I roll my eyes. This asshole is missing the point.
“Hell yeah, she better be legal. But remember that little Miranda girl?”
Smith squints his eyes, furrowing that brow.
“No.”
I shake my head, exasperated.
“You’re the one who found her. You don’t remember? The nineteen year old chick?”
Realization dawns on my brother’s face.
“Oh yeah, that one. Sorry, slipped my mind. She was nineteen but acted about twelve. Sorry about that man, that was bad, yeah.”
Because Miranda had been an adult physically, but her mental development was way behind. The girl had the maturity of a pre-teen, still caught up in doing her hair exactly like her friends, and going to all the right movies. It was crazy bad. Never again.
“Yeah sorry,” apologizes my bro again. “But this chick is nothing like that. Macy’s different.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“How so?”
But Smith’s never been one for talking. He shrugs those broad shoulders, a gleam in his eyes.
“You’ll see,” is all he says. “You’ll see.”
I shake my head. No doubt this is gonna be disastrous. We’ve been sourcing girls for two years now, going through professional channels, screening them like the FBI. So what’s the likelihood that we’ve hit gold next door? About zero, and that’s the truth.
But interestingly, Smith’s not done yet. This Macy girl must really be something for my bro to open up.
He gets up to pour a glass of bourbon, and knocks one out for me too. This was a thing my dad always did and it’s still cool. I watch my brother take the silver tongs and grab perfect, square ice cubes. They make a satisfying clink hitting the glass, and then the beautiful amber liquid slides into the glass like a balm for the worst days.
It’s old school, the bourbon ritual. Nowadays people like craft beer. All these micro-breweries are popping up with beer made of chocolate, fruit and nuts. Pass, thanks. Give me a simple glass of bourbon or whiskey any day.
“Here,” Smith says.
Grunting my gratitude, we both settle in. After a slow sip, my bro starts again.
“Well,” he drawls, letting the liquor burn, “Name’s Macy. Just finished freshman year of college but hates it. Loves to cook. Wants to publish a cookbook, so she invited Matt and the twins over to taste test for her. You can imagine how that went. They ate her food for sure. Then they sucked her tits for dessert.”
Shit. Goddamn. What a start.
My eyebrows zoom off my forehead.
“And?”
Smith shrugs.
“She loved it, what can I say? And get this. Trent was in on it too. He shows up at the “taste test” and the four of them suck at her tits like hungry dogs.”
Damn.
This is one special girl.
My interest’s piqued, for sure.
But Smith’s got more to share.
“So yeah. And then the next day, Ford hurt himself working on that heap-of-shit bike. The girl runs out in some tiny t-shirt and her panties, playing Florence Nightingale. Gets blood all over herself. And then these assholes convince her to take a shower. In front of them. Nude and steamy. Damn,” Smith continues, eyes faraway. “Wish I’d been there. Matt says she put on a helluva show, coming like a champ under the water. Real squirter, he says.”
I tally the count in my mind. That’s Matt, Tim, Will, Trent and Ford. Okay, five out of seven. Doing well.
“What about you?” comes my rumble. “You get a taste yet?”
Smith nods slowly.
“I’m a lucky man, dude. After the shower, she comes floating down the stairs in only Tim’s t-shirt, and lets me pet her sweet, wet cunt while we talk. In front of everyone.”
Hot damn. I’m hard just hearing all of this. Adjusting my cock, a long, slow breath escapes.
“Well, shit. I’ve gotta to meet this Macy Jones then.”
Scrunching my brow, I try to think back. But nada. I don’t remember this little girl next door. Maybe my mom told me the neighbor had a baby, but fuck, I was a little bastard then, maybe twenty-three or twenty-four at the time, dabbling with working girls. Why would I care about some neighbor’s baby?
Now, though? I care. I care so much that my dick is stretching out from its slumber. I banged the stewardess on my flight from the city, but that was hours ago, a brief interlude in the Mile High Club.
And this is completely different. This woman could be the mother of our child, the answer to our hopes. My cock knows how important this is.
Smith’s still in his reverie though.
“You should see the girlie,” he says. Shit, his boner’s growing as well, long and thick under his pants. “Long, curly hair. Big, brown eyes. Full breasts, luscious mouth. Small waist but thick around the midsection and even thicker in the rump. She’s a dream.”
I groan.
“Stop, man,” I say, putting up a hand. “Unless you want to watch me jack off right here and now.”