Marcy goes belly dancing at Sanctum, but this isn’t your regular belly dancing show. Instead, she’s doing a filthy belly bulge because his massive tool is inside, visible even through her lower abdomen. (Yes, it’s anatomically possible!) Pick up your copy ofA Baby for the Babysitter, availablehere.
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SNEAK PEEK: MY NEIGHBOR’S HUSBAND
MARGOT
In this excerpt, Margot sees her neighbor doing something hot.
I walk Buster down the path, and my dog yips and yaps at every single squirrel.
“Down Buster!” I command futilely. “Down, down!”
Of course, he doesn’t answer. My friendly golden retriever turns his head to smile at me and then wags his tail so hard that I swear he’s going to knock me over as it bangs against my calves.
“Buster, noooo!” I cry out as he lunges for another gray squirrel. This squirrel is smart though. He scampers to a tree, and then stops and literally taunts my dog while sniffing at an acorn. The squirrel’s little ears twitch and his nose seems to wrinkle while those black beady eyes stare at my dog. Of course, Buster goes wild. He barks, jumps and yips while straining at his leash. But the squirrel is just out of his ambit and I won’t let my dog get any closer.
You see, Buster is smart but he’s not that smart. I thought golden retrievers were supposed to be the geniuses of the dog world, but when I picked up Buster from the kennel, I could already tell that this puppy was no Einstein. He tried to eat my shoelaces, and when those proved difficult, he moved on to the rug in my car and then the silver canteen that I use to hold water. Yes, my canteen. It’s made of aluminum and as hard as nuts, but Buster the puppy took a try at gnawing it and now the canteen has his teeth marks permanently etched into the surface.
But I love my dog because my life is honestly pretty boring. I’m Margot Morgan, age twenty-five, and I work a boring job at Pretty Pink Nail Salon. Yes, I’m a nail tech and I know what you’re thinking. Why did I spend four years and countless thousands of dollars on college if all I’m doing now is polishing rich ladies’ nails?
The answer is because Pretty Pink Nail Salon is more than just your average salon. Pretty Pink specializes in nail art, including gels, tie-dye effects, glitter, sparkles, and my favorite, diamante rhinestones. It sounds crazy, but my favorite design ever was a Disney-themed Nemo pattern that I did for a fashionable socialite in her twenties. She thought it was crazy when I suggested the aquatic theme, but after her nails were done, she Instagrammed them instantly and got tons of likes.
As a result, I consider myself an artist of sorts. Maybe not a high-end artist like Picasso or Georgia O’Keefe, but still an artist in my own way. I like crafting beautiful nails, and it feels nice when one of my customers walks out of the salon refreshed, relaxed, and feeling confident in herself. Even more, I like the money I make. Pretty Pink customers pay top dollar for my work, and I get lots of cash tips. Plus, my designs last three weeks tops, so clients have to come in on a periodic basis to get their nails re-done. After five years at this, I have a steady stream of regulars who come in requesting my services.
But yeah, that still leaves the problem of my student loans. Even with my generous salary, I’m still struggling under the weight of tens of thousands of dollars. It’s a long story. Unfortunately, at eighteen, I wasn’t smart enough to go to my local state school with its crazy cheap prices. Instead, I enrolled at Wesleyan Kenyon, a small private school nearby that charges an arm and a leg for tuition. Like most students, I figured that my student loans would become a problem for “future me.” Well, guess what? Now Future Margot is here and it’s tough. I’m able to make a partial payment every month, but my understanding is that I’m only paying down the interest on the loan. I haven’t made a dent in the principle at all. Plus, after five years of writing monthly checks, it seems like my burden has only grown, if you can believe it. When I graduated, I owed thirty thousand to the student loan gods, but now it seems I owe forty thousand. How is that even possible?
I shake my head, completely confounded. It seems crazy that I’m working at a nail salon making good money, and still unable to afford an adult lifestyle. By that, I mean a car that doesn’t break down every other month, the option of buying fresh groceries and not just canned food, and the ability to afford movies at the theater once in a while instead of binging on Netflix because it’s cheap.
Even more, I’ve been doing something that I’m a little bit ashamed of. Sometimes when I’m really hungry, I go onto one of the dating websites and check my profile. I’m not active on these sites, but I keep a photo and a bio up just in case Mr. Right is out there. I scan through my Inbox as my stomach growls and sometimes, I pick a man to have dinner with. Isn’t that so awful? Honestly though, hunger can make you do anything and sometimes, I just need a square meal. On certain nights, a frozen burrito isn’t enough anymore, and I need someone else to pay for the calories I’m lacking. It’s a terrible use of these dating websites, but again, hunger will make you do anything.
Needless to say, my real dating life is non-existent. I work six days at the salon, and the seventh, I’m home binge-watching TV and subsisting on frozen bean and cheese burritos. Plus, my seventh day at home usually isn’t a Saturday or a Sunday. Usually, it’s Tuesdays because weekends at Pretty Pink are busy times, and I get some of my best tips then. Who’s home on a Tuesday to hang out? No one, and as a result, I haven’t been out on a date in months.
So here I am on a Tuesday, taking my dog for a walk. It’s a gorgeous, sunny day and the warm breeze wafts on my bare shoulders. I’m wearing a tank top but then curse myself. I forgot to apply sunscreen before coming out, and by the time I get back, I’ll probably be as pink as a baby’s butt with the beginnings of a burn. Oh well. At least I’ll have gotten some exercise, which I don’t do enough of as is.
We’re ambling along the concrete sidewalk past manicured lawns and the neat, square houses that populate my neighborhood when suddenly, a noise startles me. I look around. Where did it come from? The source isn’t obvious and everything looks the same as usual. I don’t live in a rich area, so the homes are modest. They’re mostly one-story affairs, with bright white shutters, box hedges, and a front porch decorated with potted plants. I don’t know my neighbors well, but we do our best to make the neighborhood presentable.
But then there’s that sound again. I stop to listen and realize that we’re coming upon a cheery yellow house with begonias out front and a smart silver BMW parked in the driveway. Ah, it’s the Joneses. Mr. and Mrs. Jones are a childless couple in their thirties who just moved in last month. I haven’t gotten a chance to talk with them yet, but they seem pretty normal. Amelia Jones is a slim blonde who’s a professor at a nearby community college, and Dane Jones works in real estate. I don’t know what he does exactly, but I heard he’s in business for himself.
Even more, Dane Jones is hot. I’ve seen him from afar while watering my lawn, and he’s absolutely gorgeous. That one time I saw him, he was out doing some yardwork with his shirt off, and I couldn’t help but stare at those huge, rippling bronzed muscles, as well as his six pack abs and wide shoulders. He has thick black hair that was soaked with sweat on the day that I saw him, and his jeans fit him snugly, emphasizing that huge package beneath.
Oh my god, I shouldn’t be thinking like this. He’s a married man, for crying out loud! How can I be envisioning his package when his wife is the only one with dibs on that? Yet, it must have been the fact that I haven’t been out on a real date in a long time because I couldn’t help but stare at Dane Jones’s jeans. His rod was so long and huge that it literally reached down his pant leg and almost touched his knee. I gasped, squinting in the bright sunlight. Was this guy for real? Was it even physically possible?
Good thing he didn’t notice me because the handsome man kept mowing his lawn, raising a ruckus with that giant mower. Grass clippings flew everywhere, and that bronzed body continued to pour sweat. God, I’d love to lick him all over, before unbuttoning his jeans and revealing his huge monster. Then I’d like to lick that as well, even if he’s definitely off-limits.
But ever since seeing him mow the law that day, I haven’t seen much of the Joneses since. I’ll see Mrs. Jones pull up in her silver BMW and then get out to go into the house, or I’ll see Mr. Jones’s big truck parked out front. Sometimes I’ll observe both husband and wife come out of the house to go grocery shopping, or occasionally they’ll have evening cocktails on their porch. But otherwise, I have no idea what they’re up to. Maybe I’ll talk to them at our upcoming neighborhood block party and learn more. I hope I don’t come off as too interested when I do because that would be embarrassing.
As I walk past the yellow house, I see that the silver BMW is in the driveway. Interesting. So Mrs. Jones isn’t at the university today, although I suppose that’s completely possible. Professors don’t teach every day, so she probably doesn’t have to be on campus unless she has a class to teach or a meeting of some sort.
But then, the noise comes again and this time it’s more clear. It’s more of an unnnnh, followed by some swift pants and then a slapping sound. What the hell? What’s going on?
Like Nancy Drew, I decide to investigate. Slowly, I pull Buster over to tree and tie his leash around the trunk. He looks at me with a big smile, his tongue out and his tail wagging.
“Shhh. Be good okay?” I say, putting my finger over my lips.
My dog practically understands. He bobs his head and wags some more, even while drool falls from the corner of his mouth. Good. Hopefully, Buster won’t give me away.