LibreentrepriseMagazine Posts

October 31, 2017 / / Articles

 

Pushing the Envelope

 

Here’s something for rec.arts.erotica. It is, alas, part of a
projected longer work, but I think it stands reasonably well on its
own. I’m not certain that it can be called “erotica” at this point
but it does contain sex.

Copyright 1993 Jordan Shelbourne
All permissions reserved except for the right to distribute in
electronic text form across computer networks.

 

PUSHING THE ENVELOPE

Chapter One: A Question of Etiquette

Murdock was drunk, and I was listening patiently as he berated
himself for going to a strip club. “Kim wouldn’ understand, y’know?
She was pure when I married her. I mean, we were *both* virgins,
but…. She’s a hell of a woman, Kim is, a hell of a woman. Takin’
care of the kids, y’know, and the home.” He looked around at the bored
factory workers and the equally bored stripper, then leaned forward
conspiratorially. The effect was ruined when he nearly fell over.
“Only woman I’ve ever, y’know.” He got his elbow on the table to
support himself. “I mean, you’ve probably been around, but me, I’m,
well, I’m a small town guy. Y’know.”

I nodded.

“I’ve never cheated on her, but…well, all I’m saying is,
sometimes a guy gets the urge to look. Kim wouldn’ look. I’m the
only man she’s ever…y’know?” He sat there, blinking. He looked like
he was about to weep from the beauty of his wife’s purity.

“Why don’t we go?” I suggested.

“One more drink,” he insisted. “It’s a big deal. This’
firs’ time Murdock signed with an outta-state comp’ny.”

“Why don’t we have that drink at home?” I suggested.

“Good idea! Y’meet Kim. Meet the little woman. She’s salt of
the earth. Y’r salt of the earth.” I flagged down our waitress before
everyone in the bar became salt of the earth. Murdock tried to pay,
but I waved him off. He was the client, and I didn’t mind. It wasn’t
my money.

We’d come to the bar in his car, and I drove, handling the big
Cutlass clumsily at first. Murdock fell asleep giving me directions,
but I found his home without much trouble.

When I woke him, he made me promise not to tell his wife where
we’d been. He actually refused to get out of the car until I
promised; I wanted to spit twice and cross my heart. I helped him
stumble across the lawn with only a minor mishap–he whacked his toe
on a sprinkler head–and I rang the doorbell. He kept repeating, “Sh!
Shhh!” while he sorted through his keys, leaning against the door.

He pitched forward when his wife opened the door, and I wasn’t
quick enough to grab him. He looked up glassily from the floor and
said, “Kim, this’s Gil Freeman. Gil, it’s my wife, Kim.”

She sighed and then she looked up at me and the sigh caught in