residents -- like Phyllis herself -- she charged a heftier price for the things they needed. She couldn't take credit/debit cards, obviously, and -- not knowing whether this blackout was only the start of the fall of civilization -- she wasn't about to take cash either, knowing that tomorrow it might be worthless. Instead, she took things in trade that she could either use herself or sell to her neighbors. Angel had always been impressed with Phyllis's shrewd business acumen, but today she found herself in total awe.
"Been to see Roger yet?" Phyllis asked at one point. She looked past Angel to the man accompanying her, whispering, "Or have you found another boytoy to quench your thirst?"
Angel's heart skipped a beat at the mentioning of Roger, an excitement that was replaced by a laugh at the implication that perhaps she was fucking Flynn in the other man's place. Glancing back at the real estate man to ensure that he couldn't hear her, Angel told Phyllis about Flynn, "I don't think he likes me much. I kinda step over a line ... got on his nerve."
She looked at him again, as he was milling about the Shoppe. As he turned this way and that, Flynn's manly form caused Angel to almost growl with hunger. She whispered to the other woman, "But I'm contemplating him, though. He's kind of a hunk."
The 80-something great-great-grandmother laughed. "If I wasn't old enough to be his grandmother ... oh hell, I don't care. I'd do him, too."
The two women laughed together before getting back to their cooking. Angel thought about her on-again, off-again lover, Roger. He, too, was a beefcake, and she'd initially planned on going straight to his hardware store before the Shoppe. But plans had changed when they'd seen just how crazy Durango had gotten overnight.
"Where you staying tonight then?" Phyllis asked. "I have a mattress we can throw down in the back room."
Angel wasn't sure how to answer the woman's question, as she and Flynn hadn't talked about whether or not they were sticking together once they reached town. However, he would answer the question for her before she had a chance to consider a reply.
Last edited:
Alice2015
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Samantha "Sammi" Evans (profile) with Nicky Long (profile)
Eugene, Oregon
7:45 am (6 hours after TLWO):
(OOC: Continues from here.)
Sammi awoke to find the sunshine spilling through her window and into her face. In an instant, she recalled the arrival of Nicky on the farm, hopped out of bed into the cold, January morning, and looked down upon the tiny house in which the gorgeous man had slept. She saw no sign of him but hoped beyond hope that he was still here. She ran for the bathroom to shower and pretty herself up, only to find no water pressure at the tap; the farm was on a well which was serviced by an electric pump, and -- of course -- it wasn't working any more than anything else electric in the house.
She threw on a robe and slippers and hurried quietly downstairs, where she found her father still sleeping in an armchair before the big windows at the front of the house; the shotgun lay across his lap and their big gray cat lay across Carl's chest. Sammi found a bottle of water, then hurried up to her bathroom to take a sponge bath. She dressed in warm clothes to combat the cold outside, then hurried back down the stairs again--
--only to find her mother at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a stern expression as she said knowingly, "I don't think so."
"Aw, mom...!" Sammi complained, her shoulders falling in disappointment. "I'm just going out to see if he wants something to eat. Breakfast, ya know?"
"Well, then maybe you need to get started on breakfast," Pamela ordered, taking her daughter by the arm and leading her toward the kitchen. Sammi had been so excited that she'd failed to notice that the only breakfast smell in the house was that of coffee. "Get some more wood off the back porch, stoke the fire, and start breakfast. Then, once you got that going, get the extra blankets out of the storage room--"
"Don't you think we should have taken them out to Nicky last night?" Sammi challenged with a bit more attitude than was appropriate.
Her mother glared her into an expression of submission before explaining, "They're for hanging across all the doorways to keep the heat isolated to the kitchen and living room. We can't heat this old drafty house off just that one wood stove and the fireplace."
Sammi went to work on the fire and breakfast, peeking out the kitchen window toward the tiny house nearly every time she passed by it. Her father made an appearance for coffee and a kiss before helping her with bringing in more firewood. As breakfast neared completion, Carl announced that he would be the one to go out and check on their guest.
"Wait, daddy," Sammi called as he was heading for the door. She poured coffee in a big travel mug, tossed some sugar cubes into a Ziplock baggie, and poured a glass half full of milk. Taking it to her father but not actually handing it to him, she asked, "Want me to help?"
He answered her by taking the additives, kissing her on the forehead, and saying, "You're just fine in here, sweetheart." He turned to leave, then paused and looked back to Sammi. With a serious tone, he warned, "Honey, you don't know this man. None of us do. I, um, I wouldn't get my hopes up that he's the kind of guy you might want to know. Besides, he's far too old for you anyway." He glanced past here, jerked his head, and said, "The eggs are burning."
Eugene, Oregon
7:45 am (6 hours after TLWO):
(OOC: Continues from here.)
Sammi awoke to find the sunshine spilling through her window and into her face. In an instant, she recalled the arrival of Nicky on the farm, hopped out of bed into the cold, January morning, and looked down upon the tiny house in which the gorgeous man had slept. She saw no sign of him but hoped beyond hope that he was still here. She ran for the bathroom to shower and pretty herself up, only to find no water pressure at the tap; the farm was on a well which was serviced by an electric pump, and -- of course -- it wasn't working any more than anything else electric in the house.
She threw on a robe and slippers and hurried quietly downstairs, where she found her father still sleeping in an armchair before the big windows at the front of the house; the shotgun lay across his lap and their big gray cat lay across Carl's chest. Sammi found a bottle of water, then hurried up to her bathroom to take a sponge bath. She dressed in warm clothes to combat the cold outside, then hurried back down the stairs again--
--only to find her mother at the bottom of the stairs, wearing a stern expression as she said knowingly, "I don't think so."
"Aw, mom...!" Sammi complained, her shoulders falling in disappointment. "I'm just going out to see if he wants something to eat. Breakfast, ya know?"
"Well, then maybe you need to get started on breakfast," Pamela ordered, taking her daughter by the arm and leading her toward the kitchen. Sammi had been so excited that she'd failed to notice that the only breakfast smell in the house was that of coffee. "Get some more wood off the back porch, stoke the fire, and start breakfast. Then, once you got that going, get the extra blankets out of the storage room--"
"Don't you think we should have taken them out to Nicky last night?" Sammi challenged with a bit more attitude than was appropriate.
Her mother glared her into an expression of submission before explaining, "They're for hanging across all the doorways to keep the heat isolated to the kitchen and living room. We can't heat this old drafty house off just that one wood stove and the fireplace."
Sammi went to work on the fire and breakfast, peeking out the kitchen window toward the tiny house nearly every time she passed by it. Her father made an appearance for coffee and a kiss before helping her with bringing in more firewood. As breakfast neared completion, Carl announced that he would be the one to go out and check on their guest.
"Wait, daddy," Sammi called as he was heading for the door. She poured coffee in a big travel mug, tossed some sugar cubes into a Ziplock baggie, and poured a glass half full of milk. Taking it to her father but not actually handing it to him, she asked, "Want me to help?"
He answered her by taking the additives, kissing her on the forehead, and saying, "You're just fine in here, sweetheart." He turned to leave, then paused and looked back to Sammi. With a serious tone, he warned, "Honey, you don't know this man. None of us do. I, um, I wouldn't get my hopes up that he's the kind of guy you might want to know. Besides, he's far too old for you anyway." He glanced past here, jerked his head, and said, "The eggs are burning."
sereneotter00
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JASON FLYNN
DURANGO, COLORADO
SOMETIME AROUND NOON
DURANGO, COLORADO
SOMETIME AROUND NOON
“She’s staying with me,” Flynn declared, making his way beside her. In doing so, he placed a firm hand on her lower back, keeping it in place just above her waist as he eyed the other woman.
During the two hours that Angel had been at the Shoppe, Flynn had wandered about nearby in search of any word on both an explanation of why everyone looked so out of it and, most importantly (considering his reputation was further at the brink), if anyone knew anything about his partner. In the entire time he and Hannah had their property in Durango, he had never bothered to meet another soul that he wasn’t forced to speak with. Of course, no one was coughing up information on his fiancée—he was practically a stranger. And those who did know him were too hateful to give him more than a cursed look; anytime he popped up, it meant another person was about to lose their property to the government. On any other day, he would’ve continued his habit of thinking less of the subpar citizens of the practically dead town. Today? He wished he had been just a little bit nicer to deceive them that he cared.
He took note of Angel’s familiarity with the townspeople. Now that he was stuck without as much as his phone, he had to take as many resources as he could, whether they were annoying or not.
Even at the height of his concern, he couldn’t help but continue to check out the woman. From the way she casually walked to the way her clothes, although casual, accentuated her figure. He’d also be lying if he said their interactions earlier hadn’t led to some stirring in his pants that his frustrations had barely managed to keep contained. Flynn knew there was nothing classy about fantasizing about another woman when his own had just ditched town with a ripped piece of paper as a goodbye, but he wasn’t here to be a role model. People who cared too much got nowhere, and he wasn’t about to give up his personality that had been working great for him up until now. Instead of reflecting on his lack of morals, he had gone to find Angel once again, entering the Shoppe with only a polite greeting to the older woman.
“Name’s Flynn; you might’ve seen my company’s ads on the billboards when you leave town. If I could steal this lovely lady for a second?” The man smiled heartwarmingly to Phillis. Granted a second, he lowered his voice and moved his mouth close to Angel’s ear, his kind demeanor dropping. “Look, you help me navigate this ratty little town, and you can stay at mine. Four bedrooms, a huge backyard for your dogs." The space was originally for horses, but luckily he had talked Hannah out of getting any. Flynn hadn’t even been fond of those things when his parents insisted he join equestrian sports like his siblings. The dogs alone were hard to accept.
“We even have a well that works if you need to take a bath and for when you need fresh water. Free stay with food and everything. No one here wants to talk to me for some reason.” The reason in question was that Flynn’s company was practically vacuuming the family properties of Durango citizens—sadly, his fiancée and uneducated townspeople were in the dark, only making his duties easier—but if he thought there was a problem, he wouldn’t be so good at his job.
“I think that’s a good bargain, don’t you?” he asked, with a small tilt of his head some could even interpret as sweet if they didn’t know better. “It must get awfully lonely where you’re at. Sometimes company really comes in handy, don’t you agree?”
Alice2015
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Angel (profile) and Flynn (profile)
Ye Old Curiosity Shoppe
Durango, Colorado
Almost 4pm, local time (13 hours after TLWO)
Angel was caught off guard when Flynn answered Phillis's question about where she was sleeping tonight with, “She’s staying with me.”
He stepped up close to her, placing a hand on the small of her back. The lower hem of Angel's blouse rode an inch or so above her beltline, allowing Flynn's warm hand to touch just a sliver of her cooler skin; a shiver ran up her back, sending gooseflesh out across her arms. She hoped he didn't catch the reaction to being touched there as it would have been horrifically embarrassing.
“Name’s Flynn," he told Phyllis, adding, "you might’ve seen my company’s ads on the billboards when you leave town."
Angel didn't know anything about the company for which Flynn worked, of course, let alone the reputation it had -- and possibly he himself had -- for snatching up properties whose owners had fallen on hard times. Living up in the Silver Mountain Wilderness Area since early in the COVID-19 pandemic had separated Angel from most of the goings-on down here in the city.
"If I could steal this lovely lady for a second?” Flynn asked, smiling heartwarmingly to Phillis.
As the two of them stepped away, Flynn presented Angel with his deal: if she helped him survive Durango's population, he'd give her -- and her dogs -- a comfortable place to live. She liked the idea of a safe place for the dogs to run, but it was the idea of a shower after the hike down the mountain that really intrigued her.
Something else that intrigued her was when Flynn said, "No one here wants to talk to me for some reason.”
She obviously didn't know about his real estate work, but another topic on which some in Durango looked down on him was his failed relationship with his fiancee. Angel didn't know that Flynn was engaged to Hannah Blanchard or that Hannah had fled to Texas to get away from him. Ironically, Angel knew very well who Hannah Blanchard was!
Oh, it wasn't as if they had been friends or anything growing up; Hannah was 5 years older than Angel, and the pair had run in different crowds during their high school and young adult years. But Angel knew people who knew Hannah, and the two of them had even been at the same social events on occasion prior to Angel fleeing to the isolation of her family cabin in the Wilderness Area.
When Flynn and Angel finally realized the connection -- if they every realized it -- this was likely going to freak them both out a bit ... maybe even a lot.
“I think that’s a good bargain, don’t you?” Flynn asked about giving Angel, Nutter, and Butter a place to stay. “It must get awfully lonely where you’re at. Sometimes company really comes in handy, don’t you agree?”
Flynn was definitely correct about that. Angel had fled to the mountains to get away from people, and because she'd spent a great deal of time in the woods with only one or two family members or sometimes all on her own, she thought she could handle the isolation just fine. But once she'd finished up all of the work necessary to make the cabin livable on a full-time basis and all that remained were the daily chores, Angel had quickly discovered just how lonely it could get up there alone.
And then there was sex. Angel had always loved sex; she'd lost her virginity at 14 and had been more active than most girls her age all the way into her adult years. And because she liked women as much as she liked men, she had twice as many fish in the sea from whom to pick, whether it was for a one-night stand or a lasting relationship.
After six months on the mountain without company, Angel had been so horny that she would have fucked the first hiker who ambled past the cabin. Well, in fact, she had! After that, she added flings to her three-or-four-times a year trips down to Durango.
"Yeah, sure," Angel responded. Not wanting Flynn to think she was responding to the it must get awfully lonely part of his offer, she quickly clarified, "Yeah, that's a good bargain."
Phyllis interrupted their conversation, delivering them a picnic basket from which the smell of barbeque was wafting. She opened the lid, showed them all that was in it, and told Angel, "Now, you come back again tomorrow, and the day after that, and any day that you're still in the city. I'm dehydrating and also smoking a bunch of meat that you can take back up the mountain with you. You are going back up, yes?"
"Don't know yet," Angel answered. She glanced casually toward Flynn, not wanting him to think that her decision on whether to stay in Durango had anything to do with him. Speaking about her sister in Denver, Angel said, "I need to find out if Katie is okay. If the phones are out and don't come back, I might have to go there."
Some customers entered The Shoppe, and when Angel asked Phyllis if she needed her to stay and help, the octogenarian waved her away, saying, "Go, go ... I'm fine here by myself."
Angel looked to Flynn, smiled, and said, "Okay, then ... I guess we're going to your place."
Ye Old Curiosity Shoppe
Durango, Colorado
Almost 4pm, local time (13 hours after TLWO)
Angel was caught off guard when Flynn answered Phillis's question about where she was sleeping tonight with, “She’s staying with me.”
He stepped up close to her, placing a hand on the small of her back. The lower hem of Angel's blouse rode an inch or so above her beltline, allowing Flynn's warm hand to touch just a sliver of her cooler skin; a shiver ran up her back, sending gooseflesh out across her arms. She hoped he didn't catch the reaction to being touched there as it would have been horrifically embarrassing.
“Name’s Flynn," he told Phyllis, adding, "you might’ve seen my company’s ads on the billboards when you leave town."
Angel didn't know anything about the company for which Flynn worked, of course, let alone the reputation it had -- and possibly he himself had -- for snatching up properties whose owners had fallen on hard times. Living up in the Silver Mountain Wilderness Area since early in the COVID-19 pandemic had separated Angel from most of the goings-on down here in the city.
"If I could steal this lovely lady for a second?” Flynn asked, smiling heartwarmingly to Phillis.
As the two of them stepped away, Flynn presented Angel with his deal: if she helped him survive Durango's population, he'd give her -- and her dogs -- a comfortable place to live. She liked the idea of a safe place for the dogs to run, but it was the idea of a shower after the hike down the mountain that really intrigued her.
Something else that intrigued her was when Flynn said, "No one here wants to talk to me for some reason.”
She obviously didn't know about his real estate work, but another topic on which some in Durango looked down on him was his failed relationship with his fiancee. Angel didn't know that Flynn was engaged to Hannah Blanchard or that Hannah had fled to Texas to get away from him. Ironically, Angel knew very well who Hannah Blanchard was!
Oh, it wasn't as if they had been friends or anything growing up; Hannah was 5 years older than Angel, and the pair had run in different crowds during their high school and young adult years. But Angel knew people who knew Hannah, and the two of them had even been at the same social events on occasion prior to Angel fleeing to the isolation of her family cabin in the Wilderness Area.
When Flynn and Angel finally realized the connection -- if they every realized it -- this was likely going to freak them both out a bit ... maybe even a lot.
“I think that’s a good bargain, don’t you?” Flynn asked about giving Angel, Nutter, and Butter a place to stay. “It must get awfully lonely where you’re at. Sometimes company really comes in handy, don’t you agree?”
Flynn was definitely correct about that. Angel had fled to the mountains to get away from people, and because she'd spent a great deal of time in the woods with only one or two family members or sometimes all on her own, she thought she could handle the isolation just fine. But once she'd finished up all of the work necessary to make the cabin livable on a full-time basis and all that remained were the daily chores, Angel had quickly discovered just how lonely it could get up there alone.
And then there was sex. Angel had always loved sex; she'd lost her virginity at 14 and had been more active than most girls her age all the way into her adult years. And because she liked women as much as she liked men, she had twice as many fish in the sea from whom to pick, whether it was for a one-night stand or a lasting relationship.
After six months on the mountain without company, Angel had been so horny that she would have fucked the first hiker who ambled past the cabin. Well, in fact, she had! After that, she added flings to her three-or-four-times a year trips down to Durango.
"Yeah, sure," Angel responded. Not wanting Flynn to think she was responding to the it must get awfully lonely part of his offer, she quickly clarified, "Yeah, that's a good bargain."
Phyllis interrupted their conversation, delivering them a picnic basket from which the smell of barbeque was wafting. She opened the lid, showed them all that was in it, and told Angel, "Now, you come back again tomorrow, and the day after that, and any day that you're still in the city. I'm dehydrating and also smoking a bunch of meat that you can take back up the mountain with you. You are going back up, yes?"
"Don't know yet," Angel answered. She glanced casually toward Flynn, not wanting him to think that her decision on whether to stay in Durango had anything to do with him. Speaking about her sister in Denver, Angel said, "I need to find out if Katie is okay. If the phones are out and don't come back, I might have to go there."
Some customers entered The Shoppe, and when Angel asked Phyllis if she needed her to stay and help, the octogenarian waved her away, saying, "Go, go ... I'm fine here by myself."
Angel looked to Flynn, smiled, and said, "Okay, then ... I guess we're going to your place."
sereneotter00
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Flynn nodded in acknowledgment at Angel's agreement, pulling away from her once he knew he at least had one of his bases covered. Considering how quickly Hannah had left, all her things (including their pictures together and other decor) were still back at home. He'd deal with that when he got there—actually, he didn't care enough to deal with it at all. If the woman he had just met was inclined to sleep with him, he wouldn't bother lying for it. Not like he had to any time before that. If sex was off the table, he could survive that too. He had never been in Durango to make friends or answer for his mishaps; no use starting now.
The smell of the food filled his nostrils, amplified by a deep inhale on his behalf. A snack bar clearly hadn't been enough—if anything was evident from his physique, it was that he was well fed. Plus, it was a long shot to assume that his partner had left dinner for him before skipping town. Listening in to Angel's conversation, he caught her glance, raising an eyebrow with curiosity. Sure seemed like everyone felt the urge to leave town when he was there—sure, he had no place to judge, considering he loved business travels profusely, but couldn't the world revolve around him for at least five minutes?
Noticing the women's conversation had come to an end, he gave a respectful nod to the senior. "Have a great day," he said, returning his attention to Angel. "Guess we are. The good news is I get to get my steps in."
From the outside, Flynn and Hannah's house appeared smaller than expected. The lovely two-floored home was first built nearly one hundred years ago, its facade fitting right in place with the other generational homes in Durango. Hannah had begged Flynn for a place in a neighborhood; Flynn had insisted nosy people were the last thing they needed; they had settled for a place that was far enough for arguments to be unheard but to where they could still see others' homes... if you squinted hard enough anyway.
Taking advantage of the green layout of the town, Hannah had used every surrounding area to develop a gorgeous garden. An array of flowers, bushes, and newborn trees adorned the walkway; a small manmade (or in this case, womanmade) pond hosted multiple animals season after season—the running fountain kept it as a hydrating option for strays. The stones in the path up to the front door had been hand placed as well—river rocks picked out individually.
Flynn had never understood why they couldn't have just put pavement over everything to save time.
The man unlocked his front door, motioning for Angel to enter behind him. "Make yourself at home. We got water and other stuff in the pantry. Pretty sure most things in the fridge are spoiled by now, but if you want to play Russian roulette with it, be my guest."
Only two words were necessary to describe the interior: rustically luxurious. Hannah had an eye for incorporating the woodsy environment of Durango with an expensive taste that Flynn's family would gush about. She herself leaned more to the former, but the challenge had only made decorating their home more attractive. Now, at least to Flynn, the gold-threaded curtains looked duller, their untouched piano was overwhelming, and the creak of their old floors was especially loud. The problem was distinguishing whether or not he actually missed Hannah or was fearing the consequences, or both. He didn't think remorse was possible for someone like him, but the emptiness of the house sure made it feel like a possibility.
That was just a hypothetical, luckily. "Choose any room except the one with the first door on the second floor." That was their bedroom, which for obvious reasons wouldn't be ideal for a stay. Had he used it for other things with other women? Maybe.
Flynn made his way to his kitchen, as equally detailed as the rest of the home. He didn't bother looking at his fridge to count his losses. Instead, he went straight for the walk-in pantry and debated what to dig into to break his fast properly.
Last edited:
Alice2015
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Angel Daniels (profile) and Jason Flynn (profile)
Durango, Colorado
4pm (almost 12 hours after TLWO):
Angel was amazed at Flynn's home, thinking it looked like it should be on the front cover of Colorado Lifestyle. She was conflicted on whether or not Flynn belonged here. She knew that he either came from money or made a lot of his own, so the cost of such a beautiful piece of property was within his grasp. But honestly, Angel had pictured him in a downtown loft with lots of big windows and metal furniture.
"This is really something, Flynn," Angel said as she wandered, checking the place out. She suspected that the decor was the result of a woman's touch, but she hesitated to ask Flynn whether or not he had a lover, fiancée, or wife. Then she found a framed picture of Flynn and a beautiful woman. Again, Angel thought she found the woman familiar, but she couldn't put a name to the face. She set it down and continued her tour as Flynn continued with his generosity.
"Make yourself at home," he said as he made his way toward the kitchen. He told her she was welcome to anything in the fridge that hadn't yet gone bad. About a place to sleep tonight, he said, "Choose any room except the one with the first door on the second floor."
She correctly assumed that that was his bedroom. The question was whether or not he shared it with the woman in the picture she'd lifted, as well as come others she saw in other places about the house. She called to Flynn, "Thank you. I appreciate it." Angel had filled up on food at Phillis's place, so she skipped joining Flynn in the kitchen. She called again, "I'm kind of tuckered out, really. I'm going to put the dogs out in the backyard, then take a nap."
She headed out the sliding glass door to the back of the house and again found herself shocked. The landscaping was unbelievable, rivaling the all-natural beauty of the terrain surrounding Angel's cabin in the Wilderness Area. She pointed the dogs toward a covered area, commanding, "Post!" They hurried over to that spot, turned to face her, and laid down. She knew they'd stay there until either she called them again or they sensed danger and responded to it.
Back inside the house, Angel found the stairs and ascended them. She stopped in front of the door Flynn had said wasn't for her to access, looked back down the stairs to see if she could be seen, and -- recalling but ignoring the curiosity killed the cat warning -- reached for the handle. But at the last second, she chose to leave well enough alone and continued onward.
Angel found an equally beautiful guest room and headed inside. She toured it slowly, finding it just as incredible as the rest of the house. Attached was an ensuite, and entering, Angel discovered that they still had water pressure. Durango's power was out, meaning that the pumps that filled the huge water tanks on the bluff above the city weren't working. But until those tens of thousands of gallons of water were depleted, the city would continue to have water flow. A day, two ... three on the outside? Angel wondered.
The hot water was still just warm enough to shower, but barely. Angel stripped, hopped into the tub, soaked herself, then turned the water off to conserve it. She soaped up, shampooed her hair, turned the water back on, and quickly rinsed away the suds. Ironically, Navy-style showers weren't uncommon to Angel. Her father had been a sailor, so it had been natural for him to teach her how to take water-conserving showers when they were out in the woods camping.
Out again, she searched the closet for something to wear. It was a guest bedroom, so there wasn't much from which to choose. But she found a pair of sweat bottoms and a tank top that fit her. Donning them, Angel couldn't help but laugh; the loose-fitting, thick-fabric bottoms did nothing to accentuate her fit ass or legs, but the top showed off her firm breasts, ever-pert nipples, and flat belly with a great deal of sexiness. Angel wondered if maybe she should look for something different, but in the end shrugged her shoulders and headed back downstairs as is.
Durango, Colorado
4pm (almost 12 hours after TLWO):
Angel was amazed at Flynn's home, thinking it looked like it should be on the front cover of Colorado Lifestyle. She was conflicted on whether or not Flynn belonged here. She knew that he either came from money or made a lot of his own, so the cost of such a beautiful piece of property was within his grasp. But honestly, Angel had pictured him in a downtown loft with lots of big windows and metal furniture.
"This is really something, Flynn," Angel said as she wandered, checking the place out. She suspected that the decor was the result of a woman's touch, but she hesitated to ask Flynn whether or not he had a lover, fiancée, or wife. Then she found a framed picture of Flynn and a beautiful woman. Again, Angel thought she found the woman familiar, but she couldn't put a name to the face. She set it down and continued her tour as Flynn continued with his generosity.
"Make yourself at home," he said as he made his way toward the kitchen. He told her she was welcome to anything in the fridge that hadn't yet gone bad. About a place to sleep tonight, he said, "Choose any room except the one with the first door on the second floor."
She correctly assumed that that was his bedroom. The question was whether or not he shared it with the woman in the picture she'd lifted, as well as come others she saw in other places about the house. She called to Flynn, "Thank you. I appreciate it." Angel had filled up on food at Phillis's place, so she skipped joining Flynn in the kitchen. She called again, "I'm kind of tuckered out, really. I'm going to put the dogs out in the backyard, then take a nap."
She headed out the sliding glass door to the back of the house and again found herself shocked. The landscaping was unbelievable, rivaling the all-natural beauty of the terrain surrounding Angel's cabin in the Wilderness Area. She pointed the dogs toward a covered area, commanding, "Post!" They hurried over to that spot, turned to face her, and laid down. She knew they'd stay there until either she called them again or they sensed danger and responded to it.
Back inside the house, Angel found the stairs and ascended them. She stopped in front of the door Flynn had said wasn't for her to access, looked back down the stairs to see if she could be seen, and -- recalling but ignoring the curiosity killed the cat warning -- reached for the handle. But at the last second, she chose to leave well enough alone and continued onward.
Angel found an equally beautiful guest room and headed inside. She toured it slowly, finding it just as incredible as the rest of the house. Attached was an ensuite, and entering, Angel discovered that they still had water pressure. Durango's power was out, meaning that the pumps that filled the huge water tanks on the bluff above the city weren't working. But until those tens of thousands of gallons of water were depleted, the city would continue to have water flow. A day, two ... three on the outside? Angel wondered.
The hot water was still just warm enough to shower, but barely. Angel stripped, hopped into the tub, soaked herself, then turned the water off to conserve it. She soaped up, shampooed her hair, turned the water back on, and quickly rinsed away the suds. Ironically, Navy-style showers weren't uncommon to Angel. Her father had been a sailor, so it had been natural for him to teach her how to take water-conserving showers when they were out in the woods camping.
Out again, she searched the closet for something to wear. It was a guest bedroom, so there wasn't much from which to choose. But she found a pair of sweat bottoms and a tank top that fit her. Donning them, Angel couldn't help but laugh; the loose-fitting, thick-fabric bottoms did nothing to accentuate her fit ass or legs, but the top showed off her firm breasts, ever-pert nipples, and flat belly with a great deal of sexiness. Angel wondered if maybe she should look for something different, but in the end shrugged her shoulders and headed back downstairs as is.
HumanBean
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- Dec 11, 2022
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- 637
Nicky Long (profile), with Sammi Evans (profile):
Eugene, Oregon
7:45 am (6 hours after TLWO):
(OOC: Continues from here.)
Nicky had probably been the first person awake on the property. It was still dark when his eyes opened and refused to close again. He had never been able to sleep someone else's bed. It was a survival adaptation, he believed. When you fell asleep in a married woman's bed, you needed to awake at the sound of her husband returning.
Even more important was awaking at the sound of a father approaching when he was in bed with an underage girl. He couldn't count the number of times being a light sleeper in those situations had saved him from a beating or death.
He dressed and took a wandering walk about the property. Carl had provided him with a stocking cap and thick coat the night before. They definitely weren't his style, but he wore them against the cold. It was in the high 30s, low 40s, with a thick fog blanketing the land beyond the immediate property.
There wasn't much to see here even without the fog. Nicky wasn't at all impressed by the farm. He couldn't believe that people lived this way. So much work, so little gain. He doubted that the Evans had two nickels to rub together after their second mortgage and farm loans. He could be wrong. But generally, he wasn't. He was good at reading people. It was what made him such a good confidence man and all-around scoundrel.
He made his way back to the tiny house. The previous occupant, Sammi's uncle, had been a tea drinker. Nicky preferred coffee. Any caffeine was good caffeine, though. He used the propane cook stove to heat water, made a mug, and headed back outside again.
Near the back porch, he saw Sammi come outside to collect firewood. She didn't notice Nicky. He ogled her, admiring her ass as she leaned to fill her arms with quarters and kindling. He headed up to the porch, intending to take in a load. He caught sight of the hatchet. It brought back bad memories. He ran the fingers of his left hand over his right forearm. The scar hadn't healed well. The bullet wounds the other man in the fight had suffered hadn't heeled either. That was because he'd died, though.
Nicky passed on the hatchet and selected the longer handled, larger head ax instead. Shedding the heavy coat, he began chopping whole firewood rounds into quarter rounds. Those he started cutting into eighths, which the already-cut pile of wood consisted of.
"What're you doing?" a voice asked, startling him.
Nick looked to the porch, finding Carl with two mugs of steaming liquid. He answered, "Earning my keep, sir." Hoping the mugs contained his beloved caffeinated drink, he added, "I'd chop this whole pile for a cup of black coffee."
Carl chuckled as he descended the steps. He'd heard the sound of chopping, so he'd brought an extra cup with him. He offered out one of the mugs, saying, "This one's black."
The two sipped at the hot drinks, studying one another. After a moment, Carl got straight to it. "What's your plan for the day, Nick. Or do you prefer Nicky?"
"Nick's fine," the guest answered. He sipped at the coffee again. He looked hesitant before answering. "To be honest, I don't really know." He looked off toward the fog, then back. "My car's in the ditch down the road. I actually lost my job last night. Layoffs. Boss hired his kid to replace me. Lost my apartment a week ago. Been sleeping on a friend's couch."
He hesitated for another sip from the mug. Smiling to Carl, he took a leap. "I'm a pretty capable person. Hard working. Trustworthy." That last word was hard to say without laughing. Nicky managed, though. "I could help you around here. For room and board."
Again, he looked off into the fog, this time toward the unseen airport. He thought back to the explosions of the night before. They'd been airplanes, he was sure. "I don't know what the hell happened last night, but..."
"Neither do I," Carl responded. He, too, looked off toward Mahlon Sweet. "But it's major. Terrorism. Solar flares. Aliens."
"Aliens deploying solar flares as terrorism," Nicky returned.
Carl laughed. He looked back to Nicky. He didn't know this man. It was irresponsible to let the man remain on the property. Carl had a teenage daughter. He still thought of Sammi as his little girl. But his Christian generosity was overwhelming. He had to give this man a chance to prove himself.
"Here's the deal," Carl began with a serious tone. "Eight hours a day, Monday to Friday. Four on Saturday. Sunday off, obviously. Room and board as you said. Plus, fifty bucks a day, cash, to stick in your pocket for when you leave."
"Sounds fair," Nicky said without hesitation.
But Carl wasn't done. He continued immediately, "I have demands. First, unless either I or Pamela are with you, you don't come inside the house. And you are never alone with my daughter." He hesitated a moment to let that sink into Nicky's head. "Samantha is very special to her mother and I."
Carl caught his grammatical error but did nothing to correct it. He continued in an attempt to soften what he was saying, "I'm not trying to imply that you would--"
"I understand," Nicky cut him off. "You have a beautiful daughter, and I'd be just as protective as you are, Carl. I'm not offended. You're fine. I understand and agree with your terms."
They studied each other a moment. Then, Carl stepped forward to offer out a hand. Nicky took it, smiling. When they separated, Nick stepped back to the chopping block again. "Okay, so, I'll get back to earning breakfast."
Carl nodded. He wasn't entirely sure that this was a good idea. But he had to offer it. He began collecting firewood as he said, "Okay, well, breakfast will be done in a few minutes."
Eugene, Oregon
7:45 am (6 hours after TLWO):
(OOC: Continues from here.)
Nicky had probably been the first person awake on the property. It was still dark when his eyes opened and refused to close again. He had never been able to sleep someone else's bed. It was a survival adaptation, he believed. When you fell asleep in a married woman's bed, you needed to awake at the sound of her husband returning.
Even more important was awaking at the sound of a father approaching when he was in bed with an underage girl. He couldn't count the number of times being a light sleeper in those situations had saved him from a beating or death.
He dressed and took a wandering walk about the property. Carl had provided him with a stocking cap and thick coat the night before. They definitely weren't his style, but he wore them against the cold. It was in the high 30s, low 40s, with a thick fog blanketing the land beyond the immediate property.
There wasn't much to see here even without the fog. Nicky wasn't at all impressed by the farm. He couldn't believe that people lived this way. So much work, so little gain. He doubted that the Evans had two nickels to rub together after their second mortgage and farm loans. He could be wrong. But generally, he wasn't. He was good at reading people. It was what made him such a good confidence man and all-around scoundrel.
He made his way back to the tiny house. The previous occupant, Sammi's uncle, had been a tea drinker. Nicky preferred coffee. Any caffeine was good caffeine, though. He used the propane cook stove to heat water, made a mug, and headed back outside again.
Near the back porch, he saw Sammi come outside to collect firewood. She didn't notice Nicky. He ogled her, admiring her ass as she leaned to fill her arms with quarters and kindling. He headed up to the porch, intending to take in a load. He caught sight of the hatchet. It brought back bad memories. He ran the fingers of his left hand over his right forearm. The scar hadn't healed well. The bullet wounds the other man in the fight had suffered hadn't heeled either. That was because he'd died, though.
Nicky passed on the hatchet and selected the longer handled, larger head ax instead. Shedding the heavy coat, he began chopping whole firewood rounds into quarter rounds. Those he started cutting into eighths, which the already-cut pile of wood consisted of.
"What're you doing?" a voice asked, startling him.
Nick looked to the porch, finding Carl with two mugs of steaming liquid. He answered, "Earning my keep, sir." Hoping the mugs contained his beloved caffeinated drink, he added, "I'd chop this whole pile for a cup of black coffee."
Carl chuckled as he descended the steps. He'd heard the sound of chopping, so he'd brought an extra cup with him. He offered out one of the mugs, saying, "This one's black."
The two sipped at the hot drinks, studying one another. After a moment, Carl got straight to it. "What's your plan for the day, Nick. Or do you prefer Nicky?"
"Nick's fine," the guest answered. He sipped at the coffee again. He looked hesitant before answering. "To be honest, I don't really know." He looked off toward the fog, then back. "My car's in the ditch down the road. I actually lost my job last night. Layoffs. Boss hired his kid to replace me. Lost my apartment a week ago. Been sleeping on a friend's couch."
He hesitated for another sip from the mug. Smiling to Carl, he took a leap. "I'm a pretty capable person. Hard working. Trustworthy." That last word was hard to say without laughing. Nicky managed, though. "I could help you around here. For room and board."
Again, he looked off into the fog, this time toward the unseen airport. He thought back to the explosions of the night before. They'd been airplanes, he was sure. "I don't know what the hell happened last night, but..."
"Neither do I," Carl responded. He, too, looked off toward Mahlon Sweet. "But it's major. Terrorism. Solar flares. Aliens."
"Aliens deploying solar flares as terrorism," Nicky returned.
Carl laughed. He looked back to Nicky. He didn't know this man. It was irresponsible to let the man remain on the property. Carl had a teenage daughter. He still thought of Sammi as his little girl. But his Christian generosity was overwhelming. He had to give this man a chance to prove himself.
"Here's the deal," Carl began with a serious tone. "Eight hours a day, Monday to Friday. Four on Saturday. Sunday off, obviously. Room and board as you said. Plus, fifty bucks a day, cash, to stick in your pocket for when you leave."
"Sounds fair," Nicky said without hesitation.
But Carl wasn't done. He continued immediately, "I have demands. First, unless either I or Pamela are with you, you don't come inside the house. And you are never alone with my daughter." He hesitated a moment to let that sink into Nicky's head. "Samantha is very special to her mother and I."
Carl caught his grammatical error but did nothing to correct it. He continued in an attempt to soften what he was saying, "I'm not trying to imply that you would--"
"I understand," Nicky cut him off. "You have a beautiful daughter, and I'd be just as protective as you are, Carl. I'm not offended. You're fine. I understand and agree with your terms."
They studied each other a moment. Then, Carl stepped forward to offer out a hand. Nicky took it, smiling. When they separated, Nick stepped back to the chopping block again. "Okay, so, I'll get back to earning breakfast."
Carl nodded. He wasn't entirely sure that this was a good idea. But he had to offer it. He began collecting firewood as he said, "Okay, well, breakfast will be done in a few minutes."
HumanBean
Ex-Virgin
- Joined
- Dec 11, 2022
- Posts
- 637
Marcus Washington (profile coming), with Keri Lee: profile, pic
Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport
Arlington, Virginia
(Across the Potomac from Washington DC)
Sometime after the sun rose, 19 January 2025 (Sunday, the morning after TLWO):
Marcus Washington helped at the crash site until one of the Fire Department supervisors noticed his exhaustion. The man demanded that the air traffic controller retire from the scene. He wrapped himself with one of the mylar blankets and took the long, slow walk back to the terminal.
His first act was to look for coffee and food. A barbeque airport workers used at times for little gatherings was fired up. Marcus thankfully found what he needed. With a breakfast hotdog in one hand and a paper cup of jo in the other, he went on a search.
While he'd been working the site, Marcus had heard someone speaking about the famous reporter who'd been on the plane. It took a while to put the pieces together. They'd been talking about the woman he'd helped, Keri Lee.
It took almost an hour of wandering the airport to finally find her. He smiled wide to her as he approached. "I told you you'd be fine." He looked over her outfit and laughed. "It suits you."
He asked if she needed anything, then quickly added, "Duh, shoes. I'll find you some. What size?"
He went off to Lost and Found. That was a dead end. He returned to baggage claim. Airport Administration had made the decision to open suitcases and search for usable things. They had armed Security Officers monitoring, to prevent looting. Marcus asked to look for a pair of shoes in Keri's size.
A woman in an airline uniform spent a couple of minutes searching. Eventually, with a loud aha!, she found a pair of snow boots. "They're a bit too big, but they'll work."
Marcus returned to Keri and slipped the boots on her feet. Sitting across from her, he studied her. Even disheveled, Keri was a beautiful woman. "I leaned who you are. Here for the inauguration, I assume? What're you going to do now? I'm sure they're going to postpone it. I mean, I don't know if they do that kind of thing, postpone for emergencies."
They chatted for a while. Marcus stood, saying, "I should really go check in. I'm still on the clock."
He laughed, looking to the nearest wall and the clock upon it. The time-telling device was analog and stopped, long, short, and second hand all. It stated the time as 4:44:44. He found that interesting.
Marcus looked back to Keri. "I, um. I don't want to sound inappropriate or anything. Like I'm trying to hit on you. But I'd like to see you again before you leave. Chat maybe. Enjoy some barbequed coffee maybe?" He laughed again.
Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport
Arlington, Virginia
(Across the Potomac from Washington DC)
Sometime after the sun rose, 19 January 2025 (Sunday, the morning after TLWO):
Marcus Washington helped at the crash site until one of the Fire Department supervisors noticed his exhaustion. The man demanded that the air traffic controller retire from the scene. He wrapped himself with one of the mylar blankets and took the long, slow walk back to the terminal.
His first act was to look for coffee and food. A barbeque airport workers used at times for little gatherings was fired up. Marcus thankfully found what he needed. With a breakfast hotdog in one hand and a paper cup of jo in the other, he went on a search.
While he'd been working the site, Marcus had heard someone speaking about the famous reporter who'd been on the plane. It took a while to put the pieces together. They'd been talking about the woman he'd helped, Keri Lee.
It took almost an hour of wandering the airport to finally find her. He smiled wide to her as he approached. "I told you you'd be fine." He looked over her outfit and laughed. "It suits you."
He asked if she needed anything, then quickly added, "Duh, shoes. I'll find you some. What size?"
He went off to Lost and Found. That was a dead end. He returned to baggage claim. Airport Administration had made the decision to open suitcases and search for usable things. They had armed Security Officers monitoring, to prevent looting. Marcus asked to look for a pair of shoes in Keri's size.
A woman in an airline uniform spent a couple of minutes searching. Eventually, with a loud aha!, she found a pair of snow boots. "They're a bit too big, but they'll work."
Marcus returned to Keri and slipped the boots on her feet. Sitting across from her, he studied her. Even disheveled, Keri was a beautiful woman. "I leaned who you are. Here for the inauguration, I assume? What're you going to do now? I'm sure they're going to postpone it. I mean, I don't know if they do that kind of thing, postpone for emergencies."
They chatted for a while. Marcus stood, saying, "I should really go check in. I'm still on the clock."
He laughed, looking to the nearest wall and the clock upon it. The time-telling device was analog and stopped, long, short, and second hand all. It stated the time as 4:44:44. He found that interesting.
Marcus looked back to Keri. "I, um. I don't want to sound inappropriate or anything. Like I'm trying to hit on you. But I'd like to see you again before you leave. Chat maybe. Enjoy some barbequed coffee maybe?" He laughed again.
HumanBean
Ex-Virgin
- Joined
- Dec 11, 2022
- Posts
- 637
Corporal Phil "Wildman" Wily (profile imminent), with Sergeant Caroline Edwards (profile, pic)
Oregon Army National Guard Station (OANGS, Springfield)
Springfield, Oregon
19 January 2025
0215 hours, local time (~30 minutes after TLWO):
(Continues from Sergeant Caroline Edward's first post; this is Corporal Phil "Wildman" Wily's first post. I use their ranks, given names, and surnames in this explanation because each of the six monikers will likely be used by the end of this reply. Don't get lost.
)
"I'm going in there," Caroline told the Unit. She pointed to the door connecting the Assembly Room to the Officer's Office. "Each of you will follow me, one at a time."
She explained the order in which each of her 15 subordinates would take their turn. Wily was the Sergeant's Second-in-Command. He didn't like it, being Caroline's underling. It wasn't that he objected to working for a female. He simply didn't think women should fill combat roles. In any other way, he applauded women who made something of their lives. His own wife had recently been promoted to Chief of Surgery at Springfield's only hospital. He was very proud of her.
He would follow his Sergeant's orders without hesitation. Part of the reason for that dedication to the command structure was that he knew what Caroline was about to do. She was going to let the weekend warriors desert their posts to get home to their families.
The irony, of course, was that Wily planned on splitting, too. His reasons for wanting to leave the base were different than the reasons most of the others would have, though. He was convinced that the blackout was some form of foreign attack. EMP, hack, whatever.
How it had happened was less important than how Wily was going to react. He had no interest in risking his life to protect the wealth of Springfield's elite and business owners. That was what they always did, wasn't it? During his 12 years in the National Guard, he'd been deployed overseas three times. Each time he'd found himself guarding some rich fucker's goods.
His first tour had been in Afghanistan. He'd found himself guarding a highway used by a CIA-protected warlord to traffic heroine. A rival warlord's roadside IEDs had taken the lives of three of Wily's friends.
His second tour had been in Iraq, where he protected an oil refinery. He would learn that through a series of shell companies its majority shareholder was a US Senator. Here, too, Wily lost three friends, this time to a sniper.
His third tour saw him playing security guard to the only significant lithium mining operation in Northeastern Syria. Wily hadn't originally objected to this assignment. He'd been told the mine was owned by the Kurds. The profit was, supposedly, going toward their efforts to carve an independent homeland out of the lands they controlled in Turkey, Syria, and Iran.
Then he learned the truth. The company was owned by a consortium of international oligarchs. The profits were laundered through a Swiss Bank. And the lithium itself was being shipped through Turkey, Armenia, and Georgia to the one country in the world that Wily would like to have seen nuked into a sheet of glass: Russia.
Learning this, Wily let his active-duty status end. He came home to Oregon and shifted his service to the National Guard. He'd been assigned to OANGS-Springfield since. His service record hadn't been that exemplary. He'd faced Judicial Punishement three different times. It was the reason why, after 12 years, he was still a Corporal. Wily didn't mind, though. The lower the rank, the lower the level of responsibility.
"Corporal, you'll send them in," Caroline ordered. "...and you'll come last."
"What's gonna happen in there?" Wily asked. He already knew, of course. He just wanted to hear his bleeding-heart Sergeant say it out loud.
Caroline explained that she was giving each of them the chance to make a choice: stay or leave.
Thirty minutes or more had passed before Wily stood alone in the Assembly Room. It seemed like an eternity had passed. The soldiers had spent the time trading theories about what the fuck was happening. Occasionally, Wily had told them to shut their traps. He didn't like some of the speculation.
Caroline opened the door and waved Wily to her. She immediately asked him, "Is your personal armory secure, Corporal? I'd hate to think that someone might get a hold of that treasure trove of death and destruction other than you."
Wily couldn't help but smile at her description of his collection of firearms and other toys. As the holder of a Federal Firearms License, he had been able to accumulate quite a collection of rifles, shotguns, pistols, and the appropriate ammunition for each. Under the table, he'd collected far more, of course. He had automatic rifles, illegal in Oregon. He had clips and drum magazines that held dozens of rounds, also illegal in the State. He had smoke and grenade launchers, illegal anywhere in the US. And more. And more. And more!
He'd never talked directly with Caroline about some of his less tradition and more illegal firearms. But she'd heard stories from some of the other soldiers. And she'd been at one of his barbeques where, down the hill and out of sight, he and some of the guys had practiced with some of his automatic rifles.
"It's safe, Sergeant," he attempted to alleviate Caroline's fears. Wily wondered if she was more worried about some thief having his weapons or he himself having them. "I assure you."
She gave him the same choice she'd given the others. Wily didn't hesitate to say, "I think I'll go home. To check on the wife and kids, is all. I'll be back, though. Tomorrow?"
Caroline let Wily take his sidearm, as she had the others. It was a Sig Sauer P320-M17 in 9mm. It wasn't Wily's favorite semiautomatic pistol. He preferred the Beretta 92FS, also in 9mm. It had a better history when it came to jams. But he wasn't going to turn down any handgun offered to him.
Like some of those who'd chosen to leave, Wily asked, "Can I take my rifle, too."
The Sergeant denied Wily's request. He had enough rifles at home. He'd just have to get himself home with the handgun alone. He told her he understood. He snapped off a stiff, respectful salute before heading out. Originally, including him, Caroline had had 15 subordinates on duty. Of them, 4 were waiting outside specifically to see if Wily came their way.
Realizing that the very first person to decide was one of those here, he asked, "How many this way?"
"Nine, counting you, Wildman," one of the men said. "What now?"
Wily shrugged. "Like the Sergeant said, go home and check on your family."
The man laughed. "I didn't come this way to be with my family. I came this way to be with you."
The other three agreed. One said, "You should have been in charge, Wily. Fuck the Sergeant. If the Lieutenant had been here, he would have sent her home and promoted you on the spot."
"Yeah, well, he wasn't here," Wily grumbled. He didn't have any more respect for their cock-sucking Lieutenant than he did for their female Sergeant. He headed for the gate, saying, "Let's go. It's a long walk to my place."
They only got a few blocks before they'd stolen bicycles, sometimes from people actively riding them. They'd be at Wily's house before dawn...
Oregon Army National Guard Station (OANGS, Springfield)
Springfield, Oregon
19 January 2025
0215 hours, local time (~30 minutes after TLWO):
(Continues from Sergeant Caroline Edward's first post; this is Corporal Phil "Wildman" Wily's first post. I use their ranks, given names, and surnames in this explanation because each of the six monikers will likely be used by the end of this reply. Don't get lost.
)"I'm going in there," Caroline told the Unit. She pointed to the door connecting the Assembly Room to the Officer's Office. "Each of you will follow me, one at a time."
She explained the order in which each of her 15 subordinates would take their turn. Wily was the Sergeant's Second-in-Command. He didn't like it, being Caroline's underling. It wasn't that he objected to working for a female. He simply didn't think women should fill combat roles. In any other way, he applauded women who made something of their lives. His own wife had recently been promoted to Chief of Surgery at Springfield's only hospital. He was very proud of her.
He would follow his Sergeant's orders without hesitation. Part of the reason for that dedication to the command structure was that he knew what Caroline was about to do. She was going to let the weekend warriors desert their posts to get home to their families.
The irony, of course, was that Wily planned on splitting, too. His reasons for wanting to leave the base were different than the reasons most of the others would have, though. He was convinced that the blackout was some form of foreign attack. EMP, hack, whatever.
How it had happened was less important than how Wily was going to react. He had no interest in risking his life to protect the wealth of Springfield's elite and business owners. That was what they always did, wasn't it? During his 12 years in the National Guard, he'd been deployed overseas three times. Each time he'd found himself guarding some rich fucker's goods.
His first tour had been in Afghanistan. He'd found himself guarding a highway used by a CIA-protected warlord to traffic heroine. A rival warlord's roadside IEDs had taken the lives of three of Wily's friends.
His second tour had been in Iraq, where he protected an oil refinery. He would learn that through a series of shell companies its majority shareholder was a US Senator. Here, too, Wily lost three friends, this time to a sniper.
His third tour saw him playing security guard to the only significant lithium mining operation in Northeastern Syria. Wily hadn't originally objected to this assignment. He'd been told the mine was owned by the Kurds. The profit was, supposedly, going toward their efforts to carve an independent homeland out of the lands they controlled in Turkey, Syria, and Iran.
Then he learned the truth. The company was owned by a consortium of international oligarchs. The profits were laundered through a Swiss Bank. And the lithium itself was being shipped through Turkey, Armenia, and Georgia to the one country in the world that Wily would like to have seen nuked into a sheet of glass: Russia.
Learning this, Wily let his active-duty status end. He came home to Oregon and shifted his service to the National Guard. He'd been assigned to OANGS-Springfield since. His service record hadn't been that exemplary. He'd faced Judicial Punishement three different times. It was the reason why, after 12 years, he was still a Corporal. Wily didn't mind, though. The lower the rank, the lower the level of responsibility.
"Corporal, you'll send them in," Caroline ordered. "...and you'll come last."
"What's gonna happen in there?" Wily asked. He already knew, of course. He just wanted to hear his bleeding-heart Sergeant say it out loud.
Caroline explained that she was giving each of them the chance to make a choice: stay or leave.
....................................
Thirty minutes or more had passed before Wily stood alone in the Assembly Room. It seemed like an eternity had passed. The soldiers had spent the time trading theories about what the fuck was happening. Occasionally, Wily had told them to shut their traps. He didn't like some of the speculation.
Caroline opened the door and waved Wily to her. She immediately asked him, "Is your personal armory secure, Corporal? I'd hate to think that someone might get a hold of that treasure trove of death and destruction other than you."
Wily couldn't help but smile at her description of his collection of firearms and other toys. As the holder of a Federal Firearms License, he had been able to accumulate quite a collection of rifles, shotguns, pistols, and the appropriate ammunition for each. Under the table, he'd collected far more, of course. He had automatic rifles, illegal in Oregon. He had clips and drum magazines that held dozens of rounds, also illegal in the State. He had smoke and grenade launchers, illegal anywhere in the US. And more. And more. And more!
He'd never talked directly with Caroline about some of his less tradition and more illegal firearms. But she'd heard stories from some of the other soldiers. And she'd been at one of his barbeques where, down the hill and out of sight, he and some of the guys had practiced with some of his automatic rifles.
"It's safe, Sergeant," he attempted to alleviate Caroline's fears. Wily wondered if she was more worried about some thief having his weapons or he himself having them. "I assure you."
She gave him the same choice she'd given the others. Wily didn't hesitate to say, "I think I'll go home. To check on the wife and kids, is all. I'll be back, though. Tomorrow?"
Caroline let Wily take his sidearm, as she had the others. It was a Sig Sauer P320-M17 in 9mm. It wasn't Wily's favorite semiautomatic pistol. He preferred the Beretta 92FS, also in 9mm. It had a better history when it came to jams. But he wasn't going to turn down any handgun offered to him.
Like some of those who'd chosen to leave, Wily asked, "Can I take my rifle, too."
The Sergeant denied Wily's request. He had enough rifles at home. He'd just have to get himself home with the handgun alone. He told her he understood. He snapped off a stiff, respectful salute before heading out. Originally, including him, Caroline had had 15 subordinates on duty. Of them, 4 were waiting outside specifically to see if Wily came their way.
Realizing that the very first person to decide was one of those here, he asked, "How many this way?"
"Nine, counting you, Wildman," one of the men said. "What now?"
Wily shrugged. "Like the Sergeant said, go home and check on your family."
The man laughed. "I didn't come this way to be with my family. I came this way to be with you."
The other three agreed. One said, "You should have been in charge, Wily. Fuck the Sergeant. If the Lieutenant had been here, he would have sent her home and promoted you on the spot."
"Yeah, well, he wasn't here," Wily grumbled. He didn't have any more respect for their cock-sucking Lieutenant than he did for their female Sergeant. He headed for the gate, saying, "Let's go. It's a long walk to my place."
They only got a few blocks before they'd stolen bicycles, sometimes from people actively riding them. They'd be at Wily's house before dawn...
sereneotter00
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Dec 20, 2024
- Posts
- 540
⊢ TOM DAWSON
HARRINGTON HILLS GATE
HARRINGTON HILLS
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
SHORTLY AFTER SUNRISE, SUNDAY
HARRINGTON HILLS GATE
HARRINGTON HILLS
SAN DIEGO, CALIFORNIA
SHORTLY AFTER SUNRISE, SUNDAY
One thing for certain: Tom's upper body strength definitely wasn't enough. The entirety of his pedaling the older man back to his home had done things to his legs that only a maniacal fitness trainer could think of—or, you know, pilates for the first time. Add on the fact that he was wearing his work attire, and any soul could shudder internally at the intensity of the gig. Unsurprisingly, loafers were not ideal for biking.
He had been thankful for Glenn's general silence throughout the ride; as soon as that halfway mark hit, Tom wouldn't have been able to handle a conversation. The torturous hills of the wealthy were no feat—he wasn't sure if his legs were on fire or he was just imagining what they'd feel like if they had secretly fallen off from the discomfort.
Now, at least, as he finally arrived before the other man's home, he could attempt to breathe normally. Was ten thousand dollars worth all this effort? Absolutely. In his travels, Tom had realized that he had to get to his family. Being away from the public panic had allowed him a few moments to think. Not searching for them wasn't an option. The problem was figuring out what the hell was going on first. Crashes, screams, and other apocalyptic noises he was unfortunate enough to hear during the trek made him wary, but even that auditory preview wouldn't stop him from checking up on his family.
The issue? Their location on the opposite coast. Tom's first obstacle was coming to an end; surely he could formulate a plan when he didn't feel his thighs burn.
Another issue? The typical gated home. The male stopped before the surrounding division, slumping forward on the bike. He had seen his share of large homes—primarily from one or two or multiple customers who would ask the social bartender to make them cocktails at their massive houses—but he was yet to encounter someone with a vineyard. The highest he had gone was a CEO with a cumbersome penthouse. After their hookup, she had asked Tom if he had ever tried elephant meat. He had taken it as his cue to leave.
"The... The gate..." Tom puffed, his hair that typically was brushed back glued to his forehead from the sweat. He was exhausted and needed at least a few seconds of rest before continuing their way up to Glenn's home. Knowing the rich, he automatically assumed an exaggeratedly long pathway to the actual home.
He raised his head in the man's direction. "You alright there, Gabe?" Of course he knew his name, but as a child he had developed the habit of giving people the wrong name each time he spoke to them. Kept them on their toes (and irritated them greatly, but that was another point).
sereneotter00
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Dec 20, 2024
- Posts
- 540
The first time Hannah had decided she would steer into business, she had obsessively watched Shark Tank for a week. Sure, her beauty brand wasn't as innovative as the Scrub Daddy (as far as must-haves go, at least), but she knew she had something special in her hands. Sadly, her education had only prepared her for the creation of the products, not exactly the marketing or selling of them. Until the blackout, she had a trusty team of advisors to help her pitch her ideas and suggestions that she had caught one or two things from ever since they came onboard. Now, as she held a cardboard box to her chest—tall enough to block it from January's cool air—she took a deep breath.
Her plan was simple—she had spent her latest free time making makeshift starter saplings. Finding discarded fruits and vegetables, she had gathered as many seeds as she could, divided them, and relied on her memory to see what crops were most fruitful in the south, not to mention figure out ways to help them survive in the cold. She could only swipe so much dirt from homes with other gardens before she got in trouble—not to mention, if she somehow pulled these growing plants off, she couldn't carry them in a box forever. Hannah figured her Airbnb was out of the question for obvious reasons.
Instead, she had now arrived at the bazaar, approaching the older woman the next time she was distributing goods. Hannah would kill for a proper meal, but she couldn't afford to let her stomach distract her from her pitch. "Hi, excuse me, if it isn't too much, could I have a word with you?"
She figured she should get the introductions out of the way from the get-go. "My name is Hannah. Hannah Blanchard. I was the... peculiar girl earlier yelling that she was just here for water," she smiled with embarrassment.
"This entire disaster is really doing a number on this city, and I can't help but notice how put together your establishment is. I have a proposal for you regarding supplies and resources if you could give me a bit of your time. To explain, of course. I promise I'm not a grifter, and I know what I'm talking about—I won't waste your time. I'm not armed, either."
Hannah disliked a lot of things: a lot of wind, the smell of gasoline, and deserts, to name a few. Ranking in the top three was firearms. Something as small as a handgun made her nervous, so the large weapons being held by some of the establishment's... security? Employees? That didn't matter—it made her uneasy.
sereneotter00
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Dec 20, 2024
- Posts
- 540
"Do what you want," Flynn had replied from the kitchen at the mention of the dogs. He meant that sincerely, struggling to decide on what to eat. Since Hannah loved cooking, most of the items in the pantry were ingredients. The snacks that were available were, even in hunger, too greasy or too sugary for Flynn's typical taste. He scrunched his face up at the variety of chips and closed the pantry. Irked, he settled for devouring some of the fruits on their kitchen counter.
Once done, he gave a quick check to the kitchen appliances. The fridge was indeed off, but the food still oddly seemed intact—must be the weather. He didn't feel like pushing his luck, though. Their electric stove, coffee pot, and microwave were out of commission. His sink, surprisingly, still had water. That well would stay in backup a bit longer.
Hearing some movement outside, Flynn looked out of the nearest kitchen window, observing Angel order her dogs to stay put. He kept his stance that pets were just uncommunicative responsibilities, but he did find himself impressed by her ability to control them. It was by all means an upgrade from the people who would buy a "service animal" vest online for their violent chihuahuas just so their gremlin could accompany them to grocery stores and lose their shit at everything that moved. Little wins everywhere.
With cold water, he gave his face a splash, just to make him a bit more alert after the tiring walk back home. He was thankful to be back somewhere that he recognized, but with a sense of remorse. Now that he was here, he had to formulate his next steps. He still didn't know where Hannah was. He still didn't know what was going on. He still hadn't done his workout for the day. So many equally important things to solve, and he had no clue which one to tackle first... or how to do so efficiently.
Flynn patted his face dry with a fluffy kitchen towel from the pantry, extended it on the counter, and made his way back to the living room. Upon arriving, he heard the familiar creaking of the stairs, his eyes landing on Angel descending from the second floor. He knew they had some attire in some of their guest room closets, but since he hadn't done the shopping, he couldn't recognize any pieces. His eyes were stuck on the woman's breasts, though, and he made no effort to hide his intrigue.
"That tank top suits you," he said once she reached the bottom of the stairs. Brash? Maybe, but at least he had the drive to go after what he wanted, which was more than most people did on their day to day. "With a chest like that, it's a shame you choose to hide it."
HumanBean
Ex-Virgin
- Joined
- Dec 11, 2022
- Posts
- 637
Glenn Harrington (profile), traveling with Tom Dawson (profile)
Harrington Hills Vineyard,
Harrington Hills (an eastern unincorporated suburb of San Diego)
5:15 am, shortly before sunrise
Sunday, 19 January 2025 (3 and 1/2 hours after TLWO):
"The... The gate..."
Glenn had drifted off for the second or third or fiftieth time. The pain of his injured ankle had initially kept him awake. Well, and the mayhem taking place all around them, too. The world seemed to be ending. It was surely Armageddon, wasn't it?
There had been massive explosions. One Glenn thought came from the liquified natural gas terminal down on the bay. Others he was pretty sure had been airplane crashes. He couldn't realize that people all around the globe had seen those. There were fires in various locations. They'd been caused by various sources. Some had been started by rioters. Some not.
The lateness of the night and the exertion of his sexual encounter prior to meeting Tom had eventually led to Glenn's eyes closing and his mind attempting to turn off. The silence that finally reached them helped. Out of the city, through the suburbs, and finally here in the Hills, things were much quieter. Much more peaceful.
Now, though, Glenn's ears picked up sounds that his semi-operating brain interpreted as important to pay attention to. The voice returned, "You alright there, Gabe?"
Not realizing that Tom was toying with him, he corrected, "Glenn. My name's Glenn."
Then, his brain made him aware of both Tom's earlier huffing and puffing about the gate and that they were finally at their destination. "Oh, the gate!"
He had to think for a moment about how to get through the barrier. The lights on the call box were deenergized. The blackout had reached Harrington Hills Vineyard, too. He explained, "There's a disengagement handle that'll unlock the gates. It's hidden, there behind the metal plaque."
Glenn pointed to the four-foot square bronze plaque on the elegant brick work of the elaborate entrance. The plaque explained the vineyard's establishment by Conrad Harrington, Glenn's great-great grandfather. The man had planted one of San Diego County's first wine vineyards in 1928.
"Just push on the left side of the plaque, then lift up about an inch," Glenn explained. "It'll open up. Pull the handle and voila, the gate motors are disconnected. The gates will push right open."
The disengagement handle had been installed to allow the fire department access in the case of an emergency. It hadn't only been used once since Glenn's father put in the new gate and emergency device a couple of decades ago. Coincidentally, it had been during another power blackout.
Soon enough, they were once again pedaling along. They faced another steep climb. Tom managed. Glenn was impressed with the young man. The endurance, the strength, the dedication. Of course, the latter was for the $10,000 Glenn had promised. He doubted Tom was doing all of this simply to save Glenn's ass from the slowly destructing world beyond the vineyard.
The house before them was modest by the standards one might expect for millionaire winery owners. Glenn's grandfather had built it to replace the family's previous home, which hadn't been impressive enough with just two bedrooms and one bath. This one had 8 bedrooms, 11 baths (some only half or three-quarter facilities), a pool room, a sunroom, a library, a full gym, and so on.
Outside, there was the pool, the Jacuzzi, the full two acres of lawn and professionally groomed gardens, and the horse barns. There was a six-car garage that contained Glenn's automobiles and motorcycles, too. In addition to his dead Mercedes down in the Gaslamp Quarter, he had a Jaguar XJ, a Ferrari Spider, a Porsche Cayenne, and two Harley Davidsons. One of the latter was a smaller Sportser 883 Superlow, perfectly suited for Glenn's smaller wife, Roxanne.
"Get me out of this contraption," Glenn complained when they reached the front entrance to the big house. He struggled to get out of the trike's basket. His ass and legs ached from the uncomfortable ride in the metal box between the rear wheels. He groaned, "Jesus Christ, I should have just stayed in the Gaslamp and burned up with it."
The next voice he heard was a nice surprise. It was female.
(OOC: Sending you both a PM. Don't post before you read it.)
Harrington Hills Vineyard,
Harrington Hills (an eastern unincorporated suburb of San Diego)
5:15 am, shortly before sunrise
Sunday, 19 January 2025 (3 and 1/2 hours after TLWO):
"The... The gate..."
Glenn had drifted off for the second or third or fiftieth time. The pain of his injured ankle had initially kept him awake. Well, and the mayhem taking place all around them, too. The world seemed to be ending. It was surely Armageddon, wasn't it?
There had been massive explosions. One Glenn thought came from the liquified natural gas terminal down on the bay. Others he was pretty sure had been airplane crashes. He couldn't realize that people all around the globe had seen those. There were fires in various locations. They'd been caused by various sources. Some had been started by rioters. Some not.
The lateness of the night and the exertion of his sexual encounter prior to meeting Tom had eventually led to Glenn's eyes closing and his mind attempting to turn off. The silence that finally reached them helped. Out of the city, through the suburbs, and finally here in the Hills, things were much quieter. Much more peaceful.
Now, though, Glenn's ears picked up sounds that his semi-operating brain interpreted as important to pay attention to. The voice returned, "You alright there, Gabe?"
Not realizing that Tom was toying with him, he corrected, "Glenn. My name's Glenn."
Then, his brain made him aware of both Tom's earlier huffing and puffing about the gate and that they were finally at their destination. "Oh, the gate!"
He had to think for a moment about how to get through the barrier. The lights on the call box were deenergized. The blackout had reached Harrington Hills Vineyard, too. He explained, "There's a disengagement handle that'll unlock the gates. It's hidden, there behind the metal plaque."
Glenn pointed to the four-foot square bronze plaque on the elegant brick work of the elaborate entrance. The plaque explained the vineyard's establishment by Conrad Harrington, Glenn's great-great grandfather. The man had planted one of San Diego County's first wine vineyards in 1928.
"Just push on the left side of the plaque, then lift up about an inch," Glenn explained. "It'll open up. Pull the handle and voila, the gate motors are disconnected. The gates will push right open."
The disengagement handle had been installed to allow the fire department access in the case of an emergency. It hadn't only been used once since Glenn's father put in the new gate and emergency device a couple of decades ago. Coincidentally, it had been during another power blackout.
Soon enough, they were once again pedaling along. They faced another steep climb. Tom managed. Glenn was impressed with the young man. The endurance, the strength, the dedication. Of course, the latter was for the $10,000 Glenn had promised. He doubted Tom was doing all of this simply to save Glenn's ass from the slowly destructing world beyond the vineyard.
The house before them was modest by the standards one might expect for millionaire winery owners. Glenn's grandfather had built it to replace the family's previous home, which hadn't been impressive enough with just two bedrooms and one bath. This one had 8 bedrooms, 11 baths (some only half or three-quarter facilities), a pool room, a sunroom, a library, a full gym, and so on.
Outside, there was the pool, the Jacuzzi, the full two acres of lawn and professionally groomed gardens, and the horse barns. There was a six-car garage that contained Glenn's automobiles and motorcycles, too. In addition to his dead Mercedes down in the Gaslamp Quarter, he had a Jaguar XJ, a Ferrari Spider, a Porsche Cayenne, and two Harley Davidsons. One of the latter was a smaller Sportser 883 Superlow, perfectly suited for Glenn's smaller wife, Roxanne.
"Get me out of this contraption," Glenn complained when they reached the front entrance to the big house. He struggled to get out of the trike's basket. His ass and legs ached from the uncomfortable ride in the metal box between the rear wheels. He groaned, "Jesus Christ, I should have just stayed in the Gaslamp and burned up with it."
The next voice he heard was a nice surprise. It was female.
(OOC: Sending you both a PM. Don't post before you read it.)
Alice2015
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Oct 23, 2014
- Posts
- 2,625
Henry and Eleanor Gumble (pic; profile isn't written yet, sorry) and Hannah Blanchard (profile)
"The Bazaar", Austin, Texas
Late morning, Sunday, 19 January 2025 (maybe 7 hours after TLWO):
"Hi, excuse me, if it isn't too much," the woman carrying both a backpack and box filled with her things said as she approached Eleanor at the front of The Bazaar. "Could I have a word with you?"
Eleanor found woman adorable, even at first glance and with few words spoken between them. She saw a good heart in this one, leading her to smile wide and say with genuine sincerity, "Of course, my dear, have as many words with me as you'd like."
"My name is Hannah. Hannah Blanchard," the woman from Colorado said.
Eleanor offered out her hand, then laughed, realizing that Hannah's hands were occupied, and a shake was impossible. She stepped closer to Hannah, asking, "Can I take some of that off your hands. Looks heavy."
Whether or not the woman relieved herself of some of her load or not, she continued, "I was the... peculiar girl earlier yelling that she was just here for water."
Eleanor smiled at the girl's expression of obvious embarrassment, causing the older woman to laugh yet again. "No worries, sweetie. I, um--" Eleanor glanced back at one of the men guarding the front of The Bazaar with an assault style rifle; a second man cradling a shotgun across his chest sat in an old antique chair sporting a handwritten price tag. Eleanor continued, "--noticed the way you reacted to all the firepower. Don't you worry your little head, though Dear. These are the good guys ... friends."
"This entire disaster is really doing a number on this city," Hannah continued, "and I can't help but notice how put together your establishment is."
"We are blessed with people who care," Eleanor said, not explaining what exactly that meant. Some of the people working in or guarding The Bazaar were, indeed, simply caring friends. Others had hundreds or even thousands of dollars' worth of goods in their own stands or booths inside the establishment, so protecting the place from looting wasn't a question, it was a directive.
"I have a proposal for you regarding supplies and resources if you could give me a bit of your time," the younger woman continued. "To explain, of course. I promise I'm not a grifter, and I know what I'm talking about—I won't waste your time. I'm not armed, either."
"And I wouldn't think you were one," Eleanor said, smiling reassuringly. She half turned away from the woman, offering, "Why don't you come inside and explain your proposal to me." As they headed out of the streets toward the business, Eleanor explained, "The Bazaar just might be exactly what you are in need of."
She couldn't know that for certain, of course, because she didn't know what Hannah's proposal was. But that was what was unique about The Bazaar -- it served just about everyone. There was almost nothing that didn't get sold here, either on a regular daily basis or during the weekend or holiday expansions; and services ranged from hair styling and ear piercing to tarot card reading and massages.
"Are you still hungry, dear?" Eleanor asked as the smell of the food being prepared out back was blown past the two of them by a slight breeze permeating the entire establishment. "We're trying to salvage the morning meals and treats that were interrupted by the power outage. We have bread, pastries, meat dishes from north and south of the border ... fresh fruits. Whatever you need."
Just then a woman looking much like a hippie throwback of the 1960s approached, carrying a large, shiny aluminum case. She set it on a counter, opening it to reveal six rows of neatly organized poker chips; there were one row each of blue, black, green, and red, and two each of white. The woman asked, "Is this them?"
"That's them," Eleanor said, hugging the girl. She took out some of the chips -- five of the whites and two of the reds -- and handed them to the younger woman, whose nickname Hannah would later learn was Kitty. "For your work this morning. Be sure to tell everyone to come back to get their own, okay?"
When Kitty departed, Eleanor explained, "My husband and I -- his name is Henry -- we had these specially made for a Texas Hold'em benefit poker tournament we held to coincide with our twentieth anniversary. I don't think they've been out of the box since that day. There should be another three cases like this in the storage shed."
Eleanor caught the attention of one of the armed men passing by, stopped him, and offered him the same number and denominations of chips she'd given to Kitty. The man shook his head, leaned in to kiss Eleanor on the cheek, and told her, "No way, you're not paying me for doing the right thing."
As he continued onward with a smile, Eleanor explained to Hannah, "We don't know what's happening out here in the world, but Henry thinks it might be big. And one thing he knows from his time overseas in some of the world's poorest and most violent countries -- Henry was in both the Peace Corps and the US Army. Yeah, I know, contradiction. Anyway, the point is that he learned that the value of the local money sometimes changed so radically that sometimes it wasn't worth the paper on which it was printed. So, we decided to pull these out--"
She had been pulling out one chip of each color and now showed them to Hannah: blue was $1,000, black $100, green $25, red $5, and white $1. "Henry thought we should create our own currency until we know what's going on and whether US currency is going to maintain its value."
Just then, Henry called from the back of The Bazaar about something that was burning on the barbeque and how she was in charge of it. Hannah put the three larger denomination chips away, closed the case, then offered out $10 worth of the smaller ones to Hannah. "Please, take these. Consider them an advance for whatever it is that you are wanting to propose to me, and after I deal with whatever it is that's freaking out Henry, you and I will talk."
Eleanor flagged down one of the rifle-toting men, asked him to take possession of the case, and hurried back to tend to the burning food. She would be ready to hear Hannah's proposal in a few minutes. Until then, the woman had time to walk about if she wanted ... and maybe even buy something with her unique money.
"The Bazaar", Austin, Texas
Late morning, Sunday, 19 January 2025 (maybe 7 hours after TLWO):
"Hi, excuse me, if it isn't too much," the woman carrying both a backpack and box filled with her things said as she approached Eleanor at the front of The Bazaar. "Could I have a word with you?"
Eleanor found woman adorable, even at first glance and with few words spoken between them. She saw a good heart in this one, leading her to smile wide and say with genuine sincerity, "Of course, my dear, have as many words with me as you'd like."
"My name is Hannah. Hannah Blanchard," the woman from Colorado said.
Eleanor offered out her hand, then laughed, realizing that Hannah's hands were occupied, and a shake was impossible. She stepped closer to Hannah, asking, "Can I take some of that off your hands. Looks heavy."
Whether or not the woman relieved herself of some of her load or not, she continued, "I was the... peculiar girl earlier yelling that she was just here for water."
Eleanor smiled at the girl's expression of obvious embarrassment, causing the older woman to laugh yet again. "No worries, sweetie. I, um--" Eleanor glanced back at one of the men guarding the front of The Bazaar with an assault style rifle; a second man cradling a shotgun across his chest sat in an old antique chair sporting a handwritten price tag. Eleanor continued, "--noticed the way you reacted to all the firepower. Don't you worry your little head, though Dear. These are the good guys ... friends."
"This entire disaster is really doing a number on this city," Hannah continued, "and I can't help but notice how put together your establishment is."
"We are blessed with people who care," Eleanor said, not explaining what exactly that meant. Some of the people working in or guarding The Bazaar were, indeed, simply caring friends. Others had hundreds or even thousands of dollars' worth of goods in their own stands or booths inside the establishment, so protecting the place from looting wasn't a question, it was a directive.
"I have a proposal for you regarding supplies and resources if you could give me a bit of your time," the younger woman continued. "To explain, of course. I promise I'm not a grifter, and I know what I'm talking about—I won't waste your time. I'm not armed, either."
"And I wouldn't think you were one," Eleanor said, smiling reassuringly. She half turned away from the woman, offering, "Why don't you come inside and explain your proposal to me." As they headed out of the streets toward the business, Eleanor explained, "The Bazaar just might be exactly what you are in need of."
She couldn't know that for certain, of course, because she didn't know what Hannah's proposal was. But that was what was unique about The Bazaar -- it served just about everyone. There was almost nothing that didn't get sold here, either on a regular daily basis or during the weekend or holiday expansions; and services ranged from hair styling and ear piercing to tarot card reading and massages.
"Are you still hungry, dear?" Eleanor asked as the smell of the food being prepared out back was blown past the two of them by a slight breeze permeating the entire establishment. "We're trying to salvage the morning meals and treats that were interrupted by the power outage. We have bread, pastries, meat dishes from north and south of the border ... fresh fruits. Whatever you need."
Just then a woman looking much like a hippie throwback of the 1960s approached, carrying a large, shiny aluminum case. She set it on a counter, opening it to reveal six rows of neatly organized poker chips; there were one row each of blue, black, green, and red, and two each of white. The woman asked, "Is this them?"
"That's them," Eleanor said, hugging the girl. She took out some of the chips -- five of the whites and two of the reds -- and handed them to the younger woman, whose nickname Hannah would later learn was Kitty. "For your work this morning. Be sure to tell everyone to come back to get their own, okay?"
When Kitty departed, Eleanor explained, "My husband and I -- his name is Henry -- we had these specially made for a Texas Hold'em benefit poker tournament we held to coincide with our twentieth anniversary. I don't think they've been out of the box since that day. There should be another three cases like this in the storage shed."
Eleanor caught the attention of one of the armed men passing by, stopped him, and offered him the same number and denominations of chips she'd given to Kitty. The man shook his head, leaned in to kiss Eleanor on the cheek, and told her, "No way, you're not paying me for doing the right thing."
As he continued onward with a smile, Eleanor explained to Hannah, "We don't know what's happening out here in the world, but Henry thinks it might be big. And one thing he knows from his time overseas in some of the world's poorest and most violent countries -- Henry was in both the Peace Corps and the US Army. Yeah, I know, contradiction. Anyway, the point is that he learned that the value of the local money sometimes changed so radically that sometimes it wasn't worth the paper on which it was printed. So, we decided to pull these out--"
She had been pulling out one chip of each color and now showed them to Hannah: blue was $1,000, black $100, green $25, red $5, and white $1. "Henry thought we should create our own currency until we know what's going on and whether US currency is going to maintain its value."
Just then, Henry called from the back of The Bazaar about something that was burning on the barbeque and how she was in charge of it. Hannah put the three larger denomination chips away, closed the case, then offered out $10 worth of the smaller ones to Hannah. "Please, take these. Consider them an advance for whatever it is that you are wanting to propose to me, and after I deal with whatever it is that's freaking out Henry, you and I will talk."
Eleanor flagged down one of the rifle-toting men, asked him to take possession of the case, and hurried back to tend to the burning food. She would be ready to hear Hannah's proposal in a few minutes. Until then, the woman had time to walk about if she wanted ... and maybe even buy something with her unique money.
HumanBean
Ex-Virgin
- Joined
- Dec 11, 2022
- Posts
- 637
Corporal Phil "Wildman" Wily (profile imminent), with Sergeant Caroline Edwards (profile, pic)
Oregon Army National Guard Station (OANGS, Springfield)
Springfield, Oregon
19 January 2025
Dawn, 19 January 2025 (about 6 hours after TLWO):
Wily led his 4 National Guardsmen away from OANGS. Some female soldiers had also chosen not to stay behind. None of them had joined Wily, though. They knew of his opinion about women in combat.
Wily's home was 8 miles east of the Guard Station, up the McKenzie highway. It was a two-lane road that rose and fell and curved this way and that as it followed the river of the same name. They saw few cars disabled on the road or in the ditches here. No one traveled this road at 1:44 am.
He unlocked the gate to his property and led the others up almost 200 yards of gravel road. Wily liked the privacy and security of living away from the road. His wife, Laura, met him on the porch. His children were there, too, all five of them despite the early hour of the day. The kids ranged from 12 years in age down to 12 weeks in age.
Wily put the eldest kids to work preparing breakfast for his Unit. While they did that, he took his wife to their bedroom for a blowjob. After all that had happened tonight, Wily needed release. Laura complied without question. She didn't particularly like doing this, especially with 5 strangers just beyond the door. But she knew her place.
Out in the dining room, the Unit ate and chatted about the night. The Guardsmen wanted to know what was next. They looked to Wily for answers. He was the most senior of them. He was the most experienced of them. And, obviously, this was his place.
Wily was certain that the power wasn't coming back on. The United States had been the victim of a foreign attack he was certain. "I don't know who did this. Russia, China, North Korea. But if we didn't get in a hit of our own, we're fucked."
"What do we do next?" one of the soldiers asked.
Wily answered by leading the men to another room in the home. He flipped on the light, revealing hundreds of firearms. Most were long guns: rifles and shotguns. There was a wall of handguns and knives, too. Bragging, Wily said, "This is only the start."
He walked them out to the barn. There, a hidden door led to another armory. In it, Wily kept his more questionable weapons: fully automatic weapons, boxes of body armor piercing bullets, grenade/smoke launchers, and boxes of dynamite and C-4. The others had heard stories of this stash. Seeing it made them smile in awe.
"You want to know what we do next?" Wily repeated. "We protect ourselves."
(OOC: Wily is done posting for a while. There is nothing I can think of that he needs to say for the next couple of days.)
Oregon Army National Guard Station (OANGS, Springfield)
Springfield, Oregon
19 January 2025
Dawn, 19 January 2025 (about 6 hours after TLWO):
Wily led his 4 National Guardsmen away from OANGS. Some female soldiers had also chosen not to stay behind. None of them had joined Wily, though. They knew of his opinion about women in combat.
Wily's home was 8 miles east of the Guard Station, up the McKenzie highway. It was a two-lane road that rose and fell and curved this way and that as it followed the river of the same name. They saw few cars disabled on the road or in the ditches here. No one traveled this road at 1:44 am.
He unlocked the gate to his property and led the others up almost 200 yards of gravel road. Wily liked the privacy and security of living away from the road. His wife, Laura, met him on the porch. His children were there, too, all five of them despite the early hour of the day. The kids ranged from 12 years in age down to 12 weeks in age.
Wily put the eldest kids to work preparing breakfast for his Unit. While they did that, he took his wife to their bedroom for a blowjob. After all that had happened tonight, Wily needed release. Laura complied without question. She didn't particularly like doing this, especially with 5 strangers just beyond the door. But she knew her place.
Out in the dining room, the Unit ate and chatted about the night. The Guardsmen wanted to know what was next. They looked to Wily for answers. He was the most senior of them. He was the most experienced of them. And, obviously, this was his place.
Wily was certain that the power wasn't coming back on. The United States had been the victim of a foreign attack he was certain. "I don't know who did this. Russia, China, North Korea. But if we didn't get in a hit of our own, we're fucked."
"What do we do next?" one of the soldiers asked.
Wily answered by leading the men to another room in the home. He flipped on the light, revealing hundreds of firearms. Most were long guns: rifles and shotguns. There was a wall of handguns and knives, too. Bragging, Wily said, "This is only the start."
He walked them out to the barn. There, a hidden door led to another armory. In it, Wily kept his more questionable weapons: fully automatic weapons, boxes of body armor piercing bullets, grenade/smoke launchers, and boxes of dynamite and C-4. The others had heard stories of this stash. Seeing it made them smile in awe.
"You want to know what we do next?" Wily repeated. "We protect ourselves."
(OOC: Wily is done posting for a while. There is nothing I can think of that he needs to say for the next couple of days.)
Alice2015
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Oct 23, 2014
- Posts
- 2,625
Roxie Harrington (profile) with Glenn Harrington (profile) and Tom Dawson (profile)
Harrington Hills Vineyard
Harrington Hills (an eastern unincorporated suburb of San Diego)
5:30 am, shortly before sunrise
Sunday, 19 January 2025 (almost 4 hours after TLWO):
(OOC: Continues Roxie from here.)
Roxie had returned to her bed and her most recent lover after discovering that the estate had suffered a blackout. They'd pleasured each other to orgasm, then fell asleep again, but Roxie's mind was reeling with what she'd seen down in the valley; fireballs rising into the air in various directions scared her. Not enough to prevent Roxie from curling up in the other woman's arms, of course, but enough to make sleep impossible.
She showered, dressed warmly, brewed an espresso, and wandered out onto the terrace to scan the horizon. The red glow in four locations to the north and east made her think fires again. It reminded her of that year when a massive fire had threatened the 120+ year old vineyard.
Passing through the house to the front entrance, Roxie saw similar glows toward San Diego. More interestingly, though, she saw someone coming up the driveway in a three-wheeled bicycle, its basket loaded with something large. Roxie returned to the home's foyer, opened a secret drawer, and withdrew a big .45 caliber revolver. It was a little too much gun for a woman her size, but she loved the message it sent to people at whom she'd aimed it in the past: a burglar, a wannabe rapist, and once a very annoying salesman who hadn't been able to lift his gaze from her tits.
Out in front of the house, though, Roxie caught the very familiar sound of her husband's voice as he complained, "Jesus Christ, I should have just stayed in the Gaslamp and burned up with it."
"I'm sure your boytoy would have liked that," Roxie said, surprising Glenn. She hadn't said it with an accusatory or angered tone. She'd known exactly where her husband was and with whom he'd been; they didn't keep secrets from one another, and sometimes they even shared the lurid details of their extramarital encounters over coffee the mornings after. Roxie didn't recognize the man pedaling the bike, though, and seeing that he was handsome and well-constructed, she smiled devilishly to him and asked, "And who might this be, hubby?"
If Thomas didn't introduce himself, Glenn likely would. Roxie transferred the pistol conspicuously before her as she descended the steps toward the good-looking man; she put a little extra swing in her hips in an effort to gain his attention. Roxie knew it was likely that the stranger shared her husband's interest in other men's cocks, but who knows, he might like pussy, too.
Her eyes took a walk up and down Tom as she neared. "Roxie ... Roxie Harrington. Glenn's wife. So very nice to meet you."
Harrington Hills Vineyard
Harrington Hills (an eastern unincorporated suburb of San Diego)
5:30 am, shortly before sunrise
Sunday, 19 January 2025 (almost 4 hours after TLWO):
(OOC: Continues Roxie from here.)
Roxie had returned to her bed and her most recent lover after discovering that the estate had suffered a blackout. They'd pleasured each other to orgasm, then fell asleep again, but Roxie's mind was reeling with what she'd seen down in the valley; fireballs rising into the air in various directions scared her. Not enough to prevent Roxie from curling up in the other woman's arms, of course, but enough to make sleep impossible.
She showered, dressed warmly, brewed an espresso, and wandered out onto the terrace to scan the horizon. The red glow in four locations to the north and east made her think fires again. It reminded her of that year when a massive fire had threatened the 120+ year old vineyard.
Passing through the house to the front entrance, Roxie saw similar glows toward San Diego. More interestingly, though, she saw someone coming up the driveway in a three-wheeled bicycle, its basket loaded with something large. Roxie returned to the home's foyer, opened a secret drawer, and withdrew a big .45 caliber revolver. It was a little too much gun for a woman her size, but she loved the message it sent to people at whom she'd aimed it in the past: a burglar, a wannabe rapist, and once a very annoying salesman who hadn't been able to lift his gaze from her tits.
Out in front of the house, though, Roxie caught the very familiar sound of her husband's voice as he complained, "Jesus Christ, I should have just stayed in the Gaslamp and burned up with it."
"I'm sure your boytoy would have liked that," Roxie said, surprising Glenn. She hadn't said it with an accusatory or angered tone. She'd known exactly where her husband was and with whom he'd been; they didn't keep secrets from one another, and sometimes they even shared the lurid details of their extramarital encounters over coffee the mornings after. Roxie didn't recognize the man pedaling the bike, though, and seeing that he was handsome and well-constructed, she smiled devilishly to him and asked, "And who might this be, hubby?"
If Thomas didn't introduce himself, Glenn likely would. Roxie transferred the pistol conspicuously before her as she descended the steps toward the good-looking man; she put a little extra swing in her hips in an effort to gain his attention. Roxie knew it was likely that the stranger shared her husband's interest in other men's cocks, but who knows, he might like pussy, too.
Her eyes took a walk up and down Tom as she neared. "Roxie ... Roxie Harrington. Glenn's wife. So very nice to meet you."
Alice2015
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Oct 23, 2014
- Posts
- 2,625
Angel Daniels (profile) and Jason Flynn (profile)
Flynn's home
Durango, Colorado
5:45pm (15 hours after TLWO):
"That tank top suits you," Flynn said once Angel reached the bottom of the stairs. She smiled, knowing that a portion of her flat, fit, sexy belly was showing between the tank top and sweat bottoms and that her ever-pert nipples were poking through the thin shirt's fabric. Flynn added, "With a chest like that, it's a shame you choose to hide it."
"Well, get to know me better, and..." she responded teasingly. She headed toward the kitchen, telling him, "I saved some hot water for you if you want. Well, warm water anyway."
In the kitchen, Angel checked the fridge as Flynn had suggested earlier. He was right about how the food would be going bad soon enough. "I think we should take some of this to Phyllis. She'd cook it up, dehydrate it, dry it, whatever. At least it won't all go to waste." She took out all of the vegies, asking, "Want a salad?"
She found the cutting board and a big knife and started slicing and dicing. Whether Flynn wanted one or not, Angel made him a green salad; they were good for the body, and the ingredients were going to go bad anyway, so why not. She opened a can of fruit and another of black olives, making herself to home. With tall glasses of milk and lunch meat she put out with mayo, mustard, and crackers, Angel called out playfully, "Dinnuh ... is served!"
Opening the back door, she called the dogs inside, sat them down in the corner out of the way, and fed them some human food. Sitting in a chair to face Flynn, she studied him for a long moment, then asked rather pointedly, "Who's the chick in the picture ... where's she now ... and what's the issue between the two of you. I mean, you haven't once said anything about her, and you kept me out of your bedroom for a reason that I know has to have something to do with her."
She paused a moment as she considered her next words carefully. "I mean ... is she off on some sales trip ... or did she leave you...? Please don't tell me she'd dead, 'cause that would really make me look like an asshole."
Flynn's home
Durango, Colorado
5:45pm (15 hours after TLWO):
"That tank top suits you," Flynn said once Angel reached the bottom of the stairs. She smiled, knowing that a portion of her flat, fit, sexy belly was showing between the tank top and sweat bottoms and that her ever-pert nipples were poking through the thin shirt's fabric. Flynn added, "With a chest like that, it's a shame you choose to hide it."
"Well, get to know me better, and..." she responded teasingly. She headed toward the kitchen, telling him, "I saved some hot water for you if you want. Well, warm water anyway."
In the kitchen, Angel checked the fridge as Flynn had suggested earlier. He was right about how the food would be going bad soon enough. "I think we should take some of this to Phyllis. She'd cook it up, dehydrate it, dry it, whatever. At least it won't all go to waste." She took out all of the vegies, asking, "Want a salad?"
She found the cutting board and a big knife and started slicing and dicing. Whether Flynn wanted one or not, Angel made him a green salad; they were good for the body, and the ingredients were going to go bad anyway, so why not. She opened a can of fruit and another of black olives, making herself to home. With tall glasses of milk and lunch meat she put out with mayo, mustard, and crackers, Angel called out playfully, "Dinnuh ... is served!"
Opening the back door, she called the dogs inside, sat them down in the corner out of the way, and fed them some human food. Sitting in a chair to face Flynn, she studied him for a long moment, then asked rather pointedly, "Who's the chick in the picture ... where's she now ... and what's the issue between the two of you. I mean, you haven't once said anything about her, and you kept me out of your bedroom for a reason that I know has to have something to do with her."
She paused a moment as she considered her next words carefully. "I mean ... is she off on some sales trip ... or did she leave you...? Please don't tell me she'd dead, 'cause that would really make me look like an asshole."
Alice2015
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Oct 23, 2014
- Posts
- 2,625
Sergeant Caroline Edwards (profile)
Grocery King supermarket
Across the street from Oregon Army National Guard Station (OANGS, Springfield)
Springfield, Oregon
19 January 2025, Sunday
0710 hrs, local time (5.5 hrs after TLWO):
After the shootout with the wannabe looters, the night passed by fairly quietly; Caroline frequently cautioned residents who approached the supermarket to stay away, and after the soldiers had twice fired warning shots into the air, the neighbors had done just that.
Caroline had hoped that one of the store's owners or managers would have shown up by the normal opening time, and yet 0600 had come and gone with the store's most senior employee to arrive being one of its many minimum wage teenage stockboys. To facilitate opening the store without a rush on the doors and mayhem in the aisles, Caroline asked the neighbors who were chomping at the bit for panic shopping to pick one representative to come up and come up with a sane plan.
The crowd had very easily picked Wendy Paul, a woman who lived just two blocks away and was also a City Council Member. Wendy understood the need for order, so coming up with a plan had been easy. They'd decided: only twenty shoppers in the store at a time; a max of three of any one item to prevent hording and subsequent price gouging; and a maximum number of 50 items per shopper.
Wendy met howls of displeasure when she took the terms back to the residents waiting out at the edge of the parking lot. But when she told them it was either that or they went somewhere else to shop, the group reluctantly agreed. Someone called out, "Who goes first?"
After a raucous uproar about possibilities available, Wendy quieted them down again to answer, "Everyone puts their ID in a hat ... driver's license, ID card, whatever you have ... and we draw. First drawn, first served." After some more rules about cheating, the crowd spread out in a single line along the property's edge, and Wendy began collecting IDs. The hat was overflowing by the time she reached the end of the line, which had grown by another ten or fifteen people from the time she began collecting IDs to the time she finished.
Caroline was shocked to see that the plan was actually working well. Oh, occasionally someone got mouthy about how long it was taking; on a couple of occasions, people got upset because multiple family members of the same household had pitched their IDs into the hat. Wendy knew her neighbors well enough to know when she had to nix someone for taking advantage, but for the most part she left the IDs in the mix because the more people who resided in a house, the more they might need to survive.
Because there was no electrical power, there was no lighting. They'd gotten around that by distributing little souvenir oil lamps to each shopper. Caroline didn't like the idea of so many burning objects being carted around the store, but there really wasn't another option. The second issue around the lack of power was the lack of working cash registers and product scanners. Each shopper was given a permanent marker from the stationery department and told to write the price of their purchases on the purchases themselves.
"If you cheat by writing down a lower price," Wendy had warned, "you'll be kicked out without so much as a candy bar. And we will sending volunteers around to check." In truth, they didn't go that far. Caroline and Wendy were more interested in seeing an orderly operation than catching someone lying on the price of a can of corn.
Another situation that was far more concerning arose when the first shoppers left, pushing their borrowed carts toward their home. One of the first couples leaving was accosted no sooner than leaving the soldiers' line of sight. Unfortunately for the would-be thieves, the wife-half of the couple was packing heat and put a .38 caliber round through the man's leg. After that, Caroline and Wendy found volunteers to escort others back to their homes in exchange for jumping to the head of the line once they'd returned. Just like that, the highwaymen situation ceased.
There was one problem that Caroline's unit couldn't solve, and that was the looting taking place all about the rest of the neighborhood. Some of the commercial businesses were being protected by their owners, operators, or other concerned citizens. But most weren't, and the sound of breaking glass continued off and on throughout the day.
Grocery King supermarket
Across the street from Oregon Army National Guard Station (OANGS, Springfield)
Springfield, Oregon
19 January 2025, Sunday
0710 hrs, local time (5.5 hrs after TLWO):
After the shootout with the wannabe looters, the night passed by fairly quietly; Caroline frequently cautioned residents who approached the supermarket to stay away, and after the soldiers had twice fired warning shots into the air, the neighbors had done just that.
Caroline had hoped that one of the store's owners or managers would have shown up by the normal opening time, and yet 0600 had come and gone with the store's most senior employee to arrive being one of its many minimum wage teenage stockboys. To facilitate opening the store without a rush on the doors and mayhem in the aisles, Caroline asked the neighbors who were chomping at the bit for panic shopping to pick one representative to come up and come up with a sane plan.
The crowd had very easily picked Wendy Paul, a woman who lived just two blocks away and was also a City Council Member. Wendy understood the need for order, so coming up with a plan had been easy. They'd decided: only twenty shoppers in the store at a time; a max of three of any one item to prevent hording and subsequent price gouging; and a maximum number of 50 items per shopper.
Wendy met howls of displeasure when she took the terms back to the residents waiting out at the edge of the parking lot. But when she told them it was either that or they went somewhere else to shop, the group reluctantly agreed. Someone called out, "Who goes first?"
After a raucous uproar about possibilities available, Wendy quieted them down again to answer, "Everyone puts their ID in a hat ... driver's license, ID card, whatever you have ... and we draw. First drawn, first served." After some more rules about cheating, the crowd spread out in a single line along the property's edge, and Wendy began collecting IDs. The hat was overflowing by the time she reached the end of the line, which had grown by another ten or fifteen people from the time she began collecting IDs to the time she finished.
Caroline was shocked to see that the plan was actually working well. Oh, occasionally someone got mouthy about how long it was taking; on a couple of occasions, people got upset because multiple family members of the same household had pitched their IDs into the hat. Wendy knew her neighbors well enough to know when she had to nix someone for taking advantage, but for the most part she left the IDs in the mix because the more people who resided in a house, the more they might need to survive.
Because there was no electrical power, there was no lighting. They'd gotten around that by distributing little souvenir oil lamps to each shopper. Caroline didn't like the idea of so many burning objects being carted around the store, but there really wasn't another option. The second issue around the lack of power was the lack of working cash registers and product scanners. Each shopper was given a permanent marker from the stationery department and told to write the price of their purchases on the purchases themselves.
"If you cheat by writing down a lower price," Wendy had warned, "you'll be kicked out without so much as a candy bar. And we will sending volunteers around to check." In truth, they didn't go that far. Caroline and Wendy were more interested in seeing an orderly operation than catching someone lying on the price of a can of corn.
Another situation that was far more concerning arose when the first shoppers left, pushing their borrowed carts toward their home. One of the first couples leaving was accosted no sooner than leaving the soldiers' line of sight. Unfortunately for the would-be thieves, the wife-half of the couple was packing heat and put a .38 caliber round through the man's leg. After that, Caroline and Wendy found volunteers to escort others back to their homes in exchange for jumping to the head of the line once they'd returned. Just like that, the highwaymen situation ceased.
There was one problem that Caroline's unit couldn't solve, and that was the looting taking place all about the rest of the neighborhood. Some of the commercial businesses were being protected by their owners, operators, or other concerned citizens. But most weren't, and the sound of breaking glass continued off and on throughout the day.
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Alice2015
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Oct 23, 2014
- Posts
- 2,625
Keri Lee (profile) with Marcus Washington (profile coming)
(Continues from Marcus's last post)
Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport
Arlington, Virginia
(Across the Potomac from Washington DC)
Almost 11am, local time, Sunday, 19 January 2025 (7 hours after TLWO):
Keri had fallen asleep in a chair under one of the many tall propane heaters set up around the baggage claim area, her head supported by one of those little blowup neck pillows that she'd also thought were so silly looking. She either heard someone speak her name or sensed that someone was paying attention to her, waking to find her savior from hours earlier standing near, smiling at her.
"I told you you'd be fine," Marcus said, happy to see that she'd been fed, watered, and dressed in dry clothes. Examining the very much too large velour track suit they'd found for her in a random suitcase, he said with a laugh, "It suits you."
"I'm just glad no one has a working camera phone," Keri responded. "This'd just blow up on social media. It's a bit of a fashion step down from how most people know me."
Before she'd become a well-known political reporter, Keri had been an almost as well-known fashion model. She preferred the former job to the latter; even though she was considered a beautiful, sexy woman by most who saw her, Keri had never much liked the whole exploitation of the female body issue.
Marcus noticed her lack of shoes and went off on a search for something that would both fit and keep her tootsies warm. He succeeded on the former with an oversized pair of well insulating snow boots. Upon his return, he informed Keri, "I leaned who you are. Here for the inauguration, I assume."
"I was," she answered. "I had some interviews scheduled and even a couple of invites to the Inaugural Balls."
"What're you going to do now?" Marcus asked. "I'm sure they're going to postpone it. I mean, I don't know if they do that kind of thing, postpone for emergencies."
"They did once, you know," she said, quickly adding, "Not for an emergency, but because President-Elect Zachary Taylor refused to be sworn into office on a Sunday. Back then, the Presidential Succession went President, Vice President, President pro tem of the Senate. David Rice Atchison was thought to be the pro tem, so when President Polk's term ended on Sunday and Taylor still hadn't taken the oath, Atchinson because President for a Day."
Keri realized that she'd taken a massive tangent from what Marcus had been asking and laughed, embarrassed. "Sorry, I get that way sometimes. I know things, not that they are always things worth knowing, let alone sharing."
They chatted for a while before Marcus told Keri that he was theoretically still on the clock and should check in with his boss. She was about to suggest that they make plans to get together in the very near future when Marcus beat her to it. He swore he wasn't trying to hit on her, saying, "Enjoy some barbequed coffee maybe?"
She looked down into the cup of jo he'd brought her, laughing. "It's kinda thick, but ... better than nothing." Looking up to the handsome man, Keri said, "And it wouldn't actually be that bad if you hit on me."
She smiled and, surprising herself, blushed. She didn't want to lose touch with Marcus after he'd helped her so much -- particularly with that smile and body -- so she snatched up the clipboard on which she'd been taking notes about the situation and asked, "Maybe you could give me your phone number...? You know, if the power comes back on some day. Or ... an address where I might find you...?"
Keri knew that now it was she who was hitting on him, but -- to be honest -- she didn't give a rat's ass. She was a grown woman, he was a grown man, she owed him, and -- she'd already determined -- she wanted him as well. Plus, she didn't have a place to stay right now, unless somehow, she could get into DC and somehow her hotel reservation still stood.
(OOC: Sending you a PM with answers to questions Marcus might ask, so that you can include them in your next post IF he asks them. If he doesn't, then I wasted a little time, boo-fucking-hoo.)
(Continues from Marcus's last post)
Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport
Arlington, Virginia
(Across the Potomac from Washington DC)
Almost 11am, local time, Sunday, 19 January 2025 (7 hours after TLWO):
Keri had fallen asleep in a chair under one of the many tall propane heaters set up around the baggage claim area, her head supported by one of those little blowup neck pillows that she'd also thought were so silly looking. She either heard someone speak her name or sensed that someone was paying attention to her, waking to find her savior from hours earlier standing near, smiling at her.
"I told you you'd be fine," Marcus said, happy to see that she'd been fed, watered, and dressed in dry clothes. Examining the very much too large velour track suit they'd found for her in a random suitcase, he said with a laugh, "It suits you."
"I'm just glad no one has a working camera phone," Keri responded. "This'd just blow up on social media. It's a bit of a fashion step down from how most people know me."
Before she'd become a well-known political reporter, Keri had been an almost as well-known fashion model. She preferred the former job to the latter; even though she was considered a beautiful, sexy woman by most who saw her, Keri had never much liked the whole exploitation of the female body issue.
Marcus noticed her lack of shoes and went off on a search for something that would both fit and keep her tootsies warm. He succeeded on the former with an oversized pair of well insulating snow boots. Upon his return, he informed Keri, "I leaned who you are. Here for the inauguration, I assume."
"I was," she answered. "I had some interviews scheduled and even a couple of invites to the Inaugural Balls."
"What're you going to do now?" Marcus asked. "I'm sure they're going to postpone it. I mean, I don't know if they do that kind of thing, postpone for emergencies."
"They did once, you know," she said, quickly adding, "Not for an emergency, but because President-Elect Zachary Taylor refused to be sworn into office on a Sunday. Back then, the Presidential Succession went President, Vice President, President pro tem of the Senate. David Rice Atchison was thought to be the pro tem, so when President Polk's term ended on Sunday and Taylor still hadn't taken the oath, Atchinson because President for a Day."
Keri realized that she'd taken a massive tangent from what Marcus had been asking and laughed, embarrassed. "Sorry, I get that way sometimes. I know things, not that they are always things worth knowing, let alone sharing."
They chatted for a while before Marcus told Keri that he was theoretically still on the clock and should check in with his boss. She was about to suggest that they make plans to get together in the very near future when Marcus beat her to it. He swore he wasn't trying to hit on her, saying, "Enjoy some barbequed coffee maybe?"
She looked down into the cup of jo he'd brought her, laughing. "It's kinda thick, but ... better than nothing." Looking up to the handsome man, Keri said, "And it wouldn't actually be that bad if you hit on me."
She smiled and, surprising herself, blushed. She didn't want to lose touch with Marcus after he'd helped her so much -- particularly with that smile and body -- so she snatched up the clipboard on which she'd been taking notes about the situation and asked, "Maybe you could give me your phone number...? You know, if the power comes back on some day. Or ... an address where I might find you...?"
Keri knew that now it was she who was hitting on him, but -- to be honest -- she didn't give a rat's ass. She was a grown woman, he was a grown man, she owed him, and -- she'd already determined -- she wanted him as well. Plus, she didn't have a place to stay right now, unless somehow, she could get into DC and somehow her hotel reservation still stood.
(OOC: Sending you a PM with answers to questions Marcus might ask, so that you can include them in your next post IF he asks them. If he doesn't, then I wasted a little time, boo-fucking-hoo.
)
Alice2015
Literotica Guru
- Joined
- Oct 23, 2014
- Posts
- 2,625
Sammi Evans (profile) with Nicky Long (profile):
Eugene, Oregon
9:45 am (8 hours after TLWO):
(OOC: Continues from here.)
From the kitchen where she was making breakfast, Sammi overheard her father talking to someone. Her mother was busy moving food from the refrigerator to the front porch -- it would be colder out there than in the powerless fridge -- so her father's conversation mate had to be their guest. Sammi snuck over to the back door, looking out to find Nicky; she almost didn't realize it was him as he was bundled up tight in some of her father's winter clothing, but the big, brawny, muscular body style gave it away.
She couldn't hear everything that was being said -- Sammi could hear her father more easily than she could Nicky -- but from key words, it seemed as though her father was quizzing the man about his life. Then she heard Nicky say quite clearly, "I'm a pretty capable person. Hard working. Trustworthy ... I could help you around here. For room and board."
Sammi almost called out Yes! Yes! Yes, let him stay, daddy! She restrained herself, though, pressing her ear to the very cold glass of the window in the hopes of hearing her father's response just as clearly. They talked more on topics she couldn't hear; she heard the word terrorism and ... aliens, really?
Then came the words from her father that made Sammi's heart skip a beat: "Here's the deal..."
"Samantha!"
The teen just about jumped out of her shoes at the chastising voice of her mother. She spun and moved away from the door, her face exploding red and hot. Without even considering that it only made her look more guilty, she snapped back, "I wasn't eavesdropping, momma."
After that, Sammi was back at the antique cast iron stove that -- despite the house normally having an electric range available -- was still used during the cold months to heat the kitchen. Despite not having heard the rest of the conversation, Sammi was certain that her father had been offering Nicky terms for his remaining around a while longer.
Carl came into the kitchen a couple of minutes later, ambling over to his wife and leaning in close to her to whisper in her ear. Pamela's gaze shifted quickly to her daughter; Sammi was watching the pair with great interest and didn't like the expression on her face. A moment later, Pamela only said before returning to her work, "If you think it's best."
Sammi's heart was pounding anxiously for news about what had happened between the two men...
Eugene, Oregon
9:45 am (8 hours after TLWO):
(OOC: Continues from here.)
From the kitchen where she was making breakfast, Sammi overheard her father talking to someone. Her mother was busy moving food from the refrigerator to the front porch -- it would be colder out there than in the powerless fridge -- so her father's conversation mate had to be their guest. Sammi snuck over to the back door, looking out to find Nicky; she almost didn't realize it was him as he was bundled up tight in some of her father's winter clothing, but the big, brawny, muscular body style gave it away.
She couldn't hear everything that was being said -- Sammi could hear her father more easily than she could Nicky -- but from key words, it seemed as though her father was quizzing the man about his life. Then she heard Nicky say quite clearly, "I'm a pretty capable person. Hard working. Trustworthy ... I could help you around here. For room and board."
Sammi almost called out Yes! Yes! Yes, let him stay, daddy! She restrained herself, though, pressing her ear to the very cold glass of the window in the hopes of hearing her father's response just as clearly. They talked more on topics she couldn't hear; she heard the word terrorism and ... aliens, really?
Then came the words from her father that made Sammi's heart skip a beat: "Here's the deal..."
"Samantha!"
The teen just about jumped out of her shoes at the chastising voice of her mother. She spun and moved away from the door, her face exploding red and hot. Without even considering that it only made her look more guilty, she snapped back, "I wasn't eavesdropping, momma."
After that, Sammi was back at the antique cast iron stove that -- despite the house normally having an electric range available -- was still used during the cold months to heat the kitchen. Despite not having heard the rest of the conversation, Sammi was certain that her father had been offering Nicky terms for his remaining around a while longer.
Carl came into the kitchen a couple of minutes later, ambling over to his wife and leaning in close to her to whisper in her ear. Pamela's gaze shifted quickly to her daughter; Sammi was watching the pair with great interest and didn't like the expression on her face. A moment later, Pamela only said before returning to her work, "If you think it's best."
Sammi's heart was pounding anxiously for news about what had happened between the two men...
HumanBean
Ex-Virgin
- Joined
- Dec 11, 2022
- Posts
- 637
Glenn Harrington (profile), with Roxie (profile) and Tom Dawson (profile)
Harrington Hills Vineyard
Harrington Hills (an eastern unincorporated suburb of San Diego)
(OOC: Continues Glenn and Roxie (with Tom) from here.)
6:30 am, shortly before sunrise
Sunday, 19 January 2025 (almost 4 hours after TLWO):
"Jesus Christ, I should have just stayed in the Gaslamp and burned up with it," Glenn complained from the basket on the back of the trike.
"I'm sure your boytoy would have liked that," a female voice said.
Glenn craned his neck to find his wife standing on the steps just outside the mansion's open front entrance. He didn't immediately notice the handgun dangling by her side.
She asked, "And who might this be, hubby?"
"This might be the King of Persia," Glenn said. His traveling partner helped him out of the basket. Glenn found he still couldn't put weight on his sprained ankle. "Who it actually is is Thomas. Thomas Dawson."
Glenn could have called the man Tommy or Tom or Big T for all that. He was sort of a formality kind of guy, though. And when a man saves your life as Thomas had done tonight, he deserved to be addressed by his formal given name.
Glenn noticed when his wife transferred the pistol before her to shake hands with the younger man. He snapped his fingers playfully at her, saying, "Gimme that. Yes, I'm fully aware that you know how to use it, but it packs enough punch to put you on your cute little ass."
"Roxie ... Roxie Harrington. Glenn's wife," she said. Her eyes took a walk up and down Tom's form. "So very nice to meet you."
Glenn couldn't help but chuckle softly at his wife's ogling of the man. He, too, had also let his gaze and imagination take the man in. He couldn't help but wonder which of the Harringtons Tom would be more eager to have sex with. Both maybe? Together? The possibility made Glenn's cock dance in his slacks.
"Honey, can you help here," Glenn said, indicating his injured ankle.
It took both of the other adults to get him up the steps and into his den. He had a very comfortable couch there. He'd slept on it on many occasions. Usually, it had been because he'd simply fallen asleep while doing other things. Watching television. Reading books. Getting his cock sucked by some younger man he'd invited to play but not stay.
On other occasions, the bed Glenn shared with his wife was being shared by her with someone else. That didn't happen often. The two of them did their best not to let their extracurricular sex lives get in the way. But there'd been times when Roxie had a friend and Glenn was supposed to have been out of the house for the night. Rather than interrupt them and/or possibly embarrass his wife's partner, he'd sack out downstairs instead.
"Honey, I need you to go to the safe for me," Glenn said once he was comfortable. He explained that he'd agreed to pay Tom $10,000 for getting him home safely. Looking to his savior, Glenn said firmly, "I've never welched on a deal."
Harrington Hills Vineyard
Harrington Hills (an eastern unincorporated suburb of San Diego)
(OOC: Continues Glenn and Roxie (with Tom) from here.)
6:30 am, shortly before sunrise
Sunday, 19 January 2025 (almost 4 hours after TLWO):
(Note: I advanced the time to 6:30 for two reasons. I mistakenly said earlier that they could bike to Harrington Hills in an hour, but I seriously down that they actually could have. And two, "shortly before sunrise" doesn't work for 5:30am. Dawn would be 7:10 and actual sunrise would be 7:45, according to the internet.)
"Jesus Christ, I should have just stayed in the Gaslamp and burned up with it," Glenn complained from the basket on the back of the trike.
"I'm sure your boytoy would have liked that," a female voice said.
Glenn craned his neck to find his wife standing on the steps just outside the mansion's open front entrance. He didn't immediately notice the handgun dangling by her side.
She asked, "And who might this be, hubby?"
"This might be the King of Persia," Glenn said. His traveling partner helped him out of the basket. Glenn found he still couldn't put weight on his sprained ankle. "Who it actually is is Thomas. Thomas Dawson."
Glenn could have called the man Tommy or Tom or Big T for all that. He was sort of a formality kind of guy, though. And when a man saves your life as Thomas had done tonight, he deserved to be addressed by his formal given name.
Glenn noticed when his wife transferred the pistol before her to shake hands with the younger man. He snapped his fingers playfully at her, saying, "Gimme that. Yes, I'm fully aware that you know how to use it, but it packs enough punch to put you on your cute little ass."
"Roxie ... Roxie Harrington. Glenn's wife," she said. Her eyes took a walk up and down Tom's form. "So very nice to meet you."
Glenn couldn't help but chuckle softly at his wife's ogling of the man. He, too, had also let his gaze and imagination take the man in. He couldn't help but wonder which of the Harringtons Tom would be more eager to have sex with. Both maybe? Together? The possibility made Glenn's cock dance in his slacks.
"Honey, can you help here," Glenn said, indicating his injured ankle.
It took both of the other adults to get him up the steps and into his den. He had a very comfortable couch there. He'd slept on it on many occasions. Usually, it had been because he'd simply fallen asleep while doing other things. Watching television. Reading books. Getting his cock sucked by some younger man he'd invited to play but not stay.
On other occasions, the bed Glenn shared with his wife was being shared by her with someone else. That didn't happen often. The two of them did their best not to let their extracurricular sex lives get in the way. But there'd been times when Roxie had a friend and Glenn was supposed to have been out of the house for the night. Rather than interrupt them and/or possibly embarrass his wife's partner, he'd sack out downstairs instead.
"Honey, I need you to go to the safe for me," Glenn said once he was comfortable. He explained that he'd agreed to pay Tom $10,000 for getting him home safely. Looking to his savior, Glenn said firmly, "I've never welched on a deal."
