Living in Sin
Copyright© 2025 by Al Steiner
Chapter 21: There’s Got To Be A Morning After
Fiction Sex Story: Chapter 21: There’s Got To Be A Morning After - Two single-parent sheriff’s deputies move into a wealthy, uptight neighborhood and accidentally set off a storm of paranoia, lust, and suburban meltdown. As judgmental neighbors spiral, sexually frustrated housewives come calling. Amid threesomes, gossip, and chaos, Scott and Maggie discover their friendship hides something deeper. Darkly funny, raw, and fearless, Living in Sin is a satire of morality, desire, and the lies we live behind picket fences.
Caution: This Fiction Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Illustrated
Scott opened his eyes to the sound of Maggie’s voice.
“YC,” she said softly, giving his shoulder a little shake. “Wake up. Dinner’s here.”
He blinked, orienting himself. Maggie’s bedroom. Maggie’s bed. And he was wearing nothing but the boxers he’d walked in with back in another lifetime—the lifetime where he hadn’t fucked his best friend. And really liked it.
“What’d you order?” he asked, voice gravelly from sleep.
“Pizza,” she said. “Always a crowd pleaser when you’re feeding kids. Combo from Old Towne. I got us some of those garlicky bread things too.”
His stomach growled on cue. “Good call.”
“I also brought you some things.” She gestured to the dresser, where a neatly folded pair of jeans and a clean shirt sat on top. Beside them: his Sonicare, his razor, deodorant, a travel-size shaving cream. “That way you can just ... get dressed and come downstairs like you took a shower in here. Everyone does it sometimes—the shower’s nice.”
Scott smiled faintly. “You really do know me.”
She caressed his shoulder, slow and gentle. “I really liked what we did earlier,” she admitted. Her voice carried that careful honesty she always used when she was working something out in her head. “I’m still trying to come to grips with it, but I loved it.”
He reached up, covered her hand with his. “I loved it too. And even if we never do that again, I still love you. You’re my best friend, Maggie. Always will be.”
She gave him a smile, soft but wry, and let her hand slide away. “That’s sweet. Now ... just make sure you clean your whiskers out of the fuckin’ sink when you’re done. You can leave the towel on the floor, I don’t care about toothpaste spots on the mirror, but whiskers in the sink? That’s across my line of acceptable leavings.”
He chuckled. “Promise—no whiskers.”
Scott stood at the sink, toothbrush humming in his mouth, the vibration rattling through his jaw. He shaved next, taking his time with the strokes, watching his reflection. The same face as always stared back at him, but he felt different. Jeans, shirt, deodorant. Just another cop getting ready for dinner and work.
Except when he’d entered this room seven hours ago, he hadn’t fucked his best friend. Now he had. He was still trying to wrap his mind around it. And every time he tried, his memory betrayed him—flashing to the feel of Maggie’s body wrapped around him, the stretch and heat of her while her tongue tangled with his and she licked the side of his neck.
He blew out a breath, shook his head, and got dressed.
Downstairs, the house smelled like garlic and melted cheese. Maggie had the pizzas spread on the counter—combo and bread twists from Old Towne. Christopher and Katie were already loading their plates, arguing about who got the bigger slice like it was just another Sunday. And for them, it was. To them, nothing was different about today. It wasn’t the day their parents decided to fuck each other—it was just pizza night.
The food was good. Conversation was normal. No awkward glances, no questions from the kids. Scott could almost believe he and Maggie hadn’t crossed a line upstairs.
At 7:15 he pushed back from the table, grabbing his keys. He said his casual goodbyes like always. Hollywood and mainstream novelists liked to paint a scene where every cop walking out the door got a solemn farewell, everyone silently wondering if this was the last time. Reality wasn’t like that. Cop families didn’t dwell on it. Dad or Mom was just going to work. Sometimes the thought flickered in the background, but it was rare.
By 7:40 Scott was at the station, moving through the familiar start-of-shift ritual. Locker, uniform, vest, gun belt. Same routine he’d done a thousand times.
The locker room chatter was the same too—today centered on Mendez, who had apparently been the first to score with the new Starbucks girl. He gave his report with the detail of a detective—natural tits, real red hair, and proof via the fact that she didn’t shave her bush. “Not at all?” someone asked, incredulous. That sent the room into a debate about pussy hair. For some, a full, untamed bush was a deal breaker. Others shrugged. As long as there was a pussy under there, why not? Others still proclaimed that they would fuck a hairy bush without hesitation but there was no way on God’s fucked-up Earth they’d put their mouth down there. And that led into a discussion about licking assholes while eating pussy. Only two people—Harris and Korch—admitted to ever having done this. Both said they would only do it after she took a bath, but women really were into that kind of thing. Most declared that their tongue would not lick an asshole even if doing so granted a threesome.
Scott didn’t participate. Nobody noticed he was quieter than usual. Nobody suspected he’d just fucked Winslow the Lesbo, as she was affectionately referred to in the squad room.
After dressing, Scott headed out to his assigned patrol unit for the night: 22-479.
The numbers meant something, of course. First two digits were the year Heritage County had bought it—in this case, 2022. The second number was its slot in the purchase order. Vehicle number four hundred seventy-nine that year. Motor pool staff did the assignments before they clocked out, their last act of service before going home to dinner and Netflix.
Scott started the ritual. He lugged out his AR-15, his less-than-lethal launcher (a shotgun in the old days, now upgraded for the reform era), and his war bag. He’d noticed years ago that female cops tended to make two trips when prepping their units. Male cops? Always insisted on hauling everything in one go. Scott stuck to the ritual. He had his own technique for balancing the load, efficient enough—though if he ever stumbled, he knew he’d eat asphalt face-first with no chance of catching himself.
He clipped the less-lethal into the hatchback, seated a thirty-round mag into the AR, and locked it into the rack between the front seats. No round chambered. Long guns were kept safe, unlike sidearms, which were hot twenty-four/seven.
Back inside, Scott found the chatter from the locker room had spilled into the briefing room. The butthole debate was now unisex.
Boulder, sprawled in her chair, declared, “Never had a guy lick my butthole before. But I’m open to it.”
Carter looked horrified. “That’s disgusting.”
Mendez raised an eyebrow. “You ever had your pussy eaten, Carter? ‘Cause everyone knows black men don’t eat pussy.”
Boulder sat up, eyes flashing. “You better check yourself. My husband—who, for the record, looks like a fucking African-American Greek god—is the pussy fucking master. So don’t tell me about what black men do or don’t do.”
“Bold claim,” Mendez said, grinning.
That was when Lt. Ransom entered. The Watch Commander. Motto: I rule the night.
Normally, the room toned itself down when he showed. Not tonight. The debate rolled right on, loud and crude, as if the boss wasn’t even there. Ransom stood for a moment, sipping his coffee, eyes sweeping the room like a man taking in the scenery from a hilltop.
Finally, he rumbled, “What the hell are you people talking about?”
Boulder grinned. “Buttholes, el-tee. Mendez says no man worth his salt eats one. Carter says it’s disgusting. I say I haven’t had it done yet but I’m game.”
Mendez chimed in helpfully, “And Carter says her husband eats pussy like a champ.”
Ransom gave a slow nod, as if considering a weighty matter. He took another sip, then set his coffee down. “I’ve been shagging females for more than thirty-five years. Since that first time back when I was a high school sophomore. And I can tell you this: a wise man will put his tongue in any orifice, under any conditions, if it gets him into the pussy. That, ladies and gentlemen, is sacred male code.”
The room broke into hoots, groans, and laughter. Ransom just reclaimed his coffee and moved to the front of the room, king on his hill, ready to start the night’s business.
Scott sat back, silent. Hearing but not participating. He had never licked an asshole before but he would try it. Why not? As long as it was a clean asshole.
The briefing wrapped, assignments handed out, and soon enough the night was moving. Scott slid behind the wheel of 22-479, alone, easing into the rhythm. The streets were busy—calls already stacking up.
He was still half-lost in his head, replaying the afternoon upstairs in Maggie’s bed. Her body wrapped around him, tongue in his mouth, licking the side of his neck while he fucked her. He tried to shove it aside, focus on the shift, but it kept bleeding back in.
The first call came quick: a family disturbance in one of the county’s many trailer parks. Scott pulled up, headlights sweeping over dented siding and sagging porches. Mom tweaker, Dad tweaker, and twenty-five-year-old Baby tweaker were going at it inside. Junior had an ankle bracelet blinking like a little homing beacon on his leg, pacing the kitchen like a dog that hadn’t been walked.
The complaint was theft. Junior was stealing Mom and Dad’s “shit.” None of them would define what “shit” was, and they didn’t have to. Scott had been around long enough to know.
The shouting went in circles until finally Scott persuaded Junior to go crash with “that trailer-trash slut he’s been fucking.” Scott didn’t miss the irony. Mom and Dad Tweaker lived in a trailer park themselves, but apparently Junior’s girlfriend occupied one of the lesser parks. Not one of the classy ones like this fine establishment.
Dispatch didn’t give him much breathing room. Before he’d even cleared the trailer park, the next one hit: disturbance at the homeless camp by the light rail station.
Scott pulled in and found the scene already breaking up into factions. Two younger dirtbags—though in the homeless world younger meant somewhere south of middle age—were still chesting up, having gone a few rounds over one of the females.
She might’ve been thirty. She might’ve been sixty. Hard to tell under the grime, the missing teeth, the skin infection creeping across her neck. Scott didn’t want to know her real age. Didn’t want to know her real anything. Golden Rule number one when dealing with the homeless: don’t run their names through the system unless you absolutely have to. Hidden surprises always lurked in their backgrounds. Arrest warrants out of Reno or Dearborn, fucking Michigan. Sex offenders who had gone dark on the registry. Parole violators. Disturbing priors. He’d once looked too deep and found the bum he was running had once been arrested in San Diego for digging up a body in a city cemetery and stealing the skull to smoke pot out of it.
And the absolute last thing you wanted was to have to arrest a homeless person. Inventorying their possessions was a nightmare. Every scrap of filthy papers, filthy random belongings like bottle caps or tattered crusty remnants of a sock were suddenly things the bum in question had carried to war “back before you were born, kid”, or that had once saved his life up in Seattle.
Mendez was his cover unit for that one and the two of them went to work as a tag team of bad-cop/badder-cop. They threatened to haul both combatants in for “mutually expressive combat”—an offense that didn’t actually exist outside the men’s imaginations. It worked, though. The two shook hands, mumbled apologies, and agreed to respect Ms. Homeless Tweaker’s decision on which one she wanted to fuck tonight if a spit-roasting was off the table.
Ms. Tweaker grinned, exposing gums and patchy teeth, and told both deputies she was available for the taking. Anything you want. Just let me shower at your place and give me some fucking food.
Scott and Mendez thanked her politely and told her they must decline. “We’re gay,” Scott said flatly.
“Yeah,” Mendez added without missing a beat. “Both of us.”
“For each other even,” Scott finished.
She shrugged, as if two cops turning her down for sex because they were gay was just another way the system worked against her—another way The Man kept her down. She shuffled back into her tent.
Through it all, Scott’s mind kept circling back to Maggie. The way her body had felt wrapped around him. The taste of her pussy, the heat, the sounds she made. The unresolved debate—who really ate pussy better, men or women? Lena’s diplomatic dodge suddenly seemed less helpful. And hanging over it all was the wondering: would they even do it again? They hadn’t talked about that. Not once.
No calls were pending after that one. He pointed 22-479 toward the Starbucks. He hadn’t had a drop of coffee yet, and the night already felt long.
He didn’t made it.
The MDT beeped, screen lighting up with a callout: the payphone at North and Marquez. Possible 187. RP states he killed a man. Nothing further.
Scott exhaled sharply.
Three other units rolled with him. Sergeant Yee, Carter, and Mendez. Scott and Carter were paired again. He remembered the last time they’d shared a call—BWIII’s brains splattered across his boots.
An update flicked onto the screen while he was en route: RP was now telling dispatch he shot a man in the chest. It was a “drug thing.” He was remorseful and wanted to confess.
Scott’s pulse ticked up. BWIII? Could this be Hard Core calling to turn himself in?
He swung his patrol unit to the curb around the corner from the payphone, stopping out of sight. He waited ninety-six seconds for Carter’s unit to pull in behind him. Together, they rolled forward, sirens of the other responding units wailing faintly in the distance.
The corner opened, the payphone in view.
A black male adult stood beside it—a BMA in cop language. Older. Rumpled clothes hanging off him.
Not Hard Core. One theory blown.
They rolled up close, tires crunching against the curb. Both doors opened in near unison. Scott and Carter stepped out quickly, pistols already in hand, angled down along their thighs—ready without being outright threatening.
Scott took the lead. “You the one who called us?”
The man nodded. “Yeah,” he said, near tears. “I killed someone. I wanna confess.”
Scott’s tone stayed even. “We’ll get to that. First things first—are you carrying any weapons?”
The man shook his head. “No.”
“You told dispatch you shot somebody. Where’s the gun?”
“Got rid of it. Soon as I did it. Threw it down a storm drain. Over at North and Simmons.”
Scott glanced once at Carter, then back at the man. “We’ll need to check. Turn around. Hands on the back of your head.”
The man complied, slow but steady. Fingers laced.
Scott and Carter moved in, careful with their angles, neither drifting into the other’s line of fire.
Dispatch cleared the air for them—radio priority tone reminding every unit in the county to shut up until Dover or Carter either started screaming for help or told them to resume normal radio traffic.
Scott holstered, stepped in, and took hold of the man’s clasped hands. “Spread your feet.” He gave a tug backward, just enough to off-balance him—harder to try anything cute if you weren’t standing solid.
The smell hit him right away. Booze, thick and sour. But not the rank, layered stench of the homeless. Not the embedded funk every cop could pick out of a lineup—rotting clothes, urine, weeks of grime and sweat. This man didn’t smell like that.
Scott’s hands moved down his torso in practiced sequence. Waistband first, then pockets. Back pocket: wallet. Left front: cigarette pack. Right front: lighter, some change. Nothing that felt like steel. He left everything in place.
Upper body, clear. Legs, clear.
Unarmed.
Scott released the man’s hands. “Turn around and face me. You can put your hands down now.”
The guy complied. Up close, Scott studied him. The lines on his face, the wear around the eyes. Maybe forty-five, give or take.
“What’s your name?” Scott asked.
“Keefer, sir,” the man said steadily. “Keefer Noble Jackson.”
Scott raised his brows. “Got ID?”
Jackson fished a wallet out of his back pocket and pulled a state ID card from inside. Not a driver’s license, but DMV official all the same. He handed it over.
Scott passed the card to Carter, who stayed put. No one was running anything yet—not with sirens still screaming in from the distance and a whole lot of unknowns still floating about.
Scott’s cop senses weren’t twitching. No heat off this guy. No danger signs. He was starting to suspect this might be a psychiatric call and not a 187. That was the vibe Mr. Keefer was giving off. His mind, always ready with a sarcastic aside, wanted to go Rage Against the Machine on him and ask, There is something I can’t understand ... how you could just kill a man? His filter caught it before it escaped.
Instead, he kept it polite. “Why don’t you tell me about what happened, Keefer.”
Jackson’s voice cracked a little, but he dove in, spinning a long, jagged narrative. “I killed Stinky. Motherfucker ripped me in a dope deal. I caught up with him over at Waters and Highlands. Put one in his chest. Dropped like a sack of shit. Motherfucker died right there in front of me.”
Carter lifted her mic, updating dispatch: “RP is stating the 187 occurred at Waters and Highlands.”
Yee’s voice came across the radio a moment later. “Sixteen-Adam, you under control there?”
Scott keyed up. “We’re good.”
Yee diverted all incoming units to the supposed scene. Dispatch let everyone know there were no 911 calls of a shooting, no ShotSpotter activations. Nothing.
Scott looked back at Jackson. “How long ago are we talking here? Minutes? Hours?”
Jackson blinked, steady as stone. “A long time ago.”
Scott pressed. “Give me a number.”
“Twenty-three years,” Jackson said.
“Twenty-three... years?” Scott asked, incredulous.
Nothing turned up at Waters and Highlands. No body, no shell casings, not even the trace of a scuffle. Just a quiet, beat-up intersection with the usual trash blowing around the gutters.
Yee got on the air and released the other units from the call, his voice clipped but calm. “Sixteen-Adam and Fourteen-Adam stay with it. I’ll be en route myself.”
Yee rolled up three minutes later, nosed his unit in behind theirs, and climbed out, eyes scanning, posture all business. He didn’t waste words—just gave Scott and Carter a hard look that meant fill me in.
The story came together quickly from there. Keefer Noble Jackson—forty-two years old, born August 2, 1983—had indeed once killed a man. But it hadn’t been tonight. It hadn’t been this year. Hell, it hadn’t even been this decade.
It was back in 2003, when Jackson was twenty. A drug deal gone sideways, a man he only ever called Stinky. One in the chest, broad daylight. He’d been picked up within days, folded in interrogation to a detective long since retired and now serving as president of the local Lions Club. He’d confessed again in court as part of a plea bargain—second-degree murder instead of first. The DA had agreed to 25-to-life.
Mule Creek State Prison had been his home ever since.
Until four weeks ago.
He’d been paroled on his third eligibility when “good-time” was accumulated, cut loose into a world that had moved on without him. And now, standing under the buzzing streetlamp at North and Marquez, he smelled of liquor and regret. He said he thought about Stinky most nights. Especially when he drank, which was most nights.
“I just wanted y’all to know,” Jackson said softly, shoulders sagging as if the weight of the last twenty-two years were pressing down on him all at once, “that I’m still sorry for what I did. Still feel it. Every damn day.”
Scott believed him. It wasn’t the rehearsed remorse of a con playing for sympathy. It was raw, cracked open by alcohol and too much time alone.
Technically, Keefer was in violation. Parole said no drinking, and he reeked of it. But drinking violations were the most ignored rule in the book—by cops, by parole officers, by anyone who had to actually enforce the mess. Hauling him in over a couple of whiskeys would accomplish nothing except maybe pushing him back into the system for no good reason.
So Scott made a call. “Come on,” he told him. “I’ll take you home.”
Jackson nodded, eyes glassy. He slid into the back seat of 22-479 without complaint, sitting ramrod straight like the habits of prison still hadn’t worn off. They drove in silence, the glow of the dashboard casting his worn face in tired blue light.
Scott pulled up just shy of the halfway house he was currently staying in. He didn’t want the other residents seeing Keefer dropped off by a cop in a green-and-white. The politics of parole houses were complicated enough without adding “snitch” or “cop’s pet” to a man’s reputation.
Jackson opened the door but paused, looking back at him. “I’ll stay in tonight. I will.”
“See that you do,” Scott said. “Get some sleep. Tomorrow will feel lighter.”
Jackson gave a small nod, then stepped out. His shoulders slumped forward as he walked down the block, a solitary figure fading into the dim porchlight glow of the house.
Scott waited until he disappeared inside before pulling away. A genuinely remorseful cold blooded murderer. Who would have thought?
And then, as he turned back toward the main drag, Scott’s thoughts drifted again—unbidden, unstoppable—back to Maggie.
Sunday morning.
Maggie was in the middle of her RDOs. Two more days off before four straight nights on deck starting Monday. She’d thought she might toss and turn half the night, brain chewing itself to pieces over what she and Dover had done. Instead she’d slept better than she had in years. Out cold, no interruptions, no midnight staring at the ceiling.
Did that mean something? It seemed like it did. But—did she really want it to mean something? She didn’t know.
She rolled out of bed slowly, still in her sleepshirt and panties—same as last night. She would have a lazy day, she decided, and not change out of these clothes all day.
Her body was not entirely happy with her, though. She noticed it the second she swung her legs over the side of the mattress: her pelvis ached, her thighs felt wrung out, and her vaginal canal throbbed with a deep soreness she’d never experienced before. It was like the aftermath of an intense strap-on session combined with an overaggressive gym day leg routine.
She winced as she shifted. Every movement lit up the same set of nerves.
But all the same ... it was a good hurt. Corny, maybe, but true. The pain wasn’t just pain. It was fused to a very specific memory. A memory less than twenty-four hours old.
Scott above her. Inside her. The way it had felt.
She flushed, even alone in her room.
She padded to the bathroom, hiked up her night shirt, pushed down her blue panties, and sat to pee. Muscles complained the whole way down. She braced a hand on the counter and let out a soft grunt.
After, she stood, flushed, and went through the motions. Toothbrush, toothpaste, the hum of bristles on enamel. When she leaned up to spit, she caught sight of the mirror.
There were spots on the glass. Toothpaste flecks. Some of them hers from just now. But not all of them.
Some were Scott’s.
She froze, staring, and then—God help her—a wave of teen-girl giddiness swept over her. Scott’s spots! He’d stood right here. Naked. After they’d—
She shuddered a little and shook her head hard. “What the fuck is the matter with me?” she asked. Was she really about to go Hallmark hetero over a few spit dots?
To test herself, she went the other way. Thought about women. Desperately.
Lena came first. Lena’s tits against her face, Lena’s soft naked body pressed into hers. The taste of Lena’s tongue in her mouth, then lower—the feel of Lena’s wet pussy on her tongue, her own juices slicking her lips.
Her breath quickened.
Yeah, she realized, I’m still a lesbo at heart.
The heat rose instantly, unmistakable. She was juicing up down below, wetter by the second.
And it wasn’t just Lena. It could’ve been Stacy too. Hell, both of them. The images tangled together, two different bodies, two different tastes, both of them turning her on like a switch.
She set the toothbrush down in its holder and leaned against the counter, catching her breath.
Lena had told her that having sex with a woman made her horny for dick. Could it be that she had the opposite issue? The evidence was certainly pointing in that direction.
Maggie shook the thoughts off, though her body wouldn’t let her forget them entirely. She was wet. Not dripping, not desperate, but enough to feel it when she shifted her hips.
She thought about showering again, maybe letting the water rinse the ache away, maybe letting her fingers slide down between her thighs. But then she muttered, “Fuck it.” She could play with herself later—once Scott went to bed and the kids got wrapped up in a cartoon or their laptops.
And then a little voice whispered back: You don’t need the butterfly, do you? There’s a man in the house who could—who would—give you a few orgasms if you only asked.
She shook her head hard, chasing the thought away. She still hadn’t even put the first episode into perspective.
Instead she padded to the kitchen, bare legs carrying her across the tile. She needed coffee. She filled the reservoir and set the grounds, one of those generic “fancy” brands from the grocery store that was miles better than the Folgers swill they brewed at the station. The machine hissed to life. She folded her arms on the counter and just stared at it while it dripped.
That was when the front door opened.
She heard his tread instantly—solid, measured, familiar. A glance at the wall clock told her it was 6:33. On time for once. That didn’t always happen.
Scott stepped into the kitchen a moment later. Empty-handed, no gear bag, no laptop, no leftovers from the shift. Just Scott. He wore the same jeans and sweater he’d left in the night before, but now there was a faint shadow of stubble across his jaw.
Her eyes caught on it, unbidden. Stubble wasn’t usually her thing—for obvious reasons. But on him? It looked kind of sexy.
They looked at each other for a moment, both of them unsure what they should do. Should they hug each other? Kiss each other? They were lovers now. Or were they?
“Hey,” Maggie said, finally breaking the silence.
“Hey,” he returned. “The coffee smells good.”
“Almost done,” she said slowly. This conversation is lame! “How was it last night?”
That broke the ice well. The only thing worthy of a story was the remorseful murderer. He told the story well, not revealing the plot twist until the last moment. Scott was a good storyteller, whether he was telling work stories or making up stories for the kids. That was a good trait, wasn’t it?
Maggie cocked her head after he finished the story. “That fuckin’ payphone. What might possibly be the last surviving public payphone in all of unincorporated Heritage County. You’d think by now it would’ve had ... I don’t know, an accident.”
Scott snorted. “Because every cop and medic in the county wants it gone, but nobody wants to be the one who goes up against the phone company’s loss-prevention team. Those guys make IAD look like Mother Teresa on Xanax. They’re like the fuckin’ FBI but with no rules.”
That flash of humor, the way Scott could always spin something grim into something absurd, cracked her grin wide open. And just like that, it warmed her. Made things feel ... all right again.
He gave her a little grin, then clapped his hands once. “I told the kids I’d make pancakes and sausage this morning. With eggs on the side.”
“Eggs?” she asked.
“Runny for Katie—she likes to pretend the yolks are eyeballs and stick her fork in them to see the eye juice ooze out. Not sure if that’s creepy or not.”
“Maybe a little creepy,” Maggie said with mock solemnity. “But I’ll take the eyeball eggs too.”
“And for Christopher,” Scott went on, “firm, cooked all the way through with the edges brown—’the way Mom makes them.’”
Maggie rolled her eyes affectionately. “He’s such a little asshole.”
Scott just grinned wider. “Speaking of assholes,” he said. “We had a discussion in the briefing room about that very subject.”
“Cops talking about assholes at briefing?” she asked. “Who would’ve thought?”
“Not those kinds of assholes,” he said. “The literal kind. The opening between the butt cheeks where solid waste is eliminated from the body.”
She looked at him carefully as he moved around the kitchen, pulling pancake mix and syrup from the pantry, sausages from the fridge. “I’m going to regret this,” she said, “but why were you talking about literal assholes?”
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