Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 127(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25308 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 127(@200wpm)___ 101(@250wpm)___ 84(@300wpm)
“Wow,” I whisper in a bleary daze. “Who knew it could be like that?”
It takes several minutes for my heart to stop racing and for my breathing to even. Only then do I remember that I just recorded this, and with a jolt I sit up. OMG! Quickly, I climb out of bed and grab my phone to press stop. Then, I put the cell down with a small smile on my face. I can’t deny I feel a million times better than I did when this night started. I’m sweaty, a little worn out and thirsty, but I feel so good. I feel like I’ve got a new lease on life, even if the only person I played with was myself.
With that, I get up languidly and stroll to the closet before slipping into a thin silk robe. The hem is short and barely covers my pussy, while the vee is deep, revealing my generous decolletage. But who cares? I’m the only one in the apartment, and I’m just getting some water from the kitchen.
With that, I open my bedroom door with a satisfied smile on my face. Who knew my Friday night would turn out so amazing? But then, the smile dies and my feet come to a halt because there’s a huge form in the living room – and he’s looking straight at me with hunger in his eyes.
3
Cyrus
Fifteen minutes earlier.
I frown to myself. It’s Friday night, but I’m in a bad mood. Other people are out and about, but instead, I’m just ruminating angrily over my ex-wife. Or ex-wives more accurately.
After all, at forty-five, I’ve already been married and divorced three times. It fucking sucks, and this is not what I planned when I was a young man. Yet, sometimes it just happens, and now I have a trail of ex-wives in my wake.
The first was Rebecca, my high school sweetheart. There’s nothing wrong with Becky. We just married too young, and didn’t know ourselves at the time. We parted on amicable terms after a few years, and at least I got something amazing out of that union: my daughter, Alyssa, who’s nearly twenty-five now.
Then came my second wife, Marilyn. She was a no-nonsense accountant, which is what I thought I wanted. We married after two years of dating, but ultimately, her career got in the way. After only one year of marriage, we divorced and went our separate ways, and that was more than a decade ago. But at least there was a silver lining because my daughter, Alyssa, met Marilyn’s daughter, Josie, and they became friends. The girls are still close today, and sometimes I wonder how Josie is. She was so shy as a teenager, but also totally reliable. There was a period when Alyssa was running with a fast crowd, and I think it was Josie who kept her grounded.
Then came the disaster that was my third marriage. Candace was different from my previous two wives. For one, she’s young, lovely, and of a completely different generation. My third wife is one of those girls who gets on TikTok to do 30-second dances while wearing revealing outfits. It sounds ridiculous, but she has millions of fans, and my understanding is that quite a few brands have reached out to her to discuss potential sponsorships. So Candace is successful in her own way, but it’s not what I want. I’m looking for substance these days and not shallow frivolity. Unfortunately, someone who thinks likes on Facebook and thumbs up on Instagram are a measure of popularity is not going to float my boat. We divorced six months ago, and it’s for the better.
As a result, I’m alone on a Friday night. It’s fine. After three marriages, a little downtime isn’t a bad thing. Besides, I spoke with my daughter earlier this morning, and Alyssa mentioned something about feeling under the weather. Maybe I’ll swing by her apartment and say hello.
I check my phone and smile. In fact, it’s still early enough to grab some soup for Alyssa from her favorite restaurant, Lenny’s. Sure enough, I swing by the establishment and exit with a to-go order of their special chicken noodle soup before making my way to Hell’s Kitchen, where Alyssa and Josie live. The girls share a tiny walk-up in the run-down neighborhood. I’ve offered to pay for a nicer place in a better location, but my daughter said no. Alyssa’s always been independent, so she found a place she can afford on her tiny salary as a barista. With Josie splitting the rent, they make it work, although just barely.
Finally, I’m at my daughter’s building, which looks like every other low-rise in Hell’s Kitchen. It’s all brick, with a shabby front stoop and windows that are incredibly grimy. There are a few bushes in front, but the leaves look sad and grey from the pollution in Manhattan. A bum asks for a quarter, and I hand him a dollar, which has him galloping off towards the nearest liquor store. Well, that’s New York for you.