I plopped my sculpted ass down in my La-Z-Boy and issued forth a sigh of pure contentment, feeling bliss to a degree I'd not felt in years. Several things had come together to make the perfect weekend.
My wife was gone! Joy (if ever a name could be a lie...) was going on a business trip with some other realtor and wouldn't be back until Sunday night, and it was only Friday afternoon! For nearly three whole days I would have access to my dick, which she normally kept in a mason jar beneath the sink (don't worry, it's just a metaphor - I don't have a detachable penis, sadly). We hadn't had sex in years, she was so engrossed in her work and seemed to only care about money and success.
Then there was the James Bond marathon on TNT. Then, of course, there was the Gene-13 strain of weed I had bought from our new neighbors' son. Genetically engineered by the US government, it's extremely potent, but a completely mellow high - no paranoia. The Fritzes had just moved in next door, and having quality weed for sale so nearby was awesome.
I had just gotten out of the shower after a great workout - I had really wailed on my pecs and my chest was singing. I rolled a joint, cracked open a beer from the chair's built-in cooler, and turned on TNT just in time to see Izabella Scorupco's glorious cameltoe in Goldeneye's infamous bikini scene. This just kept getting better, what were the odds that I'd turn on the marathon in the middle of the best scene in one of the better films? My considerable endowment began filling with blood.
I guess that's something I should mention. I don't have a big cock - I have a horse cock. It makes other big ones look small. It wasn't the only factor in my wife's disinterest in fucking me, but it certainly was a factor. Before marriage, she was one of the few women capable of handling it, and she even claimed to like it. But you put a ring on a woman's finger and you never put your cock in her again. At least that's how the old saying goes, and it had rung true for me. Ever since she got pregnant with our only child, a daughter, she always complained that it's too big, it hurts too much, she has a headache, she's too busy rearranging her sock drawer, whatever.
As James Bond did his thing (which was every woman in sight), I lit the joint and hit it a couple of times. As if on cue, the unthinkable happened: I heard the front door being unlocked, and assumed it was my wife. I had waited a half hour just to be sure, but she must've gotten 15 minutes toward the airport before remembering something she'd forgotten. And now the house reeked of pot smoke. Fuckity fuck, I was in deep shit!
I sprayed some air freshener, a desperate and pointless gesture. Everyone knows the stuff doesn't work - it makes bathrooms smell like flowery shit, and it makes pot smoke smell like flowery pot smoke. But it was all I had.
Imagine my relief when my daughter Layne, not my wife, walked into the room. With her was her friend, Rose. Both 18 years old, they smoked as much pot as me and we had lit up together more than once.
Layne was a legal adult, but hadn't grown into herself yet. Lacking self-confidence, she usually wore baggy clothing, kept her chestnut hair in a ponytail, and was a quiet wallflower type. She has nothing to be ashamed of, she's pretty enough while not gorgeous, and has a hell of a rack. She didn't get it from my side of the family, judging by the modest chests in my clan. Joy's family didn't seem much different, but her distant cousin whom I'd only seen once at our wedding had a real set of melons. Joy mused that it must be a recessive gene on her side. I had long ago brushed aside concerns of cheating - while Layne's features were feminine, she bore a definite resemblance to me.
Rose, on the other hand... Oh my God, what a knockout! She doesn't have much of a chest, but she's unbelievably pretty. While my daughter is of average height & weight, Rose is petite - I'd estimate no more than 5' and 100lb., with long blonde hair. Her looks and her outgoing personality had made her the head cheerleader in high school. I'm not sure how she ended up close friends with my daughter, they were polar opposites. My best guess was that, given nation's history with marijuana laws, they were in a small cadre of people who liked it, and had found each other in the sea of beer-swilling yokels. Or perhaps Rose had hidden insecurities and used my daughter to feel better about herself. I could only speculate; while we got along well enough, I wasn't really close enough to them to ask without it being weird.
Oddly, Layne was dressed like Rose today. They both had on haltertops, my daughters showing off her voluptuousness. Layne also wore a skirt, predictably not quite as short as Rose's, but that would be difficult since Rose's was pretty much X-rated. I was used to seeing Rose like this - part of my lust for her - but it was entirely new for Layne. I didn't even know my baby had clothing like this, they must either be brand new, or she'd been hiding them from Joy and me. There's no way she could have borrowed Rose's threads, they would've been much too small.
"Yikes, you scared the shit out of me!" I exclaimed, eyeing my daughter strangely. "I thought you were mom and I was about to get yelled at" I chuckled.
Layne laughed with me. "Sorry dad, I should've called. Would it make you feel better if we shared that joint with you?" She smiled wryly as if smoking my weed would benefit me and not them. I laughed at her quip, I was happy enough to share. Especially with Rose... But Layne was closer, so I held the joint out to her. She and Rose had a few pulls before Rose handed it back to me. When our hands touched our eyes met. Was there a mischievous glint in her eyes? More likely the pot was playing with my mind. I felt an electric current go through me regardless.
It was fair to say I had a crush on Rose. Yeah, I'm a dirty old man, but in my defense I never tried anything. There's a big difference between thinking about fucking her while I masturbated - which I did every time - and actually creeping on the poor girl. I was certain she viewed me as a decrepit old man and would probably barf up the 2 leaves of lettuce a girl her size must call lunch, were I to even vaguely imply interest in her.