The Plumber's Chronicles

By Daniel Wilson Randle

Daniel Wilson was a successful attorney who quit the legal profession to begin his own plumbing business. It provides complete and necessary treatment to neglected plumbing, specifically, the neglected plumbing of the bored and sexy trophy wives living in the exclusive neighborhoods of his community. With complete satisfaction guaranteed.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Torrid Books
• Release date: Mar 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781611607345

Book preview

Introduction

Daniel Wilson is an accomplished attorney, who has already been introduced twice by Torrid Books. In his first story, The Attorney’s Interview, Daniel Wilson transcribed an intimate interview he conducted with two young couples.

In this new story, Daniel Wilson has partially retired as an attorney and entered into a new profession.

The third story, The Research Project, chronologically follows both of these stories. In this new adventure, Mr. Wilson is engaged. In The Research Project, Daniel Wilson has married, and his wife and he have joined a fascinating, scientific research project.

Torrid Press invites you to follow the other adventures of Daniel Wilson in both The Attorney’s Interview and The Research Project.

Chapter 1

An Attorney Gone Good

My name is Daniel Wilson, and I am an attorney gone good. What? How is that again? An attorney gone good?

This is my story.

After graduating from law school, I began practicing litigation in a small law firm which provided me with considerable freedom of action. Through grueling work, extremely long hours and an intense professional schedule over the next eight years I won numerous medium-sized cases, several large cases and three huge class action lawsuits. My specialty? Quite simply, I sued companies that produced incredibly dangerous and indeed deadly products and sold them to unsuspecting consumers. I only went after companies which were financially in excellent condition, and repeatedly acted in an openly nefarious and reprehensible manner. I also only went after cases nobody else thought could be won.

I won these cases. In the process, I think I helped quite a few people. I also became fabulously wealthy. On my thirty-second birthday, I implemented the following actions:

Sold my interest in the law firm which had originally been so small and struggling that it paid me in stock instead of cash, for a huge profit, as it was now a large and prestigious law firm;

Tendered my resignation to the senior partner of my law firm;

Turned down no less than eight extremely lucrative job offers from other large, prestigious law firms to continue performing similar litigation for extremely high pressure cases and high publicity clients;

Provided approximately two million dollars in undisclosed, but extremely generous donations and in my own name to several well-publicized charities in the city where I live;

Paid off every bill I owed;

Purchased, restored, furnished and decorated an historic (and, incidentally, an isolated and very private) country estate;

Installed an art and photography studio in the barn of said estate;

Invested approximately three million dollars in low risk, low interest financial ventures which yield annual interest payments of approximately two-hundred thousand dollars;

Began working part-time, and at an extremely low salary, for a local charitable organization providing legal representation to those who could not normally afford it;

Became engaged to an ex-Playmate with a liberal sexual attitude;

Financed an extremely exclusive and elite-clientele art studio that my fiancée managed;

Opened an imported French lingerie store managed by an extremely attractive and drop-dead, gorgeous female friend who I knew for years and who I had absolutely no interest in ever having sexual relations with; and

Started Daniel Wilson Plumbing Company.

All that other stuff sounds great and is obviously self-explanatory.

But what on earth is the Daniel Wilson Plumbing Company?

It’s a company where I am the sole owner, employee and worker. It provides complete and necessary treatment to neglected plumbing, with full satisfaction guaranteed. Specifically, the neglected plumbing of a number of nubile wives who live in the many exclusive neighborhoods scattered throughout our fair city and are married to rich, handsome, successful professionals who pay their wives absolutely no attention whatsoever. These women, typically from their late twenties to their late forties, are almost always attractive, athletic, well dressed, college graduates, intelligent, well-read, well-traveled, funny, witty and conversational. They are also neglected, under-appreciated and sexually frustrated. This is where I come in.

Of course, the plumbing business is a front. Several times a month I frequent places where lonely wives can be found. Where are such places? Well, you’ll get a few clues from this book, but only a few. Suffice to say that I know where to go, and I’m not telling all. We meet. We talk. We make arrangements to rendezvous. At their houses, my estate, or in the suites of several fancy hotels —sometimes with my fiancée. I provide confidential and correct treatment to their neglected plumbing. I always leave behind a very happy client. I have a surprising quantity of repeat business.

So, how do I succeed? Well, first off, I am extremely discreet, always careful and cautious. I don’t come zooming up to their houses in a bright-red sports car with my high beams on and beeping my horn. You see, in addition to the red sports car I drive my fiancée around town in, my three-car garage also holds a well-used (but immaculately well maintained) pickup truck with tool boxes in the bed, and a non-descript (but also immaculately well maintained) four-door late model family car. For, you see, red sports cars attract attention. Four-door late model non-descript family cars are driven by baby sitters, visiting relatives and other boring people and can spend nights and weekends parked in driveways without attracting undue attention.

And these cars are old enough that they aren’t equipped with any of all that modern electronics which can be hacked, and readily followed.

Sometimes, I pull up in a pair of worn jeans and a stained t-shirt and my pick-up truck. Everybody knows that plumbing emergencies happen at all times of day and night, don’t they? So, I wander into the house with a repair bag and box of tools. I can then spend the entire night and nobody pays me any attention at all. I have various ploys and ruses and I can tell you that I haven’t really touched a pipe or wrench yet. Sometimes I just pull off a plastic control box cover and put on a new cover. Sometimes, I just spray paint the existing pipes. Perhaps I replace a perfectly well working piece of equipment with a brand new and perfectly working piece of equipment—takes about three minutes. Then, I spend the rest of the night fucking the wife.

Oh, yes, I also have the wives write me a big, thick, juicy check and I leave them a meticulous and detailed receipt. The big, thick, juicy check goes into the account of the actual Daniel Wilson Plumbing Company. Okay, I don’t buy many plumbing supplies, but who else do you think pays for the limousine rides, taxis, flowers, expensive presents, hotel suites and imported French lingerie? That’s right. The husbands are paying me to fuck their wives in five-hundred dollar a night hotel suites, and then they are in effect paying me to send their wives flowers and expensive presents so I can fuck their wives again. Regarding the lingerie…you would be amazed at the gratitude that a thousand dollar gift certificate from an exclusive, expensive and discreet lingerie store, which I just happen to own, can generate. Occasionally the lingerie store even makes a profit!

I use only a state-of-the-art, frequency-hopping cell phone provided to me by a best friend who owns an electronic store. This as a promotional phone, without any traceable name or address. My legal skills saved his ass from a tax audit about two years ago, and I didn’t charge him a penny…Except for this discrete cell phone.

And, I use the good old-fashioned paper maps. You can trace GPS units, and the NSA has full access to all GPS transmissions. If the NSA has them, everybody else has them, too—for a price.

So, now you know what discreet means. Tracing me on the phone, or using my GPS? Won’t happen. The license plates on the four-door car and pickup truck? Yep, you guessed it; I helped somebody out with a legal jam who works at the Department of Motor Vehicles. It’s a wonderful world, isn’t it?

My fiancée is open-minded, not in the least jealous and gets incredibly excited when I tell her about my adventures. When the wives have a lesbian or three-way interest she comes along for the ride. Besides, she goes out of town on a buying trip or to an art auction several times a month.

I’m getting more of the best pussy in town than I can handle.

Oh, you don’t care about the sleazy technical aspects of my fucking around? You want to know what really makes it work? Well, that’s easy, and I’ll be glad to tell you what I call my seven secrets. Just in case you’re wondering as you read along, yes, I’m aware these stories are written only about the fucking part. My publisher and I figure you won’t buy my book unless I write it that way. But you’re only getting a very small part of my technique with these stories. Here is what really makes things work.

I listen to the woman I’m with - not just look down her chest and say uh-huh. I actually listen to her. In many cases, her husband hasn’t listened for years.

I actually talk with the woman I’m with. I don’t just mumble about my latest golf score. I hold real, honest to god, back and forth, give and take, two-person conversations about politics, art, religion, science, their children, their clothes, the town we live in, the traffic, their sorority sisters, the local theater, the shopping mall, the school board, our local charities, anything and everything. You think we just fuck like a pair of wild animals? Well, most of these stories are written that way, but for every minute that I’m in the sack with one of these ladies, I spend about ten minutes just holding a conversation with them. And, you want to know something else? I spend more time holding a conversation with these beautiful ladies (who I might see once every couple of months) than their husbands do in the same time period. Get the picture?

I adore their bodies. These women are unbelievable. Every married lady I have ever slept with is so vivacious, curvaceous and glowing with sensuality, she should be a centerfold all to herself. I just plain worship their bodies, and I can’t get enough of them. Their men? They forgot a long time ago how beautiful the woman is that they walked down the aisle with. I never forget.

I appreciate them. I appreciate how wonderful, sexy, beautiful, attractive, athletic, in-shape, muscular, well-dressed and gorgeous they are. These ladies were incredible catches for their husbands, but I guess they were never more than trophy wives. But they’re not trophy wives to me. They’re wonderful, and when I’m with them, they’re the world.

I listen to what they like sexually. I spend time learning their bodies. I give their bodies what they desire and require.

I put their needs (sexual and otherwise) ahead of my own.

I deeply appreciate the limited amount of time we’re spending together. In fact, I cherish the gift that these ladies give me. You see, their gift to me is the most important commodity of all. Time. I may only spend eight hours with one of these beautiful women in three months. I cherish every second. Their husband spends eight hours with them every night, and he doesn’t give a shit.

Just seven little rules. Seems simple, doesn’t it?

You married guys are going to read these reminiscences of mine and say No way. Impossible. Never happen. She would never do that. She doesn’t like that kind of thing. Those fancy, expensive women don’t act like that. She would never open that door. My wife would never try that. My wife never wears things like that. My wife never dresses like that. She doesn’t act like that. She doesn’t like lingerie. She won’t fuck like that. She doesn’t like to go down on a guy. She won’t swallow. She wouldn’t let anybody do that to her. On the washing machine, no way, no married woman would ever climb up on top of one of them.

Well, you might be right, but if you’re married, work twelve hour days every day of week and take your wife for granted, the stories which follow are written about your wife, your neighbor’s wife, or your brother’s wife.

And you guys know the women I’m talking about in this story. They’re the women with the huge rocks on their ring fingers and the expensive jewelry. You see them in the shopping mall parking lot. They’re the ones driving the Jags and BMWs and Infinitis. They’re the ones with one or two cute kids. They’re the ones who dress, move and smell so good, with the perfect bodies in the hot clothes. They’re the married women in the morning or afternoon exercise classes at the gym. They’re the officer’s wives on the local military base. They’re the well-dressed professionals in the office.

I’m having them all, and they’re the ones starring in this collection of my reminiscences.

My friends, you’re about to read how I screw them silly morning, noon and night.

So, you really want to know my secret? The thing which gets the most beautiful women in the city to spread their legs for me? The secret weapon which gets ostensibly happily married women to act like whores, dress like vixens and open their doors and their bodies to me? To share their marriage beds with me?

My secret weapon? The one thing which makes me such a stud? The big secret?

She’s married to him.

Chapter 2

The Daniel Wilson Plumbing Company Opens for Business

These chronicles begin in one of those children’s pizza places with the singing animals and arcades. I had gone to help a friend and his wife with a birthday party for one of their children. Now, if any of you have ever gone to one of these places, you know they are children’s anarchy. Invariably, they all get intermingled and mixed up. Sure enough, a young boy got tangled up with our party while they were engaged in a melee. The little boy got upset when he couldn't find his mother and started crying. I saw a lady clearly looking for somebody, guessed that she was his mother, so I carried him over to her.

My hunch was correct and I was rewarded with a lovely smile and thanks from a stunningly attractive thirty-something blonde. Later on, I helped pick her little boy up from a header into the floor (thankfully heavily padded with a thick rug). Still later on, she called upon me to help retrieve a pair of tiny missing pair of Nikes, which I was able to locate in the bottom of an enormous plastic ball container large enough to swallow Godzilla.

I stayed after the party to help my buddy clean up the devastation, while his wife took their worn-out kids home. I carried a second load of toys out to his car, and came back alone into the restaurant to retrieve my coat. While I put it on, the lady walked up to me. I noticed a wedding band accompanied by a large diamond on her left ring finger. I figured she would thank me politely and I would be on my way home in sixty seconds.

As she approached, I smiled and said, Hi, I didn't have a chance to introduce myself; my name is Daniel. Daniel Wilson.

She responded in a smooth silky voice that took my breath away, Hi, my name is Maybe.

I’m sure my eyes went wide. Taking a deep, mental breath, I asked, So, are you interested in some wild romance, Maybe?

She gave me a wink, I’m thinking about it.

This was turning out to be the oddest pick-up place I had ever visited; there was a mob of kids running in circles around us howling and shrieking the whole time. Nobody would ever expect we were hooking up in a children’s pizza place.

I grinned. Your little boy is great. He looks like he wore himself out tonight.

She smiled back at me with perfect white teeth and red lips, Thanks, I love him. The little dear will fall asleep the moment I get him into the car. About sixty minutes from now would be a good time to show up at my house... She slipped me a slip of paper with her address and phone number.

She winked at me. Park on the side street just around the corner. The lights will be off; there's a single light that shows the house number on the left front. Use the side door just inside the fence on the left.

I leaned forward and our lips just barely touched, I’ll see you soon.

I drove home, showered and brushed my teeth, circled her address on my city map and figured out the route. I parked the sports car, fired up the pickup truck and headed out for what promised to be an interesting evening.

Her house was located in a secluded, quiet and exclusive neighborhood of large, grandiose houses. I parked on the side street as instructed, a cul-de-sac still under construction. Any passer-by (even an experienced police officer) would think my pickup truck belonged to a construction worker who left it parked on site for the weekend. I walked up to the house, an expensive residence entirely dark with the exception of a large, Victorian-style street light which illuminated a prominent house number underneath it. I saw an ornate iron fence with a gate to the left. I stepped through the gate, which was didn't squeak, and saw the door partially hidden by a thick row of ornamental hedge.

I knocked and the door swung immediately open to reveal the same stunning woman I had just met, now wearing a nice silk house coat, clearly expensive and well-fitted, but not overtly sexual. She leaned forward, barely touched my lips with hers, took my hand, drew me inside and softly locked the door behind me.

She