My 3 Rockstar Bosses

Instead, there’ll be just one. The perfect woman. We share her. She bears us one child, and that child becomes the sole heir to our fortune.

There are a lot of great women in the world. Gorgeous, accomplished, educated, sexy. We’ve met and fucked a bunch of them. But somehow, they haven’t been right. We’ve got very specific tastes. We like a woman with some curves. We like brunettes better than blondes, it’s just a thing.

Plus, we need a woman who can cook, because we sure as hell love to eat. She needs to be motherly, yet okay with having only one child. And she needs to be able to take us all – together, separately, or in small groups. Oh yeah. Our desire to share a woman has to be something that turns her on, making her juice wetly. She can’t be too much of a feminist and she shouldn’t want to work full-time outside the home. Our home, our child, and our needs should come first. Hobbies are okay, but nothing too crazy.

It’s a lot right?

A fucking laundry list, for sure.

But it’s what we need, full stop.

So yeah, call us backwards. Call us strange. Call us perverted and weird. But we’re seven dudes with raging hard-ons, and there are some specific requirements.

I’ve been sitting on the couch, mulling this over for so long that I literally jump when one of my brothers grunts a “Yo” in my direction.

It’s Smith, Mr. Banker. Usually he’s stressed as hell, typing furiously at his phone, answering to this or that investor. Except today, that fucker’s grinning and relaxed, happy as a clam.

“What up?” comes my grunt. “What’s goin’ on?”

Smith doesn’t hold back. Oh yeah, around each other, we’re the basest of dogs, talking like truckers.

“Well, I had my hand in a sweet cunt not

too long ago, so that rocked,” he says, lowering himself into an armchair. The furniture creaks and strains, he’s so huge.

“Big deal,” I say dismissively. “We all get pussy every day. What we need is to find our girl and get a baby in her belly. We’ve been looking for two years and it’s a lost cause. And, fuck, I’m not getting any younger.”

Smith grunts, unconcerned.

“Hugh Hefner just had a kid, and that asshole’s got one-foot in the grave. He’s seventy if a day. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

I shake my head. Hugh Hefner? How does that help us? I mean, I get it. My age isn’t the issue. But Hugh’s got a harem of girlfriends, five blondes lined up in a row. We’re looking for the opposite. We’re looking for one girl to take all seven of us.

So yeah, completely different. Male / female ratio reversed. Gender stereotypes upended. Sometimes I think my brothers are on another planet. They should be mad worried, but instead, they’re casual, like it’s all gonna fall in place with no effort.

“Yo,” I shake my head. “Naw, we’ve been looking two years. Starting to think this isn’t gonna happen.”

Smith’s grin turns maniacal then.

“No reason to get your panties in a scrunch bro. We found her. Or at least, we think we found her.”

What the hell?

Really?

When did this happen?

I lean forwards, eyes sharp.

“You must be shitting me.”

Smith shakes his head, leaning back relaxed, although there’s tension in that huge form.

“Naw, no bullshit. It’s the girl next door. Literally, the girl next door. You remember little Macy Jones?”

What? No. I don’t remember anyone living next door except a middle-aged couple.

Smith laughs, reading my mind.