Chapter 1
Molly Childs was thirty-four. Yes, freeking thirty-four and patiently waiting for true love to sweep her into a delirious union, even marriage.
In recent years, she'd become awash with more pearls of advice to achieve that goal than legs on a centipede.
Her father Roy suggested that she allow some jerk to impregnate her to allow her mother to have the granddaughter that she desperately wanted. And then, in the glow of new motherhood. Molly would find a plum guy wanting a ready-made family.
Aunt Flo advised that if Molly dressed more conservatively and eliminated her foul-mouth, she'd begin to hit on acceptable looking and behaving guys unable to find a babe willing to marry them. Alternatively, she could hunt for a guy emerging from his first or second marriage desperate to re-marry to re-establish his social acceptability and regain solid family life.
Aunt Madge suggested Molly would do better with men if she learned to fuck like a pro.
That well-meaning advice swept over Molly like water on a duck's back.
She was aware her father was keen for her to leave home permanently so he could convert her bedroom into a home office.
In contrast, her dear mother Merle's advice was, 'Patience dear, Mr Right will come charging down the hill, sweep you against him in the saddle and gallop you off into the sunset'.
Molly sighed. She didn't know any guy who rode a horse and anyway, with her luck she'd fall off during the anticipated romantic exit and break a leg.
Her best friend Meg Littleton, regularly tried to offer Molly one or two of her caste-off lovers with the warning they had the morals of buck rabbits.
Molly would sniff, saying no thanks, immorality was not her thing.
The one person to offer classic advice was Grandma King.
Grandma, when brushing Molly's streaming golden hair repeatedly would say for example, 'Don't indulge in putting it about like all your unmarried and married girlfriends. Give the impression you are untouchable and lo, a desirable gentleman of virtue will commence engaging in something with you that long ago was called wooing'.
'Oh,' Molly would say, tightening her buttocks, aware from reading Victorian English literature that wooing was a civil and socially acceptable way that men in centuries past worked patiently to get between a lady's legs on or before the wedding night.
Once, when overhearing one of those advisory head-brushing intimate sessions, Grandpa Bert interjected with sage advice: 'Leave Muddy Brook and go to a big city and shape a noticeable impression of being a highly intelligence young woman of virtue. Thus, you'll come under the scrutiny of mothers of substance, and be recognised as a desirable bearer of their grandchildren'.
Molly recalled responding indignantly to Grandpa Bert that she had no intention of becoming a fucking nannie.
"Hush dear, and language," Grandma Doris had murmured. "He means those women would be capable of steering their eligible sons into your arms."
"Really?" Molly said, confused. "What is it about me that is desirable?"
"Plenty," said Bert. "You have wide hips, big tits and there is a suggestion of a pulsating pussy."
"That's enough of that, Bert," said his wife. "Continue to embarrass our granddaughter and there will be no sex for your tonight."
That confused Molly even further. How could her maternal grandparents indulge in sex? Both were over 50 years old.
Later, when they were alone, Molly said to her grandmother, "I've decided you may have given me profound advice and I'm going to London to find my prince. But I'll need money."
"How much?"
"Ten thousand pounds."
"I'll give you five thousand," said her grandmother. "Get the rest from your stingy father."
"Oh thanks, you're a sweetheart," said her youngest grandchild.
When Doris pedalled off to the supermarket, Molly went to Bert who was in his study watching porn.
"Grandpa, I'm going to London to live but will need money."
"We're your grandparents. Get the money off your parents."
"I need five thousand pounds from you."
"Oh yeah? Get lost."
"What say I suck you off like that woman is doing to that guy on-screen."
"Five thousand is way too much for a blow job. Two thousand."
"Five thou otherwise I'll tell grandma you're a filthy wanker and ordered me to suck your cock."
"What! You evil bitch."
His granddaughter's face turned puce.
Bert apologised for calling her evil and under extreme pressure agreed to pay the demanded five thousand pounds.
"Where did all that cum come from?" Molly asked later, wiping her tits, neck, face and hair with a towel.
"From my balls that you have been treating royally," Bert smirked. "That was the best blow job I've ever had and I've been worked over by experts, young lady, including your mother. You are a natural."
"Please don't tell grandma that you made me suck you off for money."
"No, of course I won't. I only look stupid, Molly."
At home that evening, Molly told her mother she'd decided to go to London to find a husband and she'd need money to survive.
"We have no money to spare."
"You give me two thou mum and talk dad into giving me six thou. He wants me out of the house."
"Very well, but he'll probably only give you five."
"That's okay mum," Molly said, and told her mum that grandma reckoned she needed to impress prospective mothers-in-law as well as eligible guys."
"I agree," Laura said.