Devil. Angel. Switch!

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(This is an entry in the Literotica Halloween 2020 Story Contest. Every character involved in sex acts is at least 18 years old. This story follows characters from “The Lingerie Catalog,” which can be found through the ‘stories’ link above. It isn’t necessary to read that story before reading this one, but if you read this one first, the earlier story may not have as much impact if you read it later.)


LuAnn wasn’t a libertine, but I’d coaxed her into responding a bit more to her physical desires, and mine. As we sat in the jacuzzi at a nearly-empty hotel, she slid next to me, watched the buildup of the jet foam for a few seconds, then nodded at me. She wasn’t even smiling, this was too scary for her. I took the action she was willing to allow: Bringing my hand, below the water, across and up to fondle her foam-hidden breast. Outside the swimsuit.

She closed her eyes. She hummed so quietly I could only feel it from our contact, not hear it. This was as far as she’d go, until we returned to our room.

“Oh Ronniiiiieee,” she said quietly. “Why don’t you just move in with me? I could parade around naked all you want. I don’t care what people would think anymore, living with a man and not marrying him. I actually like, um, doing it with you. Haven’t you corrupted me enough?”

“That’s not just your house,” I muttered. “It’s Hal Fenton’s house. It’s yours because of the divorce.” I was getting impatient with this long-running debate. I wasn’t as easygoing on this subject as I thought I would be. “If I move in there, I’d be, like, nothing more than a new piece of furniture.” I bit back terms like gigolo and rent boy. I didn’t want to hurt LuAnn.

“Haven’t we had fun there?” She opened her eyes and leaned up to fix them on me. Alluring eyes, a rich blue. She was well aware of their effectiveness at close quarters, as she was of the middle-distance power of her curves.

“Of course we have,” I said, unable to stifle a smile. “But I’m not like your last boyfriend.” For whom the term gigolo fit like a condom.

The pool/jacuzzi/fitness complex was a glassed-in extension of the ’90s-built suburban business-travel hotel. A blast of wind stirred a riot of earth-tone leaves through the air above us. They settled onto the mat of leaves already on the ground, flattened by rain three days ago. This hotel, like so many others in the coronavirus era, had cut back on things not immediately affecting guests, like landscaping.

“No, you’re not like him,” said LuAnn. “You don’t bother to hide your evil.” She smiled and leaned her breast into my hand, a rare concession to mischief, for her.

I smirked and said, “You like where you’re sitting?”

“I’m fine, thank you very much,” she said, smile gone. We had been together for seven months, and I knew that this huff was mostly fake.

“I wasn’t suggesting my lap,” I said. There was a jet between us, below the surface. I leaned my hip to send the flow into her hip.

“We’re in public!” she whispered, aghast. There are jets in the tub in her master bathroom. I was amazed to find that she had never directed them between her legs. She was still flustered about how they made her feel, and the fact that I suggested them.

“There are maybe six other rooms occupied in this hotel.” I said. Then I waved my free arm to indicate the pool complex. “Nobody has been here at all.” The rates here had plunged. From a lifetime in marketing, I knew how to exploit a struggling business’s weakness.

“I’d know that for sure at home,” she said. “And I’ll never move into that pig sty of yours.”

We’d gone over this plenty, so I didn’t repeat that a condo was all I needed in my retirement. I had hired a maid service after LuAnn first complained, because I have enough money and the only thing I’d use it for is to help out my kids and grandkids. But my approach to home decor is to do nothing, and Lu is comforted by her girlied-up surroundings. So my side of our shacking-up was now staged in hotels. This time, it was also part of a road trip.

“Besides,” she went on, “you’re going to be a productive member of society again. Your masculinity isn’t in any danger.” And so, without warning, the perceptive and intelligent part of LuAnn Murchison popped up, from wherever she stored it during a life that mostly hadn’t required it.

“I haven’t said yes,” I insisted. “Making Halloween pop-up stores survive during a pandemic is definitely a challenge, but that doesn’t mean I want to take it.” Except…I kinda did. My dalliance with LuAnn had put some spring in my step. The old Marketing Master Ron Corbett was burning through my apathy and, probably, my better judgment. I had a video meeting scheduled for the day after this trip ended.

Ah yes, the trip. Maybe good preparation for a return to a life of stress. A gathering of my children, their spouses, and my grandchildren, with pandemic distancing. Their first meeting with my new lady friend. And, oh yeah, my ongoing need canlı bahis to hide the fact that my late wife never loved me, and cared only about breeding with me.

We left the jacuzzi before we could become lobsters. Once LuAnn had her sneakers on, she entered the exercise room. I snickered. She gave me a dark look. “I’ll just encourage you,” I said, all innocence.

COVID-19 had curtailed Lu’s mad social whirl, so her affair with me was about the only thing she had going on. I credit her for having found something other than sex to keep her occupied. She bought exercise equipment and signed up for a meal-delivery plan. At 63, she may have looked and felt better than she had in thirty years. I helped a little, because I had invented The Personal Trainer Game. Here, I’d use only the vocal part of the game, and stop even that if somebody else showed up.

“That’s it,” I said as she paced on the treadmill. “Look at yourself. Think about how great you look now. How much everyone wants you.” She gazed at herself in the mirrored wall, and picked up speed.

“Yeah, work those thighs,” I said, with an amorous rumble that wasn’t all fake. “Could any of your old sorority sisters look this good? You know they couldn’t!” We had been in the same class at Langdon State. She still had college-era buttons that could be pushed.

She was mouth-breathing, and not just from the exertion. I picked up a couple hand weights and stepped into her line of vision. I alternated curls and bedroom-eyed her. “All those guys who are after you,” I hissed, “are gonna have to get past me first!” I got into college on a track scholarship, and forty-plus years later I was still a mesomorph. I sucked in the gut, to make the abs even more prominent in the overhead light. She whimpered.

“Now I’m chasing you, Baby,” I said, stepping closer. “Better not let me catch you. Keep me behind you!” I clanked the weights together. She jolted, her butt twitching. The desire in her look was matched by fear, probably of discovery, so I couldn’t keep this up much longer.

“Haven’t caught you yet,” I said. Then I mic-dropped the weights. “Maybe it’s time for you to chase me.” I pulled the sleeping room key card out of my trunks pocket, showed it to her, and dashed away.

I had the deadbolt on when she got to our room. “Ronnie,” she said. Then, with rapid knocking, “Ronnie!”

“What’s the magic word?” I crooned.

After a couple seconds, I barely heard, “Sex.”

“What was that?”

I heard a strangled cry and a foot stomp onto thick carpet. Only a little louder than before, “Sex!”

I relented, while her excitement was still stronger than her anger. She hurried in and grabbed me, half-whispering “Gotcha!”

“Your workout isn’t over,” I said. “Neither is mine.” I got thumbs inside the straps of her one-piece and yanked down. Her freed breasts pressed into my abs, sweat and chlorinated water moving in both directions. She fondled my back and even my butt, but outside the trunks. I had to haul my suit down as I did hers.

“Leg lift!” I said, shoving her onto the bed on her back. She giggled, because I was keeping up the game. Standing at the foot of the bed, I set her raised legs against my torso and leaned in, but with my prick on top of her mons. I slid back and forth slowly, balls rubbing against her labia.

She tried to stifle a moan, and to keep her hand from grabbing and guiding. I didn’t make it any easier on her, concentrating on pushing her legs back towards her, heedless of our naughty bits. I licked an ankle, which made her shiver.

“I have,” she said, “more muscles…” She turned her head away, licked her lips. Finally: “…for you to work on.”

“With what apparatus?” I asked. I was now erect, and rubbed against her vulva more firmly. This wasn’t to make her a libertine, but to get her to take responsibility for her desires, and not later claim that her lover took advantage of her—when he had given her what she wanted. LuAnn now accepted this in theory, but had spent decades averting any accusations of sluttiness, and the reflex was hard for her to shake.

“This one,” she whispered, lifting my prick with two fingertips and a thumb.

“Then get ready for reps!” I really wanted to get on with it, so I picked up my shlong and guided it between her folds, where some moisture came from inside. “That’s one! Squeeze on it!”

She flexed, at some level buying in to this still being exercise. I drew back, then thrust in again. “That’s two!” I growled.

When my count got to ten, I reached around her legs and filled my hands with her breasts. “Now work those pectorals!” I squeezed them together, thumbs pressing the nipples inward, then letting them ease back, in time to my fucking. She started to whimper, quickly, with an operatic soprano.

I was digging all of this enormously, including her improved conditioning, but the fact remained that we were both past our prime. LuAnn had shed the double chin and obvious excess bahis siteleri in her arms, gut, butt, and thighs, but her breasts were wrinkled and veined, and prone to sagging. A couple months ago she had wept as we made love, regretting that I had never enjoyed her big bosom at its most beautiful. I had praised the breasts as they were now (and I did, in fact, enjoy them), and said nothing about how she teased and flaunted them when we were in college. (On a date in junior year, she let me feel them up, then told her friends that I had first gotten her drunk, which I hadn’t. In our relationship now, she had apologized for that.)

Damnit, I couldn’t think of college without remembering Myra. How honest she seemed, compared to the calculating LuAnn. How interested Myra was in me, as opposed to LuAnn’s interest in herself. How eager Myra was for us to couple, while LuAnn played a field that included much of the student body. How I had fallen deep in love with Myra, thinking that she loved me.

I shook that off and, in September 2020, pumped into LuAnn faster, still squeezing breasts.

LuAnn’s face looked paralyzed, mouth wide open. “There’s nobody else on this floor!” I grunted, getting annoyed. “I checked! Nobody can hear us!”

She grabbed my wrists. Her spine bucked up. She howled like a werewolf, her legs shaking hard against my torso, blond tresses a 3-D map of chaos. I cut loose and gave a yell of my own, relishing the heat flowing up from my groin.

My knees were bent slightly, to align our crotches. As my spasms subsided, both calves shivered. I still jogged now and then, but my days as a serious athlete ended before the years that start with ‘2.’ I got my hands away from Lu’s boobs and braced my weight against the bed. “Gotta pull out,” I said quickly.

“Yeah,” she said, calming down.

I flopped out of her, and my knees slipped to the floor.

“You okay?” she asked.

I responded with something between a chuckle and a wheeze. “Uh huh. I lost count of how many reps that was.”

She laughed, and patted my cheek. “Trainer, condition thyself.”

And there was the sharp, witty LuAnn again. Was the other LuAnn there just to get people off guard?

I regained enough leg strength to lean up and kiss her.

This was a pretty exhausting fuck, and once we were showered and bedded down, I was close to nodding off. “Hug?” she asked, burrowing in close.

“For a minute,” I said, realizing that I sounded put-upon.

“Oh, Honey, why not all night? It feels so much nicer. And then waking up, still in a hug.”

“I can’t sleep well that way,” I said, now facing the resumption of another long-standing disagreement. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”

“I know that,” she said rolling her eyes from the same fatigue. “It’s how it feels. Even when the mind knows that it’s loved, the body likes to feel it.”

I didn’t say anything about the love from me that her body felt a while back. “Big day tomorrow,” I said, with a brief extra squeeze. “We need to be at our best. I need my sleep.”

“All right,” she said, sighing. She kissed my forehead, her way of releasing me. I kissed her forehead as I got myself loose.


My oldest son Marty is doing well, even with the dip in his dental practice because of COVID-19. When the whole brood gathers, it’s at his place, a six-bedroom on a rider-mower expanse of land. It’s a three-hour drive from where I live, so I overnight both ways, this time in the hotel. LuAnn and I were both a little nervous as I took her, an only child who had never given birth, towards a tsunami of almost-in-laws. “Remember,” I said, “six-foot distancing and our advanced age will help keep everyone polite. Nobody expects you to remember everyone’s name. You don’t have to try to win everyone over, or be like Myra.”

“I know.” she said. A moment later, “How many grandkids?”


She rolled her eyes.

At a stoplight three minutes from his place, I texted Marty of our impending arrival. At the curb, he met us along with his 12-year-old son Daniel, who held a large canister and a pair of tongs, and looked very serious and responsible. After we all went through waves and hellos, Daniel reached the tongs into the canister, lifted out two face masks, and solemnly offered them to Lu and me. The masks matched the ones worn by Marty and Daniel, with a colorful design and the legend ‘Corbett Barksdale 2020.’

“All the kids got involved with the design, for two weeks,” said Marty. “I sterilized the masks this morning in the office.” With a chuckle: “I have a lot of free time there.”

“Thank you!” Lu said to Daniel, showing the smile between removing her own mask and donning this one. Daniel smiled back, despite the importance of the job given to him by his amused father.

It was a bit chilly, but there was no rain, so Marty had lawn chairs spread around in the back yard, facing an inflated viewing screen.

Twenty-some years ago, I bahis şirketleri first allowed Marty to use the camcorder during some of our family events. Otherwise, I was The Lord Of VHS. Myra was all in favor of me shooting home movies, but she never wanted to do that herself. It could interfere with her Mom role, which was often that of a helicopter parent.

Thus, there was a lot of footage of Myra, and eventually some of me too. And a little with us together.

The tapes continued to accumulate for the next few years. Once Myra got sick, no more tapes were added.

Eventually I gave the camcorder and tapes to Marty, who had left the nest like the other kids. Also on the way out was the VHS format.

A couple years ago, Marty told me that he’d found a place that could convert everything we’d shot to a digital format that would last longer than stretchable, shredable tape. I cut short his pitch about letting the grandkids see grandma, and said sure-go-ahead, giving this very little thought. That was my approach to most things at the time.

A few days ago, I got a call from Marty. “Dad, can you come over on Saturday? I can set up a screen outside and show everybody the old home movies. If you’re there, you can give everybody some details.”

By this time, I was in a much better place with regard to my past, thanks to LuAnn. I thought that I’d be able to look at Myra without breaking down, or saying something I shouldn’t. “Sure,” I said. To be honest, I was as COVID-crazy as everybody else, and just being within shouting distance of the kids and grandkids appealed to me.

Marty added, “Please bring LuAnn along. We’d all like to meet her.”

“Sure thing,” I said, now with an excuse to hook up with her in a different hotel.

The meeting and greeting went just fine. Weirdly enough, LuAnn and my daughters Sarah and Ginny found that they were huge fans of the old TV show ‘Hill Street Blues,’ and could gab away on that endlessly. I eased into business-speak with their husbands, Joe and Terry. Lu and I also circulated among the third generation of the Corbett-Barksdale gene pool, watching the active games rather than joining in. Tasty stuff came off the grill steadily.

Yes, Corbett-Barksdale was our umbrella identifier, with Myra having kept her maiden name. Spouses Joe Fioretti, Karen Doyle, Terry Murkowski, and Monica Curzon may have been resigned to using their surnames elsewhere.

At dusk, Marty had us gather, with separation, to watch what he had distilled from the old movies. The large screen showed up well, even from far away.

At first, it was fun. I remembered just about every scene, and called out then whens and wheres as needed. When ten-year-old Sarah climbed eagerly to a high-dive platform at the town pool, and then looked down, there was a huge laugh as her eyes bugged and her jaw dropped. When she scampered back down the stairs, I called out, “That’s your Mom, Chrissy!” Sarah snarked, “Thanks a lot, Dad.”

In a while, though, I saw too much of Myra. She was always great with the kids, and with them she looked happy and energetic. I missed her, then wanted her, then cared about her, then remembered too sharply that she didn’t care about me. That stayed true as the cancer spreading from her pancreas took her away from her only love, the children she had borne.

I had to look away from the screen. To my right, I saw my granddaughter Brenda, now 18. She had short hair and an eyebrow piercing, but in that profile, the curve of the nose, the line of the jaw, the eyes, the lips, the cheek…she looked exactly like Myra.

LuAnn must have sensed my shiver as I turned to face front. She put a hand on mine.

I looked her way, and saw concern in the eyes above the mask. She was the only person who knew. I wanted so much to keep it that way. What would it do to my kids and grandkids, to hear that Myra never loved me, and wanted me only to sire her offspring?

I gave LuAnn’s hand a little squeeze.

When the screen went dark, I called out “Thanks Marty,” and started a standing ovation. Everyone else joined in. As a successful marketer, I knew the value of truth, and the importance of using it sparingly.

After that, the evening wound down. I was ready to play the Tired Old Man card, so we could skedaddle. But Marty came up, well within six feet, and said, “Dad, do you have a minute?” He leaned his head away from the house. into deepening night.

“Sure,” I said, and walked with him.

“Dad…I never noticed this before, but when I was editing the video…there’s not much going on with you and Mom, even when you’re together. In one shot, you’re both looking off to the left. You’ve got your arm around her, but she has her arms crossed, like she’s not even aware of you. It’s like that in other scenes, too. She never looks at you for more than a couple seconds, and that’s when you two are talking. She almost never touches you. I gotta ask…did you two fight a lot?”

I used the truth sparingly, sticking to the physical definition of ‘fight.’ “We never fought at all.”

“I mean, I know what it’s like. When you have kids you focus on them. But it’s like you two had nothing left for each other.”

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