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Getting hot for pussy half my age is a midlife crisis symptom.
That’s all it is.
But I’m going to triumph over the urge. I refuse to give in to the immoral impulses I’ve been experiencing more and more recently. For instance, when I did laundry yesterday and I had to fold twenty tight little thongs, I wanted to stuff one down the front of my jeans and beat a round of semen out of me, but I didn’t do it. I simply left their laundry on the ends of their beds, shut their bedroom doors and left. Went to work. Worked until five am, trying not to think about those thong strings tangled up around my erection.
I hate myself for wondering if their young bodies would shake during an orgasm. If they could handle my weight on top of them. If they’re too innocent to be fucked hard, the way I’ve always liked it, or if I’d need to go easy. I’ve never been plagued by these kinds of obsessive thoughts before. My marriage to their mother was short-lived and more of a friendship. A convenience for both of us. At least, that’s how I’m remembering my relationship with Aileen now, because I never had this deep, dirty lust for her.
Not like I have for them.
It's sickening.
“Mrs. Wilson,” I say, a little louder than I intended, hands on my belt. “You forgot your pants again, ma’am.”
She smiles and waves back at me, obviously unable to hear me over the lawn mower. Christ, she’s going to make me walk all the way over there. Right up to the beaver.
A Netflix binge sounds pretty good right about now.
Except they would be there. Snuggled up on the couch in oversized sweatshirts and panties. Tanned thighs stretched out. Golden highways leading to those tight, ripe pussies.
Fuck.
Hastily, I wipe a bead of sweat where it rolls down the side of my face. “Mrs. Wil—”
“Uh, Sheriff?” It’s my two-way radio, crackling with life inside of my car. “We’ve got a bigger problem than Mrs. Wilson’s naked mole rat.”
Dread sinks in my stomach. “It’s the girls again, isn’t it?”
“Afraid so, Sheriff.”
2
Bella
Oh my God. Whatever.
We go skinny dipping in the mayor’s poolone time.
“You’re not going to put handcuffs on us, are you?” Over my shoulder, I bat my eyelashes at Portsmith’s newest deputy, Wendy, but her grimace doesn’t budge an inch. She’s not amused by our antics, as evidenced by the fact that she is leaving us standing here in nothing but towels, instead of offering to retrieve our clothes where we left them by the pool. “You know our stepdad is the sheriff, right?”
Finally, her lips change position, but only a smidge. In order to smile. “He’s the one that told us to handcuff you.”
“Wendy, I didn’t take you for a liar,” Charlie, my sister, deadpans. “Joe would never.”
“The hell I wouldn’t,” booms a familiar voice behind us. “Put them on tight, deputy.”
My mouth falls open at the same time as my sister’s. No way.
“Joe, why would you betray us like this?” I say, my tone giving way to panic. “It was just some harmless fun.”
“The mayor doesn’t seem to think so,” my stepdad says, phone up against his ear now. “He’s seriously considering pressing trespassing charges.”
Charlie winces as the cuffs clink close around her wrists, followed by mine. “You won’t let him, though, right?”
“Daddy?”
“Come on, Daddy.”
“Zip it, you two.” He gives us both a hard look. “I mean it.”
