Total pages in book: 26
Estimated words: 23796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23796 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
“Thanks, Stanley,” I say while tipping him discreetly. “Is the auction on the second floor today?”
Stanley doesn’t blink an eye, his expression impassive. “On the third, sir. They changed the location. Please enjoy yourself.”
I nod, and stride through the opulent lobby to a plated brass elevator. But thinking better of it, I turn and head towards the stairs instead. I’m a fit dude, and three flights of stairs aren’t going to kill me. After all, I work out twice a day, with cardio in the morning and weights at night. You have to, at my age. Forty-five isn’t old, but if I want to maintain the physique of a gladiator, then it’s necessary.
After all, I take pride in maintaining my looks. It’s vain and self-centered, but we’re all judged on how we look no matter what any therapist says about “focusing on the inside” or “ignoring societal mores.” Hell, with the advent of the internet, men are judged just as harshly as women these days, and a lot of dudes get left-swiped because their bellies are flabby and their jaws weak. Hell no. I’m not letting that happen to me. Even if I need to wake up at four a.m. to get my workout in, it's going to get done because staying fit and healthy are priorities for me.
Yet with all the talk about looks, I don’t date a lot actually. Sure, ladies come and go, don’t get me wrong. I get my share of pussy because I’m hardly celibate. But I tend to use professionals because I’m stuck in a sordid rut, and finding it hard to clamber out. Even worse, all of the women I date are blonde, busty, and beautiful, with an innocent look in their eyes and a particular way of smiling at me that makes my heart race.
After all, I fell for a young woman a while back, and I haven’t been able to forget her since. Her name is Haley Monroe, and she was my stepdaughter. It’s fucked up and wrong. So fucked up and wrong, in fact, that I had to divorce her mother in order to distance myself from temptation. The young woman was underage and living under my roof at the time, and I couldn’t go there. My cock stiffened every time we were in the same room, and despite being a depraved motherfucker, I couldn’t do it. I was married to her mother, for crying out loud.
But it started out innocently enough. I met my ex through Haley, actually, because Haley and my daughter were middle school friends. How the two of them got to be buddies, I have no idea because Emma is spunky, vivacious and outgoing, while Haley is demure, sweet, and kind. But opposites attract, and soon the two seventh graders were close chums. They did everything together, and of course, I met Haley’s mom soon enough.
Back then, my ex was a looker. Brenda was in her late 30’s, but her age hadn’t started to show yet, and she could have passed for twenty-five. She was a gorgeous blonde with flowing hair, cornflower eyes, and of course a busty figure. I’m into women with curves because broomsticks have never been my thing. I like a female with assets that I can squeeze and enjoy, and Brenda delivered one hundred percent.
After a whirlwind courtship, we were married in a picture-perfect ceremony with just our daughters present. It was sweet. Both Haley and Emma were bridesmaids, and the two girls were giggly with excitement. They loved their matching pink dresses, and of course, my bride was resplendent in a mermaid gown that highlighted her generous assets.
So life was sweet ... for a while, that is. Brenda and her daughter moved in with Emma and me, and it was great. We enjoyed the big house on the lake, and the first year or two was filled with plenty of sucking and fucking to my heart’s content. Brenda took my seed non-stop, and I enjoyed giving it to my new wife in every position. Meanwhile, Haley and Emma did whatever eighth grade girls do. They were on their phones a lot, and were caught up in a mix of middle-school dances, rehearsing with the majorette team, as well as mooning over whatever pimply boys they had crushes on.
But when high school rolled around, everything changed. First, Brenda had a bad fall. It’s my fault because my house is huge, and the back stairs leading to the garage have always been a bit rickety and steep. Brenda decided to use the stairs one morning, and she tumbled down the entire flight, landing in an ungraceful heap at the bottom. I still remember the screams. They were blood-curling, filled with agony and despair, and of course, I rushed her to the hospital asap.
Then there were tests. And more tests. And more doctor’s appointments, and medication by the truckful. My wife blew-up like a balloon, and not in a good way either. What had formerly been proportional and sassy became distorted and gross. Her eyes disappeared behind mountainous cheeks, and her mass was so great that she literally couldn’t use the scale at her doctor’s office. We had to go to the hospital to use a special reinforced scale kept in the bariatric unit, and it was humiliating for everyone involved. Brenda’s cheeks were pale and her eyes oddly hot and dry as she was helped onto the weighing platform, and frankly, the ordeal reminded me of a farm animal being weighed at auction. Moreover, the doctor didn’t have the heart to tell us what Brenda’s weight was that day. He merely hemmed and hawed about “finding the right balance” and making sure that we had a “holistic approach to health.”