“The ad said barely legal. You’re what, nearly forty?”

I’m forty-six, so my ego’s boosted even if he did spit the word out like foetid spunk. And to be fair he was expecting a fresh-faced, tight-bodied eighteen-year-old, so he has every right to feel taken advantage of. I figured those emotions would be the other way round, but what do I know? It’s the first time I’ve done this.



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Marsha Adams

Autistic author of psychological smut and philosophical filth. Usually found hiding behind a book.