“JUST AN OLD FASHIONED GIRL”
I dump my slut and meet my old-fashioned girl.
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I had just stepped from the shower, a thick towel wrapped around my
waist, and was about to lather up to shave when Sheila, my live-in
girlfriend, hugged tightly me from behind. Her lush naked body still
reeked from our frantic sex earlier that morning and her still hard
nipples pressed teasingly into my back feeling like two pebbles on the
beach. “I have a nice surprise for you, Steven. Close your eyes and
turn around.”
I wasn’t in much of a hurry this morning so I thought, “Why not? Maybe
we’ll get it on again before we have to leave for work. I could bend
her over the vanity and push my hard cock up her pussy or her ass.” I
squeezed my eyes tightly shut and turned to face her. A few seconds
later I regretted it as I screamed in agony.
Locked onto each of my nipples was a large alligator clip. How this
could be so painful I couldn’t understand, but I was furious. “Get
these fucking things off of me!”
“I can’t; there’s a pin here that stops them from being opened…see?
They’re designed to pierce your nipples…you know, just like we
discussed.” She had stepped forward as I looked down to see the brass
pins between the two sets of handles. I tried to open them to no avail
even though I’m athletic and have very strong hands.
“What the hell am I supposed to do…wear these fucking things for the
rest of my life? Get the hell out of my way!” I pushed her back with
such force that she fell on her ass and I sprinted through the hall to
the basement door where I took the steps two at a time en route to my
workbench. I found my heavy ball peen hammer and cold chisel in
seconds, lowered my body so the ends of the handles strangling my left
nipple rested securely on my table vise. A second later the chisel took
the first of five blows from the hammer, bending the soft brass of the
pin easily. Even then I was unable to open the damned clip so I opened
the vise, pushed the handles between the jaws and turned the vise’s long
steel handle. I knew the force generated by the screw gear of the vise
and the lever action of the handle would generate much more force than
my fingers and a few seconds later my poor throbbing nipple was free.
Unfortunately, blood poured steadily from the wounds. I allowed it to
drip carelessly onto the floor as I repeated my steps with the other
clip. Once free from their grasp I pulled several paper towels from the
nearby holder and pressed them against my wounded flesh. They turned
red quickly, so quickly that I had to replace them several times before I
realized that the bleeding wasn’t going to stop. I pulled off almost
half the roll of towels, wadded them up and pressed them against my
chest. Then I took a close look at the weapons Sheila had used on me.
Typical alligator clips had thin teeth roughly one-thirty-second of an
inch long and about the same wide. The teeth on these were similar
except at the tip where they were almost a quarter inch long by an
eighth wide, forming a small sharp cylinder that still held a part of my
flesh. I was lucky I had any nipples left.
All of the men in my family have had large nipples, even going back as
many generations as any of my relatives could remember. I guess we were
genetic freaks in that regard. Several kids I knew from elementary
school thought they were girly and told me so, but learned quickly that a
straight right to their noses was nothing to laugh about. By junior
high the stupid comments had ended, due no doubt to my reputation as a
brawler. I thought that their size was the reason why Sheila had
suggested getting them pierced. She had mentioned it several times and
my answer was always the same—NO FUCKING WAY!
Now it appeared that she had taken matters into her own stupid hands. I
carefully dropped the two clips into a plastic sandwich bag, sealed it,
and trudged back up the stairs. Sheila was still in the bathroom, but
not for long.
“How many times did we talk about getting my nipples pierced?”
“I don’t know…a couple, maybe.”
“It was three times…exactly. And, did I ever give you an indication that I might be interested? Would ever be interested?”
“Well….”
“Don’t give me ‘well.’ You attended law school at Fordham just as I
did, had mostly the same professors and same courses I had so I know you
learned how to listen and speak with care and precision. Now, answer
me—did I ever express any interest at all in having myself pierced?”
Sheila avoided eye contact, keeping her head down and turned away. I’d
had enough. “We’re done, Sheila. I had some reservations about living
together, as you know. Now my concerns have been proven true. I can’t
trust you—not at all. Your judgment stinks. Get your shit together and
get out. Don’t worry about going to work. I have a lunch date with
Harrison at one and I’m sure he’ll fire your sorry ass when he hears
about this.”
“You’d have me fired? Just because of this? A simple misunderstanding?”
“I won’t have to, Sheila. I won’t even ask. I know Harrison like he
was my brother. We grew up together, neighbors and best buddies since
we were four. He’ll ask about how were doing and I’ll tell him it’s
over. Then he’ll ask why and I’ll explain. He’ll put the rest together
on his own and you’ll be toast. And don’t give me that ‘simple
misunderstanding’ crap. See these paper towels? I can’t get the
bleeding to stop. I’m going to the ER. Leave your key and garage
remote on the hall table. I’ll probably be back by 11:00. Make sure
you’re gone by then.”
I walked away into my closet where I pulled a pair of boxers up my legs,
followed by a pair of cargo shorts and a ratty old tee shirt that I
didn’t care about. Getting dressed with but a single hand was more
difficult than I thought. A pair of sandals, my wallet and keys, and I
was on my way, but first I added a final comment to Sheila, “Anything of
yours that’s still here when I return is going into the trash so I
suggest you do a thorough job…and don’t even think of taking any of my
things. What you did to me probably amounts to felony battery and
possibly even sexual battery so don’t piss me off any more than you
already have.” I was in my car less than a minute later.
I live in Centerport, a small town on the North Shore of Long Island,
and the nearest hospital is in nearby Huntington, only about ten miles
away. However, anyone familiar with Long Island knows those ten miles
could take as long as an hour under the wrong conditions, like rush hour
that begins every weekday around 6:00 a.m.—more than an hour ago. I
drove carefully, one hand on the wheel and the other pressing the wad of
paper towels against my chest. Parking in the ER lot I told the guard
that I was injured and needed immediate care. Apparently the triage
nurse agreed when she saw the bloody paper towels I still clutched to my
chest. By the time I had arrived my arm and shirt were covered in my
own blood.
A plastic surgeon was called in to see me after I’d been on a gurney
about twenty minutes, my chest shaved and an IV plugged into my arm. He
examined my damaged tissues. “What the hell did this to you,” he
asked. Clearly, bedside manner wasn’t his highest priority.
“My ex-girlfriend and these; please don’t handle them. I’m an attorney
and I may need them for some future criminal or civil action.”
He looked at me curiously then took the sealed bag from my fingers.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like these before. Good thing you
have big nipples; had this occurred to someone more normally
constructed, the entire nipple would have been destroyed. You’re going
to need stitches to hold the tissues together and stop the bleeding.”
Three tiny sutures on each side of each nipple did the job. I’d need an
appointment with my personal physician to remove the stitches in
another week to ten days. He also gave me a prescription for the pain
and suggested that I wear loose and soft shirts for the next week.
I returned to my home just a bit after eleven, somewhat later than
anticipated. Sheila’s house key and garage remote were on the hall
table along with a one-word note—“Sorry.” I could see the stains of
several tears on the paper. I crumbled it into a tiny ball and tossed
it into the kitchen bin then I called my secretary, Joyce. Joyce had
been with me since I’d hung out my shingle six years ago. I still
laughed when I thought about her interview. Her parents had grown up in
the Bronx where some words had mighty strange pronunciations. I had
first learned of this from some of my father’s friends. “Oil” was
pronounced “erl” and “burner,” “boiner.” Somehow the term “oil burner”
was reversed into “erl boiner.” Joyce had me in stitches when she told
me it would be a pleasure to work for someone who could actually
pronounce her name correctly. Apparently, everyone in her family called
her, “Jerse.” Every now and then when I was in a silly mood I did the
same. Joyce usually got her revenge by totally ignoring me or taking a
really long lunch.
“Mr. Bell called to confirm lunch at one. Ben’s, right?”
“Right; I’m obviously running late, but I’ll be in right after lunch. I
have a three o’clock with William Clark about his son’s most recent
DUI. There’s a file on my desk. Run through it quickly and copy the
parts I’ll need to share with him. Oh…I’ll be in casual clothes for the
next week. I’ll explain when I see you. Anything come up this
morning?”
“You had three people come in seeking representation—one burglary, one
assault with a deadly weapon, and another DUI. He was the only one who
appeared in person. The others were wives on behalf of their husbands.
I’ve already been in touch with the Nassau County Police about getting
the paperwork. I should have it by the time you come in.” We talked
about a few minor details and I rung off. Dropping my clothes onto the
closet floor I walked into the bathroom, grabbed a washcloth and
proceeded to wash my arm and chest. My nipples were covered with
waterproof bandages and I’d been given several replacements so I’d be
able to shower. When I pulled a towel from the rack I noticed the aroma
of Sheila’s cologne. Shaking my head in disgust I threw it into the
hamper and selected another.
I’d miss Sheila. She was a rising associate for the firm of Bell
Jacobs, one of Nassau County’s biggest general-service law firms. My
friend Harrison Bell was the senior partner in the firm his father
started more than forty years ago with his partner Herman Jacobs. Now
his dad was retired and Jacobs had passed away last year leaving
Harrison in charge. He’d introduced Sheila to me at a function
sponsored by his firm.
I was interested immediately–she exuded sexuality. Tall and slender,
but with large full breasts and womanly hips, Sheila had long light
brown hair and the biggest bright blue eyes I’d ever seen. She was
wearing a navy blue dress that hugged her body like a second skin,
showing more than a bit of her ample cleavage. Her deep throaty voice
said “I’m hot for you” with every syllable. Even better, I learned just
how much she loved sex on our first date. We had a lot in
common—Fordham Law grads, I had a cock and she loved to suck and
swallow. Like I said—we had a lot in common. Now she’d gone and
destroyed it all with her stubborn stupidity.
My ratty tee shirt went into the kitchen trash bin, my shorts with a few
blood stains into the hamper for my house cleaner’s attention. I
dressed in a violet golf shirt by Greg Norman and tan linen slacks.
Matching socks and cordovan tasseled loafers completed my outfit. Even
the light shirt’s weight caused a sharp pain in my chest. I wondered
then if I’d be able to fall asleep tonight.
Leaving the house at 11:40 gave me enough time to run a quick errand in
Mineola, the Nassau County seat. My office was there, only a few blocks
from the county court building, and I subscribed annually to the
Mineola Library, using their online subscriptions to numerous news
services for research purposes. Unfortunately, free library services
were only provided for residents so I had to pay the $25 fee every year.
I parked in the large lot and walked in, looking for the main desk as I
did every year. This was the only time I physically entered the
facility even though I used their on-line services almost daily. I
usually expect to find the desk in front, but for some reason the
circulation desk in this library is way over to the right. When I found
it I realized that the search was worth the effort.
Standing in front of me was a beguiling woman, almost totally different
from what I usually found attractive and sexy. She appeared to be tall,
but with a small frame similar to what one would expect on an Asian
woman. She had smallish breasts, perhaps B-cups at most, and narrow
hips, but legs that seemed to never end. Her hair was short and dark
brown, matching the color of her eyes. Her face covered with tiny
freckles. She wasn’t beautiful, but she was cute in a pixie-like kind
of way. Her dark blue suit with light blue piping only made her even
more appealing. She was the exact opposite of the kind of woman I
usually dated. Maybe that’s why I was just over my fourth girlfriend in
less than two years.
She turned to face me and smiled. That’s when I noticed her name
tag—Rosalie—with the question—How may I help you?—below. I smiled back
before speaking. “Rosalie…that’s a nice name. It suits you.”
“Ummm…I think it’s kind of old fashioned, but I suppose that’s okay
because I’m just an old fashioned kind of girl. I saw you were staring.
That’s not very polite.”
“I’m sorry, but I noticed you have the most incredible posture. I find
it very appealing. Are you by any chance the kind of old fashioned girl
who’d be willing to be seen in public with a lawyer?”
She stood silently for a few minutes, apparently thinking. Then her
head tilted slightly to the right and a smile graced her face. “Did you
just ask me for a date? I don’t even know you.”
“No problem,” I replied as I opened my wallet and removed my driver’s
license and a business card. I passed the license across the desk into
her fine-boned hand. “I’m Steven Michael Sloan. You can see that I
live in Centerport. I’m an attorney. My office is just down the street
about a block from the courthouse. I grew up in Centerport and went to
the Harborfields Public Schools. My dad was an electrical contractor
until he retired two years ago. My mom was a housewife. I did well in
school and graduated as Salutatorian.”
“Not Valedictorian? I’m shocked,” she said with an impish grin.
“You wouldn’t be if you had ever met my good friend, Harrison Bell. He
went to Harvard, just like his father. I went to Princeton, but only
because they gave me a half scholarship. I went to Fordham Law and
worked for the Manhattan DA’s office for three years before opening my
own office here in Nassau County. I’m 33, single—never been married—and
I was raised Catholic although I must admit I’m not very religious now. Read more »