Here’s a thread meant to contain the adventures, and misadventures, of married couples, fictitious or otherwise. Put yourselves in it–if you dare.
Big Stan Brown awoke just before sunrise on a Saturday. Still half asleep, he looked happily at his petite wife Louise, just as sunlight illuminated her body, showing clearly through her sheer nightie. With her short stature and dark hair and glasses, she bore a resemblance to Velma of Scooby-Doo, but he would never tell her that.
Now she opened her big brown eyes and slowly moved her arm over to Stan’s; she clasped it and said sleepily, “Hi, Stan.”
“Good morning, honey.” He smiled and gently clasped her other hand with his. He noticed a gleam in her eye. He blushed.
“I see that, Stan,” she cooed. She wrapped her arms around him and looked him square in the eye.
In a matter of seconds they…
they was making wild passionate love, but in the back of their minds they were wondering who will have to sleep on the wetspot.
…both congratulated each other for sniffing out a troll.
Big Joe Bradley plodded onto the plane slowly with the other passengers. He kept wiping occasional tears from his eyes; less than 20 minutes before he had taken out his cell phone and called home to say, “Jane? I’m coming home, honey…my flight leaves LaGuardia in about an hour.” He and Jane said “I love you” just before they rang off.
Now he relaxed in the first-class seat his company paid for. He had just successfully completed plans for a skyscraper with the New York architect, who hadn’t worked with very many building engineers from out of town.
Then an overdressed, over-made up woman slouched into the seat next to his. Right away she came on to Joe, with language that would make a Marine D.I. blush. Joe resisted the urge to bellow at her or make crude suggestions about her maternal ancestry. Instead, he…
stuffed his napkin and bag of peanuts in her mouth and settled in for a peaceful ride home to his loving wife jane.
Joe, having made his point damn clear to the loudmouth floozy, checked his appointment book.
He noted, “October 18 [three days hence]. Meet at Sharp place with Jack and Pete for plans to rebuilt Jameson School.”
The school had been hit by a devastating fire–about $600,000 damage to the gym, shop building, and cafeteria. Jack Sharp, a senior insurance executive, owned a big mansion on the outskirts of town; Pete Oranjeboom was a contruction foreman (who never missed seeing Norm Abram’s work on New Yankee Workshop). Joe had dated the men’s wives, as teenage girls, in high-school days, but no longer had any romantic feelings for Mrs. Sharp or Mrs. Oranjeboom. Joe was more concerned about the legal aspect: He knew electric power lines downed by high winds had started the fire. Jane Bradley and Eloise Sharp–amateur sleuths–had poked around the area for clues, much to the dismay of the local police department. All the same, about two months before the civil suit about the power lines would be heard in court…
…the detectives and Fire Department investigators turned up irrefutable evidence that faulty wiring had caused the fire. The contractor, albeit from out-of-state, was identified and settled out of court.
Meanwhile, Bob Blonda relaxed at home, in late evening after dinner. One-year-old daughter April slept in her crib; Bob’s wife Mary, not particularly tired, started feeling horny. She was braless under her old white blouse and stood languidly in front of Bob. Thus inspired, he pulled her blouse off and tipped her to the floor, starting a sexual session quite ecstatic for both of them. About an hour and a half later, however, when they went to bed, Mary saw a mischievous gleam in Bob’s eye and wisely commented:
Mary saw a mischievous gleam in Bob’s eye and wisely commented:
“Don’t overdo it, Bob. I think you knocked me up this evening.”
Bob didn’t like to overdo it. So Mary blew him.
Meanwhile, Eloise Sharp’s youngest daughter Nancy came home from her first day of high school angry–a teacher didn’t want her writing left-handed. All seven of the Sharp girls were left-handed but this was the first time a high-school teacher had suppressed the trait.
“What’s the teacher’s name?” Eloise asked.
“Mr. O’Hanlon,” answered Nancy. “He’s the civics teacher.”
“O’Hanlon?” Eloise vaguely remembered the name. Just then her husband Jack came home and pulled Eloise into a tight embrace.
Sensing what he was reaching for, Eloise pulled loose and spoke, in her most businesslike tone of voice. She told him what their daughter encountered.
“Is that George O’Hanlon?” he asked.
“Yes, Daddy,” said Nancy. “A real old guy. He told me not to write with the wrong hand.”
The name rang a bell with Jack Sharp. His parents sent him to parochial school, for reasons long forgotten, until second grade. He remembered Father George O’Hanlon as a priest teaching at that school, who ruled his class with an iron hand.
Jack decided that the next day he would need to…