CrimeBeat-Tv Episode 34 In Phantomville living up to your civic responsibility takes on a whole new meaning.


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Crime Beat TV

Episode 34






Scene:  On location outside the Phantomville PD station, Justin Sayne and his cameraman are preparing for the days shoot using a parked black and white police sedan as a backdrop.


Wearing a long black overcoat buttoned up smartly, he looks poised and focused as a lovely blonde production assistant scrutinizes his appearance and the cameraman inspects his gear a final time before filming is to begin.


Ready Nic?”


"It's a go, boss.  On my mark," Nic followed as he framed the shot and Justin stepped up to his mark.


"Crime Beat, episode 34. 5-4-3-2, take one!"


"Good evening," Justin began, "we come to you this evening from Phantomville where we will be riding along on patrol with officers Stu Cummings and Tom Smith."


"With the help of these officers, we will be given an inside look at the implementation of the city's new Wife Protection Ordinance from a law enforcement perspective."


"Known also by the acronym WPO, the new law authored by councilman C.D.E. is a much discussed and, in some quarters, highly controversial law that makes it incumbent upon a husband to minimize the need for other males who find themselves aroused by, or sexually attracted to his wife from pursuing her."


"Further, noncompliance with said ordinance in a lawful manner is described under Criminal Code 5655-c as a minimum one year confinement in Phantomville City Jail and a $1,000 fine."


"Some see it as a unique solution to an age old problem while others are not so easily convinced.  Exactly what the truth lays is what has brought us to Phantomville.  To look at the new law's overall effectiveness in terms of the Crime rate, and to examine any new crime trends that may have emerged as a result of the new law's enactment."


"Then we'll let you, our viewer, decide whether the new law will ultimately become just another footnote in the annals of legal jurisprudence, or the solution to an ago old problem that has clogged our criminal justice system from time and memoriam."


As Justin Sayne finished his final remarks, two uniformed officers came into view to be introduced to the TV audience. Moments later, the two officers along with our investigative journalist and his cameraman got in the black and white cruiser and set off.


Turning right onto the expressway we find officer Tom Smith behind the wheel negotiating his way through the late afternoon traffic, Justin Sayne admiring his reflection in the rear view mirror, and officer Stu Cummings getting into the rhythm and mouthing the words of the program's signature song;


"Badboys, badboys, whatcha gonna do when they come for you . . ."


All of which spurred the first of Justin Sayne's questions directed first to patrolman Cummings.


"So tell me, Officer Cummings, are you still finding plenty of them bad boys out there?"


"Of course," he chuckled. "Otherwise there wouldn't be anyone left in this town to foot my 120,000 a year salary.  And we can't have that now, can we?"


"Do I take that to mean that since the enactment of the Wife Protection Ordinance you've not seen the same positive impact on crime others have purported?"


"Off the record?"


"As agreed, you'll be notified beforehand."


"Well, you've seen the reports.  And from what I'm seeing, assaults, domestic violence, burglaries, homicides, across the board the numbers tell the story. Heck, not even a single Code Blue in over two months."


"A Code Blue?"


"Gang activity," he replied as they came to a stop at the light. "Not that long ago these neighborhoods were nothing more than shooting galleries, and now . . ." he paused.


"And now what, Officer Cummings?"


"Now look, I'm not saying I've seen a sea change here or anything like that. But look," he pointed out the window towards an old man & woman on a leisurely stroll down the avenue.  "It's been a while since folks felt comfortable doing something like that."


"One-Tango-13, respond."


"Copy Central," Officer Smith replied.


"Possible 504. Vehicle, White Mercedes' CL600, year 2011, occupants, 4 African American males, last seen traveling north on Willow."


"10-4, we're on our way," Officer Smith replied, then quickly turned right and headed down Fillmore until they reached Willow and headed south.


"They must have seen you coming, Mr. Sayne," Officer Cummings added in jest as they raced down the boulevard.


"How's that?"  Justin asked.


"You know, lights, camera, action; everyone wants their 15 minutes."


Officer Cummings had no more than finished that thought when they spotted the vehicle they were looking for approaching in the opposing lane.  Tom executed an immediate U-Turn, turned on the flashing red lights and siren then fell in behind the vehicle as it rolled to a stop.


A moment later with the camera rolling Stu Cummings cautiously approached the vehicle.  "License and registration please."


After a quick perusal of the documents he had been handed, he conveyed the information to dispatch and then waited for the response he sought before resuming his questioning.  "Tell me, Leroy.  Does Mrs. Ben . . . ahh," he paused, "over," he then added, "know you are currently operating her vehicle?"


"Yes Sir.  We just scored us some 8-ball n' we're headin' on back to her pad now."


"You know her then, correct?" Stu Cummings inquired, which caused a stirring and then muffled laughter amongst the vehicles occupants.


"Yo bro, you can say that, both me n' Jomo here,” he pointed toward the huge black figure sitting in the seat beside him. “Maurice and Terrell in back too.  Is there a problem, officer?"


"Yes, well, the vehicle was reported to be in the possession of persons unknown.  We attempted to contact her, but as we were unable to do so I would ask you to please follow me to her home where we can get a clarification on the matter."


A few minutes later, the patrol car pulled up to the residence with the fabulously expensive Mercedes' following close behind.


The residence was a rather expansive Dutch Colonial in the middle of an exclusive community.  Or what once was an "exclusive" community.  Only officer Cummings wasn't so sure the same could be said of it now.  Not with the lime green El Doraldo and the purple metal flake Continental parked outside.


The disparity became even more apparent a few minutes later when in answer to his knock on the door he was greeted by the property owner, Mr. Ned Benover.  A short, faint, unnoticeable sort who could probably escape detection by radar if he were to stand sideways.


He didn't look the type who would have had much luck in the business world.  Or anywhere else that required the tenacity of a rabid dog to compete and win against men who did.  But as the luxury home, neighborhood and cars did show, he apparently had."


An odd contrast made even more salient when his soft spoken voice could Scarcely be heard over the pounding beat of Hip-Hop playing in the background: "Face down ass up, that's the way I like to fuck.  Pussy ain't nutting but meat on the bone; Suck it or fuck it or leave it alone!" (1)


"Mr. Bend-over, Mr. Ned Bend-over?  Am I pronouncing that right?


"It's pronounced Behnover, officer.  How may I help you?"


"I'd like to speak with your wife.  Is she available?"


"I'm sorry, I believe she is busy at the moment.  Is there anything I can help you with?"


"Yes sir," Officer Cummings started to say, then had to wait while the four gentleman who had been driving Mrs. Behnover's Mercedes nudged their way past and through the door carrying 3 cases of 40oz. malt liquor, a case of Johnny Black and a bucket of chicken.  Extra crispy!


They weren't colleagues or professional types in any sense of the word.  Rather, these guys were shirtless 20 something's with pants hanging 3 inches below the crack of there ass, long strands of beaded black hair and gangland tattooed all over them.


"I just wanted to verify whether your wife had given these . . . these, gentlemen permission to operate her vehicle?"


"Yes sir," he managed with an affirming nod just as Mr. Washington, the front man for the group, reached back and handed him his wife's billfold.


Then with an arrogance befitting the man of the house, he told Mr. Behnover that he needn't to replenish the cash pronto, because Bosco, Andre and Kwame would be coming by soon and he didn't think they had bought enough to go round.


"Thank you, Mr. Behnover," Stu Cummings followed up. "I believe that concludes our official police business.  We're sorry for any inconvenience."


"No problem officer," he replied, then asked while pointing toward the cameraman, "May I ask why you are filming officer?"


That was the cue that our investigative reported had been waiting for. He immediately stepped up and with microphone in hand spoke the lines so familiar to his viewing audience.


"Good evening sir, Justin Sayne from the weekly investigative news program, Crime Beat.  I would like to thank for this opportunity to ask you a few questions on behalf of our television audience."


"Oh yes, I thought I recognized you," Mr. Behnover beamed.  "I'm a fan.  I watch every week.  Would you like to come in?"


"Of course," Justin accepted the invite then along with his cameraman followed him though his home toward his study, leaving the two officers to wait in their car.


In passing the family room he happened to spot the four gentlemen who had been driving Mrs. Behnover's fabulously expensive Mercedes engaged in a game of dice.  Or Craps, he thought from the way the vociferous young men were huddled together with wads of cash in their hands (presumably Ned's), making a show of it.


To their right a stunning young blonde sat in a wingback chair. "My wife," Ned casually acknowledged as they hurried passed on their way down the hall.


Justin made a quick appraisal of the woman in passing, noting that she wore a crop top cut so frightfully brief that if she were to reach up and place her hands on her head, her tits would be entirely exposed.


The same could be said of her skirt.  A skirt of black knit weave that rode so far up past her stocking tops that daylight lit the way all the way up.


She seemed quite young as well.  Younger than her husband most certainly, although not without a confidence that exceeded her years.  A confidence he could see expressed in the shameless manner in which she flaunted her rather sizeable assets.


And by the way she was dressed 9 parts naked 1 part not, you could rightfully surmise those "assets" included a priceless suite of jewels.  Two up, one down.  Or so it would seem from the way she sat with legs spread wide in full commando mode.  Oooo!!!


Obviously this was a woman of strong character, bold and self-assured, and not some bimbo needing her daily fix of cheap trick thrills.  Which in his eyes spoke well of her, even in light of her questionable taste in companions.


It was a lot to consider in such a brief instance in time.  They were just passing though after all, on their way to the study.  But for our keen eyed investigative reporter, all the indications were there.  It was the lady, ala absence the pants, who held the reins in this marriage.  And by the looks of it, she had a pretty firm grip on them too.


When they reached the study Ned poured himself a stiff shot of brandy, then turned to face the glaring camera light to ask how he could be of help.


It was Justin's first unobstructed view of the man.  A man not only insubstantial in the physical sense, but seemingly equally irrelevant in stature in his own home as well.


He also seemed rather gaunt, his skin colorless.  That is, if you were to exclude the vibrant red paint covering his lips.


"Lip balm," he wondered, "In Red?" he seemed rather doubtful. "Some type of medicinal salve he might be using to minimize exposure to the sun?  Or perhaps, simply a sign of more ominous things to come?"


As of yet, he hadn't quite made up his mind.


"So what is it you wish to ask?"  Ned's voice cut through his thoughts.  Only before he could response he heard a hoot n' a holler coming from the Family Room they had just passed through.


"Hot damn, I'm next!"


"Let's hit the road, Jode, Cus I got me a load!"


"Is that your wife?  Jode?"  Justin asked, pointing in the direction of the hallway where his wife and one of those dice throwing palookas had just passed by on their way to somewhere else in the house.


There was nothing backdoor or hush-hush about it.  In fact, it seemed almost common practice for her to be walking down the hall with her hands stuffed down the man's pants - both hands full.


The same could be said of the tall black dude she was latched on to. Both hands were full.  One hand latched on to Jody Behnover's tits, the other grabbing her ass.


"Jody!  Jode is just a pet name," Ned replied.  "And Yes, we have been married for 6 months now."


"Lucky man.  She's quite lovely.  She seems quite the socialite as well."


"Yes, well, many find themselves attracted, even after coming to know her.  Which is something not many are willing to do these days."


Justin wanted to ask Ned to clarify his point when his attention was momentarily drawn away.  To the sound of muffled voices and a rhythmic thumping beat coming from elsewhere in the house.  A very up tempo rhythmic beat at that.


"Ahem," Justin began again.  "As I was saying, Ned.  Do I take that to mean folks just don't want to invest the time it takes to get to know their neighbor anymore?"


"Yes, no one wants to waste time with the preliminaries anymore.  Now it's wham-bam thank you ma'am.  A by-product of our instant gratification world, where everyone wants theirs now!   Buy now pay later, instant food, instant karma, instant relief.  You get beset by a primal urge and it's, 'I want it taken care of now.' Good heavens, whatever happened to impulse control?"


Then he too paused, his attentions also drawn toward that primitive thump, thump, thumping beat coming from elsewhere in the house.  A thumping that seemed to be growing increasingly louder, and if possible, even more up tempo then before.


"Unfortunately, I think it's become a casualty of modern life, Ned.  Something we just have to live with."


"Yes, and I'm damn sick of it," he said, growing increasingly more agitated.


"Now, now, Ned," Justin tried to reassure him.


"It's almost more than one man can take."  He followed, then lowered his head and covered his mouth with his balled up fist in an effort to stifle his emotions.


"Why don't you have a seat, Ned." Justin consoled.


"No, no, I'll be alright," he sought to right himself while that thumping beat continued to droned on and on in the background, without sign of relenting.


But it did, eventually, after what seemed an eternity.  And in its place came renewed activity outside in the hall.  Activity in the form of fist-bumps and lewd innuendo as two men crossed paths.  One going to, and one coming from that "elsewhere" located further on in the house.


"It's, it's . . .," Ned tried again to say before his emotional state began to unravel.  His eyes watery, his state of distress now a matter of record as the camera zoomed-in and Justin stepped up and threw his arm around the poor man's shoulders.


"I know, I know.  Modern life can sometimes be a bitch.  The rules almost seem to change by the day.  One day it's okay to take umbrage when a guy becomes aroused by your wife.  The next you're to blame for allowing it to happen. Keeping pace with changes like that can mess with a guys head, no question about that."


"But chin up my man.  You need to dwell on the positives.  I mean, you've got a killer wife and you've got the world by the tail.  What more can a man want."


"Do y-y-you th-th-think so?"  Ned managed to throttle up his voice over that rhythmic thumping sound that had begun anew. Only this time the thump, thump, thumping was accompanied by the sound of a woman’s shrill between the down beats.


"Oh hell yeah, Ned.  I mean just looking at those pin-up girl knockers of hers, and those legs . . .  I mean we're talking all American boner-izers here, Ned.  In fact, just thinking about it gives me a . . ."


"Oh please, not you too."  Ned intervened.


"What's that, Ned?"


"Please don't say it," Ned tearfully replied between the thump and the Eeeek! The thump and the Yike!  The thumpidy-thump and the Eeee-ouie!


"Say what, Ned?  Boner-izer?  Look, I'm just saying you ought to be darn proud to be sleeping with a woman who could adorn the fuselage of a B-1 bomber."


"Then y-y-you don't h-h-have a b-b-bone . . ?"


"What's that, Ned?"


"You d-d-don't want me to g-g-give you a b-b-blo . . ?"


"Ned, Ned, speak up!  Saddle up and get on your pony, cowboy.  I can hardly hear you over all that noise."


"By the way, what is that noise anyway?"  He asked and Ned answered with a shrug, pleading his ignorance while his eyes scanned the floor looking for a hole to crawl into.


"Funny but I feel as though I should know that sound.  I mean, it almost sounds like a headboard slamming up against the wall.  But that can't be it.  I mean what or who could take a pounding like that, huh Ned?"


"Oh well, I'm sure it will come to me."


"Oooh, y-y-you just don't understand."  Ned again buried his face in his hands.


"Well that's why I'm here, Ned.  To find out how that new Wife Protection Ordinance is working for you.  So unless I'm missing something here . . ."


"Y-y-you d-d-don't know w-w-what it's like," Ned whined on, his eyes watery on the verge of tears.


"Talk to me, Ned," Justin's followed sounding a bit more strident, his ears tuned into that thump-thump-thumping and the muffled shrills between.


A relentless pounding beat not unlike the sound of a train slowly building up stream at an ever increasing rate in route to its destination.


Then comes the screech and the grunt of mechanisms as the train approaches the end of the line.  Climactic, earth shaking sounds that drone on until the final release of steam signaling the conclusion of the journey.


And that's what happened.  The whole affair had reached its destination, coming to a climactic, grinding stop.  As did Ned's weeping, replaced a few moments later by renewed activity out in the hall.


The fist bumps, the snide innuendo of the two men crossing paths played out Just as before.  One going to, and one coming from. Only this time the man coming from that "elsewhere" in the house came to a stop in front of the office door.  Where he promptly jacked up an elbow against the doorframe, leaned in and said, "Yo, Fuck-Face!"


"I'm done with the dickin' and now I need me a lickin'," he puckered up and blew, then pointed down toward a long-barreled ridgeline that ran the length of his pant leg.


"I-I-I'm . . ." was all Ned could manage.


"What?" he asked.  "Too busy for me?" he sounded rather upset.


"Why ain't you the uppity lil'girlie bitch!" He sneered contemptuously, then straightened back up and continued down the hall.


"D-d-damn," the cameraman stammered and Justin had to agree.


"Fuck-Face, Ned?"  Justin inquired, but Ned didn't answer.  Then again, he really didn't have to.


"Nevertheless, this was a prime time show.  And as it is with all hit shows of this type, the audience is never content until they've seen the blood.  Or in Ned's case, owning up to his misbehavior on prime time TV.


"Talk to me, Ned."


"Oh please, don't . . ." Ned moaned and pleaded, feeling the corner he was in narrowing by the second.


"Tell me what it's like, Ned."


"Oh!" Ned sniveled as the bell sounded, signaling the start of round four.  Ding!  And by the sound of the thump, thump, thumping with the shrieks on the down beat, it was quite apparent both champs had come out swinging!


"Huh, Neddy, my boy?"  Justin prodded between the thump and the "Umph," the thump and the "E-e-e-k," the thump and the "Yeow-eee!"


"Is the new Wife Protection Ordinance working for you?"


"Are you finding it your cup of tea?"  He continued to poke and prod and goad to get his caged bird to sing.  Only instead of hearing Ned cough up the words he wanted to hear, he heard the voice of a woman standing at the door to the Study instead.


"His cup of tea?"


She was an abundantly attractive woman in her late 40's who shared Ned's diminutive stature and in many regards showed a marked resemblance to him.  They both had the same naturally curly hair, the same overbite and the same upturned nose.


She did have a rather stern, no nonsense expression on her face at the moment however.  An expression that somehow fit her unbending stance, as did the leather quirt she held in her hand.


"I'm not sure the correct word for what we serve up around here is tea.  Although I can see the comparisons in that we serve them both warm and milky just the way he likes it.  Isn't that right, Neddy?"


"Y-y-yes, mother," he managed to stammer out.  With his head down, he looked like a tongue tied, whipped mama's boy with his balls in a vise and his mother's hand on the turn screw.


"Yes, well, fortunately for you I believe the milkman has left just gobs of that rich sweet milk with your wife to add to your tea.  So if you are ready . . ."


"Yes mother, b-b-but . . ."


"But, but what son?  But you have something more important to do first?"


"N-n-no, mother.  It's j-j-just that . . ."


"Oh, I know.  That's just your way of reminding me that I need arrange another appointment for you with the good doctor to Straighten-Your-Ass-Out!"  She stated, while tapping the quirt against her open palm with a menace.


"But first we mustn't neglect your wife.  She's in her room waiting with a nice full pot of that rich and creamy tea you so enjoy."


"So hurry along now son. You can finish your business later. When you've a full tummy and can concentrate on giving this nice young man the very best Interest-only, high-interest rate load you can get him to buy into."


His head could not have hung any lower as he quickly fled from the room while the austere, motherly woman stepped inside to fill the vacuum.


At that point, believing he had learned all he needed to know, Justin thought it best to make a quick exit.


"I guess that's a wrap, Nic," he instructed his cameraman then offered the lady his hand.


"Mrs. Behnover, I'd like to thank you for your hospitality. It has indeed been a pleasure."


"A pleasure?  I don't think we've shared one as yet." She replied.  "But since you seem in a hurry and can't wait, I believe I can find time to accommodate you."


"Both of you if you prefer, no trouble at all.  Although for the life of me I can't imagine why you hadn't asked my son.  When my daughter-in-law is busy he is usually a very conscientious host, as am I.  So if you'll just step over there by the couch . . ."


"Ahhh, no ma'am!  As you can see we're on camera.  We've a national audience.  Five million views to be exact."  He pointed toward his cameraman who was getting an ever increasing tighter shot of the lady as he inched closer in.


"Oh!"  The lady gasped. Then she craned her neck to inch in yet closer, gazing wide-eyed into the lens.


"I'm sorry.  I thought this was some kinky idea of my sons.  You know, one of those porno documentary-type things."


"No ma'am.  My name is Justin Sayne.  I'm with the syndicated weekly investigative news program, Crime Beat."


"Oh yes, I thought you looked familiar.  Is my little spooge-gopher in trouble or something?  Embezzlement or has he been cooking the books or something like that?"


"No, no.  We're come to Phantomville to see how the New Wife Protection Ordinance has been working, and since your son kindly volunteer . . ."


"I see.  Well my son is busy at the moment.  Perhaps I might be able to help.  I am quite familiar with all the ins and outs of the new law.  I also know how my poor defenseless daughter-in-law suffered in defense of herself before enactment, and how it provides for her safety now."


"Then please, by all means, Mrs. Behnover.  That is exactly what our national viewing audience wishes to hear."


"Yes, well, perhaps we should have a seat as I feel a little background is in order.  And please, you may call me Doris."


"Thank you," Justin replied, taking up a seat across from her. "Now, as you were saying, Doris . . ."


"Of course.  Well first off I'm sure you've noticed that my son doesn't quite fit the mold of the typical financial tycoon.  That's because he is not.


All this was secured by my late husband.   My son is simply the beneficiary, just as he is the beneficiary of his job at the bank.


I mention this only to dispel the false impression that he is something he is not.


Is he a nice boy?"  You bet.  I raised him well.  Perhaps not like his father would have liked, but to my liking, he is as he appears.  A world class cream puff that has neither the skill-sets nor the physical attributes to compete with real men."


"Real men, Doris?" Justin queried.


"Yes.  I am referring to those men who must wear slacks with enough play about the inseam to accommodate the blacksnake that runs the length of his pant leg.  Better men who when in a pinch, can still stir the cake batter when his hands are full.


Men like that deserve respect from a little guy like him.  But as you know, little boys just don't grow up respecting their betters no matter how inferior they are.  That's the sort of thing they learn the hard way, at the receiving end of a fist, a boot or a poke in the hinny.


Of course, it didn't help having a father who had more of an interest in his business dealings than staying home to teach his son how to take a punch and get back up swinging.  Likewise, the fact that he has a wiener the size of a Vienna sausage didn't help his chances of becoming much of a man either.


If anything, his inadequacies only serve as a reminder of how insignificant he really is."


"Whoa!"  Justin exclaimed, seemingly taken aback by her bluntness.  "Don't hesitate to speak you mind, Doris."


"I won't, Mr. Sayne.  He is my son.  I care about him.  So what kind of mother would I be if I lied to him, to you or to anyone else with a need to know the truth.


"And that would be . . ?" Justin asked.


"That he is just as indistinctive on the inside as he is on the outside.


Now, I say that not for want to diminish him anymore than he already is.  Rather, I say it because everyman must come to terms with who he is and to own it.


That's the manly thing to do.  Whether you're of exemplary character, a bottom feeder, or a limp-wrist, mousy little skeet-licker like my Neddy, there is no shame in owning who you are.


Now I know what you're thinking.  You're thinking to yourself, 'If that's not gay I don't know what is.'


I mean, the thought of him fishing out his daily nutritional requirements from his wife's gooey, gummy, gamy snatch filled to the brim with her black lover's sperm-chowder does sound a bit homo I suppose. But as the facts do show, that's not an entirely accurate perception.


I can say that because I know my Neddy is not gay. He's as heterosexual as Hugh Hefner, although unlike Hef, he lacks the repertory of skills and the physical attributes to compete with real men for the prize.


Of course, just because his wife can tie him up in knots and, should he complain, lay him out flat with a nasty left hook doesn't mean he's a complete schlemiel.  He does have his competencies.  It's just that those competencies are better suited to fill a different sort of niche.


A niche in which he is better suited to compete I might add, and if you think of it in terms of everyman needing to fit into his rightful place in this world becoming his wife's cum-guzzling prophylactic fulfills a role just as valued, purposeful and praiseworthy as any other.


Certainly no less so than your local cesspool cleaner when you need his help cleaning out your pipes.  And you surely don't call him gay, do you?


Of course not.  So what's the difference?  Whether the man-batter is stored up in a hole in the ground or between your wife's legs, it's all the same thing.  He's just like any other sludge control expert with a job to do.


Still, I understand that perception is 99% of reality, so I guess it's all in how you see it.


I know for the longest while, many, if not all of Jody's men friends saw him as just another homo trying to cop some of the action.  But that was then, while now, they see him quite differently.  Less the bottom feeder and more the dutiful husband, aka her cum guzzling prophylactic, with a job to do.


A job he is now required to do under the new Wife Protection Ordinance, I might add.”


“My heavens," Justin appeared taken aback.  "I had no idea the mandates of the law were so far reaching.  But chowing down on your wife's snatch after she's already been dicked is a little like closing the barn door after the animals have already run off, I should think.  I hardly find that a preventive measure, the likes of which the law was designed to do.”


"Yes, that's true.  Nonetheless the law is also quite clear on the consequences should a husband fail to protect his wife from other men who have an urgent need to pursue her sexually.


Consequences that are especially dire for a man married to a beautiful young woman like Jody - a woman that can coax a woody out of a slab of marble.  So it's safe to assume that being hitched to a beauty like that places expansive demands on his time."


"So I can see," Justin followed with a nod toward the obvious.


"Yes, well, he does try.  But no matter how noble the effort, when trying to juggle that many 'balls' at one time, some are bound to escape his grasp and end up in bed alongside his wife no matter how diligent he is.  And for those that do slip past, what's to be done with the evidence left behind?  Evidence that could land his ass behind bars if charged with noncompliance with the law."


"Eliminate it?" Justin squinted, his face tilled a bit toward the lopsided.


"Ah-hu, and given the eminent use of the forensic sciences employed by law enforcement these days, what better way to escape detection than for you to consume it before the incriminating evidence consumes you.


Not at all a bad thing, all considered.  I mean, not only is it Cheaper than the cost of child care n' nurseries and the like, but it also supplies him with half his daily nutritional requirements.


Not a lot of fat content, so it's kind of hard to keep the weight on. But there is always plenty on the menu.  Not much in the way of variety, but if you like yours black, fat and meaty, there's always plenty to go around.


All of which has only helps to strengthen the bond between himself and his wife, and all of her men friends as well.


I mean, now there is no longer a need for snarls and threats to get him to lick their dick clean when a simply snap of the fingers will do.  No more ridicule and innuendo when simply asking the sissy whore to clean out the slob from his whoring wife's 'shank-tank' will get the job done.


In short, I'm proud to say, my wimp-ass son and his whoring wife are currently celebrating their sixth month of matrimonial bliss.


Theirs is a happy and successful marriage. My son still has a set hanging down between his legs, and his whoring young bride is now awash in the riches.  A wealth measured not in dollars n' cents, but by the size of the huge black cocks making daily deposits to her account.


Mmmm, Pure bless, no?  I mean what more could anyone ask for.


But it hasn't come about over night. There has been a steep learning curve for my little muff-diver to negotiate, no question about that.


In fact, I couldn't tell you how many times Dr. Straighten-His-Ass-Out and I had to work on ridding him of those silly notions that somehow, chowing down on another man's schlong is frightfully gay.


Less so often now-a-days, thanks to the good doctor's therapy sessions.


Still there remain those lingering feelings.  Much like those of a man who can still feel the presence of a lost limb, I suppose. Those remnant feelings of manhood that occasionally still haunt him.


Especially when the need for relief arises, when hoping against hope, he tries his hardest to get that tiny little thing of his to rise up and perform to even the most minimal of standards.


I know, I know.  A silly misguided notion, but an obstacle nonetheless.  Much like all the name calling and we managed to overcome that.  Faggot, sissy, cocksucker, cum-quat, you know, the whole list which he now responds to as though they were his middle name.


Again, another hard fought achievement. Although if I need to be truthful there are still occasions when someone will call him a faggot and instead of dropping to his knees, he'll ball up his fist, pouts and cry and isn't so quick to kiss and make up.


But when he forgets, when his testosterone laden brain tries to convince him he's something he's not, I can assure you that both the good old doctor and I are always here to straighten his ass out."


She again slaps her open palm with the 2 foot long leather quirt.


"To remind him that being called a fag isn't necessarily a derogatory term.  Nor meant to set him apart or imply he is gay. Rather, that it's just the way real men express their gratitude for a job well done."


"You whip him?"


"Yes, with a wire cord as well.  Only I'm not so crass as to call it a whipping.  Instead I prefer to call it a therapy session."


"Why is that necessary?"


"As I said, it's a reminder.  Learning is a life long process after all.  Especially when it comes to matters such as these. Going against the grain, sort of speak.


I mean boys are not naturally blessed with the problem solving skills employed by the peacemakers of this world.  Those are strategies a boy must be taught.  Knowing how to peacefully resolve conflict when confronted by a better, more superior man is an admiral skill.  Not to mention a smart course to pursue if you're the little guy who wishes to avoid a shellacking.


That's something we women have known since the days of the caveman.  When papa bear entered the cave with a scowl on his face and a club draped over is shoulder, we women would do what we do best. Throw up your arms, surrender and pay homage to the savage beast.


Be it to grovel at his feet or lick his dick to win his heart, love & affection makes for a peaceful coexistence.  That holds equally true today.  The world is no less a jungle, with beasts that still lug around those long meaty clubs in need of relief from the tension and the stains of daily life.


So you see there is nothing new here.  These are the principles that have faithfully guided we women since the days of the caveman, so why not my Neddy?  Shouldn't he be able to employ the same strategies to manage conflict and peacefully resolve issues when confronted by better, more superior men?


Of course he should, and there's nothing gay about it.  Sucking up the spooge, cleaning out a man's pipes or bending over and spreading them are nothing more than a useful skill set to stem potential conflict.


A skill set with a proven track record I might add.  One that sets him apart from the herd as a person who knows his rightful place.  Content to follow the rear, his face buried in some bull's ass rather than being stomped on by his hoof.


I know some in your viewing audience might find the picture of him in a meadow with his face up some bull's ass a bit distasteful.  I think differently of course.  To me, employing the bonding skills not unlike those we women use to develop a rapport to please our man is what the world needs more of.


There's nothing wrong-headed about that. There's no shame in it either. I mean all you need to do is pick up the local Gazette and read how we're all getting fucked everyday anyhow.  By the politicians, by corporations, by just about everyone who has us by the short hairs.  We all spread'em and get down on our knees when they come a calling, so what's the difference?  Nothing, and nobody is the least bit ashamed of it, so either should my Neddy.


In fact, in my opinion he has every reason to hold his head high. Much like the brave heroes who wear their metals with great honor, he too should feel equally proud of his kowtowing emasculated ass.


He's not there yet, at least not in terms of commitment.  The lipstick and the toiletries, yes, but he has yet to resign himself to the earrings and pumps.


But the good doctor and I are working on that one too.  And I feel certain someday quite soon he'll be on the company wagon.  A first class sissy whore that Jody and I can be proud of."


"Yes, well I'm glad you brought Jody's name up," Justin intervened.


"It seems to me that Jody and Ned are somewhat of a mismatch. Jody with her pin-up girl looks, and Ned the milksop following in her wake.  It does make one wonder how the two of them even managed to hook up at all?"


"Ah, well wonder no more.  I'm the matchmaker, and contrary to popular believe Jody is exactly the right girl for him.  I could tell that the first day I met her a little over a year ago.


You see, a few miles from here there's a hair salon called Black Braids n' Shades.  It's a small, nondescript place that caters exclusively to African American males.


Of course I didn't know that at the time when I happened in, thinking that the booming Rap music and the purple ghetto facade all looked rather chic and new.  The type of place where I might find someone young, talented and imaginative enough to breathe some life back in to my hair.


That's were I met Jody.  And what a surprise it was to find such a stunningly beautiful little gal working her magic amidst a jet black sea of restless black thugs, communing as if owning it on their tribal ground.


With her golden blonde hair and porcelain white skin, she truly looked a singular bright star against the otherwise dark black night.


Trust me when I say, the air was so supercharged you could almost see the heady, masculine scene that permeated the room dripping off the walls.


Anyway, that's where I first met her.  She'd just turned twenty and it was her first job after graduating from beauty school.  Of course, with every seat in the house occupied by some guy who wanted her to work on his hair, she had little time for me. Still she was kind enough to offer to come over and style my hair on her day off.


As promised she came over the following Saturday, having hitched a ride on one of those low-riding sedans that bounced up and down as it crept down the street. And when I looked out and saw 6 super-sized guys step out of that car to give her just enough room to squeeze out, I knew the girl was 'some-kind of special.'


Especially after seeing her state of dress, or undress as only the briefest bits were left to the imagination.


She was a girl after my heart.  Young, yes, but when she spoke to my Neddy I could tell she wasn't just some slut without a voice of her own.  She was both aggressive and commanding, insisting he speak up when he mumbled, refusing to take no for an answer when she asked him on a date.


A date I had suggested because my Neddy was so tongue-tied he could scarcely string two words together.


It was to be a dinner date at our house, with a hot steamy movie afterward.  Neddy would make the din-din, and Jody it turned out, provided the dessert.


Nothing too exotic, she had promised me she'd keep her knees locked tight. He was a 33 year old virgin after all, and I wanted him to stay that way until he found the right girl to marry.


She agreed, but if you thought that might be a hindrance, think again. She's a resource girl I found out, evidenced by the state of poor Neddy's face after her departure.  His cheeks were flushed.  His nose was a bright red, and a crusted thin layer of spooge covered his lips.


Yes, a very imaginative girl.  Not only was she aggressive and commanding enough to tie up my Neddy body and soul within a week, but she went about her business with such abandon as to leave no question as to her conniving intent.


First came her demand for the keys to his black Beamer which she took possession of as if it were own.  Next came the use of the backyard pool for parties, turning the picturesque scene of green grass and blue water into a sea of black.


I was elated of course.  Not only because she attracted dick like bees to a honey pot, but because she was quite willing to share her embarrassment of riches with me, and graciously, my Neddy too.


To me, that shows just how big-hearted and generous she is.  And the icing on the cake, she controlled the very air my Neddy drew in.  And not just when she sat on his face I might add."


"Yes, well I think I've got the picture, Doris," Justin again cut in. "She's as charming as she is drop dead gorgeous.  And where the beauty and charm fall short, she's . . ."


". . . quick with the whip?" Doris was quick to complete his thought.


"I'll let you respond to that, Doris."


"Well there's no doubt that she's as good at ruling the roost as she is with the wrist action.  Both are persuasive, but not always necessary, especially when a simple little chat will do the job just as well.


Like the time he threw a hissy-fit over the comings and goings of all her men friends, comparing the front door of our home to a turnstile at the Boston Gardens.


She could have taken him down to the basement for a visit with the good doctor right then and there, but she didn't.  Instead she just sat him down and patiently explained to him where he had gotten it wrong:


"A boner is a boner and the law is the law, sugar plum." Jody said to him quite bluntly.  "And it would seem to me you'd want to think long and hard before deciding to disrespect either one.  Far safer and wiser, I think, to oblige both."


She then brightened up, albeit with a smile skewed toward the wicked, and added:


"Or better yet, oblige and then cozy up some.  You know, freshen up the lips, perhaps toss in a spoonful of sugar and look to break a few hearts.  Otherwise you might find yourself breaking the pocketbook bankrolling the truckload of black babies you're going to be risin' if you don't step up and become a good team player.


You might not get all them baby makers, but if you man-up n' suck in real hard, you just might divert enough of those squiggly little devils simply by changing the goal posts - from my eggs to your tonsils."


"Well now," Doris then followed.  "That little homily pretty much hit the nail on the head as far as I was concerned.  I mean the marriage contract does state 'until death do us part,' does it not, Mr. Sayne?"


"Yes ma'am, it does.  But I'm not sure I see the connection.  How one follows the other?"


"Hum, why am I not surprised?  Men are so narrow and rigid in their thinking that they can't see the forest through the trees.


Death do us part means that both husband and wife are tied together, united as one.  What goes for the goose goes for the gander as well."


"Yes, but . . ."


"Yes but nothing, Mr. Sayne.  There is little wiggle room for individual differences when it comes to peaceful coexistence in the home.  That's the secret of a happy marriage.  What holds for one, holds for the other.


So it only follows that he should have the same deference for the men who pass through their front door as she does, turnstile or not.


Whether it's one, or a hundred and one, makes no difference.  One for all, all for them both is what keeps a family vibrant and strong.  Not to mention quite busy, I might add.


But it's the least we can do for those who find themselves unexpectedly aroused by another man's wife I should think.  I mean, that's what good neighbors are for, right?


To be there to help as the needs arise.  Whether they just need a quick hook-up with Jody, or an after-date tryst with sweet Neddy's lips, we try our best to deliver.  I don't think that's asking too much, do you?"


Justin couldn't find the words.  With mouth open he just sat with a glazed over look, seemingly lost in the logical construct of her argument.  How she had gone from "death do us part" to sucking a guy's dick because it was the least he could do to help the guy out, was far above his pay grade to try and figure out.


"Women!" He finally mumbled under his breath, but left it at that.


"Ahh, no ma'am.  I mean, yes ma'am. I can see where that arrangement would work out just fine."


"Well, no one has ever left disappointed yet.  Not during the lovebird's engagement when my Neddy was still matching faces with dick size, nor after the wedding when the Family Room took on the look of the waiting room at the Unemployment office.


Only now, the Wife Protection Ordinance has made it virtually impossible for him to say no to anyone even if he wanted to.


As for me, well I've been here all along stand on the wayside.  Making sure my Neddy follows the script exactly as taught.


Everything from seeing that his guests are well fed, to washing the clothes left behind.  Jockstraps included I might add.  The only problem is trying to match up the right one with the right guy when all the washing and ironing is done.


Humbling?  Sure, but it's nothing more than a common courtesy to see that everyone is properly fit and goes home tucked in nicely.  Providing the Right strap for the right jockey, sort of speak, with everything in its proper order. A great bonding tool, no?


I think so.  I mean what better way to strengthen rapport than to insure everyone goes home lovingly put away snug and secure. It's also a good reminder of just how insignificant he is should he happen to forget."


"All well and good, Doris," Justin again cut in.  "But I spoke with Ned before you arrived and I have to tell you, he did not sound like a happy camper to me."


"Oh?  I wonder how happy he would be if I hadn't introduced him to Jody?  Hmmm?  Or not having had access to those world class tits, even for those few precious moments she allows him to get near them at all?  Do you think that would make him a happy camper?  I think not!


And what about that cream filled pop tart of hers?  Do you think his world would be any brighter without that Penthouse perfect snatch to chow down on each and every night?  No sir, not in this lifetime!


Oh sure, he might pout and cry and appear broken when asked to gobble up yet another man's slop from her much used communal snatch.  But if you think he's prepared to exchange his visually stunning wife and her world class tits for his otherwise dreary existence, then I have some swamp land to sell you.


The same applies when he is confronted by a better, more superior man.  He may act the part of the injured party, but you don't need to be a weatherman to know which way the wind blows.  No sir!


He knows it only makes sense to submit and give in, or take what's coming.  Then out of respect, bend over and humbly pay homage to win his trust and his confidence.  Not to mention his heart, the secret to peaceful coexistence.


So yes, the new Wife Protection Ordinance has been a good thing.  It has benefited my Neddy tremendously by helping to remove some of the negative social stigma usually attributed to men like him, making it seem almost fashionable to be faggy.


It has helped Jody as well, having made it safe to walk down the street knowing her husband's sweet lips are there to protect her.


Yes, the WPO has served my Neddy well.  Not entirely on its own of course, but along with the good doctor's therapy sessions his ass has been set straight.


Or at least he is as straight as he's ever going to get for a guy who responds as readily to the name ‘Dick Jockey,’ ‘fuck face,’ and the like as he does to the phrase, 'Ned, Bend-Over, I want’a fuck your ass!'


Personally, I couldn't be more grateful for the courage it took this city's fathers to enact a law that places humility, resignation and compliance above all else.  Those are admiral qualities build into the character of the peacemakers of this world, and now, my little spooge gobbler too."


"Hum!  Well said, Doris.  I agree with you that the Wife Protection Ordinance is having quite a positive effect on this city.


The crime rate is far lower than any city of comparable size.  Everyone is getting along, blacks, whites, Chicano.  Heck, it has become so peaceful around here one might expect the dogs and cats to cease combat next.


All things considered, I'd say that's a remarkable achievement.  Yes, there have been some collateral damages.  But the benefits far outweigh a few battered egos, tonsils and hinnies as far as I can see.


A small sacrifice for a husband to make I should think, especially given how laudable the cause.  After all, helping to minimize the need for another man having to jump his wife's bones when he's got a woody is not only a sensible prophylactic, but promotes communal peace and stability as well.


In sum, I say hats off to councilmen CDE for a job well done.


On that good note I think it's time we bring our interview to a close, don't you agree, Doris?"


"Why yes.  A perfect note I would think.  Besides, both the good doctor and I do have an appointment to keep and we wouldn't want to keep my Neddy waiting."


"Then I would like to thank you for your time and hospitality, and I hope we might be welcome to visit again in the future."


"You are entirely welcome young man.  And our door is always open."


"Thank you, ma'am.  Good day," he beamed that GQ smile and along with his cameraman worked their way past the crowd (a good two dozen strong) assembled in the Family Room.


Where fueled by all that exquisite Johnny Black Label and equally fine snatch, the frenzy bordering on insanity that passed as a Crap game would have one-upped a shady backroom in a whorehouse saloon.


Once outside they spotted officers Stu Cummings and his partner Tom Smith sitting in the patrol car awaiting their return.  Upon sliding into the back seat to join them, the radio again came to life.


"One-Tango-13, please copy."


"Copy Central," Officer Smith replied.


"We've a 415 on Sycamore and Broadview.  The caller reported sees a man in a dress running though her yard with several African American males in hot pursuit."


"10-4, we're on our way."


"I guess the natives are restless tonight," said Stu Cummings as he fastened his seat belt.


"It must be something in the air."


"Oh?" Justin replied, leaning back into his seat as the vehicle sped off with siren screaming.


"Yeah, usually they don't have to chase them down. They just round them up and then corral them, like a cow securely caged in a breeding pen ."


"As he stopped to consider the imagery painted so eloquently by Stu Cummings, Justin felt a stir in his loins."


"Say Stu!" Justin inquired somewhat distractedly.




"Do you think at the next stop we could . . . I mean, I could . . ." he stammered while he pointed down as his boner rose up.


Stu turned around in his seat to face him.  "You bet.  It's either bend over and enjoy the pokin' or spend the night in the pokey."


Justin Sayne beamed like a man who found the new Wife Protection Ordinance very much to his liking.  A clever piece of law finely crafted and honed to insure peaceful coexistence for the betterment of all - A law that was working out just fine.


Then with a smile to match the one on Stu Cummings' face, he elatedly bellowed out . . .  "Gawd, I love this town!"



The End.


Ummm, then again, may be not. . .




Lyrics: (1) Banned in the USA. "Face Up, Ass Down," 1990, Luke Records.




humblepie@gawab - That's with a (.com).  I appreciate the comments.