My 3 Rockstar Bosses

So yeah, I need to do it the regular way. And for that, it means a boyfriend who enjoys home and hearth as much as I do, who wants a woman to mother his child, to make his meals, to keep his house. I want those things almost more than going off to culinary school. I’d love to create food, but I can do that for my own family. I can share my recipes with the world in written form. My dream is to figure out how to mix these wants into something real.

My parents love me, I know they do, but their dreams aren’t mine. I don’t want to be a disappointment to them, but I also know I can’t follow this path they’ve set out for me. But if I do what I want – if I get pregnant and choose to be a homemaker – they’ll probably never speak to me again.

So what to do?

There are no good choices.

All possible outcomes seem bad.

After all, I had a high school friend, Eliza, who got pregnant when she was sixteen. She was actually pretty excited about it and her boyfriend asked her to marry him. I thought it was really sweet, but my mom called Eliza a slut and a know-nothing, talking for weeks about how hard-working people’s tax dollars would be wasted on welfare for this little teenage whore and her spawn.

Clearly, I wasn’t allowed to hang out with Eliza anymore after that. But it’s not wrong to have sex with someone you love, right? It’s not wrong to have a baby, even if you’re young? But tell that to Marsha. She went on a tirade about how women should keep their legs closed until they finish college and get started on their careers. She’s very big on women having their own income and legacy. I get that, but I also don’t think that’s for me.

God, Marsha is so weird. At this point, I even wonder if my dad ever gets laid. Not that I need that image in my head. It just seems to me my mom has very specific ideas about sex and they probably aren’t that creative or fun.

I mean, making a baby could be a fun process…

With the Morgans especially ...

Those tall, dark-haired, muscular men are all I can think about lately. I’m in a constant state of arousal, it seems, thanks to them.

Who would have guessed that alphas like that – successful, gorgeous, smart – would be into a curvy girl like me? But they are. I know they are by the way their dicks harden when they turn my way, and by the way they look at me like hungry animals ready to pounce on their prey. They like my sinuous S-shape, my full breasts, round belly, and wide ass. They like the way I look, but even more, they like how my body’s so receptive.

Because it’s like I’m a doll, doing whatever they say, opening myself, touching wherever for their pleasure. I’ve been around plenty of pretty boys, even some that seemed kind of interested in me. But never has my curvy form been such a magnet.

Call me a slut, but it feels good. And I’m ready for more. I’ve already gone so far with them, further than I’ve ever gone before, allowing them to lave at my breasts and lick at my pussy. I let them see between my ass cheeks, practically inviting them to fill that darkest of places.

My head shakes, still confused.

Is this really who I am?

Maybe it is.

Oh god, maybe it’s the real me.

But if so, what do I do when this ends? This is summer, and they’re just home to help their father. When they leave, will I ever see them again? They’re all so gorgeous, intense, and commanding. I couldn’t ask for more. So what happens after they this is all over? Sayonara, see ya later, wham bam, thank you ma’am?

Summer or not, I want them. If I asked ten people, at least nine would tell me that dabbling with a bevy of brothers is wrong. More than wrong. Gross. Sinful. Slutty.

But maybe I see men like food. I want to touch and taste and smell. I want to savor and explore. And these magnificent males are willing to allow me to do that. No judgment.

Plus, imagine the babies they could create, with those perfect faces – cheekbones that could cut glass, coal-black hair, dazzling blue eyes, and bodies that can’t be real. And I just need one. Just one seed to plant in my womb.

The thought makes me ache inside, the crease of my jeans now soaked with juice as my hips gyrate mindlessly. I can’t get enough of these men. Some breast play, a shower show, and a few strokes of a man’s hand are not enough for me.

Not anymore, at least.

I want more. And I want it now.

They say I’m a pushover, a teen girl who’s shy and sweet.

&n

bsp; And I am that.

But it’s not enough.

Not anymore.