Its complicated

"Jennifer, how is us going to your house anything but bad?" you ask.

Shrugging, Jennifer looked out the window, telling you, "It's complicated; the short answer is neither Mom nor Dad is home, and it's only Consuela and me in a 10-bedroom house."

"Who's Consuela?" you query.

"That's also complicated," Jennifer replies. "The simple answer is she's our 20-year-old housekeeper Dad hired like 4 months ago."

After having met Jennifer's vain and fucked-up mother. You just knew that this was not going to be anything close to normal. Unable to help yourself, you asked her, "And the complicated one?"

Jennifer sighed, explaining, "My parents are the poster children for why some people shouldn't get money. While Dad didn't make Elon or Bezos money, he did quite well in the tech bubble."

"And Consuela," you prod.

Wincing, Jennifer mumbled, "He kind of bought her."

"How is that even..." you wonder.

"You see, Consuela's dad was kind of laundering money for the Columbian cartels..." Jennifer says. Whenever an explanation starts off with "you see," it's never a good thing. Bracing yourself, she continued, "They found out he was skimming and needed cash to flee."

"I see..." you murmur.

Jennifer plowed on with her explanation: "And she's kinda here illegally; Dad snuck her in on a private plane."

Adding human trafficking to this was just sounding better and better, you thought.

"But with Consuela here, it's good, because she keeps my mom out of my hair." Jennifer finished.

Suddenly weary, you ask, "Why?"

"My dad's business in Colorado is setting up our last housekeeper, his mistress, and my new twin half-siblings with a house for when he's there."

This was just getting better and better," and this is relevant. How? You query.

"Well, Consuela is like super hot, like Miss Teen Columbia hot. And her duties consist, as housekeeper, mainly of her lying by the pool."

"So she's not really a housekeeper; she's more like arm candy." You surmise.

Jennifer nods, saying, "Yes. And my mom refuses to be here more than absolutely necessary. Because she refuses to be under the same roof as his Columbian whore."

You looked over at Rebecca, silently listening to this saga. She had a look that just screamed, and I thought my parents were fucked up.

"How are they still a thing?" you wonder.

Jennifer thinks about it for a minute, saying, "Despite, apparently, not having fucked in 10 years, for Mom it's money. My dad took his bosses' advice and had Mom sign a prenup. In a divorce she would get a few million, but not enough for her race car boyfriend or weekends in Monaco."

Jennifer thought about it some more, saying, "Best guess about Dad is either spite. Or maybe he sees Mom as his possession, and her unhappiness is immaterial."

The silence after that just hung in the car until Jennifer smashed it: "But that's the sad saga of the Marlow family."

As much as thought of fucking the girls in Jennifer's bed was a real turn on. You were really unsure if the fantasy was worth entering that minefield.

"I think well..." you say before being interrupted.

"There's no need to feel sorry for me, Mr. Clarkson. I get to do virtually whatever I want. The person I feel for is Consuela. She can't really leave, barely speaks English, and her existence is to be available for my dad to fuck when and however he desires. And the kicker is it's not even good sex; according to Mom, Dad's dick is like 4 inches, and he's done in 3 minutes or less."

Well, that certainly cleared up some things in your mind. Doing anything at Jennifer's, even without a human-trafficked sex ****, would be really risky.