“Boring?” Carson chortled to himself, scattering empty beer cans as he hauled on the pulley’s chain link. The suspension of the militarised Ford F-150 groaned as it was relieved of its heavy burden. “I’ll show her boring.” The ‘her’ in question was Karen Foley, fifty-something kilograms of unadulterated sex – the kind of woman who could reach into a man’s underpants with the suggestive flick of an eyebrow or gouge-out his brain by leaning forwards in a too-short skirt, or a low-cut top. What was down the low-cut top and underneath the too-short skirt had led to the abandonment of a perfectly-good marriage of ten years and three kids.
Carson knew he was destroying the life that he’d built-up so fastidiously – but he hadn’t cared and he hadn’t once regretted what he’d done.
Not once.
Which was odd: it wasn’t like him. Carson regretted everything. It was a skill which made him perfectly qualified for his job as a caretaker of America’s nuclear arsenal.
Steady, boring and balanced were all the qualities required to look after nuclear weapons… and those were qualities which pre-Foley Carson had displayed in abundance.
Post-Foley Carson cracked open another can, trying to catch the hissing spray of white beer suds which launched into the darkness of the back yard, highlighted by the neighbour’s Christmas lights. Carson scowled in the direction of his neighbour’s party music, and then smiled as he watched the second hand of his Breitling sweeping away the last moments of 2016. “Not long now, my beauty,” he said, patting the fat cylinder lying on the grass.
Having chugged the beer in one go and sent another one down his throat to keep the first company, Carson carefully balanced a golf ball on his latest garden ornament, took a full-bloodied swing with his beloved Wilson Staff Triton driver, tripped over his own legs and knocked himself out on the menacing metal cylinder lying on the lawn .
*****
“What are you doing out here? It’s nearly midnight?” It was the voice which bullied Carson’s brain back into what passed for consciousness, rather than the violence of the shaking.
“Dunno,” he slurred honestly.
“You’ve been drinking! You know you’re not supposed to do that with your medication.” The vehemence of the accusation made Carson’s head recoil with such unexpected acceleration that his brain bounced painfully off the inside of his skull.
“Quiet pissably,” Carson drawled. Remembering through the pain that his life had been boring before Karen Foley. There were doubts: inevitable given that the woman was twenty years his junior; doubts that sixteen years’ worth of careful savings had been torched in an irresistible cocktail of sex and drugs and more sex and more drugs and even more sex and even more drugs.
That lifestyle was going to hit a financial brick wall… and when it did, Carson knew that Karen Foley would move on like a sexual wrecking ball.
But Carson didn’t care.
Carson didn’t care about anything other than Karen Foley. Everything about her was perfect, as though Carson himself had been in the workshop when God had set about choosing the parts which would make up Karen’s perfection.
It wasn’t that she was perfect in a Playboy centrefold sense; it was just that she was perfect for Carson. Her laugh was more infectious than measles; her smile more warming than nuclear piles. Carson’s thoughts and dreams had been infiltrated to the point where he could barely function as a human being. He’d become obsessed… and then she’d kissed him.
Or he’d kissed her.
Either way it had been a washing machine of a kiss, and once Carson had kissed those Cocaine-coated lips, he could no longer tell the difference between dreams, fantasies and reality. It was a beautiful way to live a life.
Dreams, fantasies and reality.
“I’ve got a present for you.”
“Is it about six inches long?” Karen felt confident that she knew where this was leading and was reasonably happy to indulge; as long as the rent remained free and there were no other options available… although she had to admit that Carson’s enthusiastic cock was of much less interest now that it had lost its ‘married’ status.
In her heart, Karen Foley knew it was time to move on. She’d stayed for a disappointingly traditional Christmas. ‘Boring’ was a word she’d used; ‘isolating’ was one that she’d kept to herself but how else could you describe a Christmas with no friends and no family? Leaving would inevitably hurt Carson’s feelings – but the reality was that she didn’t care.
“S’bigger than that,” Carson continued, his giggle knocking Karen out of her thought bubble. “Much bigger.”
“Not in my experience,” Karen muttered, helping to drag Carson to his feet. Tripping once again, Carson face-planted onto the grass with his body folded over something big and cylindrical lying on the lawn. “What the hell is that?”
“A B61 thermonuclear bomb,” Carson said, snickering into the grass. “Do you like it?”
“Are you kidding?” Karen tried pushing on the weapon with her foot. It displayed a surprising solidity; the kind of solidity which made Karen step back for fear of scrambling the contents of her ovaries.
“Not kidding,” Carson muttered, rolling onto his back having unzipped his trousers.
“Where did it come from?”
“Work.” Carson moaned as he wanked his fully erect cock.
Carson knew he was destroying the life that he’d built-up so fastidiously – but he hadn’t cared and he hadn’t once regretted what he’d done.
Not once.
Which was odd: it wasn’t like him. Carson regretted everything. It was a skill which made him perfectly qualified for his job as a caretaker of America’s nuclear arsenal.
Steady, boring and balanced were all the qualities required to look after nuclear weapons… and those were qualities which pre-Foley Carson had displayed in abundance.
Post-Foley Carson cracked open another can, trying to catch the hissing spray of white beer suds which launched into the darkness of the back yard, highlighted by the neighbour’s Christmas lights. Carson scowled in the direction of his neighbour’s party music, and then smiled as he watched the second hand of his Breitling sweeping away the last moments of 2016. “Not long now, my beauty,” he said, patting the fat cylinder lying on the grass.
Having chugged the beer in one go and sent another one down his throat to keep the first company, Carson carefully balanced a golf ball on his latest garden ornament, took a full-bloodied swing with his beloved Wilson Staff Triton driver, tripped over his own legs and knocked himself out on the menacing metal cylinder lying on the lawn .
*****
“What are you doing out here? It’s nearly midnight?” It was the voice which bullied Carson’s brain back into what passed for consciousness, rather than the violence of the shaking.
“Dunno,” he slurred honestly.
“You’ve been drinking! You know you’re not supposed to do that with your medication.” The vehemence of the accusation made Carson’s head recoil with such unexpected acceleration that his brain bounced painfully off the inside of his skull.
“Quiet pissably,” Carson drawled. Remembering through the pain that his life had been boring before Karen Foley. There were doubts: inevitable given that the woman was twenty years his junior; doubts that sixteen years’ worth of careful savings had been torched in an irresistible cocktail of sex and drugs and more sex and more drugs and even more sex and even more drugs.
That lifestyle was going to hit a financial brick wall… and when it did, Carson knew that Karen Foley would move on like a sexual wrecking ball.
But Carson didn’t care.
Carson didn’t care about anything other than Karen Foley. Everything about her was perfect, as though Carson himself had been in the workshop when God had set about choosing the parts which would make up Karen’s perfection.
It wasn’t that she was perfect in a Playboy centrefold sense; it was just that she was perfect for Carson. Her laugh was more infectious than measles; her smile more warming than nuclear piles. Carson’s thoughts and dreams had been infiltrated to the point where he could barely function as a human being. He’d become obsessed… and then she’d kissed him.
Or he’d kissed her.
Either way it had been a washing machine of a kiss, and once Carson had kissed those Cocaine-coated lips, he could no longer tell the difference between dreams, fantasies and reality. It was a beautiful way to live a life.
Dreams, fantasies and reality.
“I’ve got a present for you.”
“Is it about six inches long?” Karen felt confident that she knew where this was leading and was reasonably happy to indulge; as long as the rent remained free and there were no other options available… although she had to admit that Carson’s enthusiastic cock was of much less interest now that it had lost its ‘married’ status.
In her heart, Karen Foley knew it was time to move on. She’d stayed for a disappointingly traditional Christmas. ‘Boring’ was a word she’d used; ‘isolating’ was one that she’d kept to herself but how else could you describe a Christmas with no friends and no family? Leaving would inevitably hurt Carson’s feelings – but the reality was that she didn’t care.
“S’bigger than that,” Carson continued, his giggle knocking Karen out of her thought bubble. “Much bigger.”
“Not in my experience,” Karen muttered, helping to drag Carson to his feet. Tripping once again, Carson face-planted onto the grass with his body folded over something big and cylindrical lying on the lawn. “What the hell is that?”
“A B61 thermonuclear bomb,” Carson said, snickering into the grass. “Do you like it?”
“Are you kidding?” Karen tried pushing on the weapon with her foot. It displayed a surprising solidity; the kind of solidity which made Karen step back for fear of scrambling the contents of her ovaries.
“Not kidding,” Carson muttered, rolling onto his back having unzipped his trousers.
“Where did it come from?”
“Work.” Carson moaned as he wanked his fully erect cock.
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“I want you to touch it.” Karen swallowed as shock, fear and excitement fought to take a hold of her slippery soul. She knew there was no future with Carson… and suspected that he knew it too.
That triggered a nagging thought; a question, really: was the guy just crazy enough to drag an actual thermonuclear weapon home from work and detonate it in some kind of sick reprisal for ruining his perfect life? Who knew what warped rationale went through the mind of a recently-divorced man who was singing something which sounded like a badly butchered version of ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’ while masturbating in his back garden, his body splayed unnaturally over a weapon of mass destruction.
“Do you know how to set it off?”
“Do I know how to set it off?” Carson’s hand stopped moving and he laughed raucously. “Do I know how to set it off? Oh honey, I’ve been practisin’ that for fuckin’ years.”
Genuine fear was something of a new experience for Karen but she recognised ‘bat-shit crazy’ from police brutality videos on the internet – ones which ended in the use of Tasers, truncheons or bullets. For once a bit of police brutality seemed entirely reasonable and she listened hopefully for sirens as she wrapped her fingers around Carson’s cock.
“Not my cock,” he snapped. “I want you to touch the weapon.” Now that tone had Bond-villain written all over it, and Karen found the irrational thrill of glamour tightening her throat. As Carson continued with his horrific drunk/drugged/concussed carol singing, Karen’s mind was filled with one of John Barry’s more dramatic scores and she became a Bond girl: sexually available, ready and willing to save the day. “I want you to lick it. I want you to rub your bare tits all over it.”
With a flattering camera angle, Bond girls could get away with that.
Just.
Carson sat suddenly upright, as though he was a rake and someone had trodden on his toes. “It wants to fuck you,” he said lasciviously, pointing his penis at Karen while rubbing his open palm up and down the 12-inch-diameter fissile tube as though it was an oversized sex toy. “It wants to fuck… everyone.”
How was that even possible?
Karen wasn’t sure… but she found herself inexplicably wet between the legs – either her period had come two weeks early, she’d pissed herself or she was aroused in a way which had never previously happened. “Tell me you can’t feel its power,” Carson challenged.
He could not have picked a more potent recipe of words. It was a unique combination which instantly unlocked Karen’s knickers.
She took a deep breath to help ward off the dizziness. The extra oxygen didn’t help. In fact, it seemed to make things worse.
Karen was feeling the power alright.
The rational part of her mind said that she was buying time for the police to arrive as she performed a sexy striptease. In reality, she just wanted to get as close as she could to the potential death and destruction lying in Carson’s back garden.
She was buck-naked in seconds and rubbing her sensitive, sex-primed skin against the cold metallic casing of the death bomb. “Oh fuck, that’s hot.” Carson groaned as he watched Karen crush her soft breasts against the unrelenting steel. “Can you feel its power?”
Karen’s clitoris could feel the power.
Scrambled eggs had been a worry but concern about radiation poisoning fell from Karen’s mind like a jettisoned fuel tank as she pushed her crotch down on the terrible, dangerous power between her legs and ground back and forth. “Oh fuck, yes! I can feel it!”
Carson mauled Karen’s tits from behind and he screeched nonsense into her ear as he tried to force his cock up her arse. Normally, Karen would have been horrified to have her body treated in such a manner. She might have faked it for various fellas and let them do it, but inside, her mind would have retreated into its safe place while her body got on with it.
This time was different.
This time she stuck her tail up in the air for him.
Carson’s penetrating cock burnt like napalm but she welcomed the ferocity of its fire in her anal passage as her pussy slithered forward onto cold, virgin steel. Bond girls didn’t generally take it up the arse and that fantasy evaporated, to be replaced with one where the entire city was going to go up in an orgasmic mushroom cloud of Karen’s making.
She wanted that orgasm; the one which made the whole world flash with bright white light, starting with the space behind her eyelids, and washed away everything.
The type of orgasm which reset the whole shebang.
The type of orgasm which let a broken girl start again.
The tears were already flowing freely as the orgasm seemingly separated every molecule in Karen’s body as effectively as a supernova seeding the night sky. “Whoo hee!” Carson brayed, adding his own orgasmic excitement as the contents of his ball sack and prostate vented into Karen’s bouncing bottom with the power of a New Year’s firework display. “Boring?” Carson slurred. “You call that boring?” he bragged.
Karen got to her feet, gathered up her clothes and started walking.
She didn’t look back.
Not once.
“I call that the end.”
*****
Karen Foley was into the hills by the time the fireworks started lighting-up the midnight sky. She turned and watched the irregular tattoo of happy flashes and listened to the pops and bangs, waiting for them to be trumped by one single percussive roar.
It didn’t come.
“Happy New Year, I guess.”
That triggered a nagging thought; a question, really: was the guy just crazy enough to drag an actual thermonuclear weapon home from work and detonate it in some kind of sick reprisal for ruining his perfect life? Who knew what warped rationale went through the mind of a recently-divorced man who was singing something which sounded like a badly butchered version of ‘Oh Come All Ye Faithful’ while masturbating in his back garden, his body splayed unnaturally over a weapon of mass destruction.
“Do you know how to set it off?”
“Do I know how to set it off?” Carson’s hand stopped moving and he laughed raucously. “Do I know how to set it off? Oh honey, I’ve been practisin’ that for fuckin’ years.”
Genuine fear was something of a new experience for Karen but she recognised ‘bat-shit crazy’ from police brutality videos on the internet – ones which ended in the use of Tasers, truncheons or bullets. For once a bit of police brutality seemed entirely reasonable and she listened hopefully for sirens as she wrapped her fingers around Carson’s cock.
“Not my cock,” he snapped. “I want you to touch the weapon.” Now that tone had Bond-villain written all over it, and Karen found the irrational thrill of glamour tightening her throat. As Carson continued with his horrific drunk/drugged/concussed carol singing, Karen’s mind was filled with one of John Barry’s more dramatic scores and she became a Bond girl: sexually available, ready and willing to save the day. “I want you to lick it. I want you to rub your bare tits all over it.”
With a flattering camera angle, Bond girls could get away with that.
Just.
Carson sat suddenly upright, as though he was a rake and someone had trodden on his toes. “It wants to fuck you,” he said lasciviously, pointing his penis at Karen while rubbing his open palm up and down the 12-inch-diameter fissile tube as though it was an oversized sex toy. “It wants to fuck… everyone.”
How was that even possible?
Karen wasn’t sure… but she found herself inexplicably wet between the legs – either her period had come two weeks early, she’d pissed herself or she was aroused in a way which had never previously happened. “Tell me you can’t feel its power,” Carson challenged.
He could not have picked a more potent recipe of words. It was a unique combination which instantly unlocked Karen’s knickers.
She took a deep breath to help ward off the dizziness. The extra oxygen didn’t help. In fact, it seemed to make things worse.
Karen was feeling the power alright.
The rational part of her mind said that she was buying time for the police to arrive as she performed a sexy striptease. In reality, she just wanted to get as close as she could to the potential death and destruction lying in Carson’s back garden.
She was buck-naked in seconds and rubbing her sensitive, sex-primed skin against the cold metallic casing of the death bomb. “Oh fuck, that’s hot.” Carson groaned as he watched Karen crush her soft breasts against the unrelenting steel. “Can you feel its power?”
Karen’s clitoris could feel the power.
Scrambled eggs had been a worry but concern about radiation poisoning fell from Karen’s mind like a jettisoned fuel tank as she pushed her crotch down on the terrible, dangerous power between her legs and ground back and forth. “Oh fuck, yes! I can feel it!”
Carson mauled Karen’s tits from behind and he screeched nonsense into her ear as he tried to force his cock up her arse. Normally, Karen would have been horrified to have her body treated in such a manner. She might have faked it for various fellas and let them do it, but inside, her mind would have retreated into its safe place while her body got on with it.
This time was different.
This time she stuck her tail up in the air for him.
Carson’s penetrating cock burnt like napalm but she welcomed the ferocity of its fire in her anal passage as her pussy slithered forward onto cold, virgin steel. Bond girls didn’t generally take it up the arse and that fantasy evaporated, to be replaced with one where the entire city was going to go up in an orgasmic mushroom cloud of Karen’s making.
She wanted that orgasm; the one which made the whole world flash with bright white light, starting with the space behind her eyelids, and washed away everything.
The type of orgasm which reset the whole shebang.
The type of orgasm which let a broken girl start again.
The tears were already flowing freely as the orgasm seemingly separated every molecule in Karen’s body as effectively as a supernova seeding the night sky. “Whoo hee!” Carson brayed, adding his own orgasmic excitement as the contents of his ball sack and prostate vented into Karen’s bouncing bottom with the power of a New Year’s firework display. “Boring?” Carson slurred. “You call that boring?” he bragged.
Karen got to her feet, gathered up her clothes and started walking.
She didn’t look back.
Not once.
“I call that the end.”
*****
Karen Foley was into the hills by the time the fireworks started lighting-up the midnight sky. She turned and watched the irregular tattoo of happy flashes and listened to the pops and bangs, waiting for them to be trumped by one single percussive roar.
It didn’t come.
“Happy New Year, I guess.”
