First Time

     Byron grabbed his bag and strutted to another room which he flooded with bright white light.  This was the bedroom, large and spacious with a king-size water bed.  He leapt onto the bed, folded his arms behind the back of his head and grinned deeply.  “Well,
considering what my wife did to me, tonight, I can’t wait to see what comes my way tomorrow night.”
     The next morning found him in the kitchen sitting at the oval table in a white linen terracloth robe and feasting on grapes, grapefruit and melon cubes in a white porcelain bowl.  He stared at the giant screen, flatscreen TV embedded in the wall.  The programming consisted of a myriad of channels with adult entertainment: heterosexual, homosexual, lesbian, three-way, gang-bangs, the whole she-bang.

     “All of this stuff is good quality, but compared to last night, this is drab.  This is dull.  This is boring.”
     He munched on the fruit, grunted lethagically and glanced at the grapes.  “I can never enjoy fruit the same way that I did last night.  No, sir.”
     He grabbed the remote control from the table and pressed the TIME button.  Ten o’clock flashed on the screen.  “Well, I can only imagine what the missus has in store for me tonight.  Maybe, I can eat some of this off of her, or another girl that she brings along.” He popped to his feet and slid this bowl in the refrigerator.  He raced out of the room as giddy as a schoolboy.

     Hours passed, and he went from the bedroom to the living room, with his eyes glued to the timepieces featured in either room and in the spaces between.  From wall clocks to clocks on tables, on television screens and on VCRs--all of them were synchronized.  His
bright and cheery face slowly faded as six p.m. appears on the time pieces, and no sign of Monica appeared.
     As seven p.m. and eight p.m. rolled along, Byron turned gray with despair.  He remained in his robe, and his face displayed stubble, and bags formed under his blood-shod eyes.  “Where is she?  Where is my wife?  Come on, now, Monica.  You said that you’re
going to teach me a lesson.  What is it?  What is it?”

     As nine p.m. flashed on the VCR in the bedroom, Byron nodded to himself as he sat on the edge of the bed.  “I get it now.  This is my lesson.  She has no intention of showing up.  This is a good one, Monica.  This is brilliant.”
     Then, a strong smell that snaked its way from his arm pit struck his nostrils, exciting the olfactory nerve to the point that the attorney rubbed his nose.  “It doesn’t matter anyway.  I smell like a bag of onions.  I might as well as shower, get some sleep and get
the hell out of here.  But where do I go?  I’m sure that I won’t be able to go back home again.”
     He went to the closet, extracted a robe from the rack and headed off to the bathroom.

     Some time later, he exited in his new accouterment and wiped off his hair on a towel when he spotted the beaming mug of his wife who was dressed in the same clothes as the previous evening.
     “So you gave up on me, didn’t you, dear.”
     “Mon-Monica, I didn’t hear you come in here.”
     She strutted up to him, ran her fingers inside the robe and tickled one of his nipples.  “Just like at home, right, dear.”
     He deeply swallowed, and she grabbed him by the face and brought it to hers.  “Now, it’s time for me to really teach you a lesson.” She puckered her lips, and he hungrily poked his out to her, but she withdrew her face and smiled at something she observed over his
shoulder.  “Class is now in session.”

     The slam of the door snapped the attorney to attention, and he turned his head to the side, straining to break his wife’s iron grip.  He managed to catch a glimpse of a figure in a white shirt, a black tie, a fedora and a pair of black slacks.
     “Say hello to daddy,” said this figure in a deep, hoarse voice.
     Monica released Byron’s face, and the attorney spotted the figure whose upper lip was hidden under brown hair.
     “N-no,” Byron frightenly shook his head in denial, “it can’t be you.”
     “Oh, but it is, boy, and your wife told me that you have been a very bad boy,” this moustached man shook his finger in Byron’s face.  “Now, it’s time for for your father Terk to teach you a lesson that you’ll never forget.”

     This moustached man grabbed Monica by the back of the head and forced her to her knees.  “Please me, girl.  Make your father-in-law a happy man.”
     Her hands trembled as they unzip his pants.  They reached inside the accouterment, and the older Clayton grunted deeply.  Then, he slapped away her hands, and he pulled her face to his crotch.  “Make me a real happy man, girl.”
     She groaned, and her head bobbed over and over, while Byron’s father’s head rolled forward and backward and his face brightened with pleasure.
     In the meanwhile, Byron sat on the edge of the bed with his hand inside of his robe and stroked his magic wand in perfect rhythm with his wife’s head bobs.  The younger Clayton’s face enlightened with a mixture of shock and satisfaction.

     A moment later, Terk spotted his son in the midst of his own euphoric pose and said, “Stop.” Monica continued until the elder Clayton grabbed her by the hair.  “I said, ‘Stop.’”
     This time, she heeded, pulled back her head from his throbbing, purplish rod and looked up at him with “Why?” on her face.
     At the same time, Byron stopped his activity and watched while his hand remained in side of his clothing.
     The elder Clayton explained, “My son is not getting off the hook that easily.  First, he loses a winnable case, disgracing the family name in the process, and then, you catch him attempting to pleasure a whore and now himself.  No, Monica, I want you on the bed, face
down with your rump up so that I can show him how a real Clayton can please a real woman.”

     She shook as she rose to her feet and cowered for the bed, and the older Clayton looked at his son with a hypnotic gaze of disgust.  The son backed away from the bed.
     Monica unsheathed herself revealing her lovely, milky-white form that sparkled with a splattering of her own bodily excretions.  She slowly crawled on the bed and laid on her face, and her eyes closed.  “Please, don’t be too rough with me.”
     Terk pounced on her with the fury of a tiger, and he parted her legs with his hands.  He lowered his purplish wand inside of her pink slit and commenced in an intense grinding session.
     Byron’s hand slowly, as if by its own volition, mimicked the older Clayton’s gestures as it undulated on Byron’s unseen rod.  The younger Clayton watched on attentively, as his father continued educating his son on pleasuring a real woman.
     Monica, for her part, groaned with excitement and with glee, as her fingers spread wide and dug into the mattress.
     Then, the bodies of the father, of the son and of the woman undulated in the same fashion and at the same time.  A groan of unison emanated from them, and they all sunk, sated and tired from their endeavors.

     Byron balanced himself against a side wall and staggered to the bed.  His forehead was layered with perspiration.  He patted his father on the back.  “Dad, that was the best lesson that I ever learned.” When Terk turned to face his son, Byron winked and
claimed, “This First Time program is the best thing that I ever heard of.  You guys know how to put on a show.  Everything was done to my every specification.  This Monica looks so much like my wife, for a minute there, I thought it was her.”
     “Well,” the fake Monica grinned, “that is the impression that we want to give.”
     Byron said, “You’re certain that my wife will never hear of this.”
     “Not unless you breathe this to her, lover.” This “Monica” grinned at Byron while “Father” Clayton rolled off of her.
     “So, FATHER,” Byron said to “Terk” Clayton, “If I had won my case, would you have been ready for the other spiel?”
     “Of course, son,” the imposter Terk claimed, “but you mentioned something about lessons.  I think that you should be taught some more.”
     While Monica collected her clothes and left the room, “Father” removed his moustache revealing a face that struck Byron with horrific familiarity.
     The attorney collapsed to the floor and backed to the side wall using his hands and his feet.  “It’s you, but how can it be you, Big Bertha.  Y-you, have a penis, but your breasts.”

     “I taped them down, counselor,” Bertha said as she headed for the door, “and here are two ANONYMOUS lessons: Never judge a book by its cover, and cheaters like Oliver, who messed around behind my back, never prosper.”
     Byron watched Bertha sashayed out of the room and said as his forehead bleeds cold sweat, “My God, she killed Oliver’s wife.”

THE END