The light issuing from the top of the stained glass window sent two white-hot needles of pain deep into Kurt’s throbbing brain. Stained glass? Where the fuck was he? He tried to piece together the fragments of the night before. His stomach churned as he sat up on the chaise longue that cradled him.
He had been working the door at the bar last night. Some joker came in with a hottie who was young enough to be his granddaughter and used a fake ID. Most people use fake ID’s to claim they’re older than they are, but this guy – who was at least sixty-five years old – had a driver’s license that showed him to be twenty-seven. The old fart headed to the restroom and then ran straight back out screaming at the beautiful woman, calling her a witch and a whore. Kurt frog-walked him out of the establishment immediately and the hottie started buying him an endless supply of top shelf drinks. This must be her place.
He got up to find some water and found himself in a beautifully restored Victorian full of antiques, but the place was a wreck. Clothes all over the floor. Dirty dishes everywhere. He recognized the raven-haired fox from the night before in a gilt-framed oil painting. After he filled a crystal tumbler with water from the sink, he padded into a room that contained a massive oak four-poster bed. Silken sheets were draped over a figure that was snoring softly in the bed.
“Hey, baby,” Kurt purred. “Quite the place you have here.”
“Good morning,” a voice croaked from under the covers. She sat up and the sheet fell from her, revealing a wrinkled face haloed by matted silver-white hair and a pair of full, but pendulous, breasts.
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Kurt stammered. “I thought you were your daughter. Do you know where she is?”
“She’s not available right now,” she studied him carefully, noting where his eyes fell. “But I am. Come here.” Kurt approached her and sat down next to her on the bed. She took the lobe of his ear in her mouth and grazed her lips down his neck. She turned his head and kissed him deeply, then placed her hand where she could feel him becoming aroused. She slid her naked, generous ass down the silk to land on her knees in front of him. She unbuttoned his jeans and took him into her mouth.
“Damn,” Kurt thought, his eyes rolling back in his head. “Some mother/daughter action. This is one hell of a hangover cure.”
After coming for what seemed like forever, he looked down to see who had given him the best blow job he had ever had in his life. What the hell? Was she wearing a black wig now? No, it was her daughter. When had they switched places? Kinky.
He went to the restroom to take a leak. An old man’s face stared back at him from the mirror.
Literature in Small Doses 