Amorous Goods: Decisionmaker & Dirty Duchess

Amorous Goods: The Decision Maker

Young man at a crossroads gets help.

Based on a post by ShowTime8. Listen to the Podcast at Explicit Novels.

Prologue:

A lifelong collector of goods and objects from far and wide has passed and left the entire collection and the business built around them to the only remaining relative, a niece on a career path of her own. Vikki has taken on the task of administering the estate and liquidating the business and collection. However, she has come to find out that many of the goods have been cursed or enchanted with amorous powers that affect those who encounter them. This 18 part series is devoted to many of the stories of those encounters with objects found at Amorous Goods.

Decisions.

Tom liked to go for long walks when he was making a difficult decision. Right now he had been walking for two hours with no end in sight.

His girlfriend, Dorothy, had practically given him an ultimatum. He needed to propose soon or she was going to move on. While it was true that they had been dating for nearly a year, Tom was not convinced that she was a good fit. Dorothy was without a doubt a responsible driven woman, who would go far in the world. She was an executive assistant for one of the partners in the accounting firm where he worked. She always dressed sharp and was very attractive.

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She was 5'7" and 24 years old, whereas Tom was 5'10" and 26. They met at work and started dating. Not exclusively at first, but for the last six months they had been monogamous. She wouldn't agree to sex until he agreed to stop seeing anyone else, which wasn't an unreasonable request. The sex was good, but not the best he'd ever had. Dorothy not only seemed reserved, she was distant during sex. Perhaps she'd had better sex before and was feeling the same disconnect he was. More likely, she just didn't like sex and was going through the motions to satisfy him. Of course, he just couldn't know.

He wondered if he was willing to spend the rest of his life with a mediocre sex life. On the other hand, she was driven and organized. She kept his apartment clean and organized, while doing the same for her own. She spent the night at his apartment most days of the week, while he stayed at hers during the weekends. She managed to give him some good advice on how to get ahead at the company, and was helping him with the process of establishing his own financial consulting firm. He had no doubt that with her as his wife he would become a very successful business owner.

But deep down Tom missed his old girlfriend, Samantha. Sammi was a real party girl who loved to fuck. There was nothing reserved or distant about Sammi in the sack. The two had met while he was in college. She had been a psychology major, and it was true what they said. Most psychology majors were trying to figure out what was wrong with them. Sammi had self-esteem issues, commitment issues, trust issues just to start. She had more issues than The New York Times.

Tom dated her for three years, but Sammi could never be completely faithful. She never cheated on him, because she never promised him to be monogamous. Every time he wanted to be her only one, she told him upfront that it wasn't going to happen. She gave him the option to stay on her terms, or leave. He left a few times, but would inevitably end up back with her.

She liked him and he liked her, but she just kept allowing herself to be seduced by smooth operators. She sought validation through sex, and Tom couldn't provide enough. He tried to get her to settle for threesomes with the two of them and some other partner, but she would eventually break whatever rules he tried to enforce.

If Tom could have been satisfied with a relationship minus the monogamy, he would have been happy with Sammi, but that was a deal breaker. Sammi was a fun girlfriend, but would not be a wife for him. On the other hand, he could have Dorothy with all the monogamy he wanted, but none of the passion. His biggest concern was that he might marry Dorothy and cheat on her with Sammi. Could he marry Dorothy and risk turning into the sort of person who might cheat? Would he be able to settle for a lifetime of missionary position with a starfish after having sex in twenty different positions over the course of a week with Sammi?

And so Tom kept walking. He had started from Dorothy's apartment, ostensibly to clear his head with the intention of arriving at his own apartment. He left the familiar confines of the financial district long ago, and now he was in the eclectic neighbor of used book stores and antique shops. He was lost in his thoughts, when he pulled up short realizing he had no idea where he was. He pulled up his cellular phone to look at a map, only to find that his phone was out of power. He looked around him, hoping to find a familiar landmark or welcoming store front.

Across the street was a store named Amorous Goods. The seemed more welcoming the South Asian Herb market he was walking past. He looked in the window at some of the objects in the window on display. It reminded him of some of the sex shops that he and Sammi has visited, though this shop has a more refined air to it. He walked in the door and a bell sounded somewhere.

Tom wasn't really shopping as much as he was looking for a shop keeper who could give him directions back to civilization, but he felt an obligation to look over the display merchandise. A voice from somewhere in back of the store called out "Just a minute." Tom looked around at the various objects on the shelves. He recognized the Ben Wa balls, though these seemed to have a malicious shine to them. He saw a strap-on dildo that was emitting a low rumbling hum that he was afraid to touch.

On another shelf he saw a small clear box that held what looked like a Magic 8-Ball. The box was labeled as The Decision Maker. Just like one of those classic children's toys, it had a little window that displayed a small message inside. The current message said "Definitely, Yes". Tom began to reach for it, when a woman came down the aisle. "Hello, I'm Vikki. Can I help you find something?"

"Yes. Thank you. I'm looking for directions. I'm a little lost. I took myself for a walk and now I need to get back to Crenshaw Street."

"Oh. That's over a mile away. Do you want me to call a cab for you?" Vikki asked.

"No. I'm happy to walk, just tell me which direction to head and I'll be fine." Tom assured her.

"Well," Vikki began, "you'll want to turn right out of the store and go three blocks. That will take you to Jefferson Avenue. Turn left and in about a mile and a half, you should be in familiar territory."

"Right. Jefferson eventually runs parallel to Crenshaw. Okay that will get me where I want to go." Tom thanked her.

"Are you sure you don't want a ride? It's still a long way. I can get a cab here quick."

"No, the walk helps me think. By the way, what can you tell me about this Decision Maker here? How much is it?"

Vikki startled for a moment and looked where he had pointed. "Oh. I had forgotten about that piece. I suppose it would be harmless to let that one go." She thought for a moment. "Forty dollars."

Tom thought. That was more than he really wanted to pay. But she had been generous with the directions and maybe it would help him with his decision regarding Dorothy. Sometimes it's just useful having someone to help make the important decisions for you. "Deal!" he said. He paid the money and walked out of the store with his Decision Maker and headed for home.

He arrived safely at his apartment about half an hour later, but he was no closer to making a decision. When Tom arrived home he immediately plugged in his phone. It took a few minutes to come alive, but once it did it buzzed with message alerts from missed phone calls and text messages. Tom anticipated these were from Dorothy and decided he was not ready to talk to her yet.

He sat down at his kitchen table and stared at his Decision Maker. He shook it as if it were a Magic 8-Ball and asked aloud, "Should I marry Dorothy?" Immediately he felt a deep lassitude as if he had fallen asleep and he started dreaming.

Tom was sitting at a kitchen table, but it did not look like his kitchen. This was a much nicer, much larger kitchen with a large professional grade refrigerator and stove. There were marble top counters and a large central island. The afternoon sun was shining in through huge vaulted windows looking out over a large backyard. He could see an outdoor hot tub and a pool house in his backyard.

That's right. That was his backyard. This was his house. Tom lived here with his wife Dorothy and daughter Delilah. It was a large six bedroom house with a three car garage and finished basement. They purchased this house eight years ago. Tom's company, Insight Investing, had taken off and the family was quite wealthy. Dorothy had informed him that they needed a bigger house because Delilah was going to be born soon. They bought a house big enough for a large family that never materialized.

Tom looked up to see his wife standing over him. She had an impatient look on her face that he knew too well. She had always been a take charge demanding personality, but it had served their marriage well so he never complained. She had good business contacts from working as an administrative assistant that she had steered his way over the years. While she had been only working part time since Delilah was born, she had been instrumental in Insight Investment being as successful as it was. Make no mistake, Tom had put in the long hours, working fourteen hour days and most weekends, but he depended on his wife to raise their daughter and manage the household.

Tom looked down at the table in front of him and saw the Dissolution of Marriage forms laid out on the table. His loving wife of eleven years had just asked him for a divorce. Tom was shocked and dismayed. He knew there had been cracks in their marriage for a long time, but he had always assumed that Dorothy was happy. He had spent their entire marriage trying to keep her satisfied. She had always been a cold fish in the bedroom, but he never pushed. They hadn't had sex ever since Delilah was born, because Tom never wanted to force the issue.

Dorothy said, "You know we haven't been happy in a long time. Just sign it and we can get this over easily."

Tom felt like he had been punched in the gut. "Can't we try counseling? Can't we try to make it work?" He tried to read the divorce papers in front of him. "Why didn't you talk to me about this?"

Dorothy signed. "I'm done. I don't want to discuss it. I just want out. This is as good a settlement as you will get. You've got unsupervised visitation with Delilah every other weekend. I already found you a two bedroom apartment close to your work."

Tom goggled. "What?? You already found an apartment for me? How long have you been planning this?"

"Actually, I've been thinking about this for about a year. Things haven't been getting better. Delilah and I will stay in the house. The alimony is very affordable and will allow you enough money to live off of."

Tom growled. "Are you kidding me! You've been thinking about this for a year and you didn't talk to me about it? You ambushed me you fucking bitch! There's no way I'm signing this without having my own lawyer looking it over."

"You dumbshit! You don't have a lawyer. Our family lawyer is Jon's friend. We've made sure that any decent lawyer in a fifty mile radius has a conflict of interest. If you try to fight this, then you will find out just how nasty I can be. I've spent the last year documenting a history of abuse by you. Fight this and I'll destroy your reputation."

"I've never hit you. I haven't even touched you in years. Where do you get off accusing me of that!" Tom shouted.

"So what? I've been giving myself bruises and showing them to friends. I've been telling enough people at work and at the gym about it, that I'll be able prove it in court. If you fight this you will lose. Jon is sending four guys from work to help move your stuff out. They will be here in ten minutes, so sign the agreement and make it easy. If you don't sign it, I'll have a restraining order filed before the day is over."

Jon was Dorothy's boss. She had been his administrative assistant for as long as I had known her. Clearly he had known about this for a long time. "How long has Jon been involved? Why did you talk to him before you talked to me?"

"Jon has been involved since the beginning. I mean, he's been a big part of our lives for years. He's the reason your company has been so successful. If you make this easy, your company will stay successful. If you fight, you'll lose most of your biggest clients. He wants you to be successful so you can continue to support Delilah and me. Just go along with this and everything will be fine."

"Wait? Are you saying what I think you're saying? Have you been screwing him? Is he Delilah's father?"

Dorothy squirmed. "You are Delilah's father. You're the only father she's ever known. Don't talk like that. I'm just tired of living like this. We don't love each other. We need to move on. You've got your company and your daughter. Just let me go."

"Let you go! Look at this alimony you're asking for. Four thousand dollars per week! That's well over half my income and is doesn't include the house payments. How much is Jon contributing to his child's upkeep."

"Delilah is your child, not his. He has been steering business your way to make sure she is well provided for, but that's all he can do. He has his own family to take care of. Don't ruin it for him or us." She sighed. "Just sign the papers. Let's make this easy."

There was a loud knock on the door which immediately opened. Four large burly men let themselves into my home. "Ma'am? How can we help?" Tom looked at these thugs who were going to enforce these terms. No matter what he did, he was going to be out on the street in a hour. These guys were going to clear everything out that belonged to him. They might move it into this new apartment or they might just dump it in the gutter. If he fought, he end up with some broken ribs and bruises, but no doubt he would lose. He looked at his wife, soon to be ex-wife, with tears in his eyes. He picked up the pen and started reading the agreement, before he realized it didn't matter. He was completely screwed. He steeled himself to sign the contract. He took a breath. Just then his cell phone rang, and he startled awake.

Tom looked at the Decision Maker. In its window showed one word, "No". His phone continued to ring. It was Dorothy. As a reflex he picked it up and answered. Dorothy started into him, "Where the hell have you been, Tom? I've been calling for hours ever since you left. We were talking and then you just walked out saying you had to think. Don't I get a say in what you do? Aren't you going to talk to me about it?"

Tom was still reeling from his vision. He was so unhinged he blurted out, "Are you sleeping with Jon?"

Dorothy spluttered on the other end of the line. "What?? Why would you ask that? Who told you that? I mean, who gave you the idea that anything was going on? It's completely ridiculous. Where do you get off accusing me of that? Is this you trying to blame me for your indecision. Listen, you better get your head screwed on right if you think we're going to get married. Hell, I bet you wish you were still screwing Sammi and you're trying to distract me with this accusation. Now you get your ass back here so we can continue this conversation. Do you hear me?"

Tom hung up the phone. He had heard enough. The vision was starting to fade, but it was clear that he did not want to marry Dorothy. He was thankful that this toy had saved him from a potentially disastrous marriage. He sat there thinking about it a little longer, and finally he shook the Decision Maker and asked, "Should I marry Sammi?" Again his vision fogged over and he drifted off as if to sleep.

Tom was sitting on the couch in his living room as the morning light was streaming in. He was tired. Tom had been unable to sleep and now he was staring blankly out his front window. He had been crying earlier, but now he had no tears left. Sammi had not come home last night from her night out with the girls. She had sent no text message telling him that she was okay. He felt like a complete afterthought.

Tom knew he had worked hard to convince Sammi to get married. She loved Tom, but she loved to party more. She would go out on the town, but she would always return to him. He tried to be a good husband, but that didn't seem to be enough for her. He had bought this house with his own money. He had started his own financial advising company with some of the guys from work. He was a good provider, and he kept hoping that she would finally get tired of the hangovers and the loud crowds.

He remembered their wedding day. She had promised to be true to him, and she had meant it. Of course, what she meant by being true wasn't what he had in mind. She still danced with other men. She still flirted and kissed, but no sex. That was what she promised. Well, 'no intercourse' she admitted later. She didn't consider oral sex to be cheating. And of course, she might give a fellow a hand job, but that was only fair since she wouldn't fuck him.

They fought all the time about that. She told him it was who she was. She couldn't give it up no matter how hard she tried. He kept waiting for her to grow up, but she never stopped going out. Of course, when they fought the make-up sex was phenomenal. He would take out all his frustrations on her. He would pull her hair and call her names. She just egged him on, telling him to punish her, to hurt her.

He had to admit, the sex afterwards was the hottest sex he'd ever had, but he was getting tired of it. He wanted to settle down and start having kids. He felt like Sammi was just another child he was destined to spend his life taking care of. He needed to figure out how to get her to leave the party life behind. He was patient, but he wasn't going to wait forever. He kept pressuring her to grow up, but she only pushed back harder. She was treating him like a strict father she had to rebel against. And he was getting tired of it.

He heard a car pull up to the house followed by Sammi staggering to the front door. It was unlocked, but she still struggled to get the door open. Her hair was a mess. She was wearing a tight black dress that wasn't fitting right, as if she had gotten dressed in a hurry. Her eyes were bloodshot, either from alcohol or lack of sleep. It took her a moment to realize Tom was sitting there watching her, but when she did her face broke into a huge smile. "Hey, baby!"

"Where have you been? It's much too late to be getting in from a night out. The sun's already up. I was worried about you."

Sammi sashayed over to wear Tom was sitting. She knelt down in front of him and started rubbing her hands along his thighs. "I have a surprise for you." She looked seductively into his eyes. "You've been interested in starting a family. I decided, sure, what the hell. So I went off birth control a month ago. I decided last night it was time to start working on making a baby."

"What?" This was a surprise. Tom had not expected this. Although, it seemed odd that her idea of settling down and having kids started with an all-night binge. "Don't we need to talk about this first? I mean, how is this going to affect our marriage. Are you sure you want to settle down like this?"

Sammi's hands had slid up and were massaging Tom's cock through his pajamas. He quickly hardened, but he was still distracted by what she was telling him. Kids? Really? He had discussed it with her before, but she had pretty much ignored him whenever he brought it up. Sammi pulled his pants down to his knees and immediately started slobbering on his knob. It was clear she was still sloppy drunk by the way she was devouring his tool. She looked up at him, "I got started tonight, but I wanted to give you a fair shot at being a daddy." She stood up and lifted her dress up to her waist. She wasn't wearing any underwear and her shaved pussy was encrusted with a variety of dried bodily fluids. She turned around and plopped herself down on Tom's erect cock. He slid in quickly and easily. She was wet and messy from the night's activities.

"Wait. What?" Tom's brain was attempting to process what she had said at the same time he was on sensory overload from the sensations on his cock. Had she been out fucking last night? "Have you been out fucking?"

"Of course." She said. "That's the fun part of having kids is making them. I had a gang bang with these three college kids. Don't worry. They were all white. I wouldn't expect you to raise a baby that didn't look like you. Plus, because they were college kids the baby would be smart." She keep sliding up and down his softening prick. "That's why I wanted to give you a chance to be the father too. Maybe it will be yours, maybe it won't. Next time I can give you a chance to suck their cum out of me first if you like." She squeezed with her Kegels harder. "Come on, baby. Knock me up. Fill me with your sperm. Reclaim your slut."

Tom's cock got progressively softer as the reality of the situation sunk in. She had cheated on him. He had always thought she had a different idea of what that meant, but he had to admit that she was never going to change. He could marry her, he could raise a family with her, but she was never going to stop fucking around. Any kids they had might be his, but it was a crap shoot. This was his life with Sammi. This was what he had signed up for when he married her. Unexpectedly he heard the front door slam, and he startled awake.

The slamming door jolted him. He looked up to see Dorothy standing in front of him. "What the hell is going on, Tom? You just walk away in the middle of our conversation and now you are accusing me of cheating. When's the last time you saw Sammi? Huh? You're just trying to ease a guilty conscience, aren't you?"

Tom looked at Dorothy. He saw her in a different way now. He no longer looked at her through loving eyes. He had seen a side of her that was always there, he just had chosen not to believe it. "We should stop seeing each other." He reached into his pocket and pulled out his key ring. He took the key to her apartment off the ring and set it on the table. "This is the key to your apartment. You should take it. I'd like my key back as well."

"What?? Where did this come from? Who have you been talking to?" Dorothy got right up next to him. She was angry, but not what he would call hurt.

"There's just a few clothes at your place I should retrieve. You can grab your things now, or you can come back later, but I'd prefer to be here when you did. Can I have my key now? I know you have it since you just let yourself into my apartment."

"Just tell me what started all of this. I deserve a chance to defend myself from your crazy accusations." Dorothy countered.

"Key first." Tom insisted.

Dorothy paused. She reached for her key ring and fished his key off. She slammed it on the table next to the other key. "Happy? Now tell me what brought this on."

Tom picked up the key. "Darling," he smoothly lied "You have made it clear that you want a commitment I'm not capable of giving. I just had to admit it to myself that I will never be able to provide for you the way that you need. I'm sorry to hurt your feelings, but I'm just being honest."

"But honey, we are so good together. Why would you throw away all that? What has gotten into you?"

"I just have a new perspective. That's all." He picked up Dorothy's key and handed it to her. "I'm really tired. I need to be alone right now. If there's anything from here that you need, grab it now or call me later. I can deliver it but right now I'd really like you to leave now."

"Can't we at least talk about this? How can you end it just like that?"

"It must be hard to have something like this dropped on you unexpectedly." Tom said without a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "We need to move on. You've got your job and your friends. Just let me go." With that he gently steered her out the door and closed it behind her.

He collapsed on the couch. What had he learned? If he married Dorothy he'd be a successful business man up until the point she took him for all money and forced him to raise another man's daughter. If he married Samantha there would be lots of sex, but she would screw any random guy she could find and he probably be raising someone else's child. Was there anyone out there for him? Could the Decision Maker help him out.

He pulled himself off the couch and went to the kitchen table. The Decision Maker was patiently sitting there as if waiting for Tom to make his move. He looked in the window where the phrase "Outlook not so good" was showing. He sat down and stared off into space. He could not ask who he should marry. He remembered that much from a Magic 8-Ball that you could only ask yes or no questions.

Here he was 26 years old. He was well employed and ready to settle down. But having been in a series of long term relationships, he didn't have many other prospects. He had his guy friends from college, but most of his female friends he either met through Dorothy or Sammi, neither of which had the type of friends he was interested in settling down with, especially now that he knew about Dorothy's true intentions.

He thought for a moment. He got up and used the toilet, washed his hands and did the dishes in the kitchen. He brushed his teeth and got into his pajamas. He was ready to go bed for the night, but he had one more question to ask. He sat on his bed, picked up the Decision Maker, shook it and asked, "Should I ever get married?" Then the exhaustion overwhelmed him, he laid down in the bed and drifted off.

"Dad! Dad! Wake up."

"What? I wasn't sleeping. I was just resting." Tom opened his eyes. He was lying on a couch, but this wasn't his home. This was a hospital.

"You were snoring." his son John replied. "Anyway, the nurse came to say that Mom was coming out of surgery. The doctor is going to talk to us and then we can go wait with her until she comes out from under anesthesia."

Tom nodded. He felt tired. He tried to sit up, but his bones creaked underneath him. Damn, he felt old. Then he remembered, he was old. He was 79 years old. Sitting with him was his son John and his daughters, Laura and Emma. Emma's husband, Marcus, was there too. He had another son, William, in the Navy who was stationed on an aircraft carrier in the South Pacific and couldn't get home on such short notice. He had four children and nine grandchildren.

He let the memories wash over him. His wife was Elizabeth. He met her in college, but didn't interact with her much back then. She was two years behind him in school also majoring in accounting. She was taking some advanced courses early, which was how they ended up in the same class his senior year. She was quiet and incredibly smart. She was pretty but never felt pretty, so she stayed in the background. He saw her smile only once in the classroom, but her smile was so disarming it stunned him into silence.

It was years later when they were both hired by the same accounting firm. Actually, she had been working there for over a year before they finally ran into each other. Usually he went out for lunch with his office mates, but once day for no particular reason he brought his own lunch and ate in the lunch room. He recognized her from their class together and started talking. He started bringing lunch as a habit and eating with her. They found they had many things in common and their relationship bloomed from there.

"Mr. Thorson?" The doctor came into the room. Tom struggled to his feet. John came over to support him while Laura, Emma and Marcus gathered around. "Your wife is out of surgery and in recovery. She was stable during the surgery and should be able to talk as soon as she wakes up." The doctor was trying to be professional, but it was also clear he was trying to avoid giving us bad news. "We were able to remove the dead tissue from her stomach and seal the leaks that had formed. However, it was also apparent that cancer has spread to her pancreas. We removed as much of the necrosis as we could, but it is clear that it will continue to spread." He paused and took a deep breath. "I wish I had better news. At this point our focus will be on pain management. She might live another month, but it could be as little as a few days."

Tom started to weep. This diagnosis was not unexpected, but he had been hoping for good news. His son John wrapped his arms around him and drew him into a hug. He felt Laura touch his back while Emma turned to her husband Marcus for support. The doctor stood there patiently. After some time Tom turned to him. "Can we go see her?"

"Yes. She is in recovery. The nurse will take you to see her. I'll stop in later to check on her sutures and schedule a follow up visit. We can discuss options for further treatment at that time. I'll be in contact with her primary doctor to discuss a treatment plan."

A nurse spoke up, "This way." Tom thanked the doctor and slowly followed the nurse with his son at his side. His son was also a doctor, an emergency room doctor. He knew his way around any hospital, though he worked at a big research teaching hospital down in Texas. The family walked down the hall to her room and nurse led the family through her door. Tom looked at his wife as she lay there peacefully. He couldn't help but smile as he thought about the over fifty years they'd had together.

She had been a good wife, loving and supportive. She had been there when he started his own business. She ran the household so he could focus on the kids, while still working a little on the side to stay current in the field. She was smarter than he was, but he had the gift of gab and knew how to talk to the client. He readily admitted that their portfolios did so well because Ellie was the one picking the investments, but he knew how to put the clients at ease.

She had been there for him when his brother died in a car crash just two months after getting married. He had been there for her after that awful miscarriage at five months along for what would have been their third child. But they had stuck together through the good times and the bad. There had been a scary period after that bad stock market crash, where he was afraid he'd lose half his business, but they managed through. He remembered when he walked Emma down the aisle at her wedding and how much she looked like her mother.

He thought about how she always made time for him. Their sex life wasn't exciting or crazy, but it had been loving and consistent. Every night they fell asleep in each other's arms, until children started appearing in their bed. Even then she made time for him and let him know how much she valued him. He remembered the children asking him who was his favorite. He also answered the same way, "Your mother is my favorite, because you are all going to leave me someday, but she is going to stick around." And she had stuck around.

He walked over to her bedside and took Ellie's hand. Her eyes fluttered open slowly. She looked at her husband, smiled and relaxed. Suddenly one of the hospital machines started buzzing loudly. He turned to look at it, and woke up.

Tom woke up in his own bed with his alarm going off. He had slept through the night and it was now Monday morning. He looked at the Decision Maker at his bedside. The window displayed the message "Definitely Yes." It made him smile and he agreed.

He got dressed and ready for work. Just for fun he shook the Decision Maker and asked "Should I pack my lunch today?" He had already made up his mind to do so, but he was curious to look ahead to what he had in store. However, the Decision Maker did not respond. There was no trance, no message in the window, nothing. He tried again and still nothing happened.

He went back to the kitchen and found the box which the device had been packaged in. On the back he red the instructions and the warning which clearly said "Only three questions per person." He sighed. Then he smiled and returned it to its box. He was pretty sure that his future children would all be able to make use of the Decision Maker when the time came. He put it back in its box and went about the task of packing his lunch for the day.

To be continued, in the series, Amorous Goods; a collaborative storyline for Literotica

Amorous Goods & The Dirty Duchess

Porn with magic dust and some ology about sex.

Based on a post by ShowTime8. Listen to the Podcast at Explicit Novels.

When my occasional Google on the subject finally threw up that explanation of the brand name Amorous Goods, a lot of things fell into place. I now realize that my part in this story was an even smaller one than I thought.

You may by now have heard of Rumpleton. But you will not find it on a map. It is a village in cyberspace. Its ladies, and occasional gents, come from all corners of the Earth, of the human color range, and of the sexual spectrum.

But it is a real place, in its way, born in rural England at the start of the long lockdown summer of 2020, when we all had our parts warmed by the sun but missed the hot breath of the pub.

The story goes back at least 20 years, though, to the Calendar Girls who were celebrated in an English film; Women's Institute ladies in Yorkshire who teased us tastefully into the new millennium, posing naked behind pot plants and Victoria sponges. You have to be old enough to appreciate what a moment that was. Suddenly it was all true. The librarian and the GP and the fishmonger's wife were all secretly itching to get their tits out and show you the pictures.

There were a thousand spin-offs. One, still going, was a website called Village Ladies; idea being your naughty neighbor stripping off as far as she would dare, often with a friend or two and a bottle of wine. Sometimes they peeked in each other�s pants and played with each other�s tits. Sometimes they just got undressed. Whatever, you got the whole shoot; dozens of pictures from hats on to knickers off. Initially it was still quite common to stop right there. But the ladies quickly upped the stakes so that showing a bit of pink was more or less required. No problem anyway.

A lot of professional dirty grannies got in there. But with them were plenty of more or less amateurs, happy to flash their best underwear and then pull it aside for a share in a couple hundred bucks. OK, some wanted the money. But many did it just for the kicks. And there was a huge audience waiting for real striptease by real women. Only thing was, they never spoke or wrote.

It was around this time, beginning of the new century, that I found Rosalie Tush. She was only getting started when her knickers came off. And she talked proper filth. Somehow, I got my portfolio in front of her and she wanted to meet.

The bistro I chose was a relaunch of an old village drinking hole I remembered a little from my days on the road as a photographer. The marketing boys had sunk a million into trying to make it a "destination" but it was well on the way back to being a hole.

A heavy waitress showed me to a table in a dining room made from fitting a skittle alley out with blond wood. I sent her for a wine list, thinking a bottle of fizz might upgrade the atmosphere a snitch. Then Rosalie came in and it was The Ritz anyway. She was nestled in fur and silk like a lapdog in a starlet's handbag. Her jewelry chimed when she moved. The smell of her galvanized the waitress like magic dust. Since then, of course, in view of the unfolding revelations about Amorous Goods and its long secret history, I've had to consider that it might actually have been. But whether magic, deep science or Rosie herself, it was a smell designed to make erections

On film, Rosalie looked ample and lush. In life, she was surprisingly petite, although her tits and ass were big. Think Dita Von Teese, lightly rolled in muck.

Rosie had made a living out of flogging her puss, as she always put it, since she started stripping at 17. By this time she was in her 40s, but still a truly beautiful woman, to any eye, and still blossoming. She was natural class from the streets. Always got the arm of the guy she needed.

But as she put it so sweetly that night: "I had enough of pretending I like spunk in my hair. But pulling my knickers aside for the camera, I still get a thrill out of it every time. Pussy power. I love it. I live off the heat from all those eyes, babes, waiting for me to say; she dropped into Rosie Tush - "You like the look of that, sugar? You want to see more? You want to bury your face in there and eat me until I've had all I want?"

I said, you saying that, that's what does it for me. And she said: "Yeah, I get dirty talk."

And she did. In retrospect, Rosie Tush was the pioneer for a whole new generation of independent cam girls. For group sex, you still needed a camera crew. But for a solo show, she realized, you could get a result from a smart phone. Luckily for me, Rosie still had a few pretensions to grandeur and she still needed somebody following her around for some of her story lines.

And so I was present at the laying down of some of the best porn of its era.

"All you have to do is turn up and keep my ass in focus," Rosie told me that night, with one of her brilliant smiles. "I can do the stories as long as you can get the pictures."

We did good. But the other side of the new porniverse meant it was all instantly and constantly ripped off. Mickey Brannigan, her manager and minder, cut the filming budget to beer money and Rosie did nearly all of it herself, like most of the other girls were doing by then. Then, nearly 10 years ago now, she looked at the rushes and decided that was all the naughty pictures she was going to make.

We would still meet up occasionally when she wanted a safe escort. I had stared into the most delicious pussy on the planet and never made a move. She was just too magnificent. And anyway, I was getting on a bit myself. I'm a baby boomer, work it out from there. I like to think I'm in reasonable shape, considering, but I've been a bit hesitant about ripping my shirt off for even longer than Rosie. When she retired, I more or less retired, down here to my trailer, with a bag full of out-of-date cameras

For ten years, the world rushed ahead of both of us.

Rosie got a bit of pension out of her reputation and her library. Her website lived on, although increasingly it sold mainly as part of a bargain package including a string of other sites. Her best stuff just got pirated to fuck, which made me mad. I believe Mickey did lean on a few upstarts on her behalf in the good old days, when he still knew most of the old players in porn. Now it was all coming from Sydney or Montreal or Krakow or somewhere he had no pull.

The girls were always there, of course. At the dawn of photography, they were lifting their skirts with glee. But they used to be mainly the commoner sort. Who knew how widespread was the urge to tease?

In the 1990s, there was an academic paper on the subject of "blue girls". They didn't do sex for money, or not just for money, but they liked being filmed. Often they had husbands that liked it too. Seems to me also, as an interested observer, that they often had girlfriends that liked it too. Lesbians totally get pussy worship, n'est-ce pas?

Must have been March in the fateful year of 2020 I got a call from a lady asking for Igor. Calling me Igor was Rosie's little joke.

"Speaking."

She said: "My name is Cynthia. Rosie said to give you a ring?"

I said OK.

She said: "She wants you to come and watch me undress, apparently."

I said OK.

Turned out she lived a mile from me. The pubs were shut but people were still visiting a little, before the lockdown really got organized, and I took advantage of the window.

Cynthia was auditioning in a tight purple corset over pink Capri pants, with mauve lipstick. A brassy but handsome blonde. Done "a bit of modelling". Married a man who liked her for it and they both fancied her having go at being a cam girl. But so far, he had done all the filming and Rosie's mob had told her to try again. He was somewhere in the house; probably listening.

The thing that should have worried me at the time was, she was practically a neighbor. But I supposed Rosie was thinking of my convenience and logically it didn't matter that much. She looked like the kind of Milf would enjoy the neighbors talking about her if they ever cottoned on.

Cynthia said: "What do you want me to do?"

And I said: "Just talk. Or let me talk for a bit, if you don't mind. And excuse me if I get a little dirty."

She made a kissy face and picked up a cat.

"Rosie sent me because I'm your market," I said. "Or I'm the market she wants. I'm in love with girls who put out for the camera."

"Put out?"

"You know. Display themselves to turn you on. Push their fannies at you like they want em fucked. American slang I think. It's the fact they want to do it is sexy, even more than the pictures."

She said: "I understand pictures okay."

I said: "I bet you do, your experience. But here's what I think is missing a lot of the time. You have to tell me about the picture you are making and why you are doing it. You have to say you are showing me a rear view because you know how nice it looks and you would like to be looking down that dark tunnel to the honey pot yourself and watching that tight little asshole wink in anticipation of a finger."

"Ooh," she said. "A wordsmith."

I said: "You already know, you have to look at a lot of other girls to find out how you want to look. But here's a harder one: find one you want to sound like."

I left her one of my new cards, written out in pen on the back of a cigar packet, omitting the caravan site address. But I'd already told her I lived local.

On the doorstep, she said: "It would be nice to meet down the pub one of these days, wouldn't it?"

We both gave a few seconds of silence to a disappearing world.

As she closed the door, she said in a low voice with a giggle in it: "But I'll send you some pictures of my fanny for now."

I called back: "I've had dates ended worse."

A few weeks later, Rosie called.

"I'm missing a big boat here, honey," she said. "There are 100,000 sailors stuck on ships that can't dock. And back home, everyone wants to take their girlfriend to an online porn party because everyone is scared of real fucking. Mickey is tearing his hair because I'm not doing them."

I sighed silently. Mickey was most of the problem. Him and Rosie, they both loved the old scene, run by their old dodgy mates in their favorite dodgy pubs. Being in his stable was like wearing a T shirt saying Past It. Mickey could read the figures but he did not have much class in imagination.

I said: "Sweetheart, you know what I think. It's all about your name. You've got to take charge while you can still swing a million cocks any way you point. And you've got to teach the girls to talk. Talk, talk, talk. More dirty words per minute than even you ever managed before."

She took that in for 10 seconds. I heard her blowing smoke. I knew she wanted to say she had tried all that. We talked a little about what was going on and she asked me if I had heard of Brookelynne Briar, a Montreal indie whose traffic figures had somehow got to Mickey. I said I'd cast a professional eye.

"By the way," she said, "you did a good job with that Cynthia, your way. You should see what she's sent in. I might get some more girls to call you, send you some stuff, talk about it."

And I didn't say No.

But I was not as sure as I tried to sound that Rosie could make a comeback.

I mean, Brookelynne Briar was a revelation. Rosie said she found her a bit weird. And when I came across the film where Brookelynne has a raccoon tail plugged in her ass, and a giant cock she is operating with her pussy, I saw what she meant. At the end of it, Brookelynne is wanking the giant cock into her face and she presses a syringe and it squirts milk all over her. Clever production. And wow! She could talk dirty.

This is Ms. Briar introducing a film called Jerk To My Butthole:

I know that my butthole drives you crazy! In this video, I indulge your butthole fetish by slowly and seductively teasing you while instructing you on how I want you to stroke. I begin by bending over in my yoga pants, swaying my ass in the air, and tracing the outline of my butthole through my almost see-through pants. Once I have you jerking at a nice steady pace, I slowly peel off my pants to reveal that perfect butthole you have been wanting see so badly. I get close to your face so you can watch it pucker as I contract and release my muscles and tease it with my finger. As you begin to edge yourself, I lay on my back and begin to finger fuck my butthole, encouraging you with more dirty talk about my butthole before finally counting you down to cum.

I sent Rosie the link and she messaged me: "Talks a good fight."

When the film finished, with Brookelynne thrumming her asshole and saying Now, Now, Now, I pinged a short note to Rosie: "Whew.

But Rosie was still a bit ungracious.

She wrote: "Sounds like one of those too polished American girls, saying lines she's learned."

I wrote back: "Canadian. Not too nice to convince me. Anyway, a bit more posh in the game is required, all respects. There's a good interview on Facebook where she talks about getting into it through the fetish scene and getting to realize how it's all about when 'something primal takes over; logic shuts down' ;�

I did a PS: "Not that you didn't understand all that long ago."

She mailed back: "I was doing bumhole tease when you were still looking at your aunty's underwear catalogue sweetie."

Ah, the rear view.

Did you ever see a film called Romance & Cigarettes? James Gandolfini and Kate Winslet talking dirty? There was a line in it..

When a woman bends over, a man sees a jelly doughnut. Her brain expands. His explodes. Dead on arrival in her powdered jelly doughnut.

In short, pussy framed by ass is sexy as hell. And knowing so is power. Rosie got hers from seeing what the camera saw.

As for actual buggery, girls never used to but men have always been interested in that especially tight little hole and porn made it mainstream. It's a rude and dirty thing to do, which makes it interesting for those inclined. Speaks of insatiability. Some girls like to speak that way. And it's available when women are not, so it's popular on the very male side of male; rugger buggers, soldiers, sailors, prisoners, gangsters, etc.

I heard something once, rang true, about Prince Charles answering questions from troops when he'd just got married to Princess Di and somebody is supposed to have shouted: "But does she take it up the bum, sir?"

About here, I got sent some rough film from the Phone Fuck Sluts. Forces wives was my guess.

In this one, filmed before lockdown, or so I supposed, they were having a Smuggling The Yoyo party; parading in tight pants, and on from there. The schtick was to take turns doing a running commentary over the phone.

"Karen's got her tits out," said the commentator, "because she wants to show off her nipples. Like big chocolates, and everyone wants a taste. And a squeeze of that fat yoyo, that plumptious yummy thing she's got squeezed into those yellow pedal pushers. I think it's beginning to dampen her pants. It's certainly dampening mine. Will we get to see it? I think we will. Just roll down her pushers a bit, girls, halfway down her ass. Give us a glimpse. Ah, that's it, down there at the end of that furry tunnel. There's pussy in the air. It won't be over until we've eaten."

It was a very gorgeous ass and they were very tight pants and I was watching closely when the waistband got turned down by a pair of hands with blue fingernails. There was a label inside, gold writing on scarlet: Amorous Goods. It gave me a tingle for some reason. Google didn't throw up an explanation. I messaged Rosie to ask if she knew of them; costumiers to the porn industry maybe? A few days later, she sent me a reply that just said: "Keep it to yourself. x "

In the old days, Rosie's schtick was simple.

"Are you looking at my tits, you naughty boy?" she would coo. "Well, as you can see, I do like to show them off. Would you like to see a little more?"

She defined the tease in strip tease. And then she stayed on stage while the camera kept rolling.

"Come in close and have a good look," she would say. "It turns me on to know you are looking. I want to make you get your cock out."

Pussies are not all pretty in the raw, let's face it, but Rosalie's was gorgeous. To watch her wank was to fully understand the phrase "pleasuring yourself". You could hear her enjoying it.

She was big, beautiful, dirty, stylish, funny and not a bad actress.

But in the old days, she never got much beyond the auntie dealing with a peeper schtick. All the scenarios were a bit like that; Rosie flirting with an AA mechanic, or a groom at the stables, or finding her nephew's porn collection and acting it out until she notices you in the mirror.

Now she was back as the Duchess of Rumpleton. And something was different from the start.

Somebody had done a professional filming job with Rosie on the balcony of a big house in the country. She was dressed like the old days; fur coat, corset and stockings, pearls and hat, electric-blue heeled pumps and no knickers. I thought I recognized the coat. But it was somehow finer than anything she had before. Looked like you might draw it through the eye of a needle, sort of thing. She let it fall open as the camera homed in

"Some of you know me from before," she purred.

"But I've been moving up in the world."

She raised an arm and the camera followed her pointing to the turrets of the house.

"This is my home now. It's called Rumpleton Manor. I am, my darlings, the Duchess of Rumpleton."

She turned and lifted the coat and I caught a glimpse of a little scarlet and gold label where fur met silk - on the coat, that is.

"You may kiss my ass."

She turned back grinning. Her teeth were perfect and there was not a line on her skin.

"At the manor, there is always a party. And I am always there. I'll be introducing my friends and their films, and watching with you when they perform for you live. I've got lots of exciting new talent. And you're gonna get to watch me watching them."

She dropped a hand between her legs.

"And, of course, pleasuring myself in front of you. Telling you all the filthy thoughts that come into my head when I am doing it.

"Tell you what. Let's do a deal. If you're still watching when I finish here, you sign up for a trial month as a house guest at the naughtiest mansion in England. How about that?"

And then she said, as her fingers delved deep: "And here's one for you girls to think about. I know you are out there, either wanting to eat me or wishing you were me, aren't you? I'm thinking of you now. I'd like to get "..

she acted the dawn of a delicious thought

"I'd like to get one of my huge brown nipples in your pussy for you to suck on and then you fuck me the same way. Oh, oh, my darlings.

Send me your sweet filth."

I watched until she finished. I would have signed away my house to watch her finish. Luckily I didn't have a house.

"It makes a great front page," I told her.

"Wait til you see what's inside," she wrote back.

Tom Wolfe wrote about hanging out with the Hell's Angels and LSD cultists and so on during the late 1950s and early 1960s.

When Wolfe wrote about the Angels gang-banging a girl at a party, he pretended he did not know who she was and suggested she was so out of it that she did not know what she was doing.

Now, he regrets his censorship, he told the Daily Telegraph couple of years ago.

He said: "She was the former wife of Neal Cassady, Luanne Henderson. And the Angels also brought in Cassady, who was high as always, and they got him to have a go at her too. It turned out later that she wanted to be identified in the scene, and that this was completely voluntary on her part. But I wrote it as if I didn't know their identity, which really was a shortcoming of mine. That's public relations and you can't play public relations. You really just have to tell the truth."

So the truth is, back in the 1950s, there were girls looking for dirty sex, wanting to be used as a fuck toy. And there were men who liked to watch their women do it.

She was no skank either, Luanne. She was a girl who knew she was glamorous and loved it.

Around the time I red that, I also came across some reviews of Future Sex, a documentary book by Emily Witt, a journalist who found herself single in her 30s and went exploring for sex using the new hook-up apps.

At some point, she watches a girl being used like Luanne was, for a porn film, and admits it turned her on. Afterwards, she asks the girl if she got any moments of real pleasure out of it and the girl says: "Oh god, yeah. All of it."

Some snot in one of the posh papers told Miss Witt off for taking this "at face value". But why not?

"Group sex is an exciting idea for a woman," Rosie told me. "Cock coming at you from all directions, darling, from men you have deliberately turned into animals. And a bit of pussy in the mix adds to the scents, the sensations, the possibilities. Who wouldn't want to try it at least once?"

Suddenly, one act after another was a sensation. The clothes fitted like skin. The bodies in them glowed. And the scripts were porno poetry.

I now realize that Rosie and her chosen girls were getting hold of clothes and props which had some sort of magic in them.

Veronica Lavingham made a darkly beautiful film about trying on something inspired by the idea of a chastity belt, only it was about the opposite of chastity. It was a decoration, a tease, an invitation, constructed by an artist from pewter and jet and gold chains

"It's beautiful," she cooed, lifting it from the dummy where it hung. And when she put it on, she shimmered like it did.

"I can tighten it to a perfect fit," she explained, sliding some tiny catches. "So there's a jewel against my ass and another one nudging my pussy, so I can push against them any way I want. You couldn't get a cock past them. But ;�

She gasped.

"You could just get in to tip the velvet with a tongue. "

Fenella Fetish was a biker girl , all tattoos and lean muscle, who built her own fucking machines and fitted them all with a kind of stuffed leather dildo which I now recognize as probably another Amorous Goods product. When she got it in her, glistening with machine oil, she opened like a flower and talked a torrent of filth while she tortured her little titties and said Watch Me a hundred ways as she got into rhythm with the clank and squelch of that tireless prick.

The Fuck Sisters ; well, read A Scene From Rumpleton Manor, elsewhere on this site.

Looking back, you can trace it all building. Sex Lies & Videotape (1989). The Calendar Girls (2000). Video streaming that really worked, starting for most of us about 2012. Naked Attraction, 2016. Sex Education, 2019. Villanelle in Killing Eve. Zoom ; Rumpleton Manor. And somewhere in the background, all the time, it seems, the ever-spreading influence of Amorous Goods. Since I found out how our paths have been crossing, I am not sure I know, any more, what is real and what is magic. But then, in cyberspace, it does not matter much, I suppose.

However, I am sure that some very powerful people are suddenly really trying to find the real me. So it has to be bye bye for now.

To be continued, in the series, Amorous Goods; a collaborative storyline for Literotica