© Sauce*Box, Winter 1997-98. All
rights revert to author.
Howler Monkeys and Hell Week
by Victoria March
Day 1: Jack woke up with a smile on his face. The feel of Mitzi's lips around
his cock was right out of his deepest heartfelt fantasies as he blearily
squinted down at the top of her tousled brown head. He couldn't imagine
what could have induced her to blow him and...OH! Yes!! Holy shit! She'd
never given such good head in all of their 16 years of marriage. When he
could convince her to do it at all! His hips bucked and his cock stabbed
at the back of her throat, but apart from the slight scrape of her teeth,
she took the sudden thrust in stride...didn't even gag as he pressed deeper
into her mouth.
The sounds of gasps and moans came to him and it took a moment to realize they were his. Christ! What was she doing! No! She was pulling off of him, leaving his shaft wet and abandoned! Before he could protest, her wide open mouth closed over one testicle, licking and gently sucking on it, then she turned to the next. Her hand felt hot as it closed around his cock and began to pump. She pushed his legs wider apart and her tongue travelled further back until the end of it was teasing and slipping just a little between his ass cheeks. The tongue retreated slightly to firmly press into that sensitive place just behind his balls and he jumped and barked with surprise.
"Mitzi...what the hell...Mitzi!" Her hand never stopped it's steady stroking and he knew he wasn't far from exploding over her fist...her hair was tickling the head even...then it changed. He could feel her body shift, her mouth move upward, her hand still closed over him. Without his glasses, her body was a blur of pink and brown, but as she straddled him, he knew her to be the most gorgeous woman in the world!
Day 2: Walt pulled up outside his office building five minutes late...but he wasn't thinking of the dirty looks from his co-workers or the ass chewing to come . . . he was too engrossed in the memory of his Jenny's wake up call. He stood in front of the door, rattling the handle before it dawned on him that it was locked. The sudden screech of brakes behind him made him finally notice that his car was the only one in the parking lot. It was his boss that pulled in to a stop, then hurried up the steps.
"Hey, Walt! Where is everybody?" Stan Hedron puffed, scowling in puzzlement and pulling out his keyring. They stood for moment as Stan jingled through the selection, trying to remember which one would unlock the door and muttered, "I wonder where Myrt could be? She's usually the first one here..."
Walt gave his boss the once over and couldn't help but notice how flustered and disheveled he was. Stan was so neat and dapper, but this morning his hair was mussed, his tie was crooked and...good Lord! His fly was open and a part of his shirttail was even peeking out. Suddenly, Walt couldn't find anything to look at, so he turned his attention to a nasty little hangnail that he just couldn't seem to chew off properly...
Seeing the lipstick marks on Walt's cheeks on the front steps didn't exactly sink in or mean anything at the time. Stan had been too preoccupied with his own morning adventure in the car as he'd driven his wife, Carmella, to her own job. Come to think of it, Carmella had been rather aggressive...He scowled and shrugged. It didn't mean a thing.
Once inside, it was nearly a half an hour before the office manager showed up. Myrt was a brisk efficient woman in her late 40's, she was punctual, professional and dependable, but as she actually ambled in, her blouse was buttoned crooked! Stan swallowed hard and blinked at the look she gave him and the pouty kiss she blew him on the way to her desk. "Mornin' Stan" she purred, then sat down, letting her skirt slide up her plump thigh. But it didn't stop there, oh no sirreee!
The rest of the staff came in even later, flushed and friendly and fidgety. Stan fumed and snapped at them for not getting to work, only to have them turn their bright restless gaze on him in a way that made the hairs on his testicles stand on end. Totally unnerved, he snarled once more and retreated to his office, resisting the urge to lock the door behind him.
Day 3: Kevin Rhodes was exhausted and worried. Something was definitely wrong. His girlfriend had kept him up all night...and really had kept him up all night with one sexual demand after another. In the late morning light streaming through the window, he all but limped to the bathroom, his legs shaking and his back aching. "What had gotten into her?" he wondered. She'd been all over him the day before, first by waking him up with sex, then calling him at work every hour to talk dirty to him. And at supper, she'd cleared the table with a sweep of her arm and pulled him on top of her! For the first time since they'd moved in together, he dreaded seeing her and winced when she called up to him from the kitchen. "Kkkkeeeeevvvvvinnn! I'm sooooooo hungry!"
Unable to stifle the moan as he urinated into the toilet, he shuddered. He knew that tone...he could almost see her. She was probably down there in a lace nightie doing things with kitchen utensils for chrissake! God...he couldn't do it! Any other time, the thought of her and the modified rolling pin would have made him stand at attention and head home from work early for a matinee, but...he sighed wearily.
As he shook himself, and flushed, he decided that he was just going to have to make a break for it. He was already three hours late for work as it was! Locking the bedroom door behind him, Kevin thought that he would rather get fired than call in sick and stay home with her. He hurriedly donned his underwear, pants and a clean shirt and then (socks and shoes tucked under his arm) he climbed out the window and shinnied down the drain pipe. Funny how some things come back to you, he thought, as he snuck to the car in the driveway and placing it in neutral, rolled quietly out onto the street. So far so good.
Years later, he would remember the strange ride to work, his male buddies jumping or furtively looking over their shoulders at the slightest noise. The way the women in the office or grocery store followed him, touched and brushed up against him with little or no provocation. He would remember catching his reflection in a department store window and seeing that wary hunted look...an expression he'd never seen before, nor until that time could have identified...and not understanding how to rid himself of it. Then there was the constant murmuring of soft female voices in his ear. Warm and breathy propositions, breasts pressed against his arm, back and chest. Even the quick flick of a tongue now and again to torment him.
Day 4: The hookers were no longer charging...they were on the hunt. Housewives, coeds, cheerleaders all began to roam, driven into the streets to search for fresh bodies. Boyfriends and husbands, too exhausted and distraught to think of anything else began to call the police to bring back their errant women. Unfortunately, the police were way too busy themselves. They were under seige, calling in sick, evading meter maids!
Walt blinked stupidly at the phone as the desk sergeant rasped with frustration, "Jesus man! We're outnumbered! Half the population is female and short of shooting them, we can't stop them!! We don't even have any matrons to help us out...they're on the streets too! Get back! Leave that alone! Nooooooo!!" The sounds of outraged officers and the high pitched moans and screams of a troupe of women poured from the receiver. Dial tone.
Day 5. 5:30 pm CST: On a color TV in New York city an odd report was being viewed from the sidewalk outside of an electronics shop window. A handsome young man in his late 20's was standing on a deserted street, holding a microphone, his expression serious as he spoke to the camera lens.
"Good evening. This is Will Goodman, reporting live on a strange phenomenon that has developed in this small midwestern town. It is an event that would be absurd if it hadn't necessitated the intervention of the National Guard to quarantine this unlikely hamlet..."
"Look! Over there!!!" A chorus of female cries and shouts and a mob of women in various states of undress swarm over the reporter, the camera's eye dropped. All over America an audience of dinner-eating millions, forks poised half-way to their mouths watched as a dozen pair of feet in high heels, sandals and fuzzy slippers crowded the screen while the reporter and his cameraman shouted and cursed in outrage and disbelief. The screen went blank. The network returned to Sam Donaldson in New York. Sam stared off-screen, his expression incredulous. It took him a moment to find his camera and announce a commercial break.
Day 6: Jack huddled in the chapel of his funeral home, praying that his barricade of pews would be enough to keep out the hordes of women that hunted down any hapless male foolish enough to brave the streets to search for food or water. His hand involuntarily settled over his groin and he shuddered at the memories of the last few hours before he'd managed to board up the windows and nail the doors shut. He had no idea where Mitzi had gone. When he got home the night before, he'd been too exhausted and sore to continue pleasuring her, and she had stormed out of the house in frustration.
The sounds of moans and ragged breathing haunted his dreams and he woke time after time, sure that he'd been found out. Finally, he dragged himself to lock all the doors to all the rooms around himself, fearful that even the corpse of Alice Purdy would rouse itself to come after him.
Day 7: Silence...Nothing...nothing at all.
Epilogue: Life goes on and on and ever on...the surface quickly smooths after a boulder has been tossed into the middle of a lake...belying the disruption and turmoil beneath...Kevin, wholly mystified and bewildered by the sudden silence of that day, remembered how all of his friends warily came out of hiding...one or two at a time, then in greater numbers...to find groups of sleeping, mostly naked, women lying where they'd fallen...in the streets, over a park bench, in each other's arms or various other positions...Quietly, almost furtively, they searched through the plump, thin, muscular or fat limbs, brushing aside a lock of hair, trying not to touch a woman that wasn't theirs, but finding it necessary to do so, once they'd come across a wife or lover. Even in their exhaustion, confusion and anger, few could bring themselves to leave their women behind...whenever necessary, employing the aid of a passersby to heft, then carry her to a car, then on home.
Nine Months Later: The days of deep heavy slumber and OBGYN visits were rarely spoken of...and, when the local hospital was sending the overflow of laboring mothers to out-of-town clinics and hospitals, almost no one commented on the "phenomonen". Reporters were turned away from private door-steps as quickly as possible, all went back to normal. No one dared question or seek out the answers as the initial distrust and worry evaporated into the resumption of old routines. Nope...no sex-crazed out of-control women in this place. No sirreeebob! Just us chickens.
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