Guilty Pleasures Ch. 01

Welcome to my latest series, mashing up a few more tropes. This one turned out to be a crazy ride, so get ready for something that ends quite unlike it begins. As of posting this first chapter, the last one or two are not finished, but I need some encouragement to get me to polish them up.

One thing you can be sure of, even though this is Literotica, and this story could easy veer off into... THERE, it does not in fact, go THERE. So either don't fear, or don't get your hopes up, whichever your preference.

Lastly, as always, I am not going for deep truths or gritty realism. The aim for me is a plausibly ridiculous course of events.

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Guilty Pleasures - One

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The young, sandy-haired boy, who was much too good-looking for my taste when it came to boys who hung around my daughter, was casually trying not to appear as if he was looking at me as he bent over to reach toward my beer fridge on the back deck.

"When do you turn 21, Victor?" I asked casually, my fingers still on the keyboard of my laptop. I didn't look up.

"Real soon, sir," he replied. I liked the 'sirs' from him. They showed some measure of respect and self-control. "Early August," he specified.

Unfortunately for him, I didn't like the sirs that much.

"Well, you can have that beer you are reaching for 'real soon'... like in three months," I said casually, still not looking his way.

"Come on, Mr. Petersen," he grumped.

I knew that if he was in his own dorm on a Saturday afternoon, he would probably be drinking beer. He knew that I knew it. I knew that he knew... etc. I knew that if they were back on campus, my daughter Becca, she of the 21st birthday in October, would likely be having a White Claw along with him. I even knew that if none of her friends were over, but she was home on her own with just me, she would most definitely be having a White Claw out of that same fridge, with my blessing.

I just grinned with only a hint of the good-natured malice that a father reserves for the sort of boy that hangs out with his daughter, but whom she carefully never calls her boyfriend within the father's hearing. "My house, the State's laws, Vic."

The kid grumbled, but reached instead for the cooler full of Cokes, pulling out an Orange Fanta.

Honestly, I ranked Victor among the less odious of the boys my little girl had swanned around with since she moved back in with me for her senior year of high school. That meant that I had been fortunate to miss most of her early high school sweeties, when she was living with her mother in Atlanta. But she had always been set on UNC Chapel Hill for college, so my ex and I amicably agreed that I should take over custody for her senior year. That way, she could re-establish herself as an in-state resident. It had been a financial decision, but I had been tickled pink to have her under my roof again.

Now a college sophomore, Becca lived on campus, but I live only twenty minutes from campus. I have a large pool and outdoor kitchen, which had earned me the dubious pleasure of frequent but random invasions by my daughter and her friends since I had moved her into the dorm as a freshman.

This day was one of those invasions. Becca's three besties, Anne, Carol, and Mary, were there of course, currently playing corn hole. Victor was there, obviously, as he had been more often than not lately. Two other boys had come along, who were clearly auditioning for a role similar to Vic's with Becca's friends. Damned if I could tell which one was chasing which one. It was possible that it wasn't clear to them. I irritably wished that Vic was kept as much at arm's length as these other two characters were. There were a few others in the crowd that afternoon, who probably had just been around at the moment of, 'Hey! Let's go hang at my Dad's house, swim in his pool, eat his food, and interrupt his quiet weekend of work, guys!'

It was a regular occurrence, as I said. Nowadays, in addition of deer meat, my freezer in the garage was always well-stocked with hamburgers, hotdogs, and turkey patties. I even had found myself keeping fresh eggplant on hand to grill for the occasional vegetarian Becca brought along.

I like to cook, especially cook-out. Sue me. And serving venison to new appearances on the boy front was an excellent excuse to show off my collection of shotguns and hunting rifles. I have to be more subtle these days with the ways I try (and probably fail) to keep her boyfriends in line. Last year, I had gone out and bought a teeshirt that read, "If you date my daughter, please know that I have a Shotgun, a Shovel, and an Alibi". and then changed into it during one appearance by a boy that I really did not like, Becca had actually hit me.

She dumped him less than a week later though, and I got some wordlessly-acknowledged credit for hating him before she did. I never found out what specifically made her turn on him, and I suspect that that is a good thing...

Besides crowds of college students in my home that I pretended to hate having around, there were lots of other things that were great about living in Chapel Hill. The Research Triangle area is a hotbed of tech companies and startups. I had been in shortly after the ground floor with one that you have heard of. When Becca was in eighth grade, they had gone public, and I had cashed out of the job. All according to plan.

Then Becca's mother and I cashed out of our marriage, which had not been part of my plan. As divorces involving a thirteen year-old child go, it had been amicable. My ex just got tired of me and my workaholic ways, and we both got lazy about staying in love. I didn't think she had ever cheated on me, but I was never sure. She has sure had plenty of other men in her life since, good guys mostly, but I had always wondered when she had started collecting other men. I mostly believed that she had been true until the divorce. My ex was mostly a good person, and we had tried (and often failed) not to hurt each other much.

I had not torn up the dating scene since the divorce. Workaholic, remember? Instead of retiring after the last company had gone public, as I had been half-planning, paying for half of Becca's mom's house in Atlanta meant I needed to keep my hand in and generate at least some income.

Again, I was in a tech hotbed. When you have the ability to put circuits together in interesting ways, and moreover have a reputation for doing a good job managing other people who put circuits together in interesting ways, opportunities find you. I got in even earlier this time on a second opportunity that turned out far better than I had expected. I foresee another, possibly even better cash-out a few years in the future.

In the meantime, some of the kids who Becca brought by were not there for her or the pool, they wanted to meet me. They wanted internships. A worthwhile few of them got them. I viewed Becca as an unofficial part of our HR department.

My alcohol duly defended, I went back to banging out some work on my laptop while I waited until it was time to cook. I usually can work pretty well on afternoons like this. I handle chaos and even crisis well. But the pretty laugh from across the pool, the laugh with that callous, annoying edge to it got in my head, as it usually did.

Stephanie Wilkes was over there, flirting with one of the boys who was supposed to be interested in Anne, Carol, or Mary. Why Becca tolerated her tagging along so often was beyond me. She was a bitch, and among Becca's friends, I liked her the least. As in, I did not like her any more than I did that lacrosse player, Chip Edgerton the fourth, who had mercifully not invited himself along that afternoon. Small favors.

I glowered over at Stephanie.

The problem was, I'm a divorced workaholic with a non-existent dating life, remember? I had slept with precisely one women since my ex and I parted ways. That had been shortly after my divorce, and both the sex and the aftermath had sucked. The last time I had so much as had my fingers on a woman was... fuck, was it sixteen months now? Twenty? And that literally had been at a dance during a marketing function. And she hadn't been interested.

Thoughts intrude.

I looked over at Stephanie, with her tight, cheerleader's body. Her firm ass and big, sweet, pert tits were packed into not much of a bikini and an image popped into my mind. I just wanted to bend that hot little bitch over the dining table inside and fuck her rotten from behind. I imagined pushing her down against the table, her bikini top half off her torso, the strings splaying out across the mahogany, and yanking the knot tying her bottoms open.

"You want to fuck me, don't you, Mister Howard?" she would growl defiantly.

"I'm going to fuck you," I'd growl. "Bitches who are mean to my daughter get fucked!"

"Well, what if I don't let you? What if I say... ohhhh!" she'd taunt, before trailing off as I jammed my cock into her tight, steamy depths. My cock is... it is fine. Nothing crazy, but nothing to be ashamed of either. But in the scene in my mind, Stephanie was mewling instantly as it made its mighty entrance.

In one of those sudden transitions you have in involuntary daydreams, I was pounding her, both of us sweaty. She still struggled beneath me, but it was just a token struggle, as if she was unwilling to admit that her queen bee facade was being pounded into the table. I would keep one shoulder pressed down with my hand, but reach under her with the other and squeeze one of those tasty young tits. I idly wondered what her real nipples were like, as I'd never so much as observed a pokie from her in any of the suits that she had worn to my pool.

"Mister Howard!" Stephanie would scream, coming powerfully, despite my having done nothing to help her along, too busy just slaking my own pent-up lust, lust that would explode in a cascade of white ejaculate pouring into her tight little...

What the fuck?!?

I slapped my laptop shut in horror at myself. I was about to pop up and go inside in shame, when I realized that I had really best not stand up right then. Not in front of all those kids. My cock may not be anything huge, but right at that moment, it was tenting my shorts with the best of them.

I leaned over and grabbed a beer for myself, and killed half of it in a single pull.

I looked over at Stephanie again, furtively this time. Yep, she was still a bitch. I still did not like her. I realized however, to my near horror, that, given the astronomically unlikely and wildly inappropriate chance that I might actually have sex with her, I'd have to watch myself. I couldn't let it be that near-violent, dominant shit my dislike for her had layered over the fantasy. But it was a good fantasy underneath...

My hormones rebalanced, and I shook my head at myself. Morals reasserted themselves. I would damned sure not make a move on Stephanie. I was forty-five for chrissakes.

Reality also reasserted itself, I was forty-five and would have had no chance, if I were dumb enough to try!

The humor of the very idea helped me reset, um, everything, and I got up to fire up the grill, free of embarrassing 'camping equipment.'

"Anne!" I shouted over at Becca's friend. "You are sous chef today!"

The dark-haired girl rolled her eyes at Carol in reaction to being drafted. Carol just laughed at the fact that it wasn't her.

I also called my daughter, and when Becca bounced over to me, I asked her, "That Tony kid is vegetarian, right?" She nodded, and indicated that Amy was too. Two of them today? I rolled my eyes. God made animals delicious for a reason. "Anne? Go grab me three eggplants from the basket in the kitchen," I simply asked.

"No problem, Mr. H," Anne replied. "Want me to slice them before I bring them out?"

"You are a dumbass, Anne," I told her.

"What? Why?" she asked, momentarily taken aback.

"If you are going to be proactively helpful, you are going to get drafted more often," I laughed.

The rest of the afternoon was pleasant. I even put away my laptop and talked football with some of the boys after food was served, until they all left, including certain smoking hot, bitchy temptations.

I seldom dream. Or rather, I seldom remember them. Virtually every dream I can remember is either a nightmare, or else one of an extremely freaky selection of post-tequila sleep hallucinations I've 'enjoyed'. That night?

Yeah, the dream wasn't good. I hadn't done a goddamned thing, but my guilt mechanisms were on overdrive.

*

Just because I did not have a dating life, does not mean I didn't have a social life. I had friends from work. I also had friends from the neighborhood, from tennis, from golf, and even a few I still occasionally got together with from back when I tried fencing. I had groups of people my own age over, especially when the weather was good, and I often went to other peoples' get-togethers.

The very next night after my humiliating fantasy, a Saturday, I went to Yancey and Wanda Franklin's house for Bridge Night. Those were always fun, even though, since my friends were almost all married, I usually got paired up with Peter, the other divorced loser in our group. Peter is an okay guy and has the virtue of being patient with a partner who isn't as good at Bridge as he is.

In between rounds, after Peter and I lost a rubber that was, for once, his fault not mine, he, Yancey, and I were depleting the bourbon supply when we observed Stan loudly, and unnecessarily nastily, talking smack to Wilson Huggins. We rolled our eyes, but said nothing. That Stan was a douchebag was knowledge as commonly accepted as gravity. You seldom felt the need to comment on gravity when an apple fell from a tree.

Why did such an asshole keep getting invited? He was a neighbor down the street from the Franklins, and more importantly, his wife Monica was an absolute sweetheart. Any time Stan got enough out of line for the subject of banishment to actually come up, we always agreed it would be too cruel to her.

Left unsaid, especially by the guys, was that while most of the wives in our group were nice-looking, and one or two, like Yancey's Wanda, were downright attractive, Monica was utterly smoking hot.

As Stan went on being... Stan, our conversation resumed. I found my eyes wandering, and inevitably ending up on Monica.

As I said, every woman in that room was pleasant, and most of them were in fine shape. If any of them had been divorced... long divorced, I'd have been interested in several of them. But come on, I knew and liked all their husbands. It kept speculation out of the equation.

But I detested Stan.

Monica was a thirty-five year old package of mature yet supple curves, long blonde hair, and humor-filled green eyes. And her husband was a walking penis who, in my father's, and certainly my grandfather's day, would have been punched in the nose on the regular at parties like this.

And Monica inexplicably seemed to dote on the arrogant prick. I shook my head inwardly as I examined her smooth round ass in the well-fitted khaki shorts she wore, all while Yancey and Peter fretted about the Tar Heels' quarterback situation. If Monica had ever shown any signs of serious dissatisfaction, I'd have cucked that fucking douchebag Stan with wild abandon.

Imagine if they actually got into a fight like we'd all expected they would any number of times when Stan had done something particularly asshole-ish...

She'd yell at him, and he'd stalk off and find a new conversation to loudly infest, as had been his MO on the few occasions that anyone else had actually broken down and called him out on his BS.

I could approach her and tell her she was too good for him. She'd sniff, look me in the eyes, and tell me that she knew it, but...

She'd want some privacy from the sympathetic eyes, and I'd suggest we head back to the kitchen to let her calm down. A gentle hand on the small of her back, then a reassuring kiss on her cheek, and she'd kiss me hard. It wouldn't take much to unbutton that blouse, and open the admittedly plain bra she seemed to have underneath. My hands would at last be full of those sweet, firm boobs, and my mouth would be too, seconds later.

Her hand would scrabble at my fly, tugging my hard cock free, squeezing it desperately. Moments later, I'd have her khakis unzipped and be lifting her up onto Yancey and Wanda's kitchen table.

What I wouldn't do to be sinking my dick onto her hot, neglected pussy, pressing down on her as I drove myself into her with metronomic precision. For this woman, I'd be sure to use everything I knew to make sure she had a better time even than I would. I'd use every angle, and my fingers would press every button to make sure she got good and loud in appreciation several times before I even came close to blasting my load into her.

I'd having her happily loud enough for Stan to hear. Yeah, that was the ticket. He'd come into the kitchen in time to see me come inside his deliriously screaming wife and I'd nastily say to him, "Cuck you, bastard."

"You are being pretty calm about this crisis, Howard," Peter observed. "If they go with Gaines at QB, are we fucked or what?"

"Fucked," I said automatically. It was the only word I trusted myself to say as I was yanked from the second disturbing reverie I'd found myself in, in as many days.

As for how I slept that night... Whatever dreams I had, and they were not good, were not so bad as the ones that punished me for fantasizing about cheerleaders. I think my conscience gave me a minor pass because even it thinks Stan is an irredeemable dick.

*

What the fuck was wrong with me?

I knew the answer, of course. I had not been laid in ages. And while I'd been used to long spans of no sex back when I was still married, it had never been anything like right now.

I considered once again several... commercial options to address my, um, needs. But none of what I had shamefully come up with was really my speed. I had done the research though, God help me. But I was not going to do it. Aside from the occasional lap dance, I'd never paid for anything sexual in my life. I would remain strong!

I found myself snapping at several subordinates at work on Monday, which I almost never do. After the second dressing down that morning, I realized that the unpleasant tinge in my involuntary fantasies over the weekend might have to do with the built-up plaque of irritation with the kids at work that I had to wrangle, whose work-ethic did not measure up to the standards of my generation.

Worthless little turds. Talented turds, but turds.

At least I had zero desire to fantasize about Mary Beth, the underling currently cringing in my office, despite her nice tits. The girl was always in my office, crying for support about this or that. I had a daughter and several daughters-in-buddy to mentor. I did not want to be the guy who comforted engineers like Mary Beth. I wanted to be the guy who looked over their fucking completed, on-time work.

Damn, I even needed to check myself on that frigging fantasy. Fucking Stephanie Wilkes was an easily actionable plan, compared to getting useful work, on time, out of Mary Beth!

I grumpily sorted through my mail. I was such a fucking curmudgeon. I needed a good hauling of my ashes. Or better, a single un-entitled, self-sufficient, productive employee. Just one. Neither option was apparently on the horizon. And dammit, I was more than capable of handling both lacks. I had been for a while, after all.

What I just needed was a break. And lo and behold, what was in my hand, but a letter and brochure from our corporate travel agent, James. He had run across a severely under-booked sailing on the cruise line that he knew my ex and I had enjoyed several times, and he was taunting me with crazy low rates.