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SRU: On The House free porn video
Spells R Us ? On the House
By X-Ray
Jaime's sense of timing always had been impeccable. From the pleasant
surprises she always sprang on me when I was feeling the worst to the
uncanny way she had of knowing just when I needed her input on a story,
she had always had this knack of timing.
So when she left me on my thirtieth birthday, it shouldn't have been any
surprise, really, but it was.
The note was the first thing that struck me as I walked into the house ? our
house, the house that Jaime and Don built ? sitting there on the kitchen table,
leaning against the decorative vase that had been a wedding gift from her
parents. There was nothing special about the paper, really; it was the same
crisp white parchment that she'd used to write such mundane things as
grocery lists, directions for vacations, and the like. I suppose that should
have intensified the pain even more, but it didn't. Though Dear John letters
should have been looked upon as somewhat special, it was a statement to
Jaime's practicality that she had used the same paper to leave me, to leave us,
that she used for everything else.
The note was simple, short, and cruel. There was no header or signature, but
it was quite obvious who it had been intended for and whom it was from.
I ask myself for a reason why I shouldn't leave, but I can't find any. You
don't inspire me anymore. My hopes, my dreams, no longer run the same
road as yours do. You're content, and I'm not. I need to find something, and
it's not here.
As I sat down at the table, the strength slowly draining away from me, I
laughed at the sheer, outright irony of it all.
We'd been together since we were freshmen in high school, the unstoppable
force that was Don and Jaime. We'd conquered high school, obliterated
college, and lived life with an intensity that few can know.
For fifteen years, Jaime had been part of my life, and now, suddenly, she
wasn't.
I know what you're thinking ? the problem was there all along, and in a way,
you're right. But out of love, I think, and the desire to be happy, I ignored it.
I ignored the casually spoken comments about my life, and our position in it.
I ignored the constant struggle by my wife to improve her position in society.
We had been opposites, really ? I had been the kid from the wrong side of the
tracks; she'd been the daughter of two doctors, growing up in the lap of what
I as a young man would have called luxury.
Where I was now, and where I had been then, though, were two polar
opposites. Through stubborn drive and hard work, I'd graduated from
college, received my engineering certification, and gotten a job with one of
the largest computer companies in the United States. That had been enough
for me as a young man fresh out of college, but it hadn't fulfilled my creative
desires. And so I wrote, and became a moderate success. Between writing
and my career, our home was paid for, our cars were paid for, and we had
the resources pined away for a rainy day vacation.
The job, I supposed, was what did it. As much as I enjoyed writing, I
enjoyed electronics as much, and having the opportunity to take computers
apart every day and make them work, was sheer joy. Work and writing were
my two hobbies, and Jaime was my passion. Everything else, I had told her,
was just life.
She'd never liked the job; never liked the ordinary, down-to-earth men and
women I worked with and called my friends. What she didn't understand,
though, was the fact that it was these ordinary, hard-working people, were
my inspiration. They became the glue that held my stories together. I tried to
think of how many of my characters had been based off of Jaime, or the
people at work. I lost count quickly.
I sighed, looking down and realizing that I had crumpled the note into a tight
wad. Carefully, I smoothed it out, read it again, and smiled as a final,
decisive thought went through my head. There was nothing else to be done,
was there?
The choice had been made even before I asked myself the question. Quickly,
I stood, not bothering to push the chair back under the table, and made my
way through the kitchen. I walked up the stairs, down the hallway, and
entered our bedroom.
The closets stood wide open; drawers had been left ajar. Wherever she'd
gone, I mused, she'd left quickly. I shrugged, tossed the note onto the bed ?
unmade, I noted. Interesting, I suppose, considering the fact that we'd made
it together that morning. Who was he? I wondered as I made my way into the
bathroom, then shrugged to myself. The question really had no bearing on
the situation. Wherever she was and whomever she was with, I wished her
the best.
Sleeping had been one of Jaime's difficulties, and she'd taken to having a
glass of wine before retiring. When the wine was insufficient, she turned to
the marvels of medical science.
She'd left the bottle of sleeping pills in their typical place in the medicine
chest. I took them down, shook the bottle. A pair of lone remaining tablets
rattled fitfully about the small plastic container. I sighed. Certainly not
enough for what I intended. I examined the label, then nodded to myself. The
refill was still good.
Pocketing the nearly empty bottle of sleeping pills, I made my way out of the
house, not bothering to change out of my work clothes as I went. I locked the
door behind me in habit, climbed into my company van, and headed in the
direction of the mall.
I made the drive as though in a dream. Sights that I should have seen I
ignored, but the smallest things caught my eye. A couple riding a tandem
bicycle, laughing happily. Children swinging in the park. Children.
Jaime had never wanted children, despite the fact that we had more than
enough money to afford them, pregnancy was something that she'd looked at
with dread. And so we'd remained childless, twelve years into our marriage.
I'd accepted it, because that was what she wanted, but the desire to have
children of my own had always been there, and always would be, I
supposed. Call it nature's way of rewriting the past ? for me, children
represented the chance to right the mistakes my father had made, the mistakes
that had seen him in prison and me on the street when I was sixteen years
old.
I arrived at the mall, parked, and walked inside. The cool air hit me like a slap
to the face, and I realized just how warm it had become outside. I moved for
the pharmacy as though on automatic pilot.
And just outside of it, I stopped dead.
The pharmacy, I remembered quite clearly, had been directly between the
bookstore and the discount shoe store. This was something quite different.
The windows had been papered over with fantasy posters of the type that
adorned the cover of Heavy Metal magazine, or of the type that Larry Elmore
painted for the Dungeons and Dragons games.
The sign over the door read, in old English script, "Spells 'R Us". I blinked
slowly, and checked my bearings once again to make sure that I was in the
right place. I was, or else I was going crazy.
The thought of my own sanity was not one that I wished to ponder at the
moment, especially considering the fact that I was here, in fact, to secure the
means of my own death. Shrugging, I pushed open the door and walked into
the store. A bell tinkled overhead as I went.
The lighting inside of the store was dim. The faint smell of old books lay in
the air. I inhaled deeply, savoring the scent. Bookstores had always held a
special pull for me, and even if the pharmacy had gone the way of the dodo, I
always had the time to browse around in a shop.
It wasn't exactly a used bookstore, though. My vague suspicion that it was a
game store seemed to be quickly coming to fruition. Crystals, figurines, and
all sorts of esoteric items were neatly arranged throughout the store on heavy
shelves.
Someone coughed lightly at the back of the store, and my head turned.
The man was old, but a light of life still shone in his eyes; a vague twinkle,
perhaps. He wore a battered wizard's hat, the point of which stood nearly a
foot higher than his scalp. A large golden amulet hung around his neck. A
threadbare robe, almost like a bathrobe, wrapped around him.
"Hello, Don," he said, and his voice was deep, kind of like Charlton
Heston's might have been if he'd learned to relax once a while. As though he
were privy to my thoughts, the man in the bathrobe chuckled. I walked
forward, heading toward the counter on which he leaned upon.
I might have asked how he knew my name, but I had not bothered to change
my clothes. Thusly, my name was plastered across the left side of my shirt,
just below the company logo, there for everyone to see, and know that I was
the computer man, here to solve all of their problems.
"Hello," I said politely. "Interesting place you have here."
He waved a hand. "From time to time," he said. "I haven't been getting a lot
of business lately. Summer, you know," he said conspirationally. "Lot's of
people out of town. When school starts back up," he clapped his hands and
rubbed them together with glee, "THEN we will have some business!"
I grinned. This guy was all right. I worked with people every day, and I'd
come to be able to tell a person right off the bat ? if you could joke with them,
if they wanted you tell them what was wrong with their hardware in precise
terms, or just BS your way out the door. It was a skill that had served me
well, much to Jaime's chagrin. Perhaps if I hadn't been so good at my job,
hadn't enjoyed it so much . . . maybe then she would have stayed.
I shook my head, pushing the thought from my mind. "Say, you wouldn't
know where they moved the drug store to, would you? I need to get a refill
on a subscription for my wife."
"Oh, it's still here," the old man said, waving his hand. "Corporate merger,"
he said sadly. "Aspirin and tampons weren't paying the bills, so they told us
to start peddling figurines and game modules. What a world, huh?"
I smiled and nodded. Pulling the bottle out from my pocket, I handed it to
him. "I need a refill on that, if I could," I said politely.
"Be right back," he said, turning on one heel and walking through a doorway
into the back of the store. Putting my hands in my pockets, I studied the
interior of the store. Now that he'd mentioned it, I could see where the
additional decorations had been put up, covering up the austere interior of
what had been a pharmacy. Everything was still there, it had just been
crammed together with the new inventory. It was weird, but on a weirdness
scale of American business practices, it wasn't totally crazy.
The old man reemerged from the back of the store, a stapled-over pharmacy
bag clutched in one hand. "I was out of the normal pills for your . . . wife,"
the old man said. "But I substituted these; they should be a little easier on her
stomach. They're new," he confided.
"Oh, good," I said. "The old ones did seem to give her terrible heartburn." I
reached for my wallet. "How much do I owe you?"
He waved his hand. "On the house. Company policy when we have to make
a drug substitution. I don't necessarily see that as good thing ? one might
tend to think that the substituted drug is not as good, or dangerous, but that's
not the case. It's just one way we try to make ourselves stand out from the
competition."
"Oh," I said, replacing my wallet. "Well, thank you. I hope business picks
up for you." I took the bag, and turned to walk out of the store. As I placed
my hand on the door, his voice stopped me.
"Don, sometimes people just don't click together the way they are, and it's no
one's fault when it happens. Remember that."
I turned and looked back at him quizzically. "What did you say?"
"Tell her to sleep well. Why, what did you think I said?"
I shook my head, confused. Maybe I WAS going insane. "Never mind.
Thanks."
The drive home was anticlimactic. I drove at precisely the posted speed limit,
obeyed all regulations, and arrived home. Picking the pharmacy bag up from
the passenger seat, I got out of the car, and walked up to the house.
The autopilot had taken over again, and I went with the flow this time. In
moments, I was in the bedroom, a large tumbler of ice water in one hand and
the pharmacy bag in the other.
Slowly, in front of the bathroom mirror, I removed my work clothes and let
them lie, wearing only my boxer shorts. This would be how they found me ?
wearing Tasmanian Devil boxer shorts. The bag resisted my initial efforts to
tear it open, but it finally gave in with a loud ripping sound. The bottle
opened up with atypical ease; the childproof cap proving no barrier for my
determined fingers.
I had to refill the tumbler with water from the tap after the first dozen pills.
By then, my stomach was already feeling odd, fluttery, perhaps. I finished
the bottle of sleeping pills ? sixty in all, all of them about the size of an
aspirin ? and drained another glass of water for good measure.
I stood in front of the sink for a long moment, staring at my reflection. What
was it about me, I wondered, that hadn't been good enough for her? I wasn't
ugly by any stretch of the imagination. I was an inch over six feet, slender,
fairly muscular, with curly red hair that Jaime had loved, until recently at
least. I wasn't unkind to her, never had been. We didn't argue, I lowered the
seat when I was done, took out the garbage without being told, and had
basically been the model husband.
My eyelids were beginning to feel heavy. Was this normal? How long had it
been since I'd taken the first pill? It didn't matter, I told myself. I didn't
know if I possessed the strength to raise my head and examine my watch,
anyway.
I staggered to the unmade bed, the world spinning around me. This was it,
and I almost laughed. There was no light, no angels. Just a vague blackness
encroaching on the borders of my field of vision. That answered a question
or two, I supposed, but it was too late to tell anyone else.
I fell onto the bed, and it felt as though the flight lasted an eternity. When I
bounced up and finally came to rest, sprawled crookedly across the mattress,
I swooned.
Staring at the ceiling, I smiled dreamily. At least it didn't hurt, I told myself,
though I couldn't see how anything could hurt as much as having your heart
torn out.
Closing my eyes, I succumbed.
* * *
The ringing of the phone impinged on my sleep of death.
Fuzzily, I wondered if this was hell. Hearing the phone ring for eternity,
surrounded by darkness, and unable to find out who was on the other line.
How deliciously ironic that was.
And then, amazingly, the answering machine clicked on. A voice,
unintelligible at first, spoke the greeting message, and then I heard the beep.
It seemed to go on forever, and then a deep voice filled the air. After a
moment of smeared words, I was able to make out a few words.
"I guess you're still at work. I should be home in an hour or two; I just got
off my flight. I miss you."
The phone clicked, and I swooned.
That voice . . . where had I heard it before? My thoughts were as sluggish as
the rest of me. Then my mind clicked ? it sounded like Jaime, but with a sore
throat or something. Was she coming back? I struggled to fight through the
skeins of unconsciousness. That, perhaps, would even be worse than an
eternity of a ringing phone in Hell ? dying with the knowledge that she'd
returned.
And suddenly, sight returned to me, and I lurched to my feet. My body felt
stiff, thick, and unfamiliar. My joints felt as though they'd been packed full
of cotton. I shuffled slowly across the bedroom floor. At first I could not feel
the pile of the carpet beneath my feet, but sensation was returning slowly but
surely. My hearing, as well, was improving in tiny measures; I could hear
my slow breathing, the sound of my feet on the carpet.
I reached the bathroom, fell to my knees, and stuck my head in the toilet.
Violently, I retched, heaving. After what seemed like a decade, I raised my
head, staring down. Bits and pieces of half-digested sleeping pills floated
amidst the remains of my lunch. Blanching at the sour smell, I reached up to
flush the toilet and stopped dead.
The numbness that had occupied my body had vanished with the purging of
my stomach, and several things were immediately apparent.
The hand that I held before me, touching the flush lever of the toilet, was not
my own. This hand was slender, and capped with short but well-manicured
fingernails. A thin glaze of pink nail polish covered the nails. Slim, delicate
fingers led up into a small hand, which then led to an arm. The arm,
following the trend laid out by my fingers and hand, was not the one I
recognized. It was willowy, delicate, with fine tendrils of red hair speckling
the backs. The hair wasn't visible unless you were looking for it.
It was the sort of hair on a woman's arms.
Lowering my arm, I closed my eyes and focused on what my body was
telling me. I didn't feel completely different, but slighter somehow, less
bulky. There was a weight hanging from my chest, but bound up by cloth.
The shorts around my hips were higher up on my waist, but they still felt like
the same boxers I'd lain down in.
"All right," I said to myself, and I jumped in surprise. My voice was
different, but the change was subtle. I still recognized myself, but my voice
had been brought into a feminine register. "All right," I repeated, more softly
this time. "I write science fiction. I can handle this."
And with that, I stood, turned, and faced the mirror.
The woman in the mirror was me. It wasn't the same me that I remembered
looking at every day for the last thirty years, but like my voice, the difference
wasn't so extreme that I couldn't recognize myself.
I looked a bit like my sister, though taller and more mature looking. I felt just
as tall, but instinct told me that I had lost an inch or two of height, which still
left me above the feminine average. I was slender, athletic, much as I had
been, but the difference was that I was female.
I stepped back, taking in the total package. My legs were long, and were
most possibly my best feature ? it seemed that in this parallel universe, or
dream world, or whatever, I was a runner, just as I was ? or had been. This
had the potential to get very confusing, very fast.
The Taz boxers were worn over a nicely formed set of hips and buns, the
elastic slightly around my narrow waist. Above my waist was the proof in the
pudding. If I had any doubts up to this point, the breasts under the tight
cotton shirt extinguished them.
They weren't blockbusters, but they were comfortable. Any larger and they
might have been annoying, any smaller and they might have been a source for
a feminine lack of esteem. Brining my new, more slender hands up, I cupped
them, gauging the feel. It was interesting. Slowly, I brought my new fingers
up, rubbing the slight pyramids of my nipples through the thin cotton of my
shirt. I let a burst of air out of my mouth quickly. The sensation was more
than nice, and I became aware that other parts of my body were reacting to
the subtle motions of my fingertips. I pulled my hands away reluctantly, not
wanting to make the final step just yet.
Shaking my head slowly, I raised my head and looked into my eyes. My face
was similar to what I'd grown accustomed to, but softer, more feminine. I
wasn't going to knock Cindy Crawford off of her perch anytime soon, but I
felt comfortable with my looks ? I'd be worthy of a second look, at least. My
hair was still the same light red, still curly, but longer, falling to just past my
shoulders. It was mussed with sleep, and my eyes had a hint of redness to
them.
I felt wonderful, I realized. The sensation of the sleeping pills was gone. I
felt rested, not tired at all, and ready to face the world. Turning, I reached
out, flushed the toilet to purge the prior contents of my stomach, lowered the
upper lid, and sat down.
Even sitting was a different sensation; it felt as though there were a thin layer
of padding between my bottom and the toilet seat. Pressing my knees
together, I stared down past the slight swell of my breasts and examined my
toes, which were painted the same pink as my fingernails.
"This is stupid, you know," I said to myself, becoming more comfortable
with the new sound of my voice. "It's yours now, after all."
Impulsively, I spread my legs, pulling the boxer shorts out from my waist
and lowering my head to look.
The ultimate confirmation ? the boys were gone, replaced by a soft nest of
downy red, covering the narrow slit that led into my . . . vagina, and
ultimately my uterus.
I could have children, I realized suddenly, and laughed out loud, enjoying the
sound. I could have children, excepting the possibility of course that the
universe had played a cruel trick on me and rendered me incapable.
A sudden thought occurred to me, and I picked the shirt that I'd worn to
work today up from the floor and examined it. It was much the same, save
for the fact that the size was different and the buttons were on the opposite
side. Flipping it over, I smoothed out the left side of the shirt. The company
logo was the same, but my name, my new name, adorned it, stitched neatly
in red.
"Donna," I read. I laughed again, gleefully. "Hello, my name is Donna!"
Still laughing, I stood, and to satisfy my one nagging concern, I tore open the
medicine cabinet and searched through it frantically. It only took me a
moment to find the small pillbox of birth control pills, but when I did, it was
though an immense weight had been lifted from my heart.
Joyous, beyond words, I rushed from the bathroom and threw myself onto
the bed. The laughter faded suddenly as I rolled over onto my stomach and
considered the blinking light on the answering machine. I reached out with
one slim hand, and stabbed the playback button.
"Donna, it's Jamie, pick up." It WAS Jaime, only her voice had shifted
downwards into a masculine register where mine had gone the opposite
direction. I frowned slightly. Was this Jamie any different than the Jaime of
old? God, I hoped so. On the machine, Jamie sighed. "I guess you're still at
work. I should be home in an hour or two; I just got off my flight. I miss
you, love. Happy birthday!"
That sealed it for me ? this Jamie had to be better than the other. Had to be. If
he wasn't, then why would I be here? That was what the old man had meant,
hadn't he? I had heard correctly. How had he put it?
I remembered, and mumbled to myself. "Don, sometimes people just don't
click together the way they are, and it's no one's fault when it happens.
Remember that."
I smiled. "The way we were," I said. "Now it's fixed, isn't it?"
My laughter swelled anew and I rushed from the bed, wanting to be ready
when Jamie, when my husband, returned home.
* * *
I never looked back after that day. I've never been a dense person; when the
universe gives you as powerful a hint as I received, you don't take that likely.
I looked for the store again, of course, if only to thank the old man, but I
never found it. The pharmacy had returned, in its entire boring splendor. I
left the mall with a quirky smile on my face that day, and kept it for the rest of
the week. Happiness, it would seem, is sometimes found in the strangest
ways.
My life had not changed much; save for the changes to Jamie and myself, the
particulars have remained the same. I was still a writer, and still had my job at
the firm, but where Jaime had once been a vicious social climber, he was
now a successful salesman for a sporting goods corporation. It was fitting, I
supposed ? Jaime had always liked baseball, and now Jamie liked it even
more.
The child that I've always wanted is coming soon, and this fact makes me
happy to no end. Almost as good as the fact that I will soon be a mother is the
knowledge that Donna and Jamie are unstoppable again.
(the end)
Kaidence
- 24.10.2021
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