Coveting Thy Neighbor’s Trophy Wife: Part 1

By Edward Daniels

“Coveting thy Neighbor’s Trophy Wife” is the story of a divorcee who finds comfort in the arms of his neighbor’s trophy wife... and the neighbor’s daughter. Over the course of the summer, they find that a “neighbors with benefits” arrangement may be just what they all need when their relationship takes an unexpected turn.

This book contains approximately 12,500 words and includes explicit descriptions of oral sex, masturbation, lesbian sex, threesomes, and pseudo-incest. It also includes a sample of “A Slut’s Perspective”, another erotic story by Edward Daniels.

Warning: This book contains highly explicit descriptions of sex between consenting adults. If you are offended by sexual material or not of legal age in your jurisdiction, please do not purchase this book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Edward Daniels
• Release date: Apr 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781476467825

Edward Daniels

Edward Daniels is a proud erotic fiction author with a focus on telling short stories. His interests exploring the world of BDSM, sugar relationships, cheating spouses, prostitution, students and teachers, and even several stories “based on the true story” of his misspent youth. Many of his short stories are available in collections for those who want to find out how everything turns out in the end or who want to sample a range of different erotic possibilities. Based in Maryland, the author enjoys sharing his stories, and the filthy ideas inside his head, with the world.

Book preview

Coveting thy Neighbor's Trophy Wife: Part 1

By Edward Daniels

Copyright 2012

Smashwords Edition

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Table of Contents

Chapter 1: Freelance

Chapter 2: Hard Rain

Chapter 3: Blown

Chapter 4: The Daughter

Chapter 5: A Stepmother's Love

Chapter 6: The Dock

Chapter 7: The Boathouse

Chapter 8: Loose Ends

Sample Chapter from A Slut's Perspective: Freshman Year

Other short stories and collections by Edward Daniels

Chapter 1: Freelance

As a freelance writer, one of the great perks of the job is I get to work from home. My morning commute is about 30 steps from the bedroom to the kitchen table. There's normally fresh brewed Kona in the coffee pot instead of whatever $6 a pound swill the office manager brewed at my last job. Good coffee is one of the small pleasures that make a bigger difference than most people think.

In a big office, it's easy enough to get lost in the mix. You can slack for most of the day and get away with it. When you freelance, if you don't work, you don't eat. That's a healthy level of motivation. I was lucky to have a few regular clients who liked my work well enough to keep coming back., Like every other writer, I was tinkering with ideas for the great American novel. I'll never be Hemmingway, but I have a remarkable facility for churning out travel articles about places I've never actually visited. It's not the gift I would have asked for as a writer, but it's the one I got.

To keep food on the table, I try to stick with the usual 40-hour week. Some weeks that means five or six hours every day and others it may mean manic 12-hour binges. As long as the copy gets finished, no one really cares how it comes together. No one except publishers get rich from writing, but it's a living. Mostly. I could never explain that part to my ex-wife - which explains whey she's living in my ex-house, hanging out with my ex-friends, driving my ex-car, and for all I know fucking my ex-pool boy. I'm not bitter, though. Life with a struggling writer wasn't what she signed up for when we met. She always liked the parties, office socials, and gossip more than I did anyway.

I didn't fight for anything in the divorce. I didn't even hire a lawyer. I left her the house, the car, and the majority of our savings. Then I cashed out my retirement account and just walked away. I'd inherited a small lake house from my uncle years ago and that's where I retreated to lick the wounds of a failed marriage. It wasn't as secluded as I remember it being when I was a kid, but it was comfortable, full of friendly memories, and, most importantly, paid off.

March wasn't exactly high season for vacationers and I was able to settle into an easy routine of rising early, writing until noon and fixing up the house the rest of the day. It wasn't so much run down as it was stuck in an early 70s time warp. Between a few new contract pieces and the house, I had more than enough to keep my mind occupied.

The lake was full of quintessential summer cottages. Not the kind you see in Newport, but the ones that real people have passed down in their family for years. The kind your parents and grandparents built for a thousand dollars 60 years ago. They were