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Seven Brothers of Sin
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Why pick one guy when you can have seven?
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Nothing like the “freshman fifteen” to take a girl down a peg.
Or maybe the freshman twenty.
Or even thirty.
Because I haven’t put a swimsuit on all year and damn, this is tight. When I bought this bikini, it was for an epic post-graduation trip with my girlfriends. We took tons of selfies, giggling and splashing one another, and then the suit went in my drawer and I headed off to my freshman year of college.
But holy curves, Batman! Because since then, I’ve got a little more in the midsection, a little more on the thighs, and a lot more on top. My tits and ass are ready to wage war on these tiny bits of red fabric.
But I can’t just sit up here all day. My parents are throwing a big pool party to celebrate my homecoming. Who will come to such a party, one might ask? Well, that remains to be seen but I’d be willing to guess several middle-aged neighbors and maybe a few old people. People who definitely wouldn’t appreciate a nip slip Janet Jackson-style.
Taking a deep breath, I assess the situation in the full-length for a moment longer. The hair is good, at least. A quick fluff and my long, thick brunette locks fall sexily down my near-naked back. The eyes are good, too, I suppose – big and brown against creamy skin and full, pink lips. Grimacing, I stick a tongue out at my reflection in the mirror. Why is my skin so pale and pasty? It’s probably the library doing that to me, hours spent in my carrel hitting the books.
But there’s nothing to be done about that now. No amount of self-tanner will make me a goddess from Baywatch, so might as well own it. Sticking my tongue out one last time, I pad down the stairs, taking a deep breath. Oh no! My breasts bounce like two balls on a playground, jiggling up and down joyfully. God only knows what my ass is doing back there. Probably wobbling like a bowl full of fraternity-spiked Jello.
But the minute I walk into the kitchen my mom has me in a bear hug.
“There you are!” Marsha coos, dancing side to side, not letting go. “We missed you!”
“Um, you just saw me at breakfast,” comes my mumble.
Mom lets go and puts a finger on my nose.
“Boop!” she chirps, doing this dumb thing she’s done ever since I was a little kid. “You can’t blame me for being excited. You’re my only daughter! I was so lonely without you all year.”
I stand stiffly. This is just a show by Marsha. She loves making like she’s an adoring mother, but really, the situation’s a lot more complicated. But this isn’t the time to fight. A quick peek down confirms that half of my breast is pushing its way out of my bathing suit top after all that hugging. I subtly try to squeeze everything back in and say, “I need a new swim suit, Mom. This one is too tight.”
Marsha frowns for a moment.
“Maybe a little,” she acknowledges, “But it’s because you’re a big girl. Big girls have big assets, and it just means that they’re feeding you well at school,” she announces.
My face goes red. Trust Mom to proclaim to the world that I’m a size extra large. But oh well, there’s nothing to be done about it. Marsha will always be Marsha, and no matter how often I tell her not to do something, she’ll always do what she wants.
So I sigh. And just for show, she swoops me into another hug, announcing again how happy she is that I’m home. When I offer to help with food, she clucks, shaking her head.
“You go on outside,” she says, shooing me towards the backyard. “Besides, I expect the Morgans to arrive anytime now. You remember the Morgans, honey? They have seven sons. Seven boys! If I were Maddy Morgan, I’d probably be in a mental facility by now, run ragged with no space to breathe. But Maddy is fantastic, so calm all the time.”
I nod. I do, in fact, remember the Morgans. Somewhat. Vaguely. We never interacted because the boys were so much older than me. But it was always a joke around the house because what family has seven sons? The level of testosterone over there must have been enough to kill an elephant.
Unfortunately, I don’t remember much more than a couple lanky teenage boys zooming around the neighborhood on skateboards. So I shrug nonchalantly.
“Sure,” is my comment. “Let me know when they arrive.”
And fortunately, my bikini manages to stay put as I arrange myself on a lounge chair, stretching out in the sun. Maybe I can just greet people from here, like a queen. I’ll say I have an ankle injury. It’s for the better because if I move, there’s definitely going to be an accident. This is all for the public interest, I tell myself, lying back, sunglasses on top of my head.