The moans from the television filled the squalid room where Mark Jennings, an obese, middle-aged man with a hairline in full retreat, sat slumped on a stained couch. His penis was still out, and he was too lazy to pull his pants back up. Crumpled tissues littered the floor around his feet, a sticky testament to his recent activity, while a bottle of lotion and a collection of mostly empty beer bottles crowded the coffee table.
His eyes were fixed on the screen, where a burly actor ravaged a blonde—his stepmother, if the video’s title was to be believed.
He’d chosen the video for a reason. He couldn’t stop thinking about his own stepmother today.
She was the person he despised most in the world, the architect of his misery. But damn it all, she had been a magnificent woman, and he couldn’t help but lust after her memory.
She’d been stunning, with a face that could stop traffic and a body built for sin.
A gold digger, plain and simple. She had married his father for his fortune and then systematically dismantled Mark’s future, convincing the old man to cut him out of the will. She’d cheated on his father constantly, a fact Mark had never cared about; the old man was a workaholic who barely knew his own family.
Mark didn't fault her for the affairs. He figured his father had it coming.
No, Mark’s hatred was reserved for one thing: she had taken his inheritance, every last penny.
She had poisoned his father’s mind with talk of self-reliance, convincing him that Mark needed to learn to stand on his own two feet, just as his father had. A self-made man himself, his father had been swayed. He’d removed Mark from his will, hoping the shock would light a fire under his son and force him to take control of his life.
The plan had always been to write Mark back in once he’d proven himself.
But his father died suddenly, and his stepmother threw Mark out of the house to fend for himself. From that day forward, his life had been a miserable slide to the bottom.
He drank, dabbled in drugs, and drifted between minimum-wage jobs. With no real skills, he was stuck. He survived on cheap fast food, his body swelling with every greasy meal.
During these bleak years, his thoughts always returned to her. He’d curse her name, his rage a burning coal in his gut. Then he would remember the curve of her hip, the scent of her perfume, and the anger would curdle into a familiar, shameful lust. He’d imagine taking the place of the men he’d spied on as a teenager, the ones she entertained while his father was away.
And when it was over, the sharp, shameful clarity would wash in, and he’d curse himself for being such a pathetic loser.
Today had been no different. He’d thought of her, the urge had taken him, and he’d put on a porn video that fit the mood.
“I was such a loser,” he muttered, reaching for a half-empty beer. He took a long swallow. “Who am I kidding? I’m still a loser. Maybe a lesser one now, but still.”
An outside observer would have disagreed. By any metric, he was worse off now. But Mark remembered the timid, painfully shy boy he used to be, unable to look anyone in the eye. The current Mark, having hit rock bottom, no longer gave a damn what the world thought of him. He had grown a thick skin.
He could socialize now, could speak his mind, but what good was it? He was just a fat, ugly piece of shit with no money, the kind of man nobody wanted to know.
“Fuck, I need to buy more beer,” he said, the bottle in his hand now empty. He dropped it on the floor to join the others and turned his attention back to the screen.
Watching the actress on screen take a pounding, a fresh wave of heat washed through him.
“Maybe I should order a prostitute. I’ve saved enough money,” he mumbled, fumbling for his phone.
Online prostitution had become a booming, billion-dollar industry. You could order a woman from an app like you ordered a pizza, delivered right to your door.
He scrolled through one of the more reputable services, filtering for blondes in their mid-thirties with a certain kind of figure. Someone with at least a passing resemblance to his stepmother.
After finding a promising candidate, he confirmed the booking. She would be there in two hours.
“I should clean up,” he grunted.
Because of the industry’s boom, the companies had implemented strict regulations. The rating system was a two-way street; clients rated the girls on their skills and professionalism, and the girls rated their clients on looks, hospitality, and general conduct. A low score, and you’d be blacklisted.
Mark had to maintain a decent rating. It was the only way a woman would ever agree to touch him.
“Let’s get this over with,” he said, pushing his bulk up from the couch. His bare foot came down on one of the empty bottles, which rolled instantly under his weight.
“Fuck—”
It was the only sound he made as his body crashed backward. The back of his skull connected with the sharp edge of the coffee table, and the world went dark.