The Daddy Daycare Blowjob Incident

My real name isn’t Stella Bliss.  Shocking, I know.  Of course the name was contrived with S’s approval, and unbeknown to him has special meaning to me other than inducing images of a passionate Marlon Brando and general… you know, pleasure. 

Like I told S when I was indoctrinated into his house of curvaceous representatives, I might as well use my own name since most of my regulars live right here in town.  Though many of them pretend I’m someone someone else entirely when we meet for our little trysts, and that’s his whole argument.  The game, the secret, the anonymity; Shuuuut up…I live on the same fucking street as you!

Many scream Stella when we’re together, then wave at “G’s Mommy” when we’re at the Soccer game the next morning, avoiding my real name altogether.  Fair enough.  I mean, I have clients who hunker down between automobiles and duck behind menus when I round a corner, as if playing peek-a-boo will make me disappear.  I’m not taking the ability to insight knee-knocking fear in the self-titled elite lightly.  Just a power I don’t have use for right now. 

Then there is Ken, dubbed so for his Mattel look-a-like and equally as charming soon-to-be ex, Barbie.  Ken only calls me by my real name, which is fair enough I suppose as he’s G's best friend's Dad.  My ex-Ass Nugget P and I used to be friends with Barbie and Ken, before Barbie fled the dream house with a Swiss financier.

So, that leads us to this afternoon’s double play date and the question that ran through my head: why not mix a little business with… Mommy business?  Ken’s a standard spent 10 years married to a no-blowjob giving tyrant kind of guy.  No gadgets required, I thought as I continued to talk myself into it. 

So as the girls plopped down in front of the Disney Channel with fresh popcorn and Barbie’s Chihuahua to snuggle with, Ken pulled me into his home office and locked the door with a mischievous, sparkling white smile.

“_________,” He whispered my name, squeezing my hand tightly as he pulled me towards him in the darkening room. 

The widening of his eyes betrayed the unspoken storyline; we were two teenagers hiding from out parents, and we needed to be quiet. 

I was game. 

His pants dropped to the floor as I approached, my consciousness quickly flashing into the other room. “The baaast of both worldsss!” Two tiny, innocent voices sang along with the Hannah Montana theme.  

His hands tickled the back of my neck, groping at fistfuls of my hair with each suppressed moan as I teased him with my tongue. 

There was more talking than singing in the other room now, but the thick pulse in my mouth and soft touch at my neck was like tunnel vision. 

“Don’t stop.”

I glanced up at him from bellow, smiling mischievously as I’d done exactly what he’d ordered me not too.

“Well, smack me upside the head you whore!”  The door had swung open and my almost ex-husband, P, stood in the doorway wearing a wrinkled pink polo and a satisfied gleam in his eye. 

Just the sound of that mother fuckers voice and I fell back on my thankfully still fully clothed ass.

“So I see I’m not the only one getting’ a little mmmhmm on the side?  And with my man Ken here to boot.” 

“What the HELL is he doing here Ken!”  I jumped up and brushed myself off then stared over at Ken, who was standing there with his rapidly softening cock hanging out.

“Dude, the game isn’t on for another hour,” Ken said, finally adjusting himself. 

P responded by holding up two six packs of Bud bottles, as if that made his irritating presence understandable to everyone.

Apparently it did to Ken, because I was on my way out the  door.  P suspiciously followed when I kissed G goodbye, and even when Ken walked me outside.  

“So are you two dating now, or is this just a fuck thing?  Cause, you know,” P turned to Ken, “My wife here gave me the axe for fucking whores so if you’re gonna go there you better knock out those weekly blowjobs from that town whore I keep hearing about,”  P elbowed Ken in the stomach.   

I rolled my eyes disbelievingly.  My expression, my everything keeping up the façade of frustration even my ex-husband couldn’t crack, “a prostitute in this town? good one guys.”

We arranged a pick-up time, the door shut and I deflated against it. 

Town. Whore.

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