His Dad by the way had been divorced from his wife so he lived alone.
As soon as he rang the doorbell Alan could sense trouble! When his Dad opened the front door to them he had obviously just been “working out” in his basement gym. His father was in his mid 50s but still had a hell of good figure for his age. He was wearing jeans and a marine t-shirt which showed off his naked biceps glistening with sweat from his workout.
|
He had once killed dozens of men
on the battlefield. |
When he saw 18 year old Jenny standing on his doorstep his eyes almost popped out his head. She was dressed for “clubbing” – a short black mini-dress – very tight to show off her curvaceousness. The top was lowcut and a half cup bra pushed her large breasts up and out. Alan’s dad looked her up and down like a hungry wolf looking over a juicy rump steak! You could almost see him devouring her with his eyes. And she just stared back at him - with open admiration! Compared to the scrawny weed standing next to her – Alan – this elderly guy was a REAL man. Immediately in those first seconds there was sexual electricity in the air.
And that’s how the evening proceeded.
Alan’s dad simply took over the situation – much to Jenny’s delight because his Dad seemed far more fascinating as a man than his son.
He didn’t dress in a shirt either so he spent the rest of the evening in his t-shirt. That infuiated Alan of course because he assumed – rightly! – that his father was trying to show how much more muscular he was in comparison to his “softy” son. Jenny couldn’t help but notice how wimpy – unmanly in fact – Alan seemed in comparison to his father.
...to be continued!
Hey, I got this e-mail from a high school girl named Monica. She has an interesting story, and a unique take on the blog. ments! Let her know what you think!
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Hi Candace. I just want you to know that your blog is completely awesome, all the kids in my high school read it and talk about it!
When I was a freshman, I was flat as a board. I was also very shy and awkward. The boys didn't want to have anything to do with me, to say the least!
There was one boy who liked me, though. His name was Harold and he was probably the biggest dweeb in school, and he must have assumed that I would be interested in him just because I was so unpopular. I'm ashamed now to admit that he was right! We dated for a couple of years, told each other that we loved each other, and I even lost my virginity to him. He was pretty certain we were going to get married, and I guess I kind of assumed that as well.
Of course I lusted after the jocks, the football players especially. But what could I do? They all were dating cheerleaders and other girls who were way hot. I didn't have a chance.
By junior year, however, that changed. I had begun to blossom. Over the summer my breasts began to come in, and by the next year, they actually became quite large. I was actually beginning to receive lots of attention from some of the real tough guys at my school, and I loved it! They would whistle and make disgusting comments... but having been practically invisible for so many years, it was just wonderful!
I knew Harold hated it... I mean, he loved my new breasts, of course, but he hated that suddenly there was some competition for me. I think he knew that he would not be able to keep me.
There was this boy - Jeff - who especially seemed taken by me. I heard later that he was constantly bragging to all of his friends about how he was going to fuck me some day. Understand, Jeff is way strong. He's always lifting weights and he has this real cocksure attitude about him. He's probably been with half the girls in the school.
One day, Jeff confronted Harold in the hall and told him his girlfriend's rack was too big for a dweeb like him. My heart was beating very fast. Harold got mad and tried to talk back, but Jeff just cut him off and gave him a smack across the face.
My breathing got very shallow at that point. I took a step back. I felt like I was hyper-aware. I used to never think anyone could describe it, but I think several stories on your blog capture that feeling perfectly. It was like suddenly everything else disappeared except the three of us, nothing else mattered. It is not an understatement to say that it was the most aroused I had ever been, up to that point.
Before I knew it, Harold was on the floor with a bleeding nose. Brad had punched him! It was like, seeing Harold lying on the floor was symbolic for my former self. That was who I was. But I was a woman now.
He kept on beating Harold, to the amusement of several people who had stopped in the hall. The people who were watching were the popular people, the beautiful people. Harold was the loser. This was so important for me. Before, I would have been one of the losers, but now I was with the popular crowd. They all laughed and teased as Harold was beaten, and I joined along! He cried and looked at me for some sympathy, and that pathetic look on his face was priceless. I laughed at him and told him he was too much of a weakling for me. I said it loud enough for everyone to hear, and I got several nods of approval from them, boys and girls alike.
Since that experience, I am pleased to say that. I have only dated the best looking, strongest boys in my school and I'm only friends with girls who are at least as good looking as me. I don't give losers the time of day, certainly not Harold.
It is so wonderful being this way and I thank God everyday that he made me the beautiful woman I am. Your blog really captures the importance of being beautiful and popular. The way I see it, it's not about girls being sadistic or bloodcrazed or whatever. It's about women being in control, and not having to date losers.
Thank you so much. I hope you post this so all my friends can see it! If you do, I promise to visit the blog everyday and respond to whomever comments!
-Monica
I like watching losers get humiliated and I don't care if it's a fair fight seeing two or even three guys sitting on him and really hurting him is better than beating up on him my self. And I don't even have to break a nail. - Audrey
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