Hunter
Ispent another irritable, sleepless night dreaming of Meg then Sunday having to play prison guard to make my brothers finish book reports, science labs, and math homework. All by myself, I might add, as the other non-contributing adults in the household had opted to spend the day with their girlfriends.
Meg hadn’t even given me a crumb when I had texted her, asking if she was free. She just said she was busy catching up on work and dealing with her little sisters. Not even a cold morning run could banish the craving to bury my cock in her hot, wet pussy, to feel her clench around me.
“Slow down!” my little brother cried, paces behind me as I led them on sprints around the property.
I turned, bounding back to the end of the line that trailed behind me on the wide path. “Pick up your feet,” I coaxed the toddlers, who were really giving it their all.
“My legs are short, and I can’t run that fast,” Jacob puffed, his little face red.
“That’s fine. Just do your best. This will wake you up.”
“I worked late all last night,” Calvin complained from up ahead.
“And yet I haven’t seen a penny of that money.”
“It’s my money!” he cried as I motioned them to stop and take a break. “I’m buying something nice for Minnie.”
“Minnie is mine!” Isaac launched himself at Calvin.
“Holy smokes!” I broke them up then snarled as a swinging fist caught me in the ribs.
“Stop fighting over girls,” I scolded.
“You’re fighting over Meg,” Isaac countered, still glaring at Calvin.
“No I’m not,” I scoffed.
“Yeah, you are,” Calvin insisted, “with Walter. His assistant Kate was on the phone with him last night while she was waiting to pick up her order. She was telling him all the things Meg likes and suggesting date ideas.”
I glowered. “Walter is not taking her on a date. I won’t allow it.”
“So you’re fighting.”
“No,” I told Calvin. “Fighting implies that Walter and I are on equal footing. I’m winning.”
* * *
But I wasn’t winningat being the mayor. I wasn’t even sure I really wanted the job. Surely there was an easier way to push our developments through.
“And this is a new type of feral-cat catcher,” the gray-haired woman with large spectacles was saying later that morning in yet another tedious meeting.
“I just don’t see why we need a brand-new type of cat-catching contraption,” Meg said. She was taking copious notes while two warring factions of feral-cat lovers of Harrogate vied to convince her that their way was better.
“We wouldn’t need the carriers,” one man said in exasperation, “if you would just stop feeding them, Myrtle.”
“The kitties are hungry!” she cried. “And you’re a monster. You just want the cold to wipe them out.”
“Slanderous witch!” the man thundered. “I’m advocating trap-neuter-release, which is the industry standard.”
“There are feral-cat industry standards?” I whispered to Meg.
She kicked me under the table.
“Don’t listen to Horace,” Myrtle insisted. “It’s better if we catch them and rehome them.”
“No one wants a feral cat,” another man said in exasperation. “They can’t be tamed, they have terrible manners, and they tear up your furniture and hump it.”
