Long ago on an August night with the heat so intense that a blouse clung to an otherwise naked breast like it was plastered on, he had fucked her mother. It was the second time she had been fucked that night. Maybe her coworker didn't fuck as good as he talked or looked. Maybe the heat had addled her brains. Maybe she was always that insatiable. Maybe it was just him. He came on stronger that night than he ever had, or ever would again. What drove him to it he would never know. Why he thought a 30 year old married woman would have any interest in him he would never know either. But he knew she would. They were standing in the living room, he just having put her daughter to bed, she fumbling in her purse for money, looking tiny and trim and anything but vulnerable in her tight denim mini skirt and her white button up blouse, back from a date while her husband was out of town obviously, thoroughly, provocatively, freshly fucked. He wanted to fuck her too, the worst he'd ever wanted anything. She couldn't find any money. Said there must be some upstairs. To wait a minute, she'd be back. And he said no, that was OK, he could come up and help her look. He'd stared at her and she'd stared back. The walk up the circular staircase had taken an eternity, a fevered dream, and the long slow fuck that followed, his very first, but his last with her, even more so.

Eighteen years later and the daughter, now quite grown up, though no taller than her mother, the daughter he had tucked in that night, the daughter, also wearing denim, jeans, tight jeans, the daughter with much fuller breasts and ass than her mother, the daughter with the dirty blond hair and the leather jacket and the high heeled leather boots and the white t-shirt and the cute face still, even puffing hard on a cigarette (what a look!), the daughter was working in his office. How could he say no when she'd asked for a job? God, looking like that he'd have given it to her no matter who she was, though being who she was he could explain it easier to his wife. "Well honey, I know she's got no experience in the field and she looks like she's 16 and ready to fuck on a moving motorcycle, but how could I not?" How could he not indeed? So many fucking emotions, and he gets to experience them all every day she's there. Every time she walks past his office with her hands in her back pockets, her hands on her own ass, her hands where he wants his hands. He's sure she knows. He's sure she must hate him, he thinks she's torturing him on purpose because he sure isn't getting any work done. He stares at her, he stares at the phone, he thinks about calling her mother. But what would he say, what can he do? What can he do but picture her tight little ass? Or her tight fuller ass, or bouncing breasts, sometimes two, sometimes four, or their cute little faces all a jumble. He gets very jealous when her giant, muscular, brooding boyfriend picks her up at work, but he thinks he manages to hide it well, hide the fact that he's picturing him (who? himself? her boyfriend? does it matter?) fucking her (who? the mother? the daughter? doesn't really matter either). Bouncing her, whichever, on his cock as he strides around the room, still in her denim skirt (must be the mother this time) and crying with pleasure.

He's a mess that man. An emotional wreck. Trapped in his own little sexual hell. And loving it.