Page 10 of A Cock and Bull Story
“Thank you,” she says in a grateful and strained voice.
My heart bleeds for the sweet lass. I can’t imagine having to learn and deal with all this on her own, but at least she’s not alone anymore. This horny toad is sticking by her side forever.
Together, all of us are shitty shifters uniting to become super.
My parents are closet sex freaks.
Wow.
That’s. . .
Disturbing as fuck.
Honestly, I’m having a hard time imaging it. I mean, my dad wears a belt buckle and tucks in his shirt. His pants are always pressed, and my mom doesn’t wear anything lower cut than under her chin—she owns a butt ton of turtlenecks. In fact, my clothing is the bane of their existence. If my parents could afford to come over the Big Pond for ‘parent’s day’, Oxford would freaking adore them.
People have actually asked my parents if they adopted me.
Rude.
So, to learn that at least one of them is dirtier than a dollar bill left on a toilet seat is unsettling. I wonder which parent it is and quickly shut that thought down—thoughts bring visuals. And visuals ofthatbring nightmares and years of therapy that no psychologist has a hope of curing.
Although, if I am hazarding a guess, I would say it’s my mother. I see her sliding side-glances at my dad all the time. I thought that they were silent reprimands, but now I’m wondering if they were invitations for, you know,fucking. A shudder racks my body at this—that’s a lot of fucking invitations,literally.
Arthur looks at me with concern.
“Are you alright, lass? Is it too chilly in here?” he wonders.
“Maybe if she didn’t shave her kitty-cat,” I hear Jude mumble, and this makes me giggle.
Do they honestly think I’m cold because my hot dog hole is hairless?
“I’m fine. . . just thinking. I apologize, Mr. Chafer of Cocks—please, continue. You were saying something about Tertiaries, I think?”
“Yes, but it seems that I will need to explain—”
Jack cuts him off.
“No, thank you, Professor Too Detailed. We’ll be here all flipping night and Belle doesn’t have that much paper in her notebook. I’ll explain it,” the ashy-haired man insists. “So, you’ve got the Tertiary bastards, the Secondary cunts, and the Pri—”
“Jack!” Elise interrupts sharply.
“What? I’m only telling her like it is,” he whines.
“I’ll take it from here,” Elise says regally.
“God, you’re such aboob,” Jack teases.
“But she’s my favorite boob,” Sian counters.
“And you’re my favorite tit,” Elise adds.
“Awww,” I coo, laughing, “you’rebreastfriends!”
Everyone chuckles at my terrible pun and some of my anxiety wanes.
“As the jackass was saying,” Elise continues, “there are three levels—Tertiaries, Secondaries, and Primaries. Tertiaries are your apex hunters and Primaries are your. . .slugs.”
“Think of it this way,” Jude interjects, “Tertiaries are your upper-class and Primaries are your lower-class. Secondaries, then, would be the middle-class.”
