But I couldn’t because I’m the man of the house, and my stepdaughter was underage. Haley was only sixteen then, and my thoughts were fucked up and depraved. Don’t get me wrong because they were normal for an alpha male, but there was no way I could act on them without breaking laws and going to jail. So like a cowardly beta, I scurried off and got into the shower before jacking off with a roar, visions of Haley in my head. I saw her on my bed, cupping her breasts with her legs parted and a coy smile on those pretty lips. I saw her bent over my desk, that heart-shaped rear end raised in the air as she reached behind to pull her cheeks apart, revealing her glistening pink slit. I saw herin every position imaginable, and came like a hurricane, roaring and moaning her name.
Shit should have stopped there. I should have removed myself from the house that night to escape temptation. But did I do it? Hell no. After a few weeks, I came to the realization that Haley always treats herself to a steamy bubble bath on Friday nights, and I did the most fucked-up thing ever. My stepdaughter uses a variety of bath oils, and I stole a bottle of that shit on the sly. The fragrant liquid was rose-scented, and I poured a bit of it out before bringing it with me into the shower and ejaculating hard into the purple canister. Yes, again, I’m a fucked up dude. It was frankly gross, not to mention unsanitary, but the thought of the young woman coating herself in my spunk later that Friday made me so fucking horny that I did it. I filled her bottle with a load of my jism, and then watched through a crack in the door a few days later as Haley rubbed the fluid into her skin, moaning softly to myself as she did.
That’s when I knew I was done for because my actions were beyond the pale. This was too fucked up, even for me, and we couldn’t keep going like this. As a result, I initiated divorce proceedings, and moved out of the house within the week. Brenda blames herself, I know. My ex believes that her illness and resulting weight gain made me fall out of love with her, and to some extent, there’s truth to those words. I wasn’t interested in Brenda physically anymore, but not for the reason she believes. Instead, I was desperate to be with her daughter, and couldn’t stay married in light of such a fucked-up situation.
So we parted ways, and eventually, everyone vacated the house. The girls graduated high school, and my daughter decided she wanted to go to LA to become an actress. Emma’s doing well too. She’s blonde and pretty, with a captivating smile and alove for the work of Tennessee Williams, but that doesn’t mean she’s going to make it big. After all, there are hundreds, if not thousands, of pretty blonde starlets in LA, all dreaming of hitting the big time.
Meanwhile, I’m not sure what happened to Haley and her mom. I settled a good amount of money on Brenda after the divorce, and my assumption is that my ex bought a nice condo somewhere while recuperating and rehabilitating her injuries. Meanwhile, maybe her daughter went to college and is boning wannabe frat boys. Maybe Haley’s parting her legs for a particularly handsome professor, or making out with a hot TA. But what I know is that I haven’t been able to get the entrancing young woman out of my head. I’m obsessed ... and my obsession still rages despite the fact that it’s literally been years.
3
Haley
“Ican’t believe this is happening,” I mutter to myself. “Oh my god.”
The spa attendant smiles and reaches forward to fix a lock of my hair.
“It’s happening,” she chirps. “And you look beautiful, Miss Monroe. You’re one of the most gorgeous women I’ve ever worked with, and I’ve been at the Citadel for a while now.”
I smile wanly at Katie because the young woman is nice. She’s plump and cherubic and obviously excited for me to go on stage, although if she knew the details of the auction, I’m sure she’d be horrified.
After all, I didn’t know what to do after my conversation with my mom. It’s clear I needed to get my hands on some cash asap, but the question is how? I don’t make nearly enough as a barista ata café, and there aren’t exactly a lot of highly paid positions out there for girls with a degree in child psychology.
But as I flipped randomly through the Evergreen Alumni Magazine, my eye fell on an ad in the back. It was for egg donation! A couple was looking for a blonde-haired, blue-eyed female donor with a college degree, preferably under the age of twenty-five. The ad didn’t say much more, but I called immediately because I’ve heard that egg donation fees can be in the five figures.
But the woman who took my name was oddly indirect.
“This isn’texactlyegg donation,” she said while hemming and hawing. “Or rather it is, but not in the way you think.”
“Oh, I get it,” I said a bit too eagerly. “There are so many new technologies these days that they’ve revamped the protocol, right? Instead of taking tons of drugs and then having a doctor retrieve a woman’s eggs, there’s a new way of doing it that’s super-fast and painless, right?”
After all, I’ve heard that egg donation can be a long, drawn-out, and arduous process, but the problem is that I don’t have that kind of time. If my mom is researching plasma donation, then we need cash now, and not in six months’ time. Hopefully, at the very least the potential parents will pay a hefty deposit.
But instead of confirming my suspicions, the woman on the phone dodged my question.
“Not exactly,” she hummed. “Why don’t you come in, and we can talk more? I’d love to meet you in person, and I think it’s always good to meet face to face with matters so personal. My name’s Marielle, by the way. I can any questions you have once we’re in the privacy of my office.”
That’s how I found myself here, at the Citadel. I met Marielle expecting to be ushered to a doctor’s office, or at least a lab or a clinic. But instead, the Uber pulled up to a nondescript building on the edge of town, and I was ushered upstairs and into a private office. Marielle is a middle-aged woman who looks totally normal, actually. Her brown hair was pulled back into a neat bun, and her make-up was immaculate with tastefully rouged cheeks, a touch of mascara, and a nude lip. There was no reason to worry that anything was abnormal or strange.
“Welcome, Haley,” Marielle smiled. “Can I call you that? I always like to be on a first name basis with my girls.”
“Of course,” I said, nodding while taking a seat in the chair before her desk. “It’s nice to meet you. This is a nice office too.”
“Thank you,” she said, sitting forward in her chair before sizing me up. Literally, Marielle’s eyes went down over my figure and then back up, as if taking my measurements. “Yes, you’ll do.”
I blinked a bit because it’s weird to be so obviously scrutinized as if I were being fitted for a wedding gown. But maybe that’s normal in these situations because physical health is paramount for egg donors. Prospective parents want a woman who takes care of herself, and I knew I was the picture of health with my long, glossy hair and clear skin.
“So do you see a lot of potential donors each day?” I ask with a smile. “You probably got a lot of responses to your ad, right?”
Marielle pursed her lips for a moment and then nodded.
“We do get a lot of responses,” she acknowledged, “but it’s important to meet all of our girls in person because you know how AI is these days. A lot of women use filters to smooth out wrinkles and to make themselves appear younger than they are.”
“Oh, I use filters too, sometimes,” I say. “You know, to put on cat ears, or to pretend that I’m a fairy.”
“That’s fine,” Marielle says in a smooth tone. “But a photo wouldn’t do you justice because you’re the picture of health and beauty, Haley. How old are you again?”
“Twenty-one.”
