Sexually Transmitted Desire - Alana Church - ebook
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The Faelhanu invasion went all but unnoticed by humanity. At least, in the beginning. To uplift humanity, changes had to be made in their genetic makeup. And the best way to spread that change was through lots and lots of sex. Luckily, the Faelhanu were up to the task. Watch as the residents of one quiet suburban neighborhood succumb to the joys of "Sexually Transmitted Desire!" ~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~ Lauren slowly walked across the damp grass, unaware of the fact that her nostrils were flared, her eyes wide and dilated, and that her inner core was pulsing with desire. Pressing down on the doorbell, she heard a chime from inside the house. When nothing happened after a few moments, she rang it again. And when nothing continued to happen, she held her finger down on the bell, hearing it ring over and over and over. "All right!" An irritated voice hollered from inside the house, followed by the sound of feet descending a staircase. The inner door was yanked open, and Albert's face frowned at her. His hair was wet, plastered to his head, and he wore only a towel, one hand keeping it from slipping off his hips. Lauren swore that she had only meant to tell him that his windows were open, and then leave for home. But what came out of her mouth was something completely different. "I know you screwed Mom tonight. I've got better tits, though." She lifted the hem of her tight t-shirt, smiling in pride as her breasts sprang out from behind the restraining cloth. "Want to screw me?"

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Sexually Transmitted Desire

By Alana Church

Artwork by Moira Nelligar

Copyright 2018 Alana Church

~~ All characters in this book are over 18. ~~

Mine, Albert Sackett thought, as the moving truck pulled out of his driveway, slowly rattling down the narrow, curved street in a haze of diesel exhaust. All mine.

To be honest, his new home wasn’t all that impressive when compared to other houses in the area. DuPage County, west of Chicago, held some of the richest suburbs in America. In towns like Lemont, Darien, and Elmhurst, even relatively modest homes could go for upwards of half a million dollars.

Woodridge, by comparison, was a bargain. It was solidly middle-class, with good schools and parks, and a library he knew he would be spending a lot of time in, but it wasn’t filled with huge homes the way some nearby towns were. And the tidy two-story house, tucked into the middle of a short street in a small, tidy subdivision, had caught his imagination as soon as he saw it. After getting a heads-up from his realtor, he had driven by on Monday, toured it with the agent on Tuesday night, and had made an offer that was accepted with almost indecent haste on Wednesday morning. By that evening, he was writing out a check for earnest money to hold the house. A month later, he had closed, and a few weeks after that, he was moving in.

He walked back inside, savoring the feeling of ownership. The front door opened directly onto the living room, the ceiling rising dramatically to match the roofline, giving it an airy, spacious feel. From there, there was a short hall that led into a small half-bathroom on the right, and then opened out to the kitchen on the right and the dining room on the left. At the rear of the two rooms, a patio door led out onto a wooden deck and a back yard that was quite large by the standards of the neighborhood.

Upstairs, reached by a staircase that led up from the living room, were the bedrooms and the master bath. Not too big, but it was more than enough for a single man with no kids. He was already making plans to convert the smallest of the three bedrooms into a library of sorts. It couldn’t be too hard to buy some lumber from the one of the local home-improvement stores, stain it, and mount it on racks around the sides of the room. Or maybe he should get something custom-made? Cherrywood, maybe? The color would match the paint wonderfully, and would glow in the sunshine that filled the south-facing room in the afternoon.

He shook his head with a chuckle. Already remodeling, Albert? But the house could use a few changes. He had painted over the hideous pastel lilac in the master bedroom before he moved in, opting for a soothing oak-green. The guest bedroom was now an eggshell blue, while the library was cream. All of the rooms, excepting the living room and the bathrooms, had hardwood floors, a fact that had made his mother bite her tongue with envy.

He stopped, frowning at the wallpaper that covered the walls of the dining room to waist height. The previous owners had apparently had a black Labrador retriever, who had enjoyed scratching his itches on the walls, because caught in the fibers was a wealth of black dog-hair, visible to anyone who looked.

That has to go. It wouldn’t be difficult to get some wainscoting and new baseboards and chair-rail. He could cover up that mess in just a couple of days. And light wood would match the soft yellow paint.

Enough. He could plan to his heart’s content, but all that was window dressing. He had a house, a home. Not some crappy apartment in Westmont, the walls so thin he could hear his neighbor’s alarm clock every morning. That single fact made the previous ten years worth it. The three years spent working 30-hour weeks at a fast-food job, saving money for college. The four years as an undergrad at Western Illinois, putting himself through school while working nights and weekends delivering pizza. And the three years of work at Great Western Financial, a brokerage firm in downtown Chicago, as an IT consultant, at a salary he would have considered obscene back when he was in high school flipping burgers for eight dollars an hour. He didn’t need anyone to tell him how lucky he was. Not many men his age were able to buy a house at the ripe old age of twenty-five.

He grinned, taking in the stacks of boxes strewn across the ground floor. He had labelled each one carefully as he packed up his things, but it was going to take days to put everything away.

No time like the present, he thought, and pulled a pocketknife out of his shorts, flipping it open to cut through the duct tape sealing the first box.

Four hours later, his stomach rumbled. Albert blinked, coming out of a haze. The work of unpacking was strangely hypnotic. Open a box, decide where the contents should go. Carefully place them in their new surroundings. Break down the box and toss it in the growing pile in the garage, then do it all again.

And again.

And again.

He sighed, getting to his feet, stretching out the kinks in his back. He had been carefully placing his DVDs in a new cabinet he had bought at one of the home-furnishing stores, repressing the desire to shove them in the shelves in handfuls. Somehow, the piles of boxes didn’t seem to have gotten any smaller. If anything, they seemed grow whenever he turned his back. He had tried to clear out things he didn’t need while he was packing, and he distinctly recalled taking several garbage bags full of unwanted items to the dumpster behind his old apartment. But there was still so much left to do.

Relax, he thought, chewing on a grilled-cheese sandwich as he sat on the stairs that led to the second floor. He leaned back, resting his head on the wall, easing his aching spine. You’ve got a long weekend. It’s only Saturday. You have three more days to get this place in order. It’s not like the neighbors are going to swing by and do an inspection, and then send you off to New Homeowner Jail if you’re not upholding the lofty standards of Cumberland Circle.

A sweet scent caught his nostrils, and he inhaled deeply, then sneezed. Wandering out into the living room, he looked out the front window. A miniature lilac bush, no more than waist high, sat in the curve of his front walk. Tiny purple flowers were blooming, filling their air with their scent. A warm May breeze rippled the curtains, and he could hear the sounds of grass being mowed somewhere further down the block.

Suburbia. He had sneered at some of his classmates at Western, who were predominantly from the Chicago suburbs, from places with interchangeable names like Forest Park and Park Forest, Oak Park and Park Ridge and Woodridge, Long Grove and Morton Grove and River Grove. All that was necessary to name a suburb in Chicago, he had once claimed, was to make some combination of a body of water, a tree, or a park.

Albert, on the other hand, had grown up in a farm town, and was proud of it. But he had rapidly realized that there was no future for him in Greenfield. The town was holding on by its teeth, losing more and more young people every year to towns like Springfield and Decatur, or to the growing areas near St. Louis. As farms grew in size, giving in to the inevitable tide of consolidation, there were fewer and fewer jobs.

Albert had seen which way the wind was blowing, and had decided to change his major from Agricultural Science to Computer Science halfway through his freshman year. His parents, having seen the town shrink over the last twenty years, had enthusiastically endorsed his move. With an older brother set to inherit their land, there was little need for a second son on the farm.

And now, he thought, he was in the one place he had once swore he would never be. A homeowner in the suburbs.

He sipped his milk, and idly watched the mail truck drive past. He rolled his shoulders, stretching out the aches and pains, making a note to start exercising more. Then, grabbing his keys off an end table, let himself out of the house to go fetch the mail.

He was only a few yards down the sidewalk when an arresting sight caught his eye. An attractive woman was kneeling on the ground in front of his neighbor’s house, busily transferring plants from a plat filled with flowers to a plot of freshly-tilled earth. He paused for a moment, admiring the smooth, muscled legs, and the shapely curves of her rear.

Get moving, you perv. He kicked himself into motion, walking past her. The last thing he wanted to do was to get caught staring at her and pick up a reputation as the neighborhood creep.

He unlocked his mailbox, which was about fifty yards down the street, in a large metal box which served the entire block. There was nothing inside but junk mail, circulars and coupons. The bills, he thought with a wry smile as he walked back to his house, would start to arrive later.

On the way back to his house, the woman looked up and smiled at him. “Hi,” she said, getting to her feet. She pulled off a pair of gardening gloves and offered him her hand. “You must be the new neighbor.”

“Guilty,” he admitted. “I’m Albert. Albert Sackett.”

“Stacey Banks,” she replied.

He cocked his head. “So do you live here?” He thought that the couple next door lived alone. He had met Rich and Sally a few days after he closed on the place, when he had brought home a load of purchases from the hardware store. An older couple on their fifties, they had welcomed him to the neighborhood, and had given him some helpful advice about trash pickup and recycling.

“No,” she laughed. She looked to be near his own age, and he felt his interest increase as he took in her open, cheerful face, as well as her slim, athletic body. Her shirt was loose, but he could just make out the swells of her breasts. “I have a place of my own over in Naperville,” she said, naming a suburb to the west. “I come over once or twice a week to help them out with the yardwork. Dad’s getting up there, and his back isn’t as good as it used to be. And Mom never liked grubbing around in the dirt.”

“What are you planting?”

“Impatiens.” She pointed to the small flowers, in hues of red, white, and pink. “They grow in the shade, though you have to keep them watered. But if they get too much sun, they’ll fry in no time. Here’s a good spot. They’ll get some sun in the morning, but this big old ash tree,” she said, “will make sure there’s plenty of shade in the afternoon.”

Behind her, the front door of her house opened, and a pair of young girls came out. “Hey, kids,” she said. “Come and meet Grandma and Grandpa’s new neighbor!”

The girls came up. The older, around seven years old, stared at him with interest. The younger hid behind her mother’s legs, looking up at him shyly.

“Hi there,” he said, crouching down to put his head at eye level. He took a quick look at Stacey’s left hand. No wedding ring graced her fingers. So was she divorced? Or had she simply taken it off to make sure she didn’t lose it? “What’s your names?”

“I’m Lauren,” the first girl said. Her hair was a glossy black, like her mother’s. She pointed at the smaller girl, who had her thumb firmly corked in her mouth. “That’s my sister. Her name is Katherine, but everyone calls her Kitty.”

“Well, I’m very happy to meet you,” he said. “My name’s Albert.”

“Do you have a puppy?” Lauren asked. “Bill and Maria had a puppy. His name was Ernie. He was nice. I got to pet him and play fetch. But then they moved away.” She squinted at him suspiciously, as if he had been responsible.

“That wasn’t a puppy,” Stacey said to him in an aside. “That dog was a damn monster.” She paused. “Friendly, though. And great with the kids.”

“Sorry, no,” he said to Lauren’s crestfallen expression. “No puppy. But I’ve been thinking about getting one. Do you think I should?”

She nodded eagerly. “Yeah! And we can come over and climb in your trees and play on your swingset!”

“That would be nice,” he replied neutrally. He didn’t have the heart to tell the girl that the rusty old swingset in the side yard was exhibit A on his ‘has to go’ list.

“So did Grandma kick you out?” Stacey asked.

“Yeah.” Little Katherine nodded agreement. “Grandma Sally said that it was a nice day outside and if we sat around all day our butts would get big and fat, and we should come out here and help you plant the flowers instead.”

Albert choked on a laugh as Stacey turned red. He was suddenly reminded of his Grandmother Harding, a woman who loved nothing more than to catch fish, drink beer, and smoke a cigarette, and had a tongue sharp enough to strip paint off a Buick. “I didn’t know your mother talked like that,” he said to Stacey.

“She’s a bad influence,” the younger woman sighed. She looked at him curiously. “What do you do?”

He nodded towards the east. “I work in the city. IT for a financial firm down there. Great Western.”

“IT? Computers? You must be really smart.”

He shrugged uncomfortably. “I wouldn’t put it that way. I’m just good with the way machines think. How about you?”

“I was in the navy for a while. But after these two came along, I decided to move back home. I work at a nursing home in Naperville, and I do freelance artwork.”

“Really?” His ears perked up. “Let me know if you’re interested in a graphic design job. I heard one of the suits talking about how GW wants to redo the corporate logo.” He paused, then asked as delicately as he could. “And their father?” He nodded at Lauren and Kitty, who were examining the square of turned earth, Lauren pointing out various bugs and worms to her younger sister, who didn’t seem to be very squeamish about it.

Stacey’s smile became brittle. “Not with us,” she said, her voice losing much of its warmth.

“Oh.” Albert felt as if he had walked into a spotless house with his shoes coated with cow manure. “I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. “It’s none of my business.”

“No, it’s okay.” Stacey put a hand on his arm. “I’m still a little sensitive about it. It’s not easy when you realize you wasted a good chunk of your life.” She jerked her head at the house. “Especially when some people can’t wait to tell you ‘I told you so.’”

“Yeah. I know that feeling.” Still feeling awkward, he looked at his feet. “Well, I better get going. I still have a lot of unpacking to do.” He waved at the girls, who ignored him, intent on the flowers, then smiled at Stacey, trying to recover the feeling of easy camaraderie they had shared only a few moments ago. “Hope to see you around.”

“I’m sure we will. We’re over here all the time. Kids! Say goodbye to Albert!”

“Bye, Albert,” said Lauren, not turning around. “Look, Mom! A worm! Eww! It’s huge!”

Well, he thought, as the front door closed behind him. I’ve got a cute next-door neighbor. Things are finally looking up.

*****

Thirteen years later.

What’s the best way to commit suicide?