My parents love me, I know they do, but their dreams aren’t mine. I don’t want to be a disappointment to them, but I also know I can’t follow this path they’ve set out for me. But if I do what I want – if I get pregnant and choose to be a homemaker – they’ll probably never speak to me again.
So what to do?
There are no good choices.
All possible outcomes seem bad.
After all, I had a high school friend, Eliza, who got pregnant when she was sixteen. She was actually pretty excited about it and her boyfriend asked her to marry him. I thought it was really sweet, but my mom called Eliza a slut and a know-nothing, talking for weeks about how hard-working people’s tax dollars would be wasted on welfare for this little teenage whore and her spawn.
Clearly, I wasn’t allowed to hang out with Eliza anymore after that. But it’s not wrong to have sex with someone you love, right? It’s not wrong to have a baby, even if you’re young? But tell that to Marsha. She went on a tirade about how women should keep their legs closed until they finish college and get started on their careers. She’s very big on women having their own income and legacy. I get that, but I also don’t think that’s for me.
God, Marsha is so weird. At this point, I even wonder if my dad ever gets laid. Not that I need that image in my head. It just seems to me my mom has very specific ideas about sex and they probably aren’t that creative or fun.
I mean, making a baby could be a fun process…
With the Morgans especially ...
Those tall, dark-haired, muscular men are all I can think about lately. I’m in a constant state of arousal, it seems, thanks to them.
Who would have guessed that alphas like that – successful, gorgeous, smart – would be into a curvy girl like me? But they are. I know they are by the way their dicks harden when they turn my way, and by the way they look at me like hungry animals ready to pounce on their prey. They like my sinuous S-shape, my full breasts, round belly, and wide ass. They like the way I look, but even more, they like how my body’s so receptive.
Because it’s like I’m a doll, doing whatever they say, opening myself, touching wherever for their pleasure. I’ve been around plenty of pretty boys, even some that seemed kind of interested in me. But never has my curvy form been such a magnet.
Call me a slut, but it feels good. And I’m ready for more. I’ve already gone so far with them, further than I’ve ever gone before, allowing them to lave at my breasts and lick at my pussy. I let them see between my ass cheeks, practically inviting them to fill that darkest of places.
My head shakes, still confused.
Is this really who I am?
Maybe it is.
Oh god, maybe it’s the real me.
But if so, what do I do when this ends? This is summer, and they’re just home to help their father. When they leave, will I ever see them again? They’re all so gorgeous, intense, and commanding. I couldn’t ask for more. So what happens after they this is all over? Sayonara, see ya later, wham bam, thank you ma’am?
Summer or not, I want them. If I asked ten people, at least nine would tell me that dabbling with a bevy of brothers is wrong. More than wrong. Gross. Sinful. Slutty.
But maybe I see men like food. I want to touch and taste and smell. I want to savor and explore. And these magnificent males are willing to allow me to do that. No judgment.
Plus, imagine the babies they could create, with those perfect faces – cheekbones that could cut glass, coal-black hair, dazzling blue eyes, and bodies that can’t be real. And I just need one. Just one seed to plant in my womb.
The thought makes me ache inside, the crease of my jeans now soaked with juice as my hips gyrate mindlessly. I can’t get enough of these men. Some breast play, a shower show, and a few strokes of a man’s hand are not enough for me.
Not anymore, at least.
I want more. And I want it now.
They say I’m a pushover, a teen girl who’s shy and sweet.
And I am that.
But it’s not enough.
Not anymore.
I need more.
More of everything.
And I’m gonna get it … some way, somehow.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Sam
Being the first of seven sons means you’re expected to be the responsible one. Which means I feel like a total fucking asshole for being the last of my brothers to get home.
Shit. Our dad is really sick and I’ve been in New York, unable to get away from the trading floor long enough to check on the man whose sperm helped create my handsome ass.
He’s a devil, too, my father. Charming and fit, Ted Morgan made all the ladies swoon back in the day. And we know where we got our mile-high libidos, too. I’ve caught him and my mom in the act a couple times over the years.
It’s fucking gross, but yo, go Dad! Fuck, I remember being like six the first time it happened. Ted had Maddy tied to the bed, spread eagle, big bush on full display. He was blowing his wad all over her chest, talking about giving her the pearl necklace she’d always wanted.
Of course, I was too little to understand the scenario before me, but as I grew up, it became apparent how they made seven babies. They went at it like rabbits, day in and day out. My dad, my hero.
Because in my family we work hard and play harder. Maddy stayed home to raise us, which was entirely her choice. And I get it. With seven kids, the cost of sending us all to daycare would have been prohibitive. So yeah, Maddy was a real champ, raising seven high-energy boys while keeping our home nice, the fridge stocked, and servicing my dad’s raging sexual needs.
Of course, she was curvier when we were younger. Back then, she had a few extra pounds around the waist and my dad was the first to point out that a well-fed woman with some meat on her bones was the sign of a woman whose focus was on family, rather than herself.
But Maddy got skinny after we all left the house for college. She got real fit and slim, saying she was finally gonna lose that baby weight with the help of some weird pills, combined with the South Beach diet and Tae Bo. It’s fine I guess. I mean, it’s not for me to say what works and what doesn’t. Billy Banks has sold millions of videos, who am I to question his method?
So it’s fine. My mom’s weight is none of my business. And I guess Ted’s okay with it too. After all, this is the woman who bore him seven sons, let her lead life the way she sees fit. He still bangs her silly, though, I have no doubt. Well, maybe not so much with the stroke and all, but you get what I mean. Mr. Senior Stallion is finding some way, I’m sure.
A text blips on my phone, letting me know where the market finished. I pull double duty, working for a hedge fund and also serving as Chairman for my brothers’ company. It sounds fancy, but it’s not. The titles don’t mean shit because we all do some of everything. It was my connections that got the twins the funding they needed to get off the ground. I got VC investors in the door and sold them on the deal, dazzling the dudes with numbers and spreadsheets, comps and predictions. Hey, that’s my specialty.
But there’s no outside money anymore. We paid off those fuckers early and took back a hundred percent ownership. Then I put some of our assets into the markets, and my golden touch was verified as the cash grew into a monstrous pile.
So yeah, my little bros’ kernel of an idea back in college is now a massive behemoth, with a shit-ton of asset in diversified investments, minting the green stuff like we own Fort Knox. I’m a wheeler-dealer, with only one motive – to win, and win big.
But you wouldn’t know we’re filthy rich. I mean, my mom likes a Louis Vuitton handbag now and then, but what woman doesn’t? And my bros have vices, for sure. For Smith, it’s cars. He’s got a designer ride for every day of the week. That fucker’s dark blue Maserati is in the driveway right now, next to Ford’s custom Harley.
But don’t be fooled. Sure, Ford looks like a grease monkey, always wearing those dirty t-shirts while fiddling around with his bikes. But that asshole graduated f
rom the best law school in the country, and serves as chief attorney at our outfit. Yeah, that’s right, when we do battle in the courtroom, it’s Ford who gets dressed up, making our case to the judge.
So yeah, we all have a role at the company. Smith as CEO. Me as Chairman. Ford as general counsel. Matt as our marketing dude, and the twins running ops. Even Trent’s got a place. Sure he’s a doctor, but soon he’ll be the company doctor, in charge of the health and well-being of a thousand employees. Mark my words. We’ll turn him to the dark side, it’s just a matter of time.
But again, we keep our wealth mostly quiet. It’s all about the downlow for us. Our parents stayed right here, in this middle-class neighborhood, in a small house that felt like it might burst when there were nine people living in it. But now they wear the best clothes and belong to the best clubs. They don’t worry about retirement or medical bills, we’ve got them covered.
And right now, all seven of us live on our own but that will change, too, once we find the right woman. We’ll build a big house for the entire family. It’s part of the master plan.
That’s why we need one mother to one child. We need a woman who can handle us all. She needs to raise a single heir, keep our bellies full, and make sure our house is a home, warm and clean, a place where we can get away from the pressure of the outside world.
And trust me, we’ve spent a long time looking for the right woman. When you’ve got resources up the wazoo, it makes sense to hire people, so we did. An international matchmaking outfit interviewed women from all over the world, from high-flying female CEOs to the local waitress, in the hopes of finding the right woman.
But no one’s come close so far.
There was a nurse named Amanda who was good. Good, not great. She was brunette and blue-eyed with nice, wide hips. She took both mine and Ford’s cocks at once, screaming her head off lustily. Damn, she was flexible and sopping wet all the time. But when I mentioned we had more brothers, she got weirded out, told me I was a freak. Red line right through her name, thanks very much.
There was another woman who took five of us at once, and shit, but it was fucking fantastic. The blonde was a little skinny, but we figured we could fatten her up, she just needed more food. Until we saw the track marks on her arms. Yeah, she’d been canny, wearing big bracelets and a chunky watch, but we saw those pinpoints and realized the real reason why she was so skinny. Drugs. Hard core meth addict. Immediate red line again.
Another contender was Harvard-educated. Erica was her name and she liked kinky sex. Toys and whips and chains were her thing, and the woman told the twins she was totally open to a gangbang with all seven brothers. All was looking well. But then she said she had to go back to Utah for an arranged marriage to her church elder. Fuck! So that’s why she was open to big love. Erica had been raised in the lifestyle, embracing the idea of multiples. But we weren’t her future, her family back home already had it all planned. Another disappointment.
So yeah, we’ve come up empty despite trying. I suppose we’re a bunch of freaks, my brothers and me. We’ve fucked a lot of women, tried out a lot of pussy looking for the one.
But we’re not giving up. She’s gotta be out there. After working like dogs to build this fortune, we’re not gonna see it squandered, divided a hundred ways between a hundred grandkids.
Instead, there’ll be just one. The perfect woman. We share her. She bears us one child, and that child becomes the sole heir to our fortune.
There are a lot of great women in the world. Gorgeous, accomplished, educated, sexy. We’ve met and fucked a bunch of them. But somehow, they haven’t been right. We’ve got very specific tastes. We like a woman with some curves. We like brunettes better than blondes, it’s just a thing.
Plus, we need a woman who can cook, because we sure as hell love to eat. She needs to be motherly, yet okay with having only one child. And she needs to be able to take us all – together, separately, or in small groups. Oh yeah. Our desire to share a woman has to be something that turns her on, making her juice wetly. She can’t be too much of a feminist and she shouldn’t want to work full-time outside the home. Our home, our child, and our needs should come first. Hobbies are okay, but nothing too crazy.
It’s a lot right?
A fucking laundry list, for sure.
But it’s what we need, full stop.
So yeah, call us backwards. Call us strange. Call us perverted and weird. But we’re seven dudes with raging hard-ons, and there are some specific requirements.
I’ve been sitting on the couch, mulling this over for so long that I literally jump when one of my brothers grunts a “Yo” in my direction.
It’s Smith, Mr. Banker. Usually he’s stressed as hell, typing furiously at his phone, answering to this or that investor. Except today, that fucker’s grinning and relaxed, happy as a clam.
“What up?” comes my grunt. “What’s goin’ on?”
Smith doesn’t hold back. Oh yeah, around each other, we’re the basest of dogs, talking like truckers.
“Well, I had my hand in a sweet cunt not too long ago, so that rocked,” he says, lowering himself into an armchair. The furniture creaks and strains, he’s so huge.
“Big deal,” I say dismissively. “We all get pussy every day. What we need is to find our girl and get a baby in her belly. We’ve been looking for two years and it’s a lost cause. And, fuck, I’m not getting any younger.”
Smith grunts, unconcerned.
“Hugh Hefner just had a kid, and that asshole’s got one-foot in the grave. He’s seventy if a day. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
I shake my head. Hugh Hefner? How does that help us? I mean, I get it. My age isn’t the issue. But Hugh’s got a harem of girlfriends, five blondes lined up in a row. We’re looking for the opposite. We’re looking for one girl to take all seven of us.
So yeah, completely different. Male / female ratio reversed. Gender stereotypes upended. Sometimes I think my brothers are on another planet. They should be mad worried, but instead, they’re casual, like it’s all gonna fall in place with no effort.
“Yo,” I shake my head. “Naw, we’ve been looking two years. Starting to think this isn’t gonna happen.”
Smith’s grin turns maniacal then.
“No reason to get your panties in a scrunch bro. We found her. Or at least, we think we found her.”
What the hell?
Really?
When did this happen?
I lean forwards, eyes sharp.
“You must be shitting me.”
Smith shakes his head, leaning back relaxed, although there’s tension in that huge form.
“Naw, no bullshit. It’s the girl next door. Literally, the girl next door. You remember little Macy Jones?”
What? No. I don’t remember anyone living next door except a middle-aged couple.
Smith laughs, reading my mind.
“Yeah, the Jones next door have a daughter, and that’s who we want. She’s fresh, real fresh. Probably eighteen or so.”
My brow furrows. That explains it. Smith and I are in our forties already, so Macy was probably born after I left for college. Shit, she’s so young. I frown then.
“A teenager? What the fuck?”
“She’s legal,” Smith drawls lazily. “No worries there.”
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 c
aught 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.
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