Goody Two Shoes

by Cooper, Laura

  By Laura Cooper

  Published by:

  Goody Two Shoes

  Copyright © 2013 by Laura B. Cooper

  ISBN: 9781310731365

  Cover Design: Copyright © 2013 Christopher Cooper

  * Warning *

  All rights reserved under the international and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from another publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental. All sexually active characters in this work are 18 years of age or older.

  This book is for sale to ADULT AUDIENCES ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language which may be considered offensive by some readers. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

  License Notes

  This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

  Dedication

  For my BFF Patty

  Table of Contents

  Introduction

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Other Books

  You may feel very secure in the pond that you are in, but if you never venture out of it, you will never know that there is such a thing as an ocean.

  ~Tara Townsend

  Graduation Night

  Handcuffed, Blindfolded, Nekkid, Gagged, in Jonathon’s living room.

  At some point in our lives there are those moments we look back on and wonder what in God’s name we were thinking. Believe it or not, this isn’t one of them. As a matter of fact, at this moment I feel completely free, like a captive bird rescued from near death on its long awaited release day. I’m blindfolded; it wouldn’t do for me to meet the eyes bearing down on me in my current state: naked. As confident as I may seem with my nudity, I assure you that without this blindfold I’d be cowering in the corner of this fine mansion, perhaps seeking a vase or piece of furniture to cover my most private parts. The blindfold provides me the anonymity to stand here, tied to this polished brass pole without shame. Behind this silken blindness I am alone. And in my world, the hands that touch me all belong to my husband Simmons, and each small touch will be a prelude to orgasm. I am beautiful in my blindness; Mrs. Universe in the making.

  Now, you must be wondering how a reasonable, sweet, MAM (Middle aged Mom) like myself has ended up tied to a pole, blindfolded, and gagged in a man’s (not my husband’s) living room. Let’s push aside the fact that it’s a special occasion and I’m the nude centerpiece. I’ll get back to that. Because the first thing you need to know is that my marriage is shit. Pure ‘T’ total shit. We woke up the first day after becoming empty nesters and voila, nothing. And it’s been this way for a long, long time. So I took a leap of faith, an enormous leap of faith, the Niagara Falls of all leaps: A giant leap for all woman kind in the name of saving my marriage.

  Oh sure, I could’ve spent hours and zillions on marriage therapy, but that would’ve required effort on the part of my husband, Simmons Townsend. Yes, the same guy whose books make alligators, snakes and bull sharks seem like world’s most misunderstood creatures. I don’t get it; they just freak me out, and after thirty years of marriage to the illustrious naturalist, I’ve decided I really just don’t give a damn. So that’s where we are, purgatory, the land of lackadaisical marriages. Standing in this room of strangers tied to this pole is my last ditch effort to keep my husband, and I really do love the man, faults and all.

  But I didn’t walk into this room tonight out of the blue and ask to be tied to this pole. No, things don’t work that way. I had to be ‘trained’ to stand here. And tonight is my last lesson. If I can stand here and let these strangers touch me, prod and tease me, use me in any way they desire, then I’ve succeeded at the greatest quest of my life. I’ll be armed with enough assertive ammunition to win my husband back and that my dears, is the ultimate goal.

  Popular Southern Definition; The word Naked means that you have no clothes on. The word Nekkid means that you have no clothes on and you’re up to something.

  I’m definitely Nekkid.

  Something presses against my body, and damn it feels a lot like Simmons’s hand! Ah… such ridiculous and borderline schizophrenic thoughts pass through your head when you’re tied to a pole, naked in a room full of people. Imagine if Simmons could see me here. Oh my God, he’d have a heart attack right here and now if he saw me like this! His snowy white, almost puritan, little homemaker who makes sure the towels are fluffed extra soft just the way he likes them, tied to a pole. Oh the horror of it all! “She’s a Tramp!” he’d yell, point and condemn me.

  I groan as fingers begin prodding me, pinching my bare nipples until they burn with electric shock at every touch. The rawness of it pulls at a need within me that I didn’t know existed until now. It rattles me to my very core, and beneath my blindfold I silently beg for more. Having been gagged into silence, the monologue in my head is pleading with them to give me more; touch me here, touch me there, yes there… again please. Still there are moments when it’s all I can do not to flinch or pull away from the touches, even though they’ve trained me not to be ashamed of enjoying it. Old ways die hard. Just because you never forget how to ride a bike doesn’t mean you can jump on one tomorrow and ride the Tour de France. It doesn’t work that way; nothing does. So if you think I’m going to tell you that some flash of lightening bolted down from heaven and suddenly turned me into a complete slut, you can forget it. That’s just not the way it happened.

  But do let me tell you, before you rank me with the heathens, I may be tied to a pole blindfolded with my naked body screaming to be touched, but at home my oven is set to begin baking four sour cream pound cakes in two hours. As it turns out, I can live an exciting, fulfilled life and bake for the church Bazaar too. Who knew? If you were in my ‘Goody Two Shoes,’ I bet you’d be standing here ‘nekkid’ too.

  But this path to the pole hasn’t been an easy one; I’ve questioned my sanity, my religion and mostly my morals. When my BFF Patty showed up donning a new Tramp Stamp on a Tuesday morning, I was completely convinced she was on a straight path to hell; no passing go, and no collecting two hundred dollars.

  So this how my path to the pole began. I remember it well; I was wearing my LL Bean anchor bathing suit with the skirt, the exact same kind that twenty years ago I would have called an old lady suit. She, Patty, shows up, miniscule wrinkles and all, in a string bikini the likes of which I couldn’t knit a coaster out of.

  ~Tara Townsend

  My Path to the Pole

  Six Weeks Ago

  “What the hell is that?” I gawk as she plops lazily into the lounge chair beside me.

  Patty lowers the ridge of her bikini bottom with her thumb. Sure as the day i
s long, there is a brand spanking new tattoo just above her ass. “What?” she feigns innocence, but the writing is on the wall so to speak.

  “That! On your back,” I say, pointing at her ass accusingly.

  Taken aback by my condemning outburst, she smiles devilishly all the same, “It’s a tramp stamp. I’ve always wanted one, but Momma said to wait till I’m old enough to make that kind of decision. Guess what? I decided I’m old enough!” But she double crosses her heart and whispers some mumbo jumbo, “For good measure I stopped by the cemetery on the way home and showed it to Momma. I came here so when lightning strikes my house, I won’t be there.”

  “No way. There is no way on God’s green earth Steve let you get a tattoo!” And I manage to turn the word no into three syllables.

  “Oh yeah? Well missy, you’d lose that bet. In fact, he approves of it with a capital A!”

  “Lemme see,” I plead, struggling to sit up in my lounger to get a better view.

  Patty bends over as though I’m a physician inspecting a suspicious mark. It actually looks really sexy in the small of her back just above her bikini bottom. A streak of jealousy shoots through me. My hands are on either side of her ass, turning it from side to side like I’m going to give it a grade. I even pull my reading glasses from their perch on top of my head to inspect this travesty closer.

  “Tramp Stamp? Is that what it says? Is that like naming your cat, Cat?” I giggle; thankful I don’t have any close neighbors. The sight of me grabbing her ass might turn heads if I lived in a traditional neighborhood. The only ones with their eyes on us right now are the horses in the pasture and our menagerie of family dogs, and none of them will talk. If they do, well I have a special vet for those scoundrels.

  “What? Were you, drunk?”

  “I was not drunk! And that is my member number! You need to get your damn eyes checked again.”

  “You might want to take it easy on the low-waisted shorts from now on.” That was my retort to her comment on my slowly fading vision, but we all know that’s not the crux of it. So I admit; I’m envious of Patty’s slender body. She can eat anything she wants and not gain an ounce. I gain weight breathing.

  “Go ahead and make fun if you want, but I’m proud of it! And Steve treats me like whipped cream with a cherry on top. A far cry from the thirty thousand dollar divorce I was ready to write a check for.”

  I lower my reading glasses down to the tip of my nose and look at her, “So the divorce is off?”

  “Yep! And instead, he bought me a new car and paid for my tattoo. Goodies galore.”

  My mouth hangs dangerously open. It’s never been easy being best friends with the prettiest girl in town, but at least we had the misery of our marriages to talk about. Nevertheless, I’m happy for her. She deserves every ounce of happiness in my book. “Tell me how you did it so I can get started!”

  “Oh no, hell no.”

  I lean back in my lounger and pout, pretending to ignore her.

  “Come on don’t be that way! It’s the rules. I can’t screw with the rules. Imagine what would happen if I broke one?” Now she’s just patronizing me, but she goes on with animation, “Why by golly gee whiz, the entire sphere we lovingly call earth will surely tumble into the great abyss!”

  “So you’re gonna make fun of me now? All because you got drunk and got a tattoo and I said something about it?”

  “You aren’t my Momma, Tara. It isn’t up to you to tell me right from wrong you know,” she humphs like a spoiled little brat, and closes her eyes against the mid-morning sun.

  “Somebody’s got to,” I finish, making sure to get the last word in.

  But that hit a nerve and Patty sits up furiously and smacks her feet on the concrete between our chairs, “Well it ain’t gonna be you! Fuck you, Tara, and your goody two shoes too.”

  She’s leaving, but I grab her ankle to hold her still, “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean anything. What did you expect? You come over here flaunting a new tattoo and telling me about how perfect your marriage is. Mine’s still shit. There’s the update!”

  “You’re jealous?”

  Beyond true; I am green with envy, all shades of it. I haven’t been this jealous since she was elected class president in eighth grade. I could spew fire. Instead of admitting my jealousy, I lean back and close my eyes against her.

  “Tara, listen, listen to me. I can help you now. Let me help! Don’t be jealous, be with me!” Patty bends low beside my chair having her guilt attack. I grin, mission accomplished.

  “Sit down for God’s sake; you’re blocking the sun with that stupid hat!” I’m still pretending to be mad at her. “Tell me about this cult.”

  She ignored me. “Have you tried dressing up for him?”

  “Tried it. No go. I thought he needed Viagra,” I giggle uncomfortably, “but he gets plenty hard watching porn in his office, so I can’t give him a medical pass. And yes, to answer your question, I have worn lingerie. Nothing happened.”

  “All Steve wants is for me to be the biggest slut I can possibly be,” she mutters inconsiderately. “What exactly is your idea of lingerie?”

  “I’m not talking leather here, Patty. I’m looking down the barrel at fifty, remember? I picked out a few new nightgowns at Belk’s last year; some see through ones.” My comfort level at discussing my sex life, or lack of it, is running on empty. After all, ladies don’t talk of such things, do we?

  “You’re kidding right? We’re seriously going lingerie shopping next week girlfriend.” She flips her wrist in that way only women of Gullah decent can get away with.

  I admit I’m getting pretty sensitive to her attack on my lack of sexuality on the whole. After all, it isn’t my fault that my middle-aged-middle and gray hairs have gotten in between me and Simmons. It’s a sad fact of life; we get old and broad, hence the name ‘old broads.’ Still, I’m not some infant who needs schooling; I’m just not a desirable young woman anymore. Big deal. It happens to all of us sooner or later, and it will happen to Patty too… maybe when she’s eighty. “Listen Patty, I’m real happy that you and Steve are screwing all the time, but please don’t make fun of me because my marriage isn’t like that.”

  She stares at me as though my viciousness is unwarranted. “Tara, honey, I’m not making fun of you. I really do want to help you… in bed ya know… if I can.”

  Now I can’t help but laugh, “How so?”

  “No, no, no! Maybe you should think about joining the Tramp Stamp Club with me?”

  I burst out laughing, “Seriously? And what? Get a tattoo? Do I have to buy a motorcycle? Wait, do I have to be a Prospect? I’ve washed enough damned dishes you know.”

  “No motorcycle, and we don’t all wear matching jackets… just the tattoos.”

  “And you think Simmons and I will suddenly screw like bunnies if I join this club? I just don’t see it.” Of course I don’t see it; to me it sounds like some kind of club the ladies at the beauty parlor came up with after passing around a Harlequin romance. To go to all the trouble of acting like a harlot and dressing up for him just to see him roll over and go to sleep… nah… don’t think it’s worth it. Humiliation just isn’t in my schedule this week.

  But my friend stands fast, “Yes, I am absolutely sure you and Simmons will be fucking like bunnies. Wild bunnies, cute white bunnies with pink noses, bunnies running around in circles beating drums, all kinds of bunnies fucking.”

  I laugh, but somewhere deep in my frigid vagina something calls to me. It’s an actual twitch, as though my genitals are telling me to listen; perk up girl, pay attention! I’m startled at the forgotten sensation. Now this isn’t the first time my privates have spoken to me. The first time was on my wedding night, and the result was my eldest daughter Jennifer. But she, Vagina as she likes to be called, has been quiet for a while now. I often wondered if she hadn’t packed up and left entirely. “Alright already, tell me how this club is gonna fix my marriage!” I’m imagining some kind of sex pyramid promises here. Yo
u know the deal, ‘You too can have sexual relations with this many (points to visual) people by just recruiting two of your closest friends. As seen on TV.’

  Patty’s face drops dead serious, and I can’t tell if it’s an act for affect or not. “I’m not joking, Tara. The Club saved my marriage. Yeah, things get a little kinky, but I bet there’s a sliver of naughty left in you too,” she looks at me as though I’m one of the race horses she bought for studding.

  “I don’t know if naughty is a word that could ever be used to describe me!” I say, too reluctant to admit that I dream of being a little wicked every once in a while. Of course that was before Vagina stopped talking to me. Now that I think about it, ‘wicked’ is a word that doesn’t remotely describe me. And just because Patty’s turned into a wanton hussy doesn’t mean I’m going to furnish my house with throw pillows, buy some pot, and host orgies.

  “Honey, I was raised to keep my knees together too you know! And I can see that holier than thou look you’re giving me. Look, here’s the way I see it. I’ve only got this one chance left to have fun. I was looking at fifty and imagining my Momma and your Momma at our age. I’m tellin’ you darling, it wasn’t a pretty picture.”

  “For the record, you do look like your momma.”

  “Bitch. Alright, pick on my ass if you want, but I’m not the one who’s thinking of the D word.”

  “The D word?”

  “Divorce, and don’t tell me you aren’t considering it. We’ve been best friends our whole life, drop the attitude. You and Simmons used to be all hot and heavy; those three babies weren’t immaculate conceptions. Hell, in high school ya’ll were voted most likely to grow old together. What happened Tara? Do you even know?”

  I shook my head. I don’t have a clue. “Time happened I guess. At some point we just got too tired to try anymore.”

  “That’s bullshit and you know it. What you did was load yourself up with responsibilities until you didn’t have time for each other. That’s why I dropped the Garden Club you know? I figured if you all couldn’t teach me how to keep a ficus alive by now then there’s no hope for me as a gardener. I hired one, and a maid too.”