Electric Yellow Jacket


The electric yellow jacket hung in an insignificant corner of the department store, hidden on a rack of clearance items between a family of forgotten and unwanted blouses and skirts that were probably unfit for the tackiest of dressers. Fingering through them, I half expected a family of moths to flutter out.

I wasn’t sure what drew me to the jacket, and I certainly wasn’t sure why I asked the saleswoman to try it on for me.

“Excuse me?” she replied, glaring at me through a pair of stern brown eyes. She had these eyes stashed behind the reflections on some stylish black-framed glasses, and partly because of this, the saleswoman reminded me of a school-teacher: her dark hair swept back into a tight pony-tail, her high cheekbones, her thin lips, crisp white blouse and unwrinkled black skirt.

“You’re about her size,” I said vaguely.

“Well,” she checked her watch. “I was just about to close.”

“It’ll only take a moment,” I urged, pressing the jacket towards her.

The saleswoman twisted her lips in a sour expression, and her eyes narrowed to thin slits. Still, I could tell that she would rather give in and get rid of me than have a debate. I flashed a smile in her direction. I’ve been told I have a nice smile.

“Fine,” she said, snatched the jacket out of my hands and armed her way into it.

I threw a glance to my wristwatch. The longer I kept her, the less agreeable she’d get.

“There,” she said, and I looked up at her.

My breath caught in my throat. I don’t know what it was about that jacket, but it clung to the saleswoman’s body, enhancing her soft, subtle curves and brightening her smooth porcelain skin. I coughed out a gasp.

“You’re an incredibly beautiful woman,” I managed, and a pink flush spread across the saleswoman’s features. Something about her changed in that instant, but I didn’t recognize what.

“It is a nice a jacket,” she admitted. “I should lock up now.”

“Oh, of course, just let me…” I began and plucked my wallet out of my back pocket. I pried it open, but the saleswoman was already at the front door, flinging the locking bolt across. She flicked off the neon open sign hanging in a window. She swung around to face me.

“Now no one will bother us,” she said. She fluttered towards me and threw her arms around me, and her mouth overtook mine, her tongue lashing out between my lips, invading me.

Her hands were at my belt, then my zipper, then fishing my lengthening erection out of my boxer shorts, and I suddenly found myself returning the kiss, the dizzying turn of events switching off my thoughts as instantly as the store’s open sign blinking to black.

She was against the check-out desk; I pushed her skirt up, yanked her thong to one side and plunged into the slick hot, wetness between her legs.

The saleswoman, I hadn’t even caught her name I realized, bucked against me with carnal lust. Her grunts were low and savage; spittle flew from her lips; her eyes locked onto mine, and her expression was on of near anger, as if daring me to take her as hard as she was taking me.

“C’mon! FUCK ME!” she demanded, her words flung at me like stinging slaps. Her back arched; the flesh of her ass clapped against my thighs. She was obviously not the same woman who had been annoyed by being kept late just a few moments before.

Her hands burrowed under my shirt, and her nails tore at my back.

I tried not to think of my wife at home, finishing dinner for me and my kids.

I couldn’t understand how I had gotten from the Point A (two minutes ago) to Point B (my penis inside this woman cursing and clawing me), but as the first ropes of jism exploded out of me, I found that I did not care.

I hadn’t even finished before she wanted more, flipping over, demanding that I take her from behind. Surprising myself, I found I was up for it.

“Pull my hair!” she said. I did.

“Fuck me harder!” she said. I did.

“Make me cum!” she said. I did, and she screamed.

Then I came again, too. I pulled out and watched my cum spray her ass, dribbling down her inner thighs like gooey tears.

And she still wanted more, but I needed to get home. By now, the wife might be worried and trying to reach me on the cell. I apologized, tossed a fifty on the check-out counter (more than enough to cover the purchase) and attempted to get her out of the electric yellow jacket. She protested, her hand stroking me back to hardness.

Once I slipped the jacket over her second arm and off her back, she seemed to lose control of her legs and wobbled to her knees.

“You ok?” I said as I padded to the front of the store. I slipped the bolt back and opened the door.

“Why did I…” I heard the saleswoman say, but as the door closed behind me, it cut her off.

I jogged through the darkened parking lot and got into my car, still not sure what had just happened. My eyes Van Escort kept returning to the electric yellow jacket.


“You’re late,” Jill greeted me. She had a disapproving eyebrow raised.

“I like your hair,” I said. She had dyed it that afternoon, and her usual light blonde was highlighted with swirls of red. I did indeed like it, but Jill ignored the compliment.

“Got caught in traffic. And by traffic, I mean an excuse to hide the fact I was trying to find something perfect for your birthday,” I said and gave her a slight peck on the cheek and not-so-slight grab of one of her lower cheeks.

“But I already got something perfect,” she whispered back and grabbed my cock through my pants. If said cock hadn’t already been battered to submission within the last hour, I would have been tempted to fool around a little in the kitchen, pre-dinner style.

“Where are the kids?” I said instead, effectively shutting her down.

“Upstairs. Supposed to be doing homework, but I have a feeling their homework has nothing to do with the Xbox game they’re probably playing.”

“Typical,” I said and caught a whiff of whatever she had simmering. “Something smells great.”

“Spaghetti,” Jill said. “For the kids.” She pulled the lid off the sauce and stirred it with a wooden spoon. The rich Italian scent set my stomach grumbling.

“The kids, huh. What about us?” I said. Jill turned, replaced the lid, and wiped her hands on her apron. She slipped the apron off over her head and placed it on a peg behind the kitchen door. She wore a low cut sleeveless pink top and tight black pants. If it hadn’t been for the saleswoman, I would have been drooling. While one probably couldn’t call Jill the prettiest woman they’d ever seen, she had a killer body, particularly for a woman with two children.

“We’re going out. You’re taking me to dinner and the new Johnny Depp movie.” “Already call Jordan?” Jordan was our customary babysitter.

“You know it, hot stuff,” Jill said, running a hand through her short hair. I smiled at her, my penis still throbbing painfully in my pants.

“Then it’s a date,” I said.


Dinner was good, and the movie was ok if only because I didn’t get to see much of it. Jill wanted a little action, nothing much more than a little harmless kissing, and I felt obligated to give it to her (although I could have done without her hand caressing my sensitive hard-on through my pants). But I didn’t have the heart to ask her to stop. I gritted my teeth and dealt with the pain.

When we got home, Jordan’s car wouldn’t start.

“It’s a total P.O.S.,” Jordan offered with an annoyed look when she came back in to ask for a ride.

“Don’t worry about it.” I turned to my wife. “I’ll just give her a ride home, hon. You’ve got an early day tomorrow,” I said.

Jill nodded and yawned in agreement, her short hair bobbing. I realized that by taking Jordan home, I would come home to a sleeping wife and no chance of getting laid, but my penis was still a little tender after its busy night, anyway. I’d just cash in the brownie points I was earning at a later date.

“Ok. Thanks a lot again, Jordan,” Jill said and stalked off into the recesses of the house.

“No problem, Mrs. West,” Jordan replied. I grabbed my car keys, and we headed out the door. The cool night air felt fresh and brisk. A chilly breeze ruffled my hair.

“Cold,” Jordan said. She hugged herself and shivered. Goose bumps pimpled her arms.

The car burbled an electronic beep as I unlocked with my key chain. I said, “I’ve got a jacket in here you can borrow.”

“Great,” she said. She climbed in and wrapped the electric yellow jacket around her.

I started the car and backed into the road and turned on the radio. I flipped it to the alternative rock station because I knew Jordan was into that sort of stuff.

“How were the kids?” I asked after a minute to break the silence. Jordan murmured something under her breath.

“Sorry I didn’t catch that,” I said. I heard her whisper something like “oh, gawd!”

When I turned to look at her, I saw she had one hand down her unbuttoned jeans, and she was subtly rubbing herself.

“The hell!” I exclaimed. Jordan jerked her hand out of her jeans.

“Sorry! Sometimes I just get… sooooo horny,” she said in a whiny voice. I didn’t know what to say, just turned to look out the windshield, a warm blush rising to my face.

A minute passed with nothing said. Then I felt her hands on me.

“Could I maybe suck your dick?” she said in a soft voice. Before I could answer her hands were at my zipper, and my hands gripped the steering wheel, my knuckles turning ghostly white. Then my cock popped out, and she was stroking, her fingers tickling, working my erection.

“This is… wrong,” I stammered. Her face was next to mine, and her tongue flicked out and caught my Van Escort Bayan ear lobe.

“Don’t worry. I love to suck dick, Mr. West.”

And then I was receiving road-head from my eighteen year old babysitter.

Before that evening I had never cheated on my wife. Yes, I had contemplated it; the temptations were always there. But I’d never given in. Now I had twice in one night, and as I pulled the car over at the park in our neighborhood, I felt events spiraling out of control. I felt like I wasn’t me as I pulled her jeans to her ankles. Or at least, that’s the excuse I gave myself later.

We tore each other’s clothes off. All, that is, except for the electric yellow jacket. Jordan left it on.

“Fuck me, Mr. West! FUCK ME!” The words rang in my ears as I drove myself into her young, prone pussy. Her legs wrapped around me. The heels of her feet dug into the flesh of my ass. Her nails dug into my scalp. She grabbed fistfuls of hair.

Jordan was blonde and curvy. She had blue eyes, and she seemed to always keep them half-closed as if she was perpetually sleepy or drugged. She was soft in all the right places, and her tits were small and pert. Jordan begged me to suck on them as she road me in the backseat. Her bellybutton was pierced, and a small chain ran from the top and bottom piercings. It jingled as she bounced up and down on my straining cock.

She had a similar look like the saleswoman had: a carnal rage morphed into insatiable lust.

“C’mon you fucking asshole! Give it to me!”

She had a tattoo on the small of her back, this weird-shaped hawk-like V, that I watched when I took her from behind on the hood of my car. After that, facing me, she bit her bottom lip when she came, and then I pulled out and came, too.

At some point, my cock driven to the root inside of the girl, an epiphany struck me: the jacket!

Some how, some way the electric yellow jacket was the cause of everything.


Thirty minutes later when I pulled my car into the driveway in front of my house, I turned off the ignition and look at the jacket strewn out on the passenger seat. It appeared harmless, just a layer of bright yellow skin shed on the leather where I had just fucked a girl I barely knew.

I rubbed my temples with my one hand. My cock felt like a withered piece of sausage in my pants, and my head wasn’t in much better shape. How could I place any blame on an article of mere clothing? The jacket? It didn’t make sense.

And yet the only thing the saleswoman and Jordan had in common was the change that had overcome them upon putting on the jacket. The idea was mad, nuttier than a Michael Jackson sleep-over, but it was the only explanation that seemed to fit.

In any case, I couldn’t very well give it to Jill for her birthday. She’d turn in a lust-filled whore determined to ravage me into submission!

On second thought…

I hid the jacket in a trunk in my office. Jill hardly ever went into my office, and she hated to see the mess in my trunk, just papers and old photographs and yellowing books left to rot. She never opened it.


I came home for lunch the next day and saw Jill blowing Ernest Radcliffe, our neighbor.

I saw them through the side window: a bobbing red head below Radcliffe’s bulging beer gut. I had no difficulty recognizing the yellow of the jacket around Jill’s shoulders. My stomach sank, and I felt angry, betrayed. But not at Jill because how could I feel betrayed when I had betrayed her twice just the previous night?

I felt betrayed by the jacket.

Radcliffe was a foul, disgusting worm. I knew Jill couldn’t have any real desire to stuff his sad excuse for a dick into her mouth. Hell, the woman never even blew ME. Somehow, Jill had found the jacket and put in on; maybe figuring it was her birthday gift.

If the jacket overwhelmed a woman’s inhibitions to the point one would suck on a pig like Radcliffe’s sweaty balls, then I’d have to get rid of it. An image of Jill inviting male after male to our home and gobbling their cocks while I was at work assaulted my mind, and my knees turned weak. I knelt in our small garden, crushing a petunia as I peered over the bottom ledge of the window, and I watched the finale of Jill’s blow job. It didn’t take long. Radcliffe was not a subtle man.

His gut jiggled when he shot his load into Jill’s right eye.


By now, you must think I am a horrible person.

How could I write so without emotion? Be so clinical when it came to cheating on my wife and witnessing her cheat on me? No passion, no anger, no guilt.

I’m a gynecologist.

This is not an excuse, but when you’re a doctor, sometimes you have the ability to shut off outside forces and examine a thing, clinically. My matter-of-fact bedside manner seems to have translated to the page.

One must be objective while re-examining Escort Van these sorts of circumstances if one wants to be fair to oneself and others involved. Or the anger or rage or guilt or whatever else takes over, and you get nowhere.

You may still think I’m a horrible person but know that such thoughts may hurt my feelings. I do have them.


After seeing Jill with Radcliffe, I went back to the office and tried to think about what I should do.

How had Jill stumbled across the jacket? Obvious answer: it called to her just like it had called to me in the department store. She had fallen prey to a thing she hadn’t understood, and who knew what was going through her mind now that she had done what she had done, having felt Radcliffe’s stickiness splatter across her face, into her eye.

The electric yellow jacket was the problem. I would get rid of it and pretend nothing had ever happened. I could forgive Jill, and she needn’t ever know what I had done with the saleswoman and with the babysitter.

The decision made, I spent the rest of the afternoon clinically examining vaginas.


“Do you have a receipt?” the gray-haired woman asked me, a frown on her face. The yellow jacket sat between us on the check-out counter, and I prayed the old bat didn’t get the urge to try it on.

“No, I’m afraid not,” I said. I should have known better, I thought. Department stores and their fascist return policies! The woman tapped a bony finger against her chin and shook her head. The folds of skin hanging from her neck shivered.

“Well, you have to have a receipt to make a return,” she said in a scolding voice. She sounded like my mother telling me I’d have to eat all my vegetables before dessert.

“Is there a girl here from last night? Long brown hair, very pretty? She checked me out. I’m sure she’d remember me,” I said. I tried not to look at the old woman’s skin folds.

The woman sighed and tapped her chin again. “Beatrice? Called this morning, said she’d had to leave town unexpectedly. Don’t know when she’ll be back.”

“Thanks, anyway,” I said, grabbed the jacket and left.


After the flames died down, I sifted through the ashes with a poker. The fireplace had been roaring, and I wondered what the rest of the neighborhood must think about smoke puffing from my chimney in the middle of August.

Under the ash, the electric yellow jacket: unburnt, unscorched, uncharred, untouched.

On the inside zipper, a tag read: FLAME RETARDANT.

I had a good laugh about that one.


The day after I stuffed the jacket down the bottom of our trash can, I came home, and the house smelled like old rotten cabbage and dirty feet. The couch in the living room reeked of ripe body odor. The bedroom had the scent of dead fish.

“Why does it smell like garbage in here?” I said. Jill shrugged. When I found the electric yellow jacket hanging in the bedroom closet, I realized that Jill had fucked the garbage men.


It was late, and it was a small town, so everything was pretty much abandoned. I knew better than to just stick the jacket in some dumpster. With my luck, the same garbage men would empty it, recognize it, and happily deliver it home to my adoring wife. They might even think to invite some friends.

The thought drove a sickening stake into the pit of my stomach.

I had paid twice over for my mistakes with the saleswoman and Jordan. Jordan hadn’t been able to show her face around our house since, and Jill was having the worst time finding a replacement babysitter. Not to mention every time I kissed Jill I had to think about Radcliffe’s unwashed little penis in her mouth, and the garbage men’s hygiene couldn’t have been much better if the scents they left behind were any indication.

At least the saleswoman and Jordan were sanitary.

I drove around through the murky darkness, trying to escape these thoughts, and I saw the kid on the bench. He looked around sixteen, skinny and pale. He looked up as I passed, and his face was a barrage of pimples and the scars of old pimples. The glasses he wore looked too big for a head that already seemed to big for the scrawny neck it was stationed. He had roses in his hands. They looked near crushed.

I hit the brakes hard. The kid started, maybe he was thinking I was some serial killer looking to pick him up and murder him. Then his shoulders sank when he realized that not even a serial killer would waste his time on such a poor specimen.

I rolled down my window and called to the kid, “Hey!”

The kid glared back and said nothing. He was probably still worried. His eyes were pink around the edges like he’d just been crying. He wore a t-shirt with Pac-Man on it. Parts of it were dotted wet.

“Kid, I got the solution to all your problems,” I said. The kid sniffed. I grabbed the electric yellow jacket and tossed it to him. It fluttered and flapped to his feet. The kid looked down, set aside the wasted roses and picked up the jacket.

“This?” he said with a heavy dose of dry sarcasm.

“Kid,” I said. My lips turned up in a wry smile. “Trust me.”

The End.

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