King of the Perverts Read Free Page B

control of her, throw a leg in front of her thigh. That’s the key to executing the death roll without flopping out of her. If you think you can get both legs over and still keep your dick inside her pussy, go for it, but I wouldn’t recommend it for amateurs. Remember, I’m a trained professional.”
    Cue a ‘ trained professional ’ wink and greasy smile. I fight back nausea as Peter plunges ahead. “When you got her on her back, she’ll buck around like a fish on dry land, so hold tight and plant your heels on her thighs. Once you’re there, it’s go time, baby.”
    The video picks up again and we relive the magic of ‘ Harlot O’Hara’s ’ magical orgasm once more. Peter Oh’Tool begins to bump his hips in time with his on-screen self, clearly enjoying it all over again. Once it ends, he turns back to the camera and smiles.
    “And there you have it. Now, go get ’em, gator!”
     

 
     
     
    Interlude 2
    The Baby
     
    Some important information about me:
    I’m part ginger. I’m not talking full-blooded. I don’t have a shock of orange on my head (it’s more of a ruddy brown). I’m not transparently white and prone to sunburn (I can get a tan, but it’s touch-and-go; tan becomes burn very quickly). And I’m not covered with freckles (they do come out when I burn, though). My dad passed his gingerly genes along to me. He’s your prototypical redhead. The guy would practically burst into flames whenever we went to the beach, which was not very often. My mom was dark-haired and Italian all the way through – her great grandparents came from Sicily to Ellis Island and were purported to bleed olive oil if cut. Sicilians tended to stick together, so my grandparents were pretty hardcore, but my mom broke from tradition in a big way by finding someone about as far from her end of the gene pool as possible. I fell somewhere in between them. My grandpa (never a big fan of my dad, whom he referred to as ‘ The Carrot ’ ) liked to call me V-8.
       So, I’m about as white, round-eyed, and pale-skinned as they come. This is important to know.
    After my divorce from Carrie, I hung around pretty close. I had to, because she was going to have my child. And because she was threatening all sorts of legal maneuvers designed to milk me for every dime I had, which wasn’t much. I still hadn’t found full-time work since the warehouse fired me, and since I got fired by a fucking warehouse, it seemed I wasn’t very desirable as a potential employee. Because I never finished college. Because I quit to become a husband and support my wife. Because she spent all our money but refused to GET A FUCKING JOB HERSELF.
    You see where I’m going with this. Huge resentment issues.
    So, fast forward approximately nine months. I’ve still got my part-time job – a fabulous, budding career in the food services industry. The only thing keeping me from either blowing my brains out or driving as far west as the $285 in my savings account would carry me was this baby on the horizon. Carrie didn’t let me come to the doctor appointments, but I still found out when they were and how things were progressing. I told her she owed me at least that if she was planning on getting any more money from me. She begrudgingly gave me copies of the ultrasound picture and eventually let me come to a checkup in the last trimester. I got to feel the baby kick. It was an amazing, transformative moment. I cried.
    As I looked at my ex-wife, with my hand on her large belly, my daughter kicking my palm, with tears in my eyes, I could feel the ice begin to melt. That wall that had built up between us over the last few years seemed to be slowly dissolving. Neither of us said anything, but I could sense the difference. We had a new connection. This little life inside her, this ‘ product of our love ’ as the saying goes, proved to me there really had been love there between us at some point. I thought a lot about the beginning, how it was when we