CommunityChapter 49
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Community TooChapter 56 free porn video
Dan Richards’ turn:
Like it says in the crawler at the beginning of the original Star Wars, “A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...” Story degenerates into something involving young teen girls and middle aged engineers in swimming pools in the heat of Alabama summertime. Then it gets REALLY improbable.
3Sigma‘s having a very good year. We’re well into the eight-figure range for business. I’m not stinking rich, but there is a definite aroma, being one of the founders and a major shareholder.
I laugh. When Cindy and I first got married and Alan and Dan 2.0 and I were trying to get the business off the ground, Cindy’s honorary grandfather (one of ‘em. She collects them) Judge Charlie Peebles put up a considerable amount of cash to help us get the doors open. We made him a percentage shareholder. When Cindy walked onto the dais at Auburn to receive her doctorate, he signed his share over to her.
So there’s that. I still get to do the kind of engineering work I want to do. I still own and regularly use work shoes and whatever work clothes are called for when I get inside powerhouses and industrial facilities and big commercial operations.
Best of all, though, is my status as the husband of Doctor Cynthia Richards, MSEE, PhD, ASMEL, CFII and legend in all too many arenas. The Cindy Richards, one of the principals of Hogwarts Technology Corporation, an entity that existed long enough to own and subsequently sell robotics applications produced by the Munchkin Mafia under the tutelage (“I don’t TEACH them much,” Cindy says. “Mostly I just try to guide the herd of cats.”) of Cindy and Nikki.
I looked back over my annual statement of earnings that Social Security sends me every year. I totaled up my life’s earnings. LIFE’S earnings. Cindy beat me. The Munchkins beat me. Nikki beat me. Fortunately I have plenty of company in that pleasant misery.
Sitting around with Beck and Sim one morning, Beck lowered the hammer on me. “You, when I first met you, Dan Richards, I had you pegged as the biggest and most blatantly guilty child molester in the state, and this IS Alabama.”
“Well, at least Cindy’s eighteen now.”
Sim smiled. “Yeah ... That makes it MUCH better.”
“My mother is coming down HERE for Hanukkah. She’s already talking about how her son-in-law is a college professor, but her granddaughter is a millionaire.” Beck smiled. Beck is our head of administration and we’re paying her quite well, too. Beck rides herd on our accounting bunch. That’s great. I don’t have to worry about it. She pops out a report weekly at a staff meeting, tells us what we need to know. It’s usually good news. She also has a ‘human relations’ specialist working for her, making sure we tiptoe through the morass of laws and regulations foisted upon every business in the country.
But that’s business. It’s good. We hire good people, treat them well; makes life good. At the end of the evening, though, that’s when the best part of my life happens. I go home to Cindy. That is, if Cindy hasn’t been in the office during the day. Sometimes she is. Three days a week, though, she’s been at the university, overseeing the menagerie that surrounds the Munchkins.
Home. With Cindy. Anywhere with Cindy’s great, right off the bat. Anywhere I can be alone and more or less private with Cindy is even better.
Thirteen when I met her, eighteen now, Cindy’s still small, pixyish. The red hair and green eyes are a magic combination to exacerbate that ‘pixie’ thing. And freckles.
“Mom says they go away when I get older. Hers did.”
Actually that saddens me. Many a time I’ve kissed her with little kisses, one for each freckle. Never made it to the end. Still, emerald eyes. They laughed when she laughed, smiled when she smiled. I’ve seen them in steely concentration, too, usually when she was trying to help one of her many students, official and unofficial, through a problem area.
At home those eyes are still for me. Just me.
Our last anniversary was our fourth.
“You’re still not tired of me?” she asked. I’m sure she knows.
“Nope. You’re still delightful and delicious and beautiful and I’m the one that worries. You see a lot of people and a lot of them are males...”
“None of ‘em are my Dan. I told you a long time ago – you’re the first and you will be the only.”
“Still sooooo perfect,” I said.
“Got bigger tits now,” she said, watching my eyes. She knows me. She’s all the way to a B-cup now. Still firm. No sag, just perfect, slightly rounded mounds of happiness, nipples still virginal pink.
Big shower, just because of this need to be in it with my Cindy. Hundreds of times we’ve showered together. Still exciting. She’s soaped up, turns her back to me, backs against me. Short little thing. My hardness is in the hollow of her back, just above her butt. I wrap her in my arms.
“Mmmmmm. Still makes me feel like I’m protected, baby,” she says.
The post-shower routine is exactly that, a routine. Tonight’s her ‘no hair dryer’ night. She towels that short hair as dry as she can get it. I don’t mind it wet. The downside is that wet, it’s dark brown, not red. I dearly love my redhead in every way possible, ever since a stormy night more than four years ago.
Tonight? Familiar ecstasy. I said that one time.
“That’s almost an oxymoron,” she tittered. Her giggle overcame me. I rolled her over on her back. Her face took on a wide grin. “Now you’re gonna abuse me, huh?”
“That’s my intent.”
Her thighs spread wide, her delightful titties becoming mere soft, nipple-punctuated pads on her chest as she laid back. There in my bed is the most completely delectable female on the planet.
“You’re sure smiling big,” she giggled. “Why?”
I stabbed forward, entering her waiting pussy.
She exhaled, still smiled. “Oh, THAT’S why...”
Yes, almost every night. We take breaks for a few days when she’s on her period, even though Nikki says ‘Why not? It washes right off!’ and on the occasions where we find ourselves geographically separated. But aside from those occasions – EVERY NIGHT. Sometimes we find times during the day, too. Or at random spots in the schedule.
Never. No man has the right to be this lucky.
Aftermath. Simple, loving ennui.
“Gonna be sticky.” She wiggled against me. “Wanna?”
“Always.”
Sixty-nine. Another for her. Back to cuddling, her face inches from mine, green eyes bright. “Always an angel,” I said.
“Your angel.”
“What’s on tap for tomorrow?” I asked. I already knew the weather was less than ideal, a warm, moist backflow off the Gulf of Mexico was running in to meet the next cold front. No rain until very late in the day, but overcast and damp and windy. Not a good day for recreational flying. Music, maybe, but that’s later in the day.
Giggle. (a sign of interesting things. Not necessarily good nor bad, but certainly interesting.) “We’re doing the run-in for the new motor on the single-seater.”
“Oh,” I said. “Munchkin stuff.”
“She’s chomping at the bit, baby. My very first student. All three of ‘em, actually. I’m kinda anxious myself. I’m the test pilot.”
“And flight instructor.”
“Seriously, baby, it’s the Munchkins. I kind of do like you used to do me – sort of keep my hands and feet ready, just in case ... I’ve had The Talk with all the worried parents, you know.”
“I know. But we all remember how big a step it was when we cut Terri loose with a soldering iron.”
“And yet, somehow, Western Civilization survived,” she giggled.
“According to many, Western Civilization advanced from there.”
Agile mind. Something that drew me in from Day One. Nothing gets past her.
“So, the latest?”
“I’m listening.”
“We’re still connected with Google, right?”
“I understand that. Kind of idling right now, though,” I said.
“Munchkins research things, right?”
“Right.”
“FAA is really picky about experimentation on certificated aircraft, you know.”
“That’s why much of aviation’s stuck in the 1940s, but yes.”
“And I LOVED the glass panel on the Citation.”
“We can’t afford one.”
“I don’t want a Citation, baby. I’m not John Stinkin’ Travolta, with my own private 707. But, they’re looking at an implementation of a combination of the heads- up display and those helmet-mounted displays. Terri asked a lot of questions about those at the airshow. I think she has ideas.”
“I can hardly wait.”
“She got Google to send her some Google Glasses. Says they can do some stuff with software.”
“Baby,” I said, “the technology is maturing. There are dozens of implementations out there.”
Cindy rolled over to me. Kissed me. It’s what I’ve come to recognize as her ‘You, poor, poor boy. Pay close attention and I’ll try to make it simple’ kiss. “Google Glass. Not some huge, bulky helmet. Light. Portable. Inexpensive at basic functional implementation.”
“Yeah...”
“Educational. And fun. And the first platform is that eighty-percent complete ultralight. Since the FAA doesn’t think it’s a REAL airplane, we can do what we want with it as far as instrumentation. Latest microtechnologies.”
“All that and y’all get to fly...”
“Flying is magical, you know. I was introduced to it by my prince.”
I idly stroked the damp hair from her face. “Unlikely pixies need wings,” I said.
“Mmmmmmm ... You still do it, Daniel Richards. You’re my very best friend. And I have a lot of GOOD friends.”
Sleep came softly, a warm little form lying beside me, a leg carelessly tossed over mine.
The next morning we were still in bed when the phone beeped. Cindy’s phone. She reached for it.
Myra
- 19.10.2020
- 15
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