Holy Fucking Shit: Like Mother, Like Daughter
Copyright© 2025 by The_Fountainhead
Chapter 6: Paper Cuts
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 6: Paper Cuts - A cocky college quarterback comes home for one last wild summer and starts a no-strings fling with his little brother’s ex, eighteen-year-old amusement-park hellcat Holly. What begins as daily reckless sex explodes when Holly’s newly-divorced MILF mother Debbie discovers them—and realizes the filthy dreams that have haunted her for weeks all feature the same twenty-year-old stud now railing her daughter on the family-room couch. Permission is enthusiastically granted, boundaries shatter, and by
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft Ma/ft mt/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Teenagers Consensual Lesbian Heterosexual Fiction Light Bond Rough Spanking Group Sex Orgy Anal Sex Cream Pie Double Penetration Exhibitionism Facial Fisting Masturbation Oral Sex Sex Toys Squirting Voyeurism
Tuesday, June 25, 6:30 a.m.
The alarm rips me out of a dream I don’t want to remember. I slap it silent and lie there, ceiling fan spinning lazy circles above me. Tuesday. The salon doesn’t open until noon, my one half-day off all week. George’s side of the bed is a crater of untouched sheets, the indent from his body long gone. He’s still in Berlin, or Frankfurt, or wherever the hell he is this week. I stopped asking months ago.
Yesterday floods back in technicolor: Shane’s knuckles grazing mine, the deliberate brush of his hip, the way his eyes never left the mirror while I painted Holly’s hair. My stomach flips. I squeeze my thighs together under the covers, then kick them off in disgust. Get up, Debbie.
I roll out of bed, pull on black leggings and a tank, twist my hair into a knot. The house is too quiet, no Holly humming in the shower, no clatter of cereal bowls. She didn’t stumble in until after midnight, crashed on the pullout again. I pad downstairs, start coffee, stare out the window at the empty driveway. Shane’s truck was here yesterday. Now it’s not. Good. Bad. I don’t know.
Pilates studio by 7:15. The parking lot’s already half-full of SUVs and yoga mats. Inside, the air smells like eucalyptus and desperation. I claim a spot in the back row, less chance of small talk. The instructor bounces in, all ponytail and enthusiasm. “Let’s wake up those glutes, ladies!”
Sweat drips into my eyes, burns. My legs shake on the last set of pulses, but I hold. For a second I imagine Shane watching, that slow smirk spreading. Gotta stay in shape. I nearly drop the reformer.
Book club at 9:30 in the corner of Brewed Awakening. Same table, same faces. The novel was some second-chance romance I skimmed on the treadmill. Lisa’s already halfway through her latte, waving the paperback like evidence.
“I mean, the groveling,” she says. “Chapter twenty-three? I highlighted the whole thing.”
Murmurs of agreement. I nod, sip my own coffee, black, no sugar. Karen leans in. “Speaking of groveling, did you see that quarterback kid mowing the Millers’ lawn yesterday? Shirtless. Lord have mercy.”
My cup freezes halfway to my mouth. “Jack’s brother,” I say, too fast. “Shane.”
Karen fans herself. “Whatever his name is, he can mow my lawn anytime.”
Laughter. I force one too, change the subject to the beach read for August. Inside, my pulse is sprinting.
Home by 11:15. Quick shower, scalding, then ice-cold to shock the thoughts away. I blow-dry my hair, swipe on mascara, pull on a sleeveless blouse and linen pants. Professional. Together. I check my phone: nothing from Holly, nothing from George. The silence feels heavier than usual.
I grab my keys, lock the door, and head to the salon.
The parking lot is empty when I pull up at 11:50. Except for the bench out front. A man in a cheap gray suit sits there, knees together, thick manila envelope in his lap. He stands the second my sandals hit the pavement.
“Debbie Canfield?”
My stomach drops. “Yes?”
He thrusts the envelope at me. “You’ve been served.” Then he’s gone, sliding into a dented sedan and peeling out like he’s late for his next heartbreak.
I fumble the key into the lock, flip the deadbolt behind me. The salon is dark, cool, smells faintly of ammonia and yesterday’s coffee. I tear the envelope open under the fluorescent lights at my station.
PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE George R. Canfield v. Deborah M. Canfield
No-fault. 50/50 split. Irreconcilable differences.
The words blur. I sink into my chair, papers spread like tarot cards. Twelve years. One signature and it’s over.
I wait for the tears. They don’t come.
Instead, a laugh bubbles up, sharp, surprised. Relief, pure and bright, floods every crack the marriage left behind. The separate bedrooms. The polite dinners. The way he stopped looking at me like I was a woman and started looking through me like I was furniture. It’s been dead so long the corpse was starting to smell.
Holly flashes in my mind, her face when I tell her. She’ll be gone in a month anyway, off to Western with her brochures and her dreams. I’ll be alone in this house. The thought should terrify me. It doesn’t.
I consider the schedule taped to the mirror: 12:30 foil, 1:15 cut, 2:30 color correction, 4:00 trim. I could cancel everything. Close the blinds, lock the door, drive home, crawl into bed with a bottle of pinot and the divorce papers like a security blanket.
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