Marcy the young grifter thinks nothing of fleecing lonely, older men with the false promise of letting them get between her thighs. They're jerks who deserve to be robbed. But her latest victim, the kindly widower Mr. Whitman, is different. And he makes her see things differently.
“It really wants to get inside you,” Mr. Whitman cajoled.
“Maybe the law can’t punish you,” Marcy replied, “but my folks can punish me.” She stopped scrubbing him long enough to jerk him off.
“They don’t have to…know.”
She started scrubbing him again. “My mom’s real suspicious. She checks me every time I come home. She’d know if I had a dick in me.”
“This isn’t fair. You’re not getting anything out of this. Let me at least use my tongue.”
“That would make me wet, and she’d know.”
“Then let’s get married. That’ll solve everything.”
In the two months she’d been visiting Mr. Whitman, this was the first time he’d said anything about wanting to marry her. This was the first time any of the men she’d been with had expressed a desire for anything other than pleasure from her. She expected to be a wife someday, but of someone close to her own age. She also expected to have kids. Mr. Whitman was already old enough be a grandpa.