A Gift of a Spell

Then there was work. Kathy in accounting, and George in IT, both showed up at a reception, at the end of the work day, and they both had 30 minutes on their foreheads. Both of them were married, too, just not to each other. I could understand George's attraction to Kathy: The woman was hot!

Kathy's attraction to George was more mysterious, since George had thinning hair, and he looked like a before picture for a diet program. He had no neck, or so it seemed. He also always had just a bit of body odor, you know? Well, maybe he had a big cock? Or maybe he looked like Kathy's father and it was displaced incestuous desire? Or maybe Kathy's husband lost interest in sex, but Kathy hadn't? Who knew? I sure didn't. I giggled silently to myself, and my secret, intimate knowledge of others. I was having all kinds of perverted fun.

A few months later the fun came crashing down, hitting me like a cannonball, right in my face. It was my dear and precious husband Philip, the father of our boys, the man to whom I had gladly given both my heart and my soul, as well as of course my body; all of my body, over and over again.

Philip had just returned from a one-week business trip out to San Francisco. His trip back to New York had taken around ten hours from door to door, and he had eleven hours on his forehead. He had laid some San Francisco slut only an hour before heading home, to his loving wife and two little boys.

I was crushed. I said nothing, and acted normal, and even welcomed Philip home in my usual way: Getting him hard with a loving blowjob and then sitting on his cock, doing him cowgirl style. He loved that position because he could watch my boobs bounce around as I enjoyed myself on his love stick. Truth be told, I loved it too, although I was feeling sick knowing that some west coast bimbo had just enjoyed him, too.

I kept a sharp eye on Philip after that, but he did not stray again, until he had another overnight business trip, this one to Atlanta. When he returned, I saw on his forehead, from his number, that he had cheated on me a second time. I thought back to all those business trips during our first nine years of marriage, before my 34th birthday, and before I had my special power, courtesy of my new friend, Sabrina the witch.

Philip and I had a talk. We had another talk. I cried. Philip comforted me. We talked some more. We involved marriage counselors. Philip had been cheating on me our entire marriage, including even getting it on with Maryann, one of my bridesmaids! On every single out of town business trip, and there were many, he had seduced some local bimbo. It was his nature. It was who he was.

Philip found validation with each new slut he was able to lay. I don't know why he felt the need. The psychobabble was that he was insecure. He had to prove his masculinity, his essence of being a man, by seducing more and more women. It wasn't sexual gratification, it was a need. It was a compulsion.

The question was: What was I to do with this knowledge? He was the father of our two boys. We were a family. Divorces wreak havoc on the children. Could I do that to them, just because their father had this compulsion to lay every pretty slut he could find?

Two years later we were divorced. When he gave me an STD, I fell apart. It had to end, but Philip was never going to stop. To save my boys, I had first to save myself.

So. Now what? I went on working, being a mother, everything the same as before, just that I was single, without a husband, without a man in my bed, and the boys had a father only every second weekend, unless, of course, Philip was away on a business trip.

Six months after the divorce was final, the match making began. I had not had sex in around 18 months (17 months and 14 days, according to a feature of my blinking spell), and my last sexual encounter had been a final attempt with Philip to make us whole again. It clearly failed, alas.

I went to the dinner party with a sense of foreboding. Ellen had raved about this guy Matt, and I had to admit he was pleasing to the eye. He certainly didn't speak foolish things, but perhaps that was because he hardly spoke at all. It took me a while to realize it, but Matt was more nervous than I was!

I took him home with me, and I sent the babysitter home. The boys were asleep. I got him a Scotch whisky, and I had a tonic water. Lime sure, but no ice. We sat together on the couch, both of us feeling hopelessly awkward. Matt stayed silent. I asked him questions, and he answered monosyllabically. This was clearly going nowhere.

I had promised Ellen I would at least try. So, I did it. "Matt, do you want to kiss me?" I said, practically cringing as I heard those words leave my lips.

"I'm shy," Matt replied. No shit, Sherlock.

"Well then, can I kiss you?" I persisted.

Silence. Do I really need this? Just as I was about to give up and use body language to tell him the evening was over, Matt launched a surprise attack. He knocked me down awkwardly onto the couch, my neck on the arm rest at the end, and my head dangling over the edge. I realized Matt was kissing my neck. His body weight kept me pinned in that awkward position. To my shock, the physicality of the situation, the controlled violence, all of it turned me on!

Matt ripped my blouse open, ruining the blouse in fact, and scattering the buttons. Apparently, he had a pocket knife, because he cut my bra open. He did it easily, cutting right through the underwire, as if it were butter. Whoa. Didn't he know there was a simple clasp on the back? I guess that wasn't the point, now was it?

His mouth was all over my tits, suckling at them as if he were an infant piglet. The sudden nature, the violence, and the downright need of his attack turned me on all the more. Philip had never been like this! Vive la différence!

Uh-oh, Matt next decided to tackle my skirt. I happened to love that skirt. He'd better not rip it open with his pocket knife! Thank goodness, but Matt found its zipper, and I raised my hips as he ripped it off my body, hoping that it was not damaged as were my blouse and bra.

"You have a flat tummy. I like it," he said. Hey, the man can speak! Oh shit, there go my panties. Now I'm naked on my very own couch, underneath a fully clothed man who has a knife fetish. Hmm.

I felt the cold metal of Matt's knife's dull side, drawing back and forth across my stomach, and heading south to my soaking wet, carefully shaved, bare pussy. Matt closed the knife, and then slowly inserted it inside me. Jesus, I got me a real winner here. Thanks a lot, Ellen. I knew I had to be careful. Matt the Knife is too looney tunes to trifle with.

"You're wet," Matt the Knife said, as he pulled his knife out from fairly deep inside me. It was covered with the slime of my juices.

"I hope that's okay?" I asked, scared out of my mind. Could he smell my fear? Was he now going to rape me? I blinked three times. Two years. Really? Matt the Knife had not laid a woman for two years? Had he been saving his insanity for me? To what do I owe this honor? Philip can take care of the boys if Matt the Knife eviscerates me, right?

"Well, I should be going. You're okay, Joanie. Caneefuh and I both like you," he said, as he rose to leave. I picked up my naked body and walked him to the door. I so, so wanted to ask who his imaginary friend Caneefuh was, but it was all I could do even to stand, at this point.

Perhaps seeing my curiosity, Matt the Knife said, "Caneefuh is the middle English pronunciation of the word knife. If you ever read the Canterbury Tales in the original middle English, knowing how to pronounce the words makes it more enjoyable."

Two sentences! And with dependent clauses! I managed to utter, "Good to know." I really shouldn't have said that. Matt the Knife then recited for me the entire introduction to Chaucer's Canterbury Tales in correct (I supposed) middle English. Then he kissed me, tweaked my nipples, kissed me again, and left.

I had to pee so bad, I didn't even quite make it to the toilet after Matt the Knife left. I had to clean up my mess; then I chain-locked the front door, and collapsed, naked and humiliated, onto my couch. The next thing I knew I was hearing Philip Junior saying, "Mommy, why are you not wearing any clothes? Can we have breakfast now? I'm hungry!"

That cured me of the dating scene. I was a single Mom, and that was all there was to it! I was happy and chaste for a good six more months. Then I tried the dating sites. I swiped right and left and all over the place. My friend Ellen took a picture of me. I was topless, but she kept the nipples out of the picture. I think the message I was sending was a bit too obvious, however. Hey, it's a tough world out there! Who wants, after all, a single mother of two young boys, herself in her mid-thirties?

Jack does, that's who. My blinking trick revealed it had been a solid week since Jack was last laid. He thought it was strange when the first thing I asked him was about knives and guns. He hated both. Good for him! I gave a sigh of relief.

"No, I'm a sickle man, myself," Jack said, and then he laughed when he saw my face. I ended up telling him about my time with Matt ("the Knife") Gertz, and we ended up laughing together. It felt good.

I know everyone lies on these first dates via the Internet, but why did Jack have to say he hadn't dated in three months, until he saw my picture? I knew he had laid some lucky woman only a week earlier. What else was he lying about? Jack tried his best to seduce me, but I explained it was my first date with him, and it was just too soon.

After the date I asked around. I discovered almost everything Jack had told me was a lie. He was not an executive, but a low-level employee who tried to seduce every woman he worked with, and sometimes he even got lucky, things being what they were. He was in danger of losing his job due to sexual harassment.

So... the blinking trick told me to beware of men who had not had sex in two years, and also gave me a way to detect liars. So far, I was getting better at avoiding lunatics and sleazoids, but what about meeting a good man?

I had some more experiences. I could write a book. There was nothing as bad as Matt the Knife, but one guy almost date raped me. I was saved when I screamed, and Philip Junior came stomping down the stairs to save me. The would-be rapist ran out the door before he learned Philip was only a ten-year-old boy.

It happened, though. I knew it would, in time. Amazingly, he found me at a religious social. For some reason he had a thing for Jewish women. I suppose it was because he had heard they were good in bed. Apparently, I did nothing to prove his ridiculous myth wrong.

Christian (strange name, I know, for a man at a Jewish social!) and I hit it off right away. We went for a picnic on our first date, and after we had yielded our food to the ants, Christian kissed me. Then he kissed me again. And again. And again. Soon I was lying down next to the feasting ants, and my clothes were coming off, one piece after another.

Christian was a thoughtful man. He tossed my clothes far from the ants.

"Christian, we're in public," I said. I was already naked.

"It's okay, Joanie," he said. "I'll protect you from the great unknown."

"Who will protect me from you?"

"Nobody, I hope," he said, and I giggled.

Christian did not stick a knife inside my love box, no, first he used his fingers, which I must say, I greatly prefer to knives. Color me normal. Next, he used something that nature intended for him to use, and boy, did he use it well! This was yet another case of love at first sex!

I know what you're thinking. What was his number before he seduced me next to that army of ants? You know, I didn't check. My blinking days were over. I found my man, and I wanted Christian, and I didn't want to risk losing him by recklessly blinking.

The boys got a live-in father, I got a live-in lover and husband, and Philip got to continue his philandering ways. Don't get me wrong: I still love Philip. I also love Christian. A woman's capacity for love is boundless, it seems to me. Christian and Philip get along, too.

If I were a different kind of woman, we could have a threesome, you know? Sometimes I wonder: Am I in fact that kind of a girl? After all, there was that time back in college, never repeated, when I was slipped ecstasy and both Mark and Evan fucked me silly, wasn't there? Well, we're all three still young. Time will tell.

One more thing, and this one is significant. Christian gave me a baby girl! I had always wanted a girl. The boys are good with her, too. I guess we're a family again, a family plus one. Cool.

You know, sometimes, when I'm alone at the mall, I still blink three times, and then enjoy myself spying on all the innocent people. I'm always surprised at how much, and how often, people have sex!

One time I found a young woman whose number was 30 minutes. I followed her into Victoria's Secret, and I bought the same lingerie outfit she did, even if I blushed for an hour after I had bought such an outfit! I modeled it for Christian that same night. Wow, the results were fantastic! Good for me, right?

I put the outfit back on, picking it up from where Christian had tossed it. I stood in front of my full-length mirror, and I took a selfie and sent it to my ex, even if I was still leaking a little of Christian's copious load of cum. I arranged it so that the picture showed both my front and my back. It was just so that he could see what he's missing.

I know, I know: this is the year of living dangerously, you know? I guess the real beneficiary of the picture will be Philip's San Francisco slut, as he fucks her while he's thinking of me, right? You see? I can be evil, too. Maybe Philip will make an honest woman out of his SF slut, and pop the question? He's a free man now, after all. I'm just assuming Little Miss SF Slut is single, but who really knows? Anyway, it would be good for Philip to have a wife again; it would take the pressure off of me. That would be nice, I guess.