4: Tristan.
Legs shaking, and teeth grinding hard, I stare at the crumpled
pile of white lace on the counter.
No one has to know, Big Daddy. I can be your cute, little secret.
Your guilty pleasure.
Fucking fantastic.
Lia has absolutely no idea how long I’ve been in torment,
thinking about it. I’ve been counting the days until she finally
leaves home for college, relief, and fear whirling inside my
chest. With her gone, everything would truly be normal for once.
I wouldn’t have to come home every night, worried I might break
underneath the tension she’s placed me. Finally drag her perky,
sweet arse upstairs to my bedroom, shut the door, and fuck the living daylights out of her until she loses her breath.
With each visit, each day came a new temptation. One that
drives me further and further away from logical reasoning,
pushing me towards the steep end. The way she prattles into
the kitchen each time, in various revealing outfits, her eyes
gleaming with mischief, her hands getting more and more brave
when they touch me. She’s like a candy I can’t have. The
ultimate, alluring forbidden fruit. Twenty–five years my junior. My
son’s best friend. The daughter of our neighbor. And to put the
4 Tristan.
fucking cherry on the cake, I’ve played the role of a second
father to her all these years.
I had always seen her as my daughter. When did that change?
I run a hand through my hair as I try to recall. It’s not coming
–
easily to me – all a disturbing blur. Work does that to me. Makes me a bystander to everything going on in my personal
life a disinterested bystander at that. One day I looked up to
find out that Lia’s tits had swelled thrice the size of a medium-
sized baseball, and she now had a mouth–watering arse that
made my cock raise its head excitedly, bobbing it like a dog. My
head spun at the quick changes, which she revels in displaying
in my kitchen, to the detriment of my mental health.
She’s a fucking flirt. And a good one at that.
I’ve always seen it in her. Something in her demeanor, but her
new banging body makes that personality a dangerous weapon.
She’s aware of her potential; of the effect her appeal has on me.
Surely, I can’t be the only man she goes this hard for, can I?
I ask myself this over and over again, with no solid answer
forthcoming.
The girl is only being nice to me, like any other girl her age
would, but in her case, it made me feel desirable. Reminding me
that I still have a functioning dick and decades left to use it and bring forth twice a dozen babies if I wanted. There’s no way in
I
4 Tristan
hell that beautiful damsel wants a bulky, aging, thick–around–the- middle bastard like me with more salt than pepper in his hair. It’s only a game to her. She’s done this many times before to other men; teasing, and playing around.
That’s what I thought until she propositioned me. Made known the surprising fact that she wants me as much as I want her.
Lia could have any man in the city. She could have her pick of any man in the world. And yet she settles for me.
No one has to know, Big Daddy. I can be your cute, little secret.
Think about it.
God take the wheel. It’s been over five days since she’s said those words to me and I’ve been finding it hard to concentrate on my work or anything else. They keep echoing in my head, and I can’t get rid of my erection, no matter how many times I jerk off. And every single time, I think of her moaning Big Daddy into my ear, her tight pussy making squelching noises while I pump in and out of her. Honestly. I should be staked to a tree and burnt alive for even fantasizing about the girl, but that’s as far as I’m allowing myself to get carried away by her.
There will be no calling her.
There would be no long hours spent wondering how we could keep it a secret as best as possible.
I’m a man with morals. Held in high regard by society. Not some
- Tristan.
middle–aged creep who needs a barely legal girlfriend to feel youthful again. Lia deserves much better. She’s got al
shimmering future ahead of her. An education. A career.
Other men. Young.
I slam my fist so hard on the table, my phone almost falls face
flat down on the floor.
It’s quite funny to be jealous. Absurd. Just great. I’ve let her hypnotize me. Let her flirting get into my head. I’ve allowed myself to start thinking if she saw me differently from other men. If I was in any way, special to her.
You’re disgusting.
Worse than pathetic.
Take a fucking look at yourself in the mirror.
My reflection on the screen of my computer draws my attention. I exhaled loudly, noting the graying sideburns. Once upon a time, I was the hottest bachelor to ever walk the face of the earth, but I’ve traded my health for wealth. I’m no more as good–looking as I used to be, ever since Eunice’s death. What would I even look like on top of Lia’s gorgeous, supple body? It would be awful. Like that grainy homemade porn between a granny and a guy who was of the same age range as her last
son.
4 Tristan.
With an irritable curse, I swipe the thong off my desk and stuff
them back into my pocket, giving in to the urge to smell my
hand, roughly inhaling the lingering perfume of her pussy before
forcefully turning my mind back to the work I was doing. I open
my mail, ready to shoot off a reply to an important inquiry, when
a subject line about five emails from the top catches my eye.
WORLD CLASS BEST SERVICE. YOU CAN’T AFFORD TO PASS
UP THIS OPPORTUNITY. IT PROMISES A LOT.
My brows knot together in confusion. What in God’s name is
this? An advertisement? Seems like it. But why did my filtering
service pick it up? What could be the reason? I don’t recognize
the email address, but the name of the sender rings a
suspicious bell; Princeton Bastille. That sounds like one of the
rich, braggadocios boys from my Saturday Golf Club for sure.
And if so, I don’t want to outright ignore them, especially if this
is something ALL CAPS important.
I tap my finger on the mouse for a moment, contemplating, the
clock the email, finding a link in the body, and nothing more.
Just a tiny red link.
I leaned closer, squinting so I could read the words that is
embedded in the URL.
Hot southern sugar babies.
What the hell is that?
- Tristan
I shake my head, about to close the mail, to write this off as
spam, but something makes me tap the link out of curiosity. I’m
not a man who can walk away from something mysterious, and
I’ve never heard of hot Southern sugar babies before. If this is
some serious, illegal shit that has been sent to me by mistake, I
have to do the right thing and alert the appropriate authorities to
handle it. And when the website splashes open across my
screen, the header a deep shade of red, that’s my first thought.
This is illegal!
Prostitution.
There are hundreds of girls, young enough to be my daughter, if I had one, beaming in photographs in all types of poses. A vast majority are lying in beds, showing peeks of tempting skin. beneath their college sweatshirts. A sound of disgust escapes my lips, not from judgment, but because these girls must have reasons to exchange their bodies for money. Reasons like debt, I assume. And I don’t like knowing that this is an opportunity for perverts my age to take advantage of them using their
bottomless bank accounts. Why in hell would someone send
this to me
My jaw slacks as a particular photo catches my eye.
The first one is on the second row.
No. It can’t be.
4: Tristan.
It’s… it’s…Lia?
- Tristan.
5: Tristan.
