Tim gripped the leather wrapped steering wheel so hard his knuckles were white. He was fuming mad. Humiliated at his own 18th birthday party. He slapped the wheel with both hands and squeezed even tighter, picturing his hands around his step-sister’s pretty little neck.
His first party as an adult, and things had been going great. He was doing pretty good at chatting up a couple of babes from his school who had never given him so much as a look before. To tell the truth, he sensed that they were more impressed with the estate than they were with him, but hey, if Dad’s money got him laid, so be it!
He was literally bursting to lose his virginity…
Anyway, here he was making inroads with these two hot bitches, thinking he might even eventually convince them to sneak off to his room with him, when Chloe, his bitch step-sister, drunk off her ass, actually came up from behind and pantsed him!
“Show ’em your tiny little wiener, Timmy!” she screeched as she managed to yank both his trousers and his boxers all the way to his ankles.
He had promptly stumbled, tripped up by the pants and fell flat on his back, knocking the wind out of him. His little guy, reacting to the sudden dangerous exposure like it would if attacked by a wild animal, immediately shrank to the size of a peanut as his balls sought the safety of retreating up into his body cavity. By the time he could suck in a painful lung-full of air and scramble to cover himself, the whole room had gotten a good look at–and an entirely wrong impression of the actual size of–his junk.
He had pulled up his pants and run away from the shrieks of laughter, none louder nor more shrill than from that cunt Chloe. Despite being an “adult” now, like a little kid he had run straight to Linda, his step-mom, Chloe’s mother. Far from justice, however, all he’d received from her drunk ass was a snort of laughter.
“Oh, it was a joke, Timmy–don’t be such a little bitch!”
He had fled the house, out into the night. His rage had only warded off the chill night air for so long, however, and he’d ended up here–his happy place–in the garage, behind the wheel of Dad’s 2017 Porsche 911 Targa 4 GTS convertible with its Agate Grey Metallic paint and Alcantara / Rhodium Silver interior. Of the half-dozen cars in the climate controlled garage, this one was by far Tim’s favorite. He’d had hopes of Dad presenting him with the keys for his birthday, as he was now technically an adult, and he knew Dad had his eye on the new 911 GT2 RS with its 690 horsypower and a top speed of 211 miles per hour.
But, of course, Dad was not here. Dad was away on business, as he was about ninety percent of the time nowadays.
So, Tim was sitting in his happy place, entirely not happy despite getting the comforting hug from the supple leather of the Porsche’s snug racing seats, when his peace and quiet was suddenly interrupted by the garage’s side door being flung open to crash loudly against a metal shelving unit. Tim immediately slid down in the seat, hiding himself.
“Ssshh,” a feminine voice admonished, followed by a masculine grunt and the sound of the door being closed a little less raucously. “The beer fridge is over here…” Tim heard, recognizing his step-mother’s voice, followed by a low grunt from her companion. Clicking high heels and clumping heavy boots echoed through the silent garage as the pair crossed the floor.
When he heard the refrigerator open, he eased himself up just enough to see over the dashboard. He knew the high-backed seat would hide his silhouette, and the minimal brightness of the garage’s night lights would hardly reveal his presence. The others were clearly lighted, however, being out in the open and standing before the light of the open fridge.