I always thought I was pretty, at least my dad always told me that I was. It was a long time before I realized that a daddy's only real reason for being on the planet was to think, or at least tell, his daughter that she is pretty. I can't look so bad though; I mean, I still get the occasional young butthead that says, "Nice azz baby!" Of course you know how much that turns me on. The best thing about a remark like that is the look on his face when you don't swoon, fall on your back and open your thighs for him. There are those polite guys that look down my top when they think I don't know and look away all innocent. There's some point here ... umm ... oh yes, I may not be so pretty, but guys still look. Jeez, I'm only 25. I could lose a few pounds, but 120 isn't so bad for 5'5". My hair is brown and I even brush it. I've been told that I have pretty eyes (well, Daddy told me they are). I swear that after I weaned the Rug Rat I lost some boobs, but a good B cup still fits. The nipples used to stick up better too, but even the pervs that look down my top will never know.
I have a really great job too. My family and friends all say that I do and they don't even have a clue of what I do, so they are experts. My title is Special Administrative Assistant To The Mayor. Too bad my pay isn't as big as the title. Basically my main function is email. I open all of the Mayor's email. The nice people get a sweet note from the mayor with his electronic signature, the buttholes get forwarded to the Deputy Mayor (who comes in peeks down my top and bitches about all of the email he gets), and a few stray emails from the Mayor's boyfriends that were sent to the wrong addy. The Mayor's wife always gives me a nice smile when she comes in, but the Mayor never makes eye contact with me or peeks down my top.
Asshole (my soon to be ex) and I had to rent a house because, even though my parents gave us a ton of money for a down payment, the bank took our home from us. Asshole could never keep a job fixing transmissions, soon ran out of places that fix transmissions, and was mostly out of work. He always seemed to find the money to buy me stuff. He brought me home a puppy named, well, Puppy. He never understood that I really loved to give him blowjobs, so he brought me stuff. Pretty soon he ran off with a young girl that he claims was 18 and, because the cops haven't dragged him off, she must've been. Apparently he liked her because she'd give him blowjobs without needing him to buy her all of that stuff.
You know, I didn't even cry when he left. I've never cried about it or even really felt bad. My only act of rebellion was to gather all 17 pairs of thongs that Asshole insisted that I wear, put them in a little plastic bag, tie them up, and put them in the Goodwill bin. Can you imagine the look on the person's face that I opened the bag? Well, they were clean. God I hate thongs. I went out and bought three Bag O' Bikinis (okay, I made that up, but they do come three to a bag) and sorted out nine unique string bikini panties while the sales lady wasn't looking. They know that you do that; they just pretend that they aren't looking. Cotton? I don't care, they're comfy. Besides, no one will ever see me in them except Rug Rat. I've stuffed twenty bucks aside for some satin ones from Victoria's Secret at the mall. Just in the off chance that I ever get lucky again.
Thunder thighs (my sister) moved in to help pay for renting the house. Her husband is serving in Iraq and she cries a lot about missing him. She doesn't seem to miss out on the sex though. She has a variety of Just-A-Friends to stop by and make her moan when I need my sleep for work. Maybe I'm just jealous because she has some cock and I have my fingers. It's a pretty nice house though. It's a sort of log cabin affair overlooking a golf course that we can't play because it's for people that can afford to have prime rib every night and not folks like us that are trying to find new ways to make rice without puking.
So here I am, a pretty young thing with a great azz, nice tits, and pretty brown eyes. I'm stuck with Thunder Thighs, a four year old (almost five) Rug Rat that thinks she's a princess, and a puppy named, well, Puppy.
There's a story here somewhere ... I tend to babble ... bear with me here ... oh yes...
We live on a cul-de-sac (spell check please). There's a mean guy sort of across the street named Grumpus. Grumpus gives me a dirty look every time I come home and into the driveway. I call it stink eye. I wait to get the mail until I'm sure that he's gone so I don't meet him at the mailbox. Seems he's always working in his yard though. Just standing with a hose and watering it. Grumpus has a beautiful lawn. Nasty guy, but a pretty lawn.
One evening I picked up the Rug Rat from day care and came home. There's a little gate that opens from the steps to a small deck. I'll be fucked (I wish) if Rug Rat didn't let Puppy out. Shit! Where did Puppy head first thing? You guessed it, straight for Grumpus. Across the cul-de-sac, up the little slope to Grumpus. Rug Rat was beating her feet right after him too. Shit!
So here I come after the pair of idiots and stop dead just inches from the start of his beautiful green lawn. Puppy's body is all bent around and his skinny tail is wagging so fast that I was afraid it would break its poor back. Rug Rat is standing looking up at Grumpus, her hands clasped against her chest, staring up at him like her Savior stepped down from heaven.
I think, 'Okay, he's going to squash Puppy in a single stomp of his foot and then practice standing free kicks with Rug Rat, but there is no way that I'm putting a foot on his grass.' And then, 'He is one handsome guy though.'
Gumpus didn't smash Puppy. He got down on one knee, looked at the Rug Rat and smiled; he picked up Puppy and cradled him in his arms and scritched him behind his ear. Puppy was smiling, Rug Rat was smiling and I was still terrified, but he reached up and gave Rug Rat a little scritch too. When he stood up with Puppy, Rug Rats eyes followed him and I could nearly hear her heart beat from where I was. I imagined an old cartoon where little hearts popped out of her chest and sailed into the wind.
Grumpus started toward me and I just stood there. When he got right up next to me, his arm touched mine and I knew to take Puppy in my arms. It was like an electric shock ran through me when he touched me. I wasn't sure if I was going to pee my panties or cream them. I started to stutter something like ... she ... I ... the puppy ... the gate ... and ... and...
Grumpus looked me right in the eye (not at my tits or azz) with those big crystal blue eyes and said, "It's okay." I walked back to the house with an armful of Puppy, a Rug Rat by the hand, and muttering, "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay."
When I got home, I went to the fridge and got out the vintage box of red wine and poured a full glass (never more than one glass or it gets pretty ugly). Just as I sat down and got comfortable, Rug Rat boosted herself up on my lap and announced, "He's not a Grumpus."
"He likes you."
"How do you know?" I have the audacity to ask a princess that knows everything.
"I just do." Then she backed away from me, put a finger on the side of my eyes and said, "He has pretty blue eyes and he crinkles right there when he smiles."
"I know." Then thinking a minute, I said, "But he's old."
"So are you, but I still like you anyway."
I removed her from my lap, patted her butt and said, "Go change now so I can wash clothes." I pulled up my skirt, pushed off my pantyhose and started for the washing machine. Instead, I gave them the fate of the thongs, except I threw them in the garbage. Goodwill might not like used pantyhose. Then I sat back down to finish my vintage boxed wine and pondered the things that one might learn from a four (almost five) year old princess.
That night, while Thunder Thighs was upstairs getting her insatiable cunt pounded by another Just-A-Friend and moaning, I was in bed trying to think about how I was going to be able to afford a new bikini for summer. But my fingers were concentrating on Blue Eyes for some reason and I soon gave in to the fingers and managed the best orgasm that I'd had in a very long time.
We saw him most days after that. I slowed down as we drove by so that Rug Rat could wave to her savior. I even had the mailbox timed so that I might just happen to be there when he was out. Once in awhile, as I was pulling in, a white Honda with a bleach blonde driving it was pulling out. Hmmm.
Then one night while Rug Rat was sifting through her Spaghetti 'O's to pick out those that are not suitable for a princess, she said, "Cowen Akana."
"That's his name."
"Who told you that?" I knew she was close, because his mailbox said O'Connell.
"Ray Me said."
Ramma is the round little lady that lives between Blue Eyes and us. She sits on her step smoking cigarettes because her husband of 45 years says she shouldn't smoke in the house anymore. Ramma doesn't argue with him because he's been sick and besides, she needs the fresh air when she smokes. Anyway, it's time to visit Ray Me again. Not because I'm snoopy of course, but because she's so nice to Rug Rat when she visits.
.... There is more of this story ...