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Christ, everybody in our town remembers the Thorne girls. They used to live in what’s now the Hampton Motel before it was made over into a motel. It was a big place and easily visible all around because it stood on that rise of ground a hundred yards each way between the ocean and the river. Standing like it does, plunk in the middle of the peninsula, you walk to one end of the house to watch the sun rise sparkling on the river and a mile of marshland and then walk to the other end of the house at night to watch the sun set red and pink and orange on the rolling waves of the Pacific.
It’s not many places that have a view both ways like that so that’s why Mrs. Thorne, after she was divorced, decided it was a good place to rent rooms to tourists. She put a sign on the roof of each porch, front and back, that said, “Thorne’s Rooms.” She kept the place immaculate, happily scrubbing and polishing her life away and supposing it was her cleanliness and inoffensive good nature that kept the rooms filled, at least in the summer months.
Alas, she left the bed-making to her three daughters. They were easily the most beautiful, most voluptuous, and most wanton girls the small coastal town had ever seen. To tell the truth, they had been attracting men, innocently, since long before any of them entered their teens. Nancy may not have been so innocent all along. With her curly chestnut hair and her fantastically hot little body, she was flaunting her tits and her round little ass in town long before her sisters got started. She was no more than twelve when she’d walk the length of the casino on a Saturday night in July with a whole row of boys and men panting in her footsteps.
Fictional reading for entertainment purposes only.