Insanity Plea

Trafford Publishing

Chapter One

My forehead crinkles as I frown. What the hell? This is the kind of crazy stuff that dances through my head at the most inopportune times—job interviews, church services, exams, funerals, and, now, even this. Nothing is sacred.

These absurd, random thoughts just confirm what I have always suspected: I am insane. And, for whatever reason, this strikes me as funny. A shrieky, high-pitched giggle, which sounds almost deranged, escapes me before I can stop it. Now saucer-eyed, I cringe and bite my lip.

"What are you laughing at?" He heaves with a strained, slightly shocked voice.

He is lying on top of me, his body almost flaccid, using his forearms for support. And, with dogged determination, he pumps his hairy ass up and down, up and down, almost crushing me with his weight. It's hard for me to breathe, and yet all I can hear is breath—his breath—in my ear, and his laborious grunting. With each push of his pelvis, he grunts, "Unh ... Unh ... Unh," Is he fucking me or rowing a boat? I have my legs in the air, and my feet are balancing on his hairy ass. I find the whole thing very funny.

"It. Just. Feels. So. Good. Mmm." Each word is pressed out of me between humps, and I have to roll my eyes at the ceiling. I have long since stopped trying to move beneath him—not that I have any desire to do so. It wouldn't be possible anyway. So I just lie there, still, as I lie like a dog through my teeth.

"Oh. Baby. You're. So. Good," he responds in like as he pumps a few more times insummation. I'm not exactly sure if he's talking tome or himself, since clearly I've done nothing this whole time. Suddenly, he stops and pushes his hips hard into me, wagging his whole body from side to side with great effort. Then he drops the rest of his weight squarely on top of me so I can barely breathe at all.

"Ah," he puffs. His face is turned away from me so I can't see him, but I feel him, barely, releasing himself, spilling into me, before he finally stills. And I'm relieved it's over, and glad too, that at least one of us got something out of it. He's done.

Abruptly, he pulls out of me and rolls over to my side, squeezing the last bit of precious oxygen from my body as he goes. He drops his head heavily on the bed, spent, and rests his hand on his head, his elbow in the air. At last, I can breathe! He's quiet for a minute, and I watch his mighty chest rise and fall as he catches his breath. Then he rakes his large hand lazily over his handsome face, pushes it across his manly chest, past his flat, rippling stomach, and down his hairy treasure trail where he removes the juicy condom from his tiny, little penis. He drops it absently on the floor beside him, and I make a mental note not to walk on that side of the bed.

The world's first vibrator weighed forty pounds and was invented by a British doctor who used it to treat female hysteria patients.

In other words, the kinky bastard was "double-clicking the mouse," so to speak, on a lot of neglected housewives, having them orgasm in his office while he called it stress relief. I'm sure he was doing the five-knuckle shuffle himself the whole time too! I wonder how many poor husbands sat mindlessly in the waiting room while their wives were in the back getting their, ahem, stress treatments from the good doctor.

Smiling, entertained by my thoughts, I glance innocently in his direction. To my horror, he's looking back at me. And he's grinning! Good grief! He thinks I'm smiling at him! At the sex! I feel nauseated.

"Yeah, that was good," he says with a smirk. Seriously? Obviously very pleased with himself, he rolls toward me and softly rubs my side with his finger. I note his long nails, and I am more repulsed than ever. I hate a man with long nails.

"Did you come?" he asks with a serious face.

In what feels like slow motion, my mouth droops open, and I think it may be resting on my chest. I stare blankly in general disbelief. Blink. My eyes dart around the darkening room, nervously searching for a reasonable response. I grasp what seems to be a fair answer. "Er ... yes. Of course I did. At least twice."

He smirks again, rolls to his back, and—placing his hands behind his head—lets out a mighty sigh. He is so proud.

Truth is, I've had sex three times now, and I'm not the least bit impressed with it. I've never felt anything even remotely similar to an orgasm. Maybe it's broken? Instead, I feel totally cheated, shortchanged, and sexually inept. It's just not worth the effort, or the resulting self-doubt. I mean, I'm already insane. I don't need to pile on all these feelings of inadequacy too. Besides, this is strike three, and I am done.

Poor Scott. I think about my unwitting victim here. Medium build, blond, a clean, All-American look—the girls in the office go from normal to horndog slutty whenever he makes a delivery. Even Michael swooned when Scott showed up for happy hour one evening after work. And, while Scott has been very persistent, I think Michael has bugged me more about this date than Scott has. I have to agree that Scott's easy on the eyes, but he's just not my type. To be fair, though, I'm not really sure I have a type.

Michael is the closest thing to a boyfriend I've ever had, but even I have to admit that's pathetic. He did, however, take on the awesome responsibility of selecting the right deflowerer for me a few years ago. He said deflowering was a distinguished honor, and I needed someone with character, someone with experience, and, most importantly, someone with a small dick. Well, he got it wrong then—and his batting average hasn't improved any since. Perhaps he'll believe me now when I say that the size of a man's hands is not proportional to anything else on his body. I don't know how that rumor got started, but it's downright dangerous—not to mention inaccurate. At least he can get off my back about Scott now.

Here goes nothing. I sit up and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. Thankfully, I am still wearing my bra. Leaning over with my head between my knees, I search frantically for my clothes in the dark. I manage to find my shirt and my panties in good time.

I say as nonchalantly as I can, "That was nice. Thanks!" But, before I can pull my shirt on, he snakes across the bed toward me like a hungry predator. I quail at the touch of his hand on my naked back. Not the nails, please!

"Baby! Where are you going?"

I cannot stand it any longer. I have to go. I have to get out of here before he tries to cuddle. I stand immediately and grip my panties between my clenched teeth. Quickly tugging my shirt over my head, I grab the little panties once again and hop around on one leg as I swipe at my foot with them. I finally lasso them on, catching first my right foot before pursuing the other. I slide them up with one big wiggle of my hips.

Now that my underwear is secure, I concoct a plausible story. "I have to work," I lie again, and it scares me that I'm getting pretty good at it. Where are my pants?

I graze my jeans with my foot, swiftly kicking them in the air, where I snag them with one hand. After giving them a walloping shake, I hop around some more, in circles this time, jiggling them on one long leg at a time. When I'm done, I note that I'm standing on...