“Let’s” — pop — “be clear” — smack — “about something,” Hal said, eyes closed. Pop-pop.

“We are not fucking,” Hal grunted, as he and Officer Sinclair fucked, doggy-style, filling room 319 of The Sleepy Inn with the sounds of squeaking mattress springs and urgent, illicit sex. It was 9 p.m. Hal had told his wife, Suzanne, he was speaking at the city council meeting that night. There was no city council meeting that night. She would know this if she actually read the newspaper her husband published.

But it didn’t matter. Suzanne came home from work to discipline Allen and throw out all of his porn after Hal told her about the rooftop masturbation crisis that provoked the catfight between Maria and Lilly. Both felt it would be better for Allen’s mother to handle this, as Hal had already reamed him out, and there’s nothing like the shame a boy feels when his mother catches on to his porn habit.

Suzanne was also utterly horrified by the spiraling events her hormonal son had set off, as well as the copious collection of nudie mags he had stolen over the past year. She dumped them in the big green recycling bin that would be collected on Wednesday morning, then went out to a late dinner with a couple of friends to decompress. So Suzanne really didn’t care where her husband was, nor did she have any reason to fact-check his whereabouts, which was out by the Interstate, and not at city hall.

Sweat pooled in the small of Officer Sinclair’s back. Hal leaned over her and slowed his pace. He didn’t want to cum too fast. Also, despite its lousy decor and generally sleazy aesthetic, The Sleepy Inn was $19.99, even for a Tuesday night, and they didn’t have an advertising account with the Springfield Sentinel, either.

Officer Sinclair was wearing her utility belt, patrol boots, mirrored shades, and cop hat, just like Hal liked it. She was brandishing her baton and rubbing the top of her pussy with it as Hal pumped her from behind.

“You’re the cops, I’m the newspaper,” Hal said breathlessly, leaning over Officer Sinclair’s back and breathing into her ear. And, in fact, his role-play costume literally included a fedora with a card that said PRESS stuck in the hat band, like Clark Kent at The Daily Planet. Officer Sinclair loved it when he put that on, almost as much as she loved the fact Hal was a fifty-year-old man who actually wore garters with his dark socks.

Hal resumed his thrusts. “That makes all this” — pump — “a big” — pop — “conflict” — pop-pop — “of interest,” Hal panted.

Well, no shit, Officer Sinclair thought. You’re also married, that’s the bigger conflict of interest, honey. But whatever, she loved his hairy chest, his treasure trail leading down to a huge — and very experienced — cock, and the way in which Hal deployed it on her.

“So we cannot have any sexual connections whatsoever,” Hal said, as he continued connecting sexually with Officer Sinclair’s pelvis. Hal really meant she had to stay away from his seventeen-year-old son, Allen.

Not that he was jealous; hell, he was kind of disappointed the boy hadn’t yet lost his virginity. But if the cop he was boning was giving his kid a blowjob, for sure kids at his high school were going to find out. Thank God it was the summer; also, grounding Allen meant he wouldn’t be able to tell his friends up at the country club pool.

Hal was finally going to cum. He pulled out, rolled off his condom desperately, and lashed Officer Sinclair up to her shoulder blades with four ropes of hot cum while she flexed her ass cheeks like a stripper. He turned over, dead weight, as if to fall asleep on his side of the bed, but misjudged the area and fell off the mattress onto the tacky, threadbare carpet, which had a seizure-inducing pattern and reeked of cigarette smoke.

“Shit!” Hal said, heaving deep breaths. He got to his feet with his hand over the top of his PRESS hat and curled up into bed next to Officer Sinclair. The motel room’s cheap, single-unit air conditioner rattled and actually blew visible condensation into the room.

“I just don’t want the boy to get hurt, or you,” Hal sighed, and he did sincerely mean that. He kissed along Officer Sinclair’s neck and she held his hand up between her wonderful big boobs.

“I’m sorry, love,” Officer Sinclair said sweetly. “I’ll leave him alone and be more careful.”

It had been one hell of a day for everyone involved. The next morning, Hal and Suzanne got up at their usual crack-of-dawn time, and the loveless couple had a quick and silent breakfast before leaving for work as Allen snoozed.Suzanne worked in a travel agency two towns over and had a rather lengthy commute. Hal was somewhat of a workaholic and started early, both to terrorize the reporters into whipping up some news first thing, but also to fuck around with his buddies at the coffee shop before everyone got busy with their day. After his parents left, Allen naturally did not put the ladder on the roof to go up and beat off. In addition to being grounded, he felt like everyone was watching him. He couldn’t even jerk off in his bedroom and especially did not feel like it since his mom threw out all his girlie mags.

Maria, next door, knew that Allen was probably not going to resume his rooftop ritual, though she still hoped she would hear the clank-clank of the aluminum ladder being set against the side of his house. It never came. Neither did she, after about ten minutes of unsatisfying masturbation with her Hitachi wand. Even spreading her hood and putting its mallet head directly on her clit on the highest setting — and Maria was a clit girl, for sure — couldn’t do the trick.

“Fuck it,” Maria groaned, getting up and throwing on her bathrobe. She remembered that Wednesday was the recycling day, so she went outside to push the can to the curb next to Hal and Suzanne’s. Maria peeked inside their can to see if the recycling had been picked up yet. She saw a huge pile of porno magazines and gasped. She recognized a few of their covers from Allen’s rooftop adventures. Shit, she thought, this is Allen's whole collection!

Almost comically she leaned forward on her high-heeled, marabou-trimmed pink bedroom slipper into the recycling bin to retrieve Allen’s porn stash. Then she scurried away with the huge stack of glossy sex and glamour wrapped under the left fold of her robe.

Sitting in her sun room with a cocktail, despite the fact it was 10 a.m., Maria examined Allen’s stack of nudie mags. There were a couple of Hustlers, several Penthouses, a Playboy whose interview with Gore Vidal surely didn’t interest Allen. Then the trucker porn: Cheri, Fox, High Society, about a dozen in all. And also—

Wait. Maria thought, and a cold pit formed in her stomach. She recognized that Gallery magazine from 1984. Holy fucking shit! It was the one where the Polaroids her ex-husband took of her (at The Sleepy Inn, naturally) appeared in the “Friends & Lovers” section of readers’ wives. Maria’s nom de porn was “Karen,” and it said she was from Shasta, California just to cover her tracks. In fact, you really could not tell it was Maria; she had a completely different hair color, and her hubby hadn’t yet bought her her D-cup boobies.

With her hand over her mouth, giggling like Betty Rubble, Maria looked at and remembered her pictures. She didn’t win that month’s contest — it was usually rigged, and strippers and professional glamour models flooded the submissions. But it absolutely thrilled her to think that Allen was jacking off to her pictures, even if he didn’t know that was her. She knew boys’ favorite Penthouse Pets and Playboy Playmates were ones that reminded them of real girls. Hell, maybe Allen did beat off to those pictures because he was fantasizing about Maria.

Either way, she was now turned on in a way she’d never felt before. In a sense, Maria felt like she was the one on the roof, being watched, by the hot boy next door. She went into her bedroom, flung off her bathrobe, and climbed aboard her big four-poster bed. Maria didn’t reach for the Hitachi wand. She wanted to go slow and sensual and enjoy this moment.

She rubbed her thick, curly, bushy pussy and slipped two fingers inside as she leafed through Allen’s porn collection, wondering what he found the most erotic; who was his favorite. When she actually encountered a stuck-together Penthouse centerfold, that did it. Maria pulled her fingers out, spread her hood, and furiously diddled her clit, gasping and crying out Allen’s name.

Maria kept going, without the porn. Eyes shut, her hips thrust into the air, bucking and spasming. She had two more peaks as she thought of Allen crouching over his porn magazines and cumming all over the pictures. It was all so nasty, so dirty, so sexy. She was absolutely reeling from her orgasms when it was over.

Maria picked up her cordless phone. “Hello,” she said, breathy enough to just tease Allen, “I think I have some things that belong to you.”