My Niece Allison Part III Tutoring Allison
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Eventualities: Allison Ch. 01 free porn video
A Love in Lovett County Story #3
Synopsis: A man loves and nearly loses forever the woman that makes his life complete, but in the struggle to regain her will everything else be lost in the process? It is primarily a story of love and unusual relationships, and there is a good deal of sex, but probably no ‘scary codes’. It starts fairly slow and the first two chapters are a bit sad.
Codes: MF, FF, slow, tears, rom, 1st, drug/alcohol, cheat, oral, anal, body modification, exhibition
Sex: Much Sex
Posted: 2007-07-06 to 16, Revised: 2009-11-06)
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Thanks to my original Editors: Zaffen, Gandalf4217 & FuzzyWuzzy, and to Dragonsweb and Sue for their additional efforts
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While I save most of my chatting for my Blog page on SOL, I thought a few words before this story would be helpful. I started writing this story about four years ago and while the ‘Romantic’ element of this story is still very strong, there is a good deal of complicated sexual behavior between two or more consenting adults in a far-off semi-magical reality that has never heard of AIDS or other ‘unsafe’ sex practices.
This story was originally intended a long time ago to be a slightly odd and short ‘Cheating/Slut Wife story’ very much in the inspiration of the stories of DG Hear, Harddaysknight, Just Plain Bob & The Wanderer. Ten pages ideally, maybe twenty at most… and Allison was supposed to die at the end, a victim of her alcohol dependency. Instead, for some reason I couldn’t kill her off when I was supposed to. The story soon ended up being about 100 pages long and even then it was only really half-done. It was also far more of a stroke story than its intended romantic plot. It also didn’t work – even as a ‘stroke story’. I set the story aside for awhile until I could figure out how to fix it.
I started to attempt to revise it once again about two years ago. I trimmed out most of the sex scenes and changing the story’s focus dramatically. Somewhere around the new page 40, the idea of ‘Lovett County’ started to germinate in my head and the new plotline once again shifted subtly towards this new vision. Warts and all (and there are many), this story is a central introduction for several future major characters in Lovett County and a few of the main plotlines.
Technically, this is the ‘first’ Lovett County story, despite the fact that several other stories that were written much later have been posted to SoL before this one. This story was meant to be the start of Lovett, but there was no major harm done by delaying it to become Lovett #3. Better late than never.
This has been the single most edited and re-written story I have ever attempted, and in some moods this story was nearly deleted entirely. Grudgingly I’ve decided to ‘ruin a perfectly decent story’ to keep at least some of the original sex scenes intact. If nothing else, this will continue to remind me why I don’t particularly write extensive sex scenes in my stories anymore. As currently constituted, this story runs about 9 chapters. Cheer up, in its original version, this story ran to about 30 chapters – that was far too much suffering. Trust me, I didn’t cut out anything you even want to remotely know about. No, I won’t send you a copy of the original draft either. ????
Even several years after it was first posted, Eventualities: Allison is nearly always one of my top read or downloaded stories and the voting for this tale has been kinder than I would have rated it myself.
Now that this story (along with my other Lovett tales) are finally being posted at Lit, I’m now giving this rather odd and long tale one last bit of cleanup, to remove the worst of the typos. In the interest of history, I’m still leaving most of the remaining sex and the odd subplots intact, rather than rewriting the tale entirely. With several years more writing experience now, today I would write this story in a completely different sort of way, if I was doing it from scratch.
Warts and all, here is Allison…
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I knew something had gone quite terribly wrong when Tiny showed up at the fire station to take me out to lunch on a New Years Eve. Not that I have anything against having lunch… or being seen in public with Tiny (all 6’4′ of him), but Tiny was a fairly private sort of guy. We’ve been friends for over a year, and we had never actually gone out and done ‘guy things’ or for that matter, even gone out for a meal. This changed all that – and I knew something was up, and unfortunately I just had an inkling of the cause… and didn’t have to wait long to hear it confirmed.
‘Pete, Allison’s drinking again,’ Tiny said without preamble just as I was taking my first sip of my lemonade.
‘Shit. Are you sure?’ Of course he was sure… he had to be. Otherwise he’d have never ridden over here, collected me from work and the two of us sitting in some dump that probably hasn’t passed a food inspection since the Paleozoic era. There is a reason why firemen are world class barbeque cooks, the restaurants near fire houses are usually gawd awful (not to mention they’re also usually quite fire prone – it makes us too nervous to eat if we think our professional services might be needed at any moment).
Tiny continued, ‘I saw her on the back of Willis’s bike leaving the Bert Wheelers on Beechnut with a couple of bags in her arm. I didn’t think it was her at first, but I knew it was definitely Willis and his bike – that converted Honda job. I was a light or two behind them most of the way back to the apartments, he ran at least one red light, all of the stop signs and rode enough like an absolute idiot that I had no doubt it was really him. Finally I got just a good enough of a look at her that I’m sure it was Allison. I was really, really, hoping that I was wrong.’
So was I, especially about the Willis part. I’d had a run-in before with him over much this same issue three months ago, and I thought it had been resolved… I guess not. I had been so busy these last few months that I hadn’t spent hardly any socializing time with Tiny at all. Tiny is an extremely private sort of guy and not the type to leave a note on your door or a message on the answering machine, even if he is your best friend. Apparently he had been trying to get hold of me for quite awhile but hadn’t been able to catch me at home.
Willis, or rather Robert Jason Willis Jr, was the hapless nephew of some rich fat cat Dallas real estate developer whom, after his 2nd failed attempt at college, was shunted off to watch over one of the family’s lesser investments, the cheap 20-odd unit apartment complex where Tiny and I rented (well actually Tiny gets his rent free in return for acting as an assistant manager and onsite ‘Security’). Since actually doing any hands-on managerial work is below Willis’s dignity, he dumps most of the paperwork off onto Tiny. This leaves him with more time for attending to the 24/7 party that seems to run at his apartment, cultivating his drug connections, and his latest flummery – posing as one bad-ass ‘1%’er biker. I say it’s nonsense, because no actual ‘outlaw motorcycle gang’ ™ would touch Willis with a ten foot beer keg hose. Tiny would know, because he knows every major piece of scooter trash in the city – he rode with them all for over a decade.
Tiny offered one last observation, ‘Sorry. Anyone else and I wouldn’t have mentioned it… but I owe you.’ He then started a lengthy examination of his hamburger to see if it needed a few jabs from his belt knife before it would remain still and consent to be eaten.
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There are hundreds of stories about Tiny, and most of them are actually true the best I can tell, especially the most improbable ones, despite the fact that many would seem to be contradictions. At a looming 6’4,’ full heavy beard and weighing probably near 300 pounds, Tiny is never seen except whe
n wearing his ‘colors’ (the badge of a true motorcycle enthusiast), his worn & torn blue jean jacket bearing a large embroidered emblem of the Grateful Dead’s ‘Ice Cream Kid’ and the club name ‘The Fooles’ (a club of one) and a US Navy SEALS patch on his right sleeve.
It’s rumored he has ridden with both the Angels and the Banditos, but he’s never said… and anyone who knows for sure won’t say either. Nowadays Tiny teaches bicycle safety classes for several different elementary schools, and organizes, seemingly effortlessly, charity bike runs to benefit any of a dozen worthwhile causes, or monthly ‘Fill the Helmet’ fund drives for the Children’s Hospital. He is probably the only person I’ve ever heard of who can get the outlaw clubs, civilian bike clubs and the police bike club all to attend the same functions with no pain, stress or itching desires to perform mayhem. Hurray for Tiny!
He won’t talk at all about his past. I’m 99% sure that he was ex-military, Navy and probably something related to Special Ops. Probably SEALs due his jacket patch, but he keeps that part of his life very hidden. If pressed he’ll say he did ‘bad,’ but had a life-changing experience and now tries to do ‘good.’ What his ‘Road to Damascus’ was, no one knows. Tiny certainly won’t say… and he doesn’t talk much anyway. I’ve never ridden any bike bigger or faster than a 10-speed Schwinn, my ride is an EMS wagon, and that is where I first met Tiny.
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It was a Wednesday, only my 3rd day on the job with the Houston Fire Department (HFD), Emergency Medical Services division. I, Peter Wells, was a newly hired Emergency Medical Technician straight from the Fire Academy and still used to civilian life. I had just finished 4 years of duty as an Army Medic and was an alumnus of the infamous ‘Goat School’ at Fort Hood. The final exam is they shoot a real live bleating goat – if you can keep it alive for 30 minutes you pass, if not you fail. They don’t do that anymore… much too politically incorrect, but I admit it was good real life training.
The HFD at that point in history was having trouble getting and retaining EMT’s due to the buereaucratic attitude that they were ‘Firemen first and EMT’s a very distant second’. Accordingly they were running trained firemen through their EMT training later as an afterthought… and with a low success rate, so there was a constant critical shortage.
I was part of a new pilot program where they recruited ex-military medics and nurses who had the right attitude and training to get all of the endless EMT training and needed certifications then run them through Fire School. A good idea that worked… they should have kept it (but that’s another story).
Riding to the scene of an auto accident that day we received an update report on the radio: a car in a hurry to get his wife in labor to the hospital runs stop sign and doesn’t see the guy on the motorcycle currently already in the intersection, they collide, and the car (as usual) wins. Bleeding badly from his right arm, shoulder and leg the cyclist (Tiny) staggers over to the car undoubted looking like some grim Viking refugee from Valhalla to see if they are alright. The driver of the car, the husband, sees Tiny and is certain that he’s going to get clubbed like a baby seal… pisses his pants and then faints. The wife, whose water broke about the time they hit Tiny, was screaming like the Furies and started to do the bludgeoning herself, whacking her unconscious husband with her handbag in an attempt to revive him.
Bemused, Tiny was still standing by the door when we pulled up with all of the sirens wailing. He then calmly asked for us to ‘check on the pregnant lady first, it looks like she’s in some distress,’ and then he immediately passed out onto the pavement. Come to find out, in the crash he suffered a cut to his Axillary artery and was in some danger of bleeding out. I tended to Tiny, got him stabilized and an IV hooked up while my senior training partner looked on, and once he could tell I had the situation well under control he went to check the vitals of the woman (still shaking and beating on her husband) and then reviving him. We then called for the backup EMS unit from our station to come and pickup the pregnant lady while we took Tiny to the hospital.
That should have been the end of the matter, but this was merely the start. Later that afternoon while cleaning and restocking at the station, I noticed that in the hurry to check Tiny’s shoulder wound and locate and clamp off the bleeding artery, I had pretty much cut off his denim jean riding jacket, his ‘Colors.’ They were bloody, pretty much soaked actually, and a ragged mess. Anyone else would have thrown them out without a second thought, but I had learned just enough of biker culture from hearing dorm chatter while in the Army that I knew this was extremely important to him. It took three washings to get most of the blood stains out, and I found that one of the 3rd Unit crew had a wife that sewed and got her (for $20) to reassemble the jean jacket from where I had cut it all apart. By Friday evening I had the repaired jacket back and I took it with me to the hospital after my shift ended.
Tiny was doing well. Except for a few nasty cuts and the resulting blood loss, there was nothing broken and no internal damage. He had been waiting for the final doctor’s ok to release signature on his forms and was otherwise ready to leave the hospital, so it was excellent timing. Upon seeing his Colors, more or less clean and reassembled, he nearly cried and gave me a huge bear hug that nearly squashed me (I’m nowhere near his huge size) and he vowed eternal thanks and obligations of future debt. Wow, just seeing him that happy made it worth the time (and the $20 I didn’t really have at the time).
We talked a bit about ourselves and our jobs, I mentioned that I was new to the city and had just left the Fire Academy dorms and was renting a dump efficiency apartment by the week that was probably smaller than the hospital room we were in. Tiny gave me the address of the apartments where he worked and then showed me the choice of the two available units that were in the relatively best condition, and offered a sweetheart of a deal on monthly rent. I chose the upstairs one with the recently repaired plumbing and a decent working AC unit and moved in the next day. I assumed that we were now even. Silly me, we weren’t even close.
After a few weeks on an intense OJT (on the job training) schedule where I was essentially nearly always on duty and lived for a full week at a time at the station, things started to finally calm down. My direct shift trainers had a good look at my skills and prior training and reported back to the chef instructor that I knew my shit and could be trusted with sharp instruments without injuring myself or others. Soon I was on the normal schedule for a Unit Crew, three days on (24/7) at the station day and night, and then three days off. It was surprising the number of classes and seminars that always seemed to get scheduled for those days off, but I still managed to start putting together a home life (ok, studying usually, but at least I was home). In six months or so I felt I could get completed with the last of my training requirements to become an intermediate EMT-I (most folks usually took a year to get out of ‘training’ status) and then start another hard year of classes and training to test to EMT-P (Paramedic) which was pretty much the top of the normal EMT tree.
I didn’t go to bars or have much nightlife. I worked, came home, studied some more and occasionally visited Tiny every week or two, watched a game together on TV and discussed the importance of first-rate home brewed root beer (Tiny’s one remaining vice). So things went for a couple of months, and then I meet Allison Blair.
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Like Tiny, I met Allison ‘professionally’, but fortunately this time she wasn’t the patient. She worked the retail industry as an Assistant Manager at an upscale wo
man’s clothing store that was part of a small but growing chain. She had called 911 when a customer collapsed in the store (nothing serious fortunately, probably just dizziness due to low blood sugar) and after the embarrassed customer had left I had a few minutes to chat with Allison at the checkout counter while filling out my paperwork.
Since by nature I tend to be extremely shy and I’m conscious of my relative shortness as a male (I’m only about 5’8,’ and I would have preferred to have gone into the Navy instead of the Army, but I was scared I’d get immediately sent off to Submarine School) so I tend to compensate by coming over to women as extremely self-assured with a cocky attitude. In my defense, I’m also in excellent physical condition due to my military experience and the uncertain needs of my job (firemen probably pump way more weights than police do). In her case, I was awed by her exceptional good looks. She was a stunning beauty nearly 6 feet tall with long ‘dirty dishcloth blonde’ hair, at least a 9 on anyone’s scale and obviously totally way out of my league. Even with no ring on her finger, I doubted I had even the slightest chance with her, so I did the only thing I could think of to do under the circumstances… I immediately jokingly proposed marriage to her. To both my delight and horror she instantly accepted.
Mercifully we didn’t actually run out like the two love crazed kids we were and immediately tie the knot, and we actually managed to have a few dates before her personal items started to slowly, but surely, drift into ‘our apartment.’ Within a month, she had given up her own small apartment and we were living together, but it was almost over between us even before it really began.
When two people start a close relationship the first few months are really all about learning what things the other person does that bug the shit out of you. In my case, I’m a compulsive ‘neat-freak,’ where she definitely tended towards being a slob. She was also rather emotionally ‘high maintenance’ who felt the need that we ought to be doing things together every time we were home together. My work hours (or rather days – three on then three off) meant that I’d only be home half the time – I also usually worked every single major holiday (the highest peak periods for calls for EMS service). She was also extremely impulsive and had an unfortunate tendency to job hop. Every few months she would decide that the path to becoming a full Store Manager was always a little better or easier at some other company and she would suddenly change jobs without any prior discussion between us. These were all rather annoying to me at times, but I thought I could deal with that. We constructed some rules about housecleaning that both of us could live with but there was nothing I could do about my work schedule and she understood and tried to accept that.
Then there was the matter of Allison’s drinking, an ongoing crisis that only I seemed to recognize or acknowledge the existence of, which caused regular problems for us throughout our entire relationship.
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Looking back now, much older (wiser?) and with 20/20 hindsight, I’m inclined to blame much of her problems on her relationship with her father (also an alcoholic and who may or may not have abused her as a child). She was definitely raised in a troubled house where both her parents drank like fish and fought seemingly endlessly. She was smart and very pretty but also lonely and troubled. A small legacy from an aunt plus a minor scholarship was enough to get her out of the house and into a state university. There she scraped out a degree in English and learned to party like there was no tomorrow. Fine, that’s what college (and military dorm life), is for… but after college was over the old habits didn’t die off. She started the day with a drink, had more as soon as she got home from work and wanted to drink until either late at night or early in the morning or until she passed out. Not good.
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