A graphic age gap tale of submission and sexual catharsis…
When the key slides into the front door and I hear the lock mechanism’s little dance, I switch off the TV and grab a magazine from the coffee table. I don’t know why I do that. I want to look smart, maybe.
I am smart, by the way, but I want to look it, too, for him.
Mr. Jones.
A very fine tall glass of single dad if ever there was one. His silhouette finally appears around the corner of the living room. He leans against the wall, looking at me with his deep brown eyes.
“Oh, Hello Mister Jones, you’re back already!” I say, setting the magazine back down on the table and flashing a polite smile his way.
“Status report?” he says, the same thing he always does after he returns from one of his evenings.
“There were no problems at all,” I reply, “Tim was a little angel as he usually is and he’s been fast asleep for three hours, now. Babysitting him is a dream. How was your evening?”
Mr. Jones keeps it brief and spares me the details. He has a big job and he needs to shake hands and flash grins a lot, so he’s keen on putting together these little shindigs in big, gorgeously decorated rooms with high-end catering, where he gets to impress, tell a few anecdotes and make his…
