Author's Note: This is the first part of a longer story. I have done my best to make each chapter independent of its sisters.
*
Anne Marie was the receptionist at my job. She had long brown hair, nearly skirting her ass. She had sad eyes of two different colors and pretty much everyone at work wanted to bone her. Word had it she had done nearly everyone at the office and I had become the latest. I was happy it had happened, even if I had no idea why. Maybe to Anne Marie, it was just simple numbers. I wondered what it meant for the state of my family, my marriage, my whole life, all of it. However, one undeniable fact that was not lost in the color gray was that I was an adulterer now and my life didn't feel all that different. The night of the act, I took a shower, sat with my wife and watched a movie. Like nothing had happened.
Maybe nothing had happened --and by that, I mean, nothing at work had really changed either. Anne Marie didn't seem the kind to want an ongoing affair. I'm sure she had already moved on to other men. Men with better bodies. Younger bodies. Worthy bodies.
These were the thoughts that kept a middle aged man awake. My wife, in an unknowing moment of poetry, stole all the covers while she slept. I let her have the victory... it seemed the least I could do. I just stared at the ceiling, contemplating the Anne Marie equation --the Anne Marie mistake, I had decided to call it. Something that could never happen again, surely. In the darkest region of my brain, though... I knew if that girl wanted seconds, my morals would just crumble again.
I was thankful that I couldn't continue this dark meditation because my daughter had just twisted the front door knob as quietly as possible --just not quietly enough.
Yvette had come home.
There were simple rules in my house and she had found a way to break almost every one of them. The whole time my wife and I were raising her, we had tried to raise a proper daughter --only two earlobes pierced, no tattoos, no smoking, and proper dating. But as she grew older and her body filled out, my wife and I had lost touch with the girl. She'd gotten her tattoo with a fake I.D. and hadn't bothered hiding it from us (it was a tribal tattoo right over her ass). My wife had determined that both her nipples had been pierced and we both had discovered that she'd started smoking at fourteen. I forgave most of these offenses because she was our only child, but I often wondered what I'd done wrong. I'd wondered how I had failed her. The chance for college had come and gone and now she was this odd roommate that bounced from job to job.
She was nineteen with no respectable prospects. Career. Boys. School. All of it seemed to be washed out in favor of a party or (as I feared) an orgy that never ended. And now she was home well passed her curfew.
I came down the stairs, tying my robe over my pasty white skin, to meet her at the door.
"It's late."
"I know, dad." She mumbled, locking the door behind her. The disheveled tresses of her blonde hair hid her sea-blue eyes. She wore a white tank-top that seemed to be stitched together from rips and tears, doing very little to hide her ample breasts. The round impressions of nipple rings hung defiantly just above the Equator of each full globe. A short jean skirt rounded out her sluts-approach to fashion.
"What did you say?" I asked. "Are you drunk?"
She only gave a little giggle. It was the same little giggle she used when her mother or I lectured her.
"Look me in the eye," I said.
"Nice robe," she said, looking up at me.
"Goddamn it, are you drunk, Yvette?"
"Yeah. Yeah I am, Kyle."
She often would call me by my name when I used hers in an angry way.
"Well, go to bed and sleep it off before your mom knows." I said, going back for the stairs, believing the matter closed.
From behind, I heard her use a cigarette lighter. This gave me pause. She knew there was no, absolutely no smoking in the house. I turned and saw she had lit up a cigarette as she stood in front of the door.
"Yvette, you have got to be very drunk to think that's going to fly in this house," I said and released the banister.
"Chill, dad, its just a little smoke. Besides, you used to smoke, right?"
I had stopped when she'd turned eight. I glared at her, "Young lady, throw that outside and go to bed."
"No, daddy," she said, a forthright huskiness framed her tone. "I'll smoke where I want and I think I'll be getting lots of privileges around here."
"Excuse me?"
"Ran into Anne Marie at the party." She arched her back, stretching her arms before resting her hands on her hips.
A frog swelled in my throat and I tried to bluff my daughter. "Who?"
"Anne Marie. Hair-to-her-ass-Anne-Marie? A-cup-Anne-Marie? Of course I'm your D-cup daughter, not that I'm competing."
I supposed it was possible. The two women were very close in age and my daughter's social network just might have extended to include someone as removed as the company's receptionist.
"From work?" I tried to act confused.
"From work?" She matched my tone with a sly smile and approached me there at the stairs. Those eyes were a little red as she gave her rebellious giggle again. "Yeah.
From work
. She said you had the second biggest cock there." She pursed her lips to her cigarette and then exhaled downward.
Anne Marie had raved about the size of my cock at the time. The whole time I pleased her wet pussy, she had moaned in my ear, "such a big cock, such a great cock..."
"What are you talking about?" My response, in retrospect, was pretty pathetic --half denial, half wanting to hear more. She didn't deny me the latter. She took a step back and exhaled a healthy plume of her smoke.
"Your cock. Your married cock pleasing a girl right around my age. Thursday. Lunch. She got a motel, right?"
She had me trapped. Her grin was wide.
"Are you going to tell your mother?"
"That depends on you."
With that kind of information, my daughter had everything she needed to blackmail me. I swallowed audibly as I stood by the stupid banister. I turned my head away from her to ask the question. "What... what do you want, Yvette?"
"Look me in the eye," she said coolly.
I looked at her. Those stone cold blue eyes were thinking. Her neurons were competing with alcohol. She wasn't shy when she told me what she wanted. She was specific. It was like she had planned it.
