The Seven Deadly Sins: Sloth - Sex Stories

The Seven Deadly Sins: Sloth

... and Peter was just a friend' story. The fact that Dave had disappeared might help there. No discrepancies in the story. A few dinner parties at an upscale mansion and they would soon forget her former life. If worse came to worst, Peter had plenty of friends who had already welcomed her.

Then there were Peter's children. Fiona was twenty-four, married to Mike who was a stockbroker. They had a little girl of their own. She'd been a little cool toward Jane on the two occasions they'd met. Jane could understand that. In Fiona's mind, Jane was being compared with Fiona's mother; taken by cancer ten years prior. Brent was twenty-two and a typical spoiled rich kid. Still living at home; never holding a job for long, and generally living irresponsibly. His attitude was very much take-it-or-leave-it with Jane.

Jane stopped daydreaming when she neared the top corner again; on alert. The group of winos had broken up. One was still seated, two had wandered away, and the fourth was digging through one of the bins for a late breakfast. Jane forced her peripheral vision to keep tabs on the two remaining. Experience told her they were harmless in groups but were more likely to approach her for a handout when alone.

Something about the one on the seat drew her attention. Jane never knew what it was. She turned her head directly toward him. The fact his eyes were downcast allowed her glance to linger longer.

Although he wore the almost obligatory moth-eaten army surplus ...

... greatcoat, his pants and shoes were in better condition than his bench-mate's. His shoulders sloped down defeatedly; his hands, clad in fingerless woollen mittens, rested on his lap. A blanket roll lay on the ground beneath him, clamped between his feet for protection. A paper-wrapped bottle was also between his legs. He wore no hat, and his hair was unruly; having not seen a comb for many days. His face was dirty and unshaven, and a large bruise extended from his left cheek to that eye. The eyes, what Jane could see of them were hollow and unblinking, tears trickling down both cheeks, glistening in the morning sun. Jane stumbled, but her eyes never left the obviously broken man.

It was Dave.

Jane's treacherous feet kept to her routine, and she entered the downhill run automatically. It was a good seventy-five metres later she overruled them, stopped, turned, and stared. Overwhelming feelings of guilt washed over her and nearly made her knees buckle. In an instant, she knew Peter, and, admittedly, her plan, was working too well. Stabbed in the back by the person who was supposed to be covering it; business paralysed by superior legal footwork; shorn of contact with his children, his reason to be, and his emotional support network; Dave had given up. Resorted to the oblivion of alcohol, and with no money or place to stay, joined that section of society who were no longer part of it. Jane staggered to the closest bench and fell onto it, devastated at what she'd done to a good man, ...