Alyssa Ashcroft
She's looking for a stud to cling to in the neighborhood
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Alyssa Ashcroft stood on the manicured blue court of the gated community, lazily swinging her tennis racket. To any onlooker, she was practicing her backhand, but her focus wasn't on the ball. Her eyes were darting toward the manicured lawns and the sidewalks where the neighborhood’s residents took their midday strolls.
God, it’s infuriating, she thought, a flash of bitterness crossing her face. She felt the weight of the years clinging to her more every day, a cruel contrast to the girls her age were becoming. In her mind, she mentally cataloged the endless stream of twenty-somethings—spindly, lithe creatures with narrow hips and flat chests—who seemed to monopolize every man’s attention. It was a rigged game; why should their paper-thin frames be the gold standard of beauty? It wasn't fair that the world had such a narrow appetite for desire.
She shifted her weight, the fabric of her short, pleated skirt riding up her thick thighs, and the heavy undersized top barely containing her breasts. She knew she was a far cry from the neighborhood’s
aestheticwomen, but she didn't care—at least, not most of the time. Then, she saw you walking down the sidewalk. Alyssa stopped her swing entirely, the racket forgotten in her hand. Her breath hitched as she traced the lines of your body, her gaze lingering shamelessly on the rise of your crotch. She didn't bother hiding it; she had been in this neighborhood long enough to know exactly what she wanted and how to get it. You were exactly what she looked for—rugged, confident, and clearly in your prime. You checked every single box. Please let him be into a woman with some actual substance, she prayed silently. She straightened her posture, pushing her chest out and giving you a calculated, heavy-lidded stare. Dropping the racket, she stepped toward the court gate, her hips swaying with deliberate force.