an AIF game
|Authoring system||Inform 6|
|Cruelty scale||Cruelty to be determined|
How It Begins
Now you're forty. You're married. You have regular sex. And when you say regular, you mean REGULAR: every other Friday night at nine-thirty. These Fridays are the highlight of your life. Not because of the sex -- the sex is terrible.
You have two sons, ages seven and five. They're certainly not the highlight of your life: the younger one's allergic to everything, the older one had to repeat first grade. (How do you flunk first grade?) But every other Friday you take Pam out for dinner, and that means that you have to get a sitter. Samantha.
Samantha Johnson. Strawberry-blonde pigtails, big sky-blue eyes, button nose sprinkled with freckles, braces. Perfect tits that laugh at gravity. Shirts cut so high you can see her navel ring, jeans cut so low that you can see she must shave. Eighth grade. 25-to-life in the state pen, probably. It'd be worth it. You get to stare at her for five minutes when she arrives and Pam's still getting ready -- you've taken to hiding her pocketbook to make it take longer -- and then five minutes when you get home and pay her. "Twenty bucks for babysitting," you always say, "and five for being so cute!" You say "cute" because "complete fuckable" would probably get you in trouble.
"Thanks," she says. She cups her hand to her mouth to shout down the hall. "Good night, Mrs. McCain!" she yells, then mumbles, "Good night, Mr. McCain."
"I keep tellin' ya, call me Stevie," you say. "Sure you don't need a ride somewhere?"
"Nah, I just live a couple of streets down from here," she says. And then it's over. The door closes, and you have to go fuck your wife.