I fucking hate the kids' beach parties. Oh, I love, I mean fucking LOVE my beach house, but my daughter's stuck up friends, their pretentious parents, and general teen drama is more bullshit than anyone should handle. Even now she's eighteen, they're all little douches, or to use more appropriate vernacular, cunts.
Notice I didn't say "beautiful" or "loving" to provide a politically correct adjective to my initial introduction of this shallow parasite of a daughter? Because she's a bitch.
She has been since her father left.
That cock-sucking bastard.
That's not just vitriol; he left us for the fucking pool boy of all the fucked-up clichés. Manuel, Pedro, Jose, whoever the fuck he was; he was ripped, toned, polite, hard-working, and I would have ridden him to nirvana if that dirtbag husband of mine hadn't sucked his cock first. Actually, I probably would have sucked him off second if only that scrawny-ass turd hadn't commanded the Adonis stay away lest we turn this into Gomorrah or Sodom or wherever the fuck you went to have a fun time.
Damn, that kid was beautiful. There's no greater sight for a bored housewife than seeing the sweat dripping down the abs of a guy you're paying to mow the lawn.
How many nights did I sit in my chez, just my silk robe around me, letting my fingers flick around my pussy lips, my thumb slipping delicately over my clit while my eyes fixated on the muscles pounding the machines in the garden. I could get off at night when that fuckwit husband was snoring next to me by just imagining that toned body sharing all its juices with mine. It was the best of shitty times.
All that dumb fuck had to do was ask "want to join in?" as he gagged on the help's head, and we'd probably still be together, having the fucking time of our lives enjoying Manuel...who-the-fuck-ever. They're both gone and now I'm left with this spoilt-ass bitch. And by that, I mean wonderful daughter who I'd tell to go fuck herself if I wasn't convinced that she was way, way beyond that already.
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The party was, of course, her idea. She invites tons of friends, I buy all the food, restock the parental liquor cabinet (I can't argue it was overdue), get bakers and chefs to prepare, and waiters to serve; I add decorations and amenities like showers, towels, first-aid kits, and...oh... Fuck. That. Bullshit. I arranged, managed, and executed the most fucking amazing 18th birthday party any bitch this side of old- or oil-money could expect.
As I plunged the burning resentment down my esophagus, followed by the latest in a long line of champagne flutes, it seemed the party was turning into the legend of the summer.
It started demurely enough with parents dropping off polite, well-dressed kids. Most carried a bag, which I was told was for swimwear, and it didn't take long for the boys to race to the master bedroom while the girls were directed to the indoor pool room. Boys will change together no matter what, I figured. Some girls, even at this age, might want their own space in the shower stalls that surrounded the pool.
But however the fuck they went about it, it didn't take long for all the kids to be running down the short steps onto the beach. I took this time to change into my own beige with red rose accent bikini. It was big enough to cover what it needed, and sexy enough I didn't have to truly consider the age difference, wrinkles, or any possible sagging. I wrapped my favorite light orange silk robe around and loosely tied a knot.
Volleyball on the beach was always popular since it was clear the boys didn't give a crap about playing, but relished seeing each of these bikini-clad bodies jump, bounce, and jiggle. Even as I looked from a short distance through the binoculars mounted on a tripod in my bedroom—for whale watching, of course—it was hard not to get aroused by these nubile bodies cavorting on the sand and on the edge of the surf.
"Mrs. Eckersley," a pale, frightened voice said behind me.
I turned to see a kid who had arrived late and was almost pushed into the house by his mother standing sheepishly in the hallway, unable to step into the bedroom from which I was leering at those bodies.
"Who the fuck are you?" I barked.
He recoiled, and looked like he was about to bolt for the door.
"Wait...wait..." my voice hit a resigned, deepened tone. "Sorry kid, a lot going on, what can I do for you?"
"I'm Kyle. Where can I change?" he stuttered quietly.
"Right there for all the fucks I give," I snorted derisively.
He stared at his shoes and again turned to leave.
"Wait, no. In here," I said as I ushered him through to the bathroom of the master bedroom. The bespectacled kid had clearly never been afforded a decent haircut or outfit. He really didn't need the bad-mood shit I could issue without trying, and it might just be his unlucky day that he wandered into range.
He emerged a couple of minutes later wearing blue swim shorts mostly obscured by the brown towel he held around his torso like he's seen done by hundreds of women in movies as they emerged from showers.
"Ready?" I asked, trying to be positive.
He nodded, sheepishly.
"Okay, let's get you to the others," I said matter-of-factly.
I turned to see his shoulders curl under the towel. I didn't have the time or patience for another weedy kid who quite literally had barely grown a pair. Damn, Jose, whoever he was, wouldn't be this wimpy, even if he'd be supremely polite.
"What the fuck is your problem?" I barked, "there are a ton of fucking hot girls in bikinis out there, all about to get shit-faced, and some of them are going to make bad decisions. Why aren't they going to make bad decisions with you?"
Kyle recoiled, stunned by the aggressive tone. "I...I...I...'ve never..."
"What? Never been with a woman?" I said, trying to get less aggressive, probably failing.
"No."
"But you like them?"
"Oh yes."
