What Do You Do When Your Brother's Wife Will Do Absolutely Anything To Pass College Algebra?

I would have liked to help my assistant, Tommy "Two Times" Johnson, with this problem before he actually tried to handle it himself. I think things would have gone a little better for him and his family. With Tommy's permission, I'm gonna share his story, so that perhaps, in the future, you'll know better how to handle this situation.

As a Doctor of Psychology, with an extensive practice, I must often utilize assistants from time to time. I have three assistants; Wally Mammoth, Tommy Johnson, and Connie Cryer, and all of which are students and/or teacher's assistants at the university. By the way, I also teach at the university from time to time. But like I said, my practice is quite extensive, and now, to go along with that, I've also started working on my first published work, that of which, you are reading right now.

Tommy Johnson, though he is much smaller in stature than Wally Mammoth, can still pack quite a punch. This is one of the reasons why he's so essential in my research. Take, for instance, what happened with his sister-in-law.

According to Tommy, this all happened about a year ago. Tommy, who is still an undergrad, had been putting off some of his gen-eds. One of those gen-eds was college algebra. It's not that algebra was particularly difficult for him. It's just it was tedious, or so he says.

Anyway, the time came where Tommy could procrastinate no longer and signed up for a summer session of college algebra, figuring this would make the class shorter, which in a way it did. Unfortunately, Heatherly, Tommy's sister-in-law had the same idea. And so, on the first day of class, Tommy, who was full of dread over taking the class, suddenly heard a familiar voice he couldn't quite readily place.

"Well, hello there," her mousy voice sang out.

Tommy cringed at the sound, as it somewhat startled him. Then he glanced over, and standing there was Heatherly, his sister-in-law, in all her brightly colored glory.

"Hi," Tommy uttered dryly.

"Jake was tired of me hanging around eating Bon-Bons all day. It's funny too, because I don't even know what Bon-Bons are. He told me, 'Heatherly, why don't you go do something. Get your nursing degree. Something. And maybe you can help out a little with all these bills.' To which I replied, 'Bills? Why, I thought bills were your department. While kids are my department.' Then he said, 'Well, do you see any kids running around here?' I told him, 'Nope, but that doesn't mean we won't be seeing them someday soon.' 'Right. Well while we're waiting, you can go get your nursing degree and help out with some of these bills.' Isn't your brother just a hoot?"

Tommy wasn't sure how to respond. His brother was just sort of a jerk. At least that's what Tommy thought of him. But he was big. And prone to fighting. Tommy knew that all too well from growing up being Jake's number one target for butt-kickings.

With nothing else to say, apparently, Heatherly decided to sit down next to her brother-in-law.

Once the class was underway, Mr. Jensen, the instructor, started laying down the class rules from the syllabus. After about fifteen minutes or so, Heatherly nudged Tommy's foot. Tommy sighed. Then he looked over. Heatherly was rolling her eyes as she sat hunched to her side and leaning against her arm.

"I'm so bored," Heatherly whispered a bit too loud.

Tommy nodded. "It's just the syllabus. It'll get better. I think."

"It better!" Heatherly sighed. "My first day of college and I'm already bored out of my mind."

After class, as folks were gathering their things together, Tommy was doing the same, thinking all the while about riding his bike home to see if he could catch Connie Cryer, one of my other assistants, on the phone, so he could talk to her while he masturbates, which was something he liked to do. Tommy has always been quite fond of Connie.

With these thoughts racing through his head, Tommy suddenly got a tap on his shoulder.

"You're gonna walk me to my car, right?" Heatherly asked, waiting.

Tommy nodded, reluctantly.

Not much was said as they walked to Heatherly's car. Then Heatherly decided to say, "Wow, feels like we've been walking for miles."

"Yep," Tommy uttered.

"It's true. I betcha I parked a good mile from our class. These parking lots are bigger than the mall parking lot, I swear!"

"Yep. Lots of students. Lots of parking."

"Well, I don't know about you, but I'm not looking forward to this class."

"It's college algebra. It shouldn't be too hard. You took algebra in high school, didn't ya?"

"Yeah. I think. But that was what, ten years ago?"

"I think it'll all come back to you."

"You're so sweet."

Tommy shrugged.

"You know, I was really dreading this whole college thing. I mean, seriously dreading. But then I saw you there. And I thought to myself, 'You know what, Heatherly. Maybe this won't be so bad after all.'"

"Good," Tommy said, still thinking about Connie and what she might be doing and what she might be saying whilst, unbeknownst to her, he's beating himself senseless.

Heatherly continued, "I mean, how can I fail when you'll be right there, next to me, to help? I mean, you are gonna help me, right? You wouldn't let your own sister-in-law sink and drown right there next to you, would you?"

"I'm sorry. What? I was thinking about something else."

Heatherly looked disappointed.

"Help you? Yeah, I'll help you."

"Good, because Jake said he's gonna be pissed if I don't pass all my classes. That'd be pretty bad if I didn't pass the very first one, huh?" Heatherly laughed.

Tommy smiled, stilling thinking about Connie.

As the weeks passed, and the class progressed, it wasn't long before Tommy realized, no matter what, the compounding difficulty of an algebra class was more than likely impossible for Heatherly. This realization was a bit of nuisance to Tommy.

Plus, there was the issue of his own work being affected. To Tommy, the class wasn't all that difficult. The material came back to him from high school. Just like he thought it would. The problem was hiding this fact.

When he got papers back, he had to do his best to hide them from Heatherly. If she saw how well he was doing and how bad she was doing, well, instant depression would come over her. Tommy couldn't concentrate on his studies when Heatherly was sitting next to him contemplating driving her car into a tree on the way home.

Then, things took a turn. About midway through the semester, Heatherly's demeanor seemed to change completely. And Tommy was perplexed. He thought for sure she was just going to drop the class at some point. But no. Heatherly kept coming to class. And her hopeless descent seemed to miraculously turn around. How was it possible? Was she somehow getting it now? Perhaps, she was finally sticking with it instead of giving up before she even started. Tommy was pleasantly surprised and alleviated by the turn around.

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What Do You Do When Your Friend Asks You To Fill In For Him With His Wife On Scrabble Night While He's Away?

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What Do You Do When Your Girlfriend Turns Out To Be The Serial Mall Santa Fucker?

Obviously, this particular problem isn't going to happen to most people. However, Wally Mammoth, one of my assistants, isn't like most people. Wally tends to get into situations no sane individual gets himself into. And this situation is no different.

Believe it or not, with my work and consequently, my assistants' work, it isn't all that easy to find people with strong enough character or fortitude to agree to be in a relationship with us. Usually, we have no choice but to be a little discreet about what we do. In some cases downright dishonest, I'm afraid. For Wally, he thought he finally found a girl who was willing to accept what he does for a living. It wasn't until much later we learned why.

For those of you not from around here, during the last Christmas season, and now again during this Christmas season, there's been a terrible rash of sex crimes sweeping through the New England area. The inconceivable part is it's been happening sometimes in broad daylight, out in the open, right in front of everyone's eyes, at the local shopping malls.

Apparently, a woman, who looks much younger than one would suspect, has been posing as a young girl and going to malls and getting in line to see Santa. According to reports, the woman will wear a long winter jacket and once she's permitted to climb on Santa's lap, the woman, while exhibiting a tremendous amount of skill and flexibility, proceeds to fuck Santa.

Now, one would think the best thing for Santa to do in this situation is to call someone over or merely remove the woman. However, this isn't very easy. And remember, there are tons of parents and kids around. So, for the most part, in order to cause the least amount of a scene, the Santas have been instructed to, well, quite simply, follow the woman's lead, and fuck her to completion.

At which time, again, according to reports, the woman will disengage quite discretely, and nobody will be the wiser. The only thing that might draw attention is how long it takes for the attack to be completed. On average, it's about five minutes. During which time, parents will tend to get impatient and start to question what the delay is, and at that point, they might realize that Santa is being attacked. Still, even in this rare occasion, even if they're quite sure Santa is indeed being fucked, a parent is unlikely to say or do anything about it, for fear their child might not get a chance to sit on Santa's lap and hence causing their child to have a wicked hissy fit the rest of the night. Although, in this instance, the parent will insist that Santa put one of those red Christmas blankets over his lap before their child sits down on Santa's recently fucked lap.

To those among my team, which included Wally Mammoth, Tommy Two-Times Johnson, Connie Cryer, and myself, Dr. Mosely Untreu, the Serial Mall Santa Fucker story has become something of an obsession. Whenever there's a new news report about yet another attack, it's considered must-see TV. Perhaps it's the fact that the woman in question is a little bit like us, as people who study and sometimes execute sexual experiments. Regardless, the matter intrigued us to no end.

Recently, we had started coming up with various ways to perhaps put our fingerprints on the situation. One time, Wally suggested we go to the malls and try to catch the girl in action, ourselves. But there's only four of us and about twenty malls in the area. Another time, Tommy suggested we should pose as Santas. This idea especially appealed to me, but then I thought about all the other Santa stuff I would have to do, like dealing with a million kids and listening to all their greedy droning about what they want for Christmas, and that sounded like torture.

On one occasion, when all mentioned were present in my home office, save for Tommy Johnson, and in his stead we were joined by Lisa, Wally's new girlfriend, and watching the TV to learn about the newest attack, anxious to maybe hear some new clue we hadn't yet heard before, a deplorable theory hatched in my mind.

Lisa, who didn't seem at all interested in the Serial Mall Santa Fucker, was looking around my office and asked, "Dr. Untreu?"

"Please, call me Dr. Mosely," I said.

"All right," Lisa said. "Why don't you have a tree up?"

"Apart from the fact that this is a place of business, and I must remain neutral as far as religion and whatnot," I said. "There's also the matter where I've never had a single solitary inclination to decorate for the holidays. Now, my wife, Millie, on the other hand, she is our resident Christmas fanatic. She's presently constructing a massive tree in our living room."

"Really? I would love to see it!" Lisa exclaimed, very childlike.

"Forgive her," Wally said. "Your wife's not the only Christmas fanatic around here."

"Sure," I said. "Connie can take you to see it."

When the girls were gone, I looked at Wally, wondering if he had any inkling that his girlfriend might very well be the woman we're in question. After all, she was very small. With long brown hair and very big brown eyes. Overall, very child-like. And apparently she was ga-ga for Christmas. Still, I wasn't about to broach the subject just yet.

The very next day, there was another attack. This time in a mall north of Boston. As soon as I heard about it, my phone rang. It was Wally. We talked about some unrelated matters for a short while. Then I asked, "So, was Lisa with you last night?"

"Yes," Wally said, a little defensive.

"Really?" I asked.

"Yes," Wally said, a bit more defensive.

"Okay, well there goes that theory."

"What, you thought she was the Serial Mall Santa Fucker?" Wally asked, barely able to deliver the entire sentence before bursting out in laughter.

"Well. Yes. But I was wrong."

"Fuck," Wally said, sounding suddenly serious, and a bit shocked.

"What?"

"I just realized. She went out Christmas shopping with her sister."

"Really?"

"Yeah. But I know they really went. I mean, her sister came by to pick her up around 7 pm and dropped her off around 9 pm."

"According to the news," I said. "The attack took place at 8 pm."

"Yeah, but what would she do with her sister?"

"What does her sister look like?"

"Young. But not as young looking as Lisa."

"Maybe her sister's in on it. Maybe she posed as Lisa's mother."

"That's ridiculous."

"Is it?"

"No. It's not fucking ridiculous at all. I gotta go," Wally said and abruptly hung up.

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What Do You Do When Your Pastor's Wife Is Constantly Complaining About The Lack Of Anal In Her Life?

My wife, Jennifer, who is a devout Christian, has always been a pillar of morality in my life. And that can be a valuable resource at times. I myself, I've never been very religious. However, when we first started dating, it became readily apparent if I intended on continuing the relationship, I would be expected to attend church. After my first wife, Naomi, who was practically a liberal, feminist, closet-lesbian, anarchist, Wiccan, I was probably feeling the need to compensate in the other direction, to a more straight-lace, conservative, WASPy woman. Hence Jennifer, my second wife.

Early on in our marriage, prior to venturing out to the east coast, we decided to attend an average-sized, about 400-500 people or so, Pentecostal church, in a remote town in Northern California. The church appeared, for all intent and purposes, to be very conservative. Although the women weren't made to wear dresses or skirts, they all did all the same. And although the women weren't made to keep their hair long, they all did all the same. For the most part, everyone dressed very conservatively, nothing too flashy. Not a lot of makeup. Not a lot of frills. Only a few women in the church failed to get the memo concerning these church-wide, self-imposed restrictions, my wife among them, and surprisingly enough the Pastor's wife also, Sister Rebekah, who I always felt I shared a certain affinity with.

As much as I tried to "surrender" myself to this church and its ways, it just seemed futile after a while. Sure, I had my moments of weakness, when the church and all its churchiness seemed to lull my sometimes sleepy mind into believing this whole rigmarole was authentic. But in the end, my mind would always wake up just in time to talk some sense into me. After all, the whole thing, especially when you approached it critically, seemed a little far-fetched.

Still, for Jennifer's sake, I continued to attend church with her. I had to at least try to please her in this way. It was obviously very important to her. I mean, it's not like she, all those years ago, when we first started dating, she didn't present herself as this sort of woman. It was quite plain. I couldn't blame her for my own idiotic need to give her the impression I would be fine going to church with her. Forever. And ever.

On the bright side, as a psychiatrist, just starting a practice in Northern California, the church provided an abundance of potential clients. It seemed that amidst all this oppressive conservativism, there were several folks who were just itching to get out, away from the church. Even if, all they needed was to leave the church, there was no way the thought was going to occur to them on their own. And for the most part, I didn't feel like telling them. Probably, because down deep inside, I knew that they knew it, too. And I was waiting for them to figure it out for themselves. In the mean time, their want and desire to leave the church manifested itself in other ways like alcoholism, wife-beating, stealing, fighting, bigotry, adultery, etc..

In the case of Sister Rebekah, the Pastor's wife, things were a little different.

I met Rebekah the first day we attended the church, when the pastor and her stood by the exit to bid farewell to all the folks attending the church.

Rebekah was somewhat tall and very beautiful. By far, she was the flashiest attendee in the church, wearing flashier clothes and a bit more makeup than any of the other women in the church. In addition, her dresses seemed to show slightly more chest and leg than any of the other women in the church. But she was the pastor's wife. And for the most part, this made her above reproach. Except of course for the members of the church who struggled with gossiping, which was basically 90% of the church.

Through the years, attending the church, and seeing these folks at various church functions, Rebekah always seemed to take a shine to me. And at times, she showed surprising candor. This always threw me for a loops, since everyone in the church, apart from those I saw in the office, seemed profoundly fake or delusional or both.

At one particular event, I believe it was a church picnic, I noticed Rebekah standing alone, by the brush along the lake. As bored as I was, I decided I'd approach her. After all, I had always thought we shared a certain affinity toward each other, as two, seemingly lonesome honest people stuck in a sea of the opposite.

So, I started, "Hello there."

"Oh, hello, Brother Mosely," she said, noticeably glad to see me.

"What might you be thinking about?" I asked.

"What does every man or woman or child apparently think about?" Then she discreetly gestured at something out on the lake and smiled back at me.

I followed her eyes and saw a teenage couple, out deep, with their arms around each other. I peered a second, and smiled, realizing they weren't just embracing but were actually fucking. Their intermittent looks of strain and pleasure were the giveaway.

"So sweet and so innocent," Rebekah said, marveling at the teenagers.

I smiled and looked a little closer at Rebekah.

"What?" she asked.

"Sweet and innocent?" I asked.

"That's Brother Scoll's son, Peter, and Brother Tanner's daughter, Willa. They're a sweet couple. They've been going steady all summer. I think it's cute."

"Rebekah?"

"Yes, Brother Mosely?"

"Forgive my French, Rebekah, but Brother Scoll's son and Brother Tanner's daughter are fucking right in front of you. In front of all of us. I don't know if I'd call it sweet and innocent, but I'd call it bold."

Rebekah peered out at them, watching for a moment. As she watched, at a certain point, she raised a hand to her chest in shock. "Brother Mosely, you're right. What should we do?"

I waved it off. "Do? Nothing. They're teenagers. That's what teenagers do. Fuck like bunnies."

"Brother Mosely, your language."

"Sorry. It just seemed like the appropriate terminology to describe this type of sex."

"Premarital sex?"

"No, fucking. Look at them, Rebekah. They're fucking."

Rebekah watched them for a while longer. This time biting her lips a little and clenching her fist tight. That's when another congregation member joined us. Rebekah didn't say a word about it.

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What Do You Do When Your Stepdaughter Is Constantly Flashing You With Her Giant Tits?

I feel like I might have painted myself into a bit of a corner on this front. At first, I was somewhat receptive to my stepdaughter's amusing displays of affection, as inappropriate as they were. But after a while, I figured something must be done. So, here is what I suggest you do when your stepdaughter is constantly flashing you with her giant tits.

As you might know, I've recently married. Third time for me. Hopefully three is a charm. Anyway, everything seemed to be going well. I mean to say, we weren't without the usual snags along the way of matrimony. My wife, Beatrice, is lovely in every way. However, before we got married, she led a somewhat wild life. Especially a few decades ago. The result of this was a collection of children, who, well, might be considered juvenile delinquents in some cases. In other cases, downright menaces to society.

I wouldn't want to disclose too much about my family, and all their flaws, as this wouldn't do anybody any good. However, in the case of my stepdaughter, Millie, well, I think some good can come of disclosure. And that's why I've decided to include it in this guide.

The first sign of trouble for Millie and I would have to be the first day I met her. Beatrice, my wife to be, decided to invite me over to her house for dinner, where I was to meet her three kids. Millie, at the time, was only sixteen.

Dinner seemed to go all right. It wasn't without the typical demonstrations of territorialism a dinner like this would bring. All of that, I was expecting. However, after dinner, when Millie trapped me in her pink bedroom and asked, somewhat innocently, "So, you're a doctor?" I was taken aback, to say the least.

"Yes, I'm a doctor," I replied. I glanced around her bedroom, with its incessant pinkness everywhere, and I was more than a little nervous.

"I have something to show you," Millie said, her voice sounding concerned.

"Well, I'm not sure if-" I stuttered.

Then she started unbuttoning her blouse.

"I really must be going," I said and started for the door.

"Wait!" she shouted, sliding in front of the door. "I need to show you something. I'm serious."

"I'm not that kind of doctor."

"Oh, what kind of doctor are you?"

"I work with couples. Relationships. Intimacy issues."

"Sex?" she blurted out, a little too excitedly for my liking.

"Well, yes. Sex between consenting adult. Usually married couples."

"Oh, okay. I'm neither one of those. But I do have sex."

"Well, that's not my concern. That sounds like something you and your mother should discuss. Now, if you don't mind. I would like to join the others."

"Why? They're all boring."

"Still. I must be going."

"You're sweating."

"I think it's a nervous reaction to all this pink."

"I have even more pink to show you."

"Well, I have to go, Millie. It was nice to talk to you."

"It was nice. I can always show you later."

"Sure. That's fine," I said. Little did I know, unbeknownst to me, I had just agreed to let her flash me just about every day for the rest of my natural days.

At first, Millie's flashes were altogether harmless. They were quick turns and pivots, where no actual flashing or skin was shown. This was mainly before I married her mother. After I married her mother, well, Millie was inclined to up the ante.

When we bought the house in Skylark, and we all moved in together, in hopes of becoming one happy family, Millie was about seventeen, almost eighteen and her flashes had grown somewhat sophisticated, if not just plain brash.

Rarely did she keep her clothes completely on. Meaning her underwear, especially her bras, which I was getting know each one seemingly each day, were always on display. To make matters worse, it was impossible not to notice that Millie's breasts had doubled in size in the short time I knew her, but she saw no reason to get new bras that would have fit appropriately. She preferred to keep the bras that were obviously too small, and caused her oversized breasts to spill out. Sometimes, if you listened real close, I'm sure you could even hear her bras straining to keep everything inside. It got to the point that Beatrice went out and bought her new bras, but Millie didn't seem to like them for one reason or another.

When Millie turned eighteen, I was especially excited, because it meant that more than likely she would be leaving us to going away to college. However, when she decided to go to the local community college, my hopes were dashed. And her age, as if she saw it as some right or something, seemed to invoke some sort of freedom or a free spirit in her. She was eighteen now. A woman, she would sometimes say. And so, naturally, her flashing could entail not only underwear now, but nakedness as well.    

One thing she liked to do in particularly was when only she and I were home, which was a scary proposition to begin with, and was happening more and more since Beatrice went back to work, was Millie would walk around the house completely naked. I would be in my office and if I forgot to shut my office door, invariably, I would see Millie walk past the doorway, talking on the phone or just walking about, completely naked.

On one of these afternoons, when I was working on some case studies in my office, I heard Millie call out, not frantic, just trying to get my attention, "Mosely? Mosely?"

I cringed.

"Mosely, could you come here?"

I went to the doorway of my office. "Where are you?"

"In here." I heard her voice from her bedroom.

I rolled my eyes. I walked down, somewhat stealthily, as if her prospective nakedness was a ninja about to pounce on me. I was already nervous. Already sweating.

I got to her bedroom and there she was lying on her bed, wearing a tight, black piece of negligee, which she didn't even bother putting her breasts in. Instead, she was lying on her stomach, with her large breasts spread out on the bed. But no nipples were exposed. As if that mattered.

I recoiled back and around the doorway. "Yes?"

"I have something to show you."

"I'm a little busy," I said, still looking away, down the hallway.

"I know. It'll only take a minute."

"What is it?"

"I can't just tell you. It's something I have to show you," Millie said playfully.

"Your mother will be home any minute."

"What does that have to do with anything?" Millie asked, amused.

"Well. I need to start dinner soon."

"Oh. Yeah. Of course."

"I'll see you at dinner."

"Okay," Millie said, disappointed.

After this, I decided to be a little more proactive about this problem. As soon as I got back to my office, I called one of my assistants, Connie Cryer, and asked if she could come by the house tomorrow.

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