Since getting married, Thanksgiving has always been a paradox for me. My wife's family, consisting of her sister and dad, meet at her sister's place in Las Vegas, which is a pretty nice place to be when the alternative is staying home in the snow and ice of the Midwest. However, it means I have to fly to get there every year, which doesn't bode well with my phobia.
Once there, even though my wife Molly and I have our own guestroom at her sister, Marie's, house, the sex is practically non-existent during this vacation. But when we do have it, it's usually very, very good. Some of my best times with Molly have been in her sister's house.
At first I thought Molly was uncomfortable having sex with her family in the same house, which I could understand, but that didn't explain why she would occasionally go wild, a few times when her dad and sister were still awake watching TV or something in the next room. I have also suspected that Molly cheats on me when we come here, which might explain her disinterest in sex, and possibly why she can get so horny at the same time. The problem with that theory is that she's always got a good alibi, because she goes everywhere with her sister if she's not with me, and Marie and I get along so well it's hard for me to believe she would cover for my wife's infidelity.
So things can be pretty frustrating over Thanksgiving for me. We're in Vegas, the sin capital of America, and all the eye candy on the Strip raises my temperature when I have no way to release it. Or at least I didn't at first. I've found, with Molly spending so much time with her sister on these trips, that I have ample opportunity to find other ways to satisfy myself. Over the years, a couple times I've gone to a strip club and gave a dancer an extra big tip for a quick little meeting after her shift. Another time I met a woman at a club and went back to her room for a quick blow job, fuck, and a little taste of pussy.
This year I wasn't sure what I was going to do, but with scheduling problems and airport delays and such, this was a particularly bad year. I hadn't made love to my wife--or anyone else--for almost two weeks. Besides that, Marie's 28 year old housemate Tanya hadn't gone home to her family this year, and so she stayed with us, meaning there was a very sexy woman just a year younger than me in the house, giving me that much more to look at and get worked up over.
It was Black Friday, and of course the girls had all gone out well before the crack of dawn to get in line for the door buster deals. Marie wanted to get a big, ultra cheap LCD TV, my wife was after God knows what, and I think Tanya and my wife's dad, Bob, just went for the experience of it. I, on the other hand, saw this as possibly my only opportunity to really be alone, so I stayed home.
It was still dark out when I heard a series of claps, rusty screeches, or sudden plops coming from outside. Each sound was separated by about 15 or thirty seconds. I was already awake and though I didn't even know what time it was, I had just given up trying to sleep again. The need between my legs was too much. I knew my window of opportunity was open for most of the day, but I still had to plan out what I was going to do. As the plopping and other sounds grew closer, I got up to investigate.
I had just come out of the bedroom when I realized what those sounds were. The ad-stuffed newspaper was being delivered. Papers were being dropped onto doorsteps, and shoved into mailboxes. Judging by the most recent sound, Marie's house was next. Wearing sweatpants but no shirt, I went over to the door to take the paper as it came.
When I opened the door she was there, holding two back-breaking bags of newspapers which were now only a third full. Blonde with curls, a tiny body and a preciously adorable face, the papergirl's deep brown eyes hit me like a brick wall. One moment of eye contact and I knew that she was exactly what I wanted. For a girl who looked so young and innocent, those eyes managed to flash an intensity that made even me tremble.
Now I may be a bastard, but I wasn't about to hit on an underage girl. On my previous visits, I had briefly seen or met Marie's papergirl, Melissa. I always thought Melissa was cute, and that she would grow into a hottie that men would have an impossible time trying to get out of their heads. Hell, it'd been a year since I'd had a glance of the girl, and I still remembered exactly what she looked like. This sweet little thing in front of me was just as I remembered, except Melissa was even smaller than this under-five-foot, less than 90 pounds girl before me.
"Oh, hi," she said, looking confused to see me--a man--in a house lived in by two women. Her eyes wandered over my bare chest, but quickly looked away again in embarrassment.
She didn't recognize me. And that, of course, was because this wasn't Melissa. This girl looked very much like her, but there were enough subtle differences for me to know. And from peering at the roots in the porch light, I could tell this girl's hair was naturally blonde, not dyed from the curly black mane Melissa had. Though I had never seen this girl before now, I knew who she had to be: Ariel, Melissa's older sister, who I had heard Marie say sometimes covered for Melissa on the paper route when the girl was feeling ill or had something else to do.
I had to say something, anything, to stall this girl while I figured out what I really wanted to say.
"Not much of a vacation for you," I said, holding the door open, "if you're up this early."
"You either," she giggled, and the sound put butterflies in my stomach. "Did you just move here, or..."
"No, I'm just visiting. Marie still lives here."
"Oh. Probably out shopping huh?"
"Yeah." Realizing I was making dull conversation while this poor little thing still held her heavy bags of undelivered papers, I stepped out and offered my hand. She put her bags down and shook it. "I'm Ryan," I said.
"I'm...Melissa," she replied with a smile that melted my heart.
That did take me back, and I had to think to reassure myself that I had been right about my memories. No, I was right. This girl was lying.
"Melissa? That's a pretty name. Those are also some pretty big bags to be carrying all over. Especially for someone...what are you, in sixth grade?"
Anyone with a brain would've guessed at least high school age, but my faked ignorance worked like a charm. The girl giggled and even blushed.
"Sixth grade," she said, laughing but exasperated. "I'm...I'm 16. What are you? Forty?"
It was a joke, and I took it as one. "Oh, that hurts," I teased. "I was going to offer some leftover dessert and give you a break, but now I'm not so sure."
The girl was definitely lying. Not only did she not look like Melissa, but I distinctly remember hearing my wife's sister say once that Melissa had recently turned seventeen ...and that was at Thanksgiving last year. This meant, as Melissa's older sister, Ariel was at least 18. Probably 19. Still, I played along like I didn't have a clue.
"Oh," she cooed after my un-invite for the dessert. "I'm sorry. What kind of dessert?"
I smiled when she took the bait. "We have a little bit of everything. You want to come in and pick something out?"
Ariel had been flirtatious with me at first, but the honest invite seemed to be more than she expected. Her face turned serious but no less excited, and she nervously looked around, first at her bags of newspapers, then to the dark houses out across the street.
"I don't know," she said seriously, and she bent to pick up her bags. "I have to finish my route."
