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Roger, Catalina, and Bonnie didn't have much to say about the upcoming meeting; they'd already said about all that could be said over the last week and more. Although the numbers Gerjevic had come up with were a little higher than had been batted around before, they really weren't all that much higher, so there wasn't much room for comments that hadn't already been made and made again. Still, there was the dread of having to face an ugly scene, and now that they knew the real numbers they had some idea of just how ugly they could get."Mom," Catalina warned as they pulled into a parking space near deBoer's office, "Please don't fly off the handle. Let Mr. Gerjevic do the talking. You may know where the bodies are buried in the family, but he's the one with the numbers." I'll try," Bonnie promised. "But the sack of shit that Delmer's family pulled on Doyle just makes me boil." Mom, that's in the past," Catalina frowned. "This is a whole new sack of shit. Let's not drag old feuds into. I went to the wall that separated our backyards and I bent over it. I called his name. He looked at me, starred at my cleavage and I smiled looking at him. He was eighteen, a little shy with lots of dirty thoughts in his mind. My cleavage was enough to make his young cock hard like steel. I noticed him adjusting his cock under the table, and he looked down feeling embarrassed. I called him and asked him if he would like some homemade cookies. He nodded in yes and jumped the wall to follow me in the house. His heart must be beating fast looking at the big ass of his thirty five years-old dream MILF. Taking him inside my house through the backdoor I made him stand by the wall next to the door and locked the door. I looked at him, gave him a seductive smile. He looked at my cleavage and then looked back into my eyes. My hands reached down to his crotch and he was just standing still saying nothing. I grabbed his cock through his pants, it was hard just like I was expecting. “So hard it.
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“Pleased to meet you, Jack.”We shook hands, grinning like a couple of Cheshire cats, before he dropped a bombshell.“But if we are to be friends then I must inform you my birth name was not Callum Keane, and will reveal the reason for my change of name.”We sat on two chairs in our shared cabin as he told me his story.“I was born in the west of Ireland, in a village a few miles outside the town of Limerick. My father was a shoemaker, not as fine a craftsman as the one who made your boots,” he said, pointing to my Gucci made footwear, “but he could craft a decent pair of working men’s boots, and repair them when required. I was the youngest son, and the next to youngest in the family, my sister Aoife having that honour, being a year younger than me.My mother was extremely pious, even for an Irish woman. She had a cross to bear, that cross being her sister Eileen. My Aunt Eileen had been a wild child, a wayward young woman, and even after marriage, a wilful woman. She had married a man.

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