I woke to the rambunctious sounds of Saturday Morning Cartoons. It seemed that, sometime during the night, the girls—hopefully more than one of them—had moved the television into the guest room. Molly and the others, however, were nowhere to be found.
My limbs ached, as expected, and my tongue felt more like a pumice stone, but neither of these bothered me as much as what I believed happened the previous night. Was it a drug-induced hallucination? A fantastic dream brought on by trauma and strange medication?
There was only one way to find out.
"Molly!" The word came out in more of a croak, but it got the point across.
At first, only silence responded to my urgent plea for assistance. Well, silence and the Road Runner making his trademark exit right before something large and solid smashed the coyote into a fillet. Then I heard giggles, and it seemed that last night's escapades had happened after all.
The girls, one after another and each more disheveled than the last, filed into the guest room with Molly at the head. They said nothing, but merely went to work on an obviously rehearsed routine. Laura changed the channel to music videos and the working girls got a little more bounce in their step. Hard to believe, but since many were wearing only their bras, underwear, or some of my old t-shirts, it was difficult not to see.
Molly sat at the edge of the bed and fed me some water through a straw, a sparkle in her eyes that I didn't recall being there before. I heard the blender chugging away in the kitchen and hoped that breakfast would come before my stomach realized I needed it. My daughter's silence began to bother me a bit as she peeled back the blanket, but it was only to check my stitches.
"How are you feeling today, Daddy?" she finally asked.
What a loaded question.
I tried to push past the mind-numbing migraine that crept in along with the sunlight, and said, "Pain. Need pills."
"I have them right here." I heard a bottle shake, but were they the right pills, or the boner-inducing troublemakers from the night before? She smiled and put a palm on my forehead. "No fever, and your stitches are still intact. Looks like we won't need to call Doctor Andrea again."
"Again?" I heard myself say. I could barely feel my toes, and it was a wonder I could hear anything over the singalong version of "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun."
"I called her last night just to make sure you'd be okay for some, you know, exertion."
The muscles in my back tensed up. Did she really ask a medical professional for permission to give her father a blow job? Of course not. Logic forced my panic into submission. Molly was much smarter than that.
"I told her you had some trouble making your way to the bathroom, but she said none of those 'vital' systems should cause any undue risk. She offered to look in on you today, after she finishes her rounds."
Great. I wondered what the Bitch Doctor would say if she walked in on me and eight wanton girls vying for the honor of blowing me next. Whatever she said, it would probably be to a policeman rather than to me.
I declined to ask exactly how the girls would handle my bathroom needs. For the moment, it wasn't a pressing issue, and no matter the details it was a grim thought. I preferred to return to thoughts of the night before, and of politely asking the agony to come back later.
I grunted some sort of word, attempting to say, "Whatever."
"You need to take these with food." Molly produced two more pills. I honestly didn't care which kind they were, so long as they worked. "Sheila, is that smoothie ready yet?" my daughter called toward the kitchen.
A stunning blonde wearing only a pair of black panties turned into the hallway and approached us. She held a glass aloft and it might as well have been ambrosia, but I couldn't take my eyes off her tits. Sheila, the team's catcher, had a few extra pounds on her, but they were all in the right places.
"Sorry," she sing-songed in soprano, a reminder she was also a choir star, "I couldn't find the strawberries after 'someone' put them away last night."
"Ginger..." muttered Molly. "I'll be cleaning chocolate out of my carpet for a week, I swear."
Something in her tone made my cock twitch. Luckily the blanket ran interference and neither of the girls noticed. Against my better judgment, I almost asked Sheila to put something on. Almost. The television continued its clanks and zooms, but no one was watching.
I swallowed smoothie as best I could, but it was like pouring concrete. Concrete that tasted like berries and everything else good in the universe. My lips were swollen and sore, and I didn't want to imagine what the airbag had done to the rest of my face. I thanked my lucky stars for Lasik.
The pills made their way in, too, and before I knew it my breakfast was delightfully chilling my insides. "There you go," said Molly, pulling the blanket up over my chest. "Have a nap and we'll come back to check on you in a bit."
Then, rather than kissing my forehead, she leaned down and kissed me softly on the lips. Somehow, it didn't hurt at all.
I woke to the sounds of Jack, Kate, and Sawyer in the midst of one of their discussions, and a few pips and giggles between the girls. All eight sat or stood in the room, now, with Molly again on the bed at my side. Between her legs I saw Ginger, on the floor, and Laura and Liona between them and the television. On the other side sat Janie in Sheila's arms, and the other pair of sisters (these ones not twins), Abby and Bella. The latter was actually nineteen, though she'd been held back a grade for reasons kept between her and her permanent record.
Eight high school graduated, legal-aged foxes; all in various stages of undress. They sat with rapt attention on the screen until Hurley delivered one of his trademark lines.
"4, 8, 15..."
Before he'd gotten to the fourth number, the television noise was drowned out with squeals. Then each of the girls took a shot and Ginger rose to refill their gathered glasses held directly over my feet. When she turned and met my eyes, I blinked.
