Wendy’s Pink Lipstick Conversion, Phase II — Wednesday
* * *

The next afternoon saw Wendy on the couch downstairs, curled up under a blanket, almost completely enthralled by the Jack Randall book.

“The rise of Nero Craft’s fortunes seemed to have begun shortly after the disappearance of Betty Blake. In point of fact, however, the young Mr. Craft’s life resumed its habit. Interviews with his supervisor and fellow workers all suggest a competent, if complacent, mechanic. He missed shifts, shirked what labor he could, and basically continued performing as he had always performed. A screw-up, but not enough of one to get him fired. Not particularly gifted or driven. Not particularly concerned with the future.

“A year later, all that had changed.”
* * *

When Nero approached the pile of rubble, he felt more than knew that he had been led to the right place. Whatever pulled him, whatever urged or prompted him to return to the canyon, drew him here, to this wall, this cliff, to reach this, well, what was it? From all appearances, it looked like it might have been the entrance to a cave, but with all the fallen rock and debris, you really couldn’t say. But then he heard it. A low hum, almost inaudible, more of a vibration than a sound, coming from behind the rock.

Then his own body responded.

A tremor shook him, vibrating through his bones, seeming to come from every fiber of his body, a thrill vibrated him, and he felt the ground shaking below him. He shut his eyes and saw pink. His arms raised, and without seeing, keeping his eyes closed, he floated forward, his booted feet inches off the ground. He braced himself for an impact that never came as he followed the pink light into the side of the canyon. He tried to open his eyes, but something kept them closed, shut despite his will to open them. Then slowly he began to see.

A pink tunnel, with glimmering pink sides with darker, almost red lines like veins running in a crooked, jagged fashion horizontally along the walls of the tunnel, spiderwebbing. Nero followed the dark pink veins down the tunnel, eyes closed, no longer needing eyes to see, nor feet to walk, nor hands to touch, moving with movement towards whatever lay ahead. But he knew without knowing. The probe. Not a meteorite, not a natural object at all, but artificially and cunningly crafted. And with the probe, he also knew, waited Betty Blake, waiting for him.

And then he saw it, the object from a week ago, more than a week ago, not black, after all, but dark red, a deep velvet red, so dark, so dark. Less than five feet in diameter. A pink line encircled the rough surface of the sphere, and as he approached the humming grew louder, the vibration shook through Nero, shook the walls of the canyon, and the craft trembled and shuddered. The pink circle glowed brighter, grew wider, and Nero saw one half of the object, the probe, rise from the other, lifting open on one side, like a round clam shell, revealing an interior of a bright and radiant pink beyond the conception of human imagination. A pink beyond pink.

And in that pink Nero beheld a figure arise, slowly, from the depths of the lower half, the figure of a human, a pink and glowing figure, oddly transparent and not transparent, the figure of a woman, of curving hip and chest, nude. The figure of Betty Blake. The figure of Betty Blake stretched a hand towards Nero, beckoning, and Nero drew closer, closer, until standing beside the woman, just outside the object. Nero flinched as the woman stepped outside the craft and wrapped Nero in an embrace.

“Shh,” the figure whispered, “It’s me. Betty. And not me. I’ve been.”

“Betty?” Nero asked.

“And you, too. You’ve been. It’s inside you, but not like me. I’m. It’s me. And I’m it. I’ve been growing. It’s been growing. It’s. It’s alive somehow. I’m alive somehow.”

“Betty?” Nero asked again.

“It’s wrong. It’s in the wrong place. It’s not meant. It needs to go. There’s a place. A waterfall. But it’s out of power, I’m out of power. I can’t get there. It can’t. We can’t get there. You have to take us. You are us. Also. A little. We are inside you.”

“How?”

“We trust you.”

The figure of Betty Blake stepped backward, fell into the lower half of the craft, and collapsed, curling into a fetal position. The top half of the craft fell, enclosing Betty in her pink womb, the pink seam of the sphere resealing. At last Nero opened his eyes, finding himself alone in the darkness of the canyon grotto, faintly illuminated by the pink and red glow of the craft. Looking behind him, he saw a light coming from around the bend of the grotto’s tunnel. Assuming the light to be coming from the entrance, he stepped forward, but jerked as if tethered. He couldn’t leave without the probe. But how could he move it?

Giving it a shot, he stepped behind the probe, leaned into the sphere and pushed, his hands on either side of the small globe, using his back and shoulders for strength. The globe jolted but did not roll. Nero heaved again, and this time the sphere moved, turning over and rolling like a rubber ball as Nero pushed, now barely making an effort, lightly rolling the sphere over the rocky floor of the grotto.
* * *

Uncle woke up with a start, hearing the voice of his nephew calling.

“Uncle!” Nero shouted. “Wake up! I found it.”

Uncle looked up to see Nero rolling a big black rock towards him.

“Found what? What the heck is that thing?”

“What I saw last week. What Betty and I saw last week. It’s been in that cave yonder.”

“Whatcha gonna do with the thing?”

“I dunno. Take it home, I reckon. Crack it open in the backyard, I suppose.”

“You got any idea how to get that thing up the canyon?”

“Ain’t very heavy. Not heavy at all. I reckon I can roll it up.”

“You’re welcome to try. Don’t expect my help. I’ll be lucky to get myself back up there on my own two legs.”

“Aw, Uncle, you ain’t crippled.”

“Age cripples all, Nero.”

“You ain’t old.”

“I feel old.”

It took a while. Light as the craft was, it still proved unwieldy and cumbersome trying to roll it over the roughly hewn stone steps of the hiker path. Eventually Nero managed to get it to the top of the canyon, the setting sun awash in a glow of oranges and reds. Nero sighed a thanks of relief at seeing the lone highway, devoid of traffic and curious onlookers. He half-expected to see the sheriff’s car sitting beside his uncle’s truck, but the truck remained alone.

“You reckon you can lift that by yourself?” asked Uncle.

“Might could stand a hand,” Nero replied.

“Might could offer one,” said Uncle. “You’ve done most of the work.”

Nero rolled the small globe to the back of the truck as Uncle unlatched the tailgate. Standing on either side, they crouched near the bottom, shifting their hands as far underneath the craft as they could and heaved. Uncle shot Nero a shocked looked at the light weight of the object. Couldn’t have been much more than fifty pounds.

“I know,” Nero replied to Uncle’s wordless exclamation.

Uncle closed the door, took the keys from Nero, and said, “I’ll drive.”
* * *

Mary hesitated as the Hipkick vibrated, alerting her to another call from Sara. She had spent all night trying to figure things out, trying to come to terms with her behavior. But only two things stood out in her mind after a night of fitful sleep, tormented masturbation, and steamy dreams: one, she had orgasmed to her daughter’s naked body, several times that night, guiltily, reproaching herself with each caress. And two, she owed Renee a pussy licking. My god. Renee.

As hard as it was for her to believe, she couldn’t get the girl out of her mind. The way her hair smelled like coffee, the salty flesh of her breasts, her tits, as Mary kissed and licked them, the way her hot pussy quivered in its hairy thatch as Mary jilled her. The soft fur of her thighs, strong and powerful and soft, like a man’s and unlike. The curve of her round ass as Mary squeezed and caressed it, falling into endless kisses of tongue and wet lip.

Mary had thought of her body all night long, short, shorter than Mary anyway, a little stocky, not exactly pudgy, but not exactly not pudgy, Mary had delighted in the smoothness of her skin, the soft and yielding flesh. The promise of her pussy. Mary had assumed that whatever had happened yesterday would recede, be a strange and distant memory, or at least a rapidly fading one, but no. If anything Mary’s heat increased the more she thought of Renee, her body, her flavor, her smell becoming more and more vivid and each new recollection of the experience. The way her round brown eyes sat above her button nose, the pout of her sensual mouth in its round and almost boyish face, especially in that adorable black cap. Oh god. The way her ass bounced in the tightness of her pants when she made my latte.

God, I can’t stop thinking about her, Mary said to herself.

And now this. She glanced at the Hipkick vibrating on her desk.

How can I possibly deal with Sara at this time? Why do I have to? How did Sara become someone I have to interact with? I mean, why feel anything at all? She’s just a friend of Wendy’s.

Still, she hesitated to answer. But the phone vibrated again, and Mary reached to answer it.

“Mary speaking,”

“Oh gosh, Mrs. Love, it’s me, Sara. I’m so glad you answered!”

Then again, the child was always so thoughtful and kind, always so happy when anybody paid her attention. Kind of endearing really.

“Hello, Sara.” Mary tried to keep her voice in an expressionless monotone.

“Well, the thing is, Wendy’s mom, I was wondering. I was just wondering if maybe, if, you know, if you don’t have anywhere else to go, if maybe you’d like to have lunch with me again today? I have an extra hour free today after lunch. I was thinking maybe, you know, we could get together? Grab a bite to eat away from your work?”

“Oh, I don’t know, Sara. I’m awfully busy today. So many files to go through.”

“Please, Mrs. Love. I just. I just think. I just think it’s something we’d both like to do. I get the feeling it’s something you’d like to do, Mary.”

Well. To be honest, Mary saw no harm in it.

“Well, okay.”

“Great,” Sara said. “I know just the place. I’ll pick you up.”

Mary didn’t know why she couldn’t just drive herself and meet the girl there. But something about being picked up excited her. It felt nice to have someone treat her like. Like a date, she thought suddenly. Like I’m Sara’s lunch date. Mary supposed she was.

Mary retrieved a compact mirror from her purse and checked her face, glad to have put so much makeup on that morning. In attempting to hide the marks on her neck with foundation, Mary decided to go the whole way, applying the makeup to her face, along blush and red lipstick. She used a neutral, flesh toned eyeshadow to darken her eyes, adding just enough shimmer to bring out her eyes, dark eyeliner and mascara. Then she bound a light scarf, little more than a silk handkerchief, around her neck to completely hide the hickeys Renee had given her.

She attracted many stares as she entered the building that morning. But the makeup also hid her lack of sleep the night before.

At noon Mary walked out the front doors of her building in a gray blazer with matching gray pencil skirt rising just above her knees. After Sara had arranged their date, Mary slipped off the tennis shoes she wore while in the cubicle, replacing them with black three-inch heels she wore for the morning. She saw Sara’s Mercedes waiting for her in the U-shaped drive of Adamatic Paper. Sara stood outside the driver’s door, dressed in torn jeans, sneakers, and a pink long-sleeved pullover, under which her full breasts bounced freely, apparently unencumbered by a bra. Then Mary noticed her hard nipples poking through the fabric, confirming the absence of an under garment.

She felt conspicuously overdressed.

I should’ve kept my tennis shoes on.

Sara smiled, ran up to hug Mary. Mary leaned forward to breathe in the scent of Sara’s hair, loose now, unbraided, falling in auburn waves behind her neck. The aroma of cinnamon rose from Sara’s body, and Mary found herself pressing the teenager close, enjoying the soft contours of her body pressed against her own, running her hands up and down Sara’s shoulder blades and trailing down her spine.

Sara sighed and released herself from the embrace to lead Mary Love around the back of her car to the passenger door, opening it for Wendy’s mother.

“Gosh, Mrs. Love, you really look nice.”

“Please, Sara. Call me Mary.”

Sara winked at Mary, closed the door and walked around the front of the car. Mary gasped when she saw how great rips and tears had been made in the back of Sara’s jeans, showing almost the entirety of the young woman’s bottom, the full curve of her ass cheeks above her thighs, and much of each half moon. Did she go to school that way? Did they allow girls to dress like that? Did Wendy dress like that? Mary shuddered at the thought of Wendy going to school, her ass hanging out for every guy to ogle.

Not just guys, she thought. Look at you.

Two clear plastic tumblers stood upright in the cup holders in the middle below the dashboard. Mary recognized the smoothies from yesterday. Her mouth watered at seeing them, and a light, butterfly feeling passed quickly through her.

“I know how much you like yours yesterday,” laughed Sara. “So I brought some more for us today. Go ahead. I know you want some.”

Mary lifted her tumbler eagerly. She really did. She really did want some.

Sara grinned happily watching how quickly Mary consumed the smoothie, drinking the full tumbler in a long, steady sucking of the straw. Mary finally looked up with glazed eyes, dark pupils dilated in their light blue irises. Was it the blush, or were Mary’s cheeks flushed, warm with desire?

“Before we go, Mary. Let me do this.”

Taking a moist tissue from her purse, Sara gently wiped the red lipstick from Mary’s mouth, following up with a careful dapping of a dry tissue. Mary inhaled deeply when she saw Sara take out the black and gold tube of pink lipstick.

“Here,” Sara whispered. “Lean forward. You’re going to look so much hotter with pink lips. The red lipstick’s for me, silly.”

Mary leaned forward in a daze, parting her lips and pursing them in turn as Sara ran layer after layer of the glossy pink lipstick to the older woman’s mouth.

“There, that’s better. Now you look hot. My little hot angel, isn’t that right, Mary? So hot and sexy. You like being sexy, don’t you?”

Mary nodded slowly, too dazed to be confused, too unthinking to wonder what Sara said, just taking it in and accepting it as truth. Because it had to be true. Just had to.

Sara pulled away from the building.

Mary squirmed in her seat, her pussy on fire, a heat raging in her groin. She felt her nipples hardening, stiffening in the cage of her bra, trapped and bound by her blouse, her blazer, her bra. After a few miles Sara said, not taking her eyes off the road,

“You look so nice, Mary. So sharply dressed. I love the way your legs look in hose. The way your hips fill your skirt. But don’t you think you need to take it off, Mary. Don’t you think you need to take off your skirt? I can’t see what you’re hiding with that skirt on. I can’t see your panties with your skirt on.”

Mary drank in every word, accepting every word Sara spoke as something arising from her own brain, her own mind, her own need. She slumped back into her seat, unbuttoned fly on the side of her skirt, slowly unzipping it. With a last breath, Wendy’s mother pulled her skirt down and off, kicking it off with her heeled feet.

Sara pulled into an empty parking lot, partially blocked on one side by a tall wooden fence, parking between the fence and a large dumpster area enclosed by a brick wall.

“Face me,” Sara said commandingly. “I want to see you play with yourself, Mary. I’m going to take pictures of you touching your pussy, rubbing your pussy. Won’t that be so hot? It’s just driving you crazy, isn’t it? God you want to fuck yourself in front of my camera, don’t you? Just fuck yourself and fuck yourself. So hot. So sexy.”

No. No, she can’t do that. I don’t want that. I don’t want to fuck myself. Not for Sara. Not for her camera. I don’t want to touch myself. I’m so hot. God, I’m so hot. I need this.

“You’re so hot, aren’t you Mary? Tell me about what you did yesterday. Tell me about how it made you feel to think about Maddy’s hot face, to think all day long about Maddy’s hot little face covered in come.”

The image of Maddy’s hot little face flashed through Mary’s racing mind, her thoughts in a turmoil of lust and longing. She tried to remember the guilt she felt afterward, the guilt she felt as she rubbed herself all night long, looking at Wendy’s gooey face, then Wendy’s gooey pussy, her legs spread for the camera, smiling at Brad. Smiling at anybody looking at the photo. Smiling at her mother. Opening her legs for Mary. And Mary came. Came all night long to Wendy’s naked body.

“You didn’t just think about Maddy, though, did you? Because you don’t have a picture of Maddy. But you needed to come so bad, didn’t you? And you just had to have someone’s picture to look at while you jacked yourself silly. Go ahead and tell me, Mary. Go ahead and tell me who you masturbated to, whose picture you looked at as you frigged yourself at work.”

“I, I,” Mary stammered.

“Go ahead and rub yourself while you tell me, Mary. Go ahead and rub your pussy.”

Mary’s hand drifted between her thighs to rub the outside of her wet groin, feeling over her hard clit with the flat of her hand and fingers, feeling how soaked her panties were getting.

“Pull your panties away, Mary. I want to see your hot cunt.”

Mary groaned and pulled her panties to one side, revealing her engorged lips to the hungry and avid eyes of the unrestrained and insatiable teenager.

“Whose face did you come to, Mary? Whose picture made you orgasm?”

“Oh, god, Sara. You know. You know who I came to.”

“Tell me, Mary. Tell me whose face makes you hot. So hot you have to get off to it.”

Mary rubbed her pussy harder and harder, faster and faster.

“Wendy,” she whispered. “I masturbate to Wendy.”

“What makes you so hot about Wendy?”

“All that come,” Mary panted, stroking herself faster and faster. “All that come on her face makes so fucking horny. It gets me so hot.”

“You like to see men shoot their loads on her face?”

“Oh god yes.”

“You’d like to see it some more?”

“Oh god yes.”

“But who, Mary, who could do it? Who could shoot his load all over your daughter’s face?”

Mary groaned with humiliated exaltation.

“Steve could. The guy I’m seeing. He could do it.”

“The guy you’re seeing? Are you seeing a guy, Mary?”

Mary nodded, eyes closed.

“Is it serious?”

Mary shrugged, then shook her head.

“But you let him spend the night with you?”

Mary nodded again.

“You let him fuck you at night when Wendy’s home? You fuck him all night long while Wendy’s home listening?”

She wasn’t sure about it being all night long. She didn’t know if Wendy heard.

“But she could hear. She could hear you, and that means she did hear you. Hear your bed banging against the wall, hear your moans as your boyfriend rammed his cock into you, right? She had to listen to all that, has to listen to all that because you want her to hear it, right? You want Wendy to listen to you fuck. You get off to your daughter hearing you have sex. It makes you so hot. Hot like you are now. God, Mary. Your pussy’s so wet, you’re leaking all over my car seat.”

Mary squealed, shaking her pelvis at her hand, at Sara watching her. At Sara telling how much she wanted her daughter to listen to her fuck. God it’s so hot, so hot knowing Wendy’s listening to them fuck through the walls.

“You bring Steve home so Wendy can hear him fuck you.”

Mary bit her lip, nodding and trembling.

“Wendy’s just a teenage girl. She’s only sixteen years old, and you brought a man into the home so she could hear you have sex.”

Despite all her lust, all her longing, all the tempest of the sudden onslaught of yearning, of horniness, of the torment of sexual need, Mary rebelled, guilt rising to defend her.

“No, I didn’t think about.”

“A girl on the cusp of womanhood, thinking about sex for the very first time, and you bring Steve home for her.”

“What? No.”

Mary slowed her hand, but still rubbed her fingers against her swollen and heated lips.

“That makes you a bad mother, doesn’t it?”

Mary shook her head.

“You fuck yourself looking at photo of her, made against her will, made without her knowledge or consent, a picture of her with come all over her face, and then you fuck yourself silly looking at the photo of Wendy’s pussy leaking Brad’s come all over the back seat. Spreading her legs wide open for all the world to see.”

Mary shook her head, but her hand picked up speed. She hooked her right foot behind Sara’s seat, spreading her legs wider for Sara’s eager eyes.

“Then you tell me how much you want Steve to blow his load all over her face, while you watch, desperate to lick the come off your daughter’s mouth. So hot to see your Wendy drenched in Steve’s come. It makes you so hot. It makes your pussy so wet. God your cunt is so nasty and hot.”

Mary nodded. Yes. Yes. God she was so hot.

“So hot for Steve to fuck your daughter.”

Mary twitched, groaned, and writhed on Sara’s leather seat, so close to release, so close to exploding.

“I’m going to come, Sara. I’m going to come listening to you talk to me like that.”

“No you’re not, Mary. You can’t come yet. You want to, but you can’t.”

Mary groaned in frustration.

“You can’t come because you haven’t told me what a bad mother you are.”

“I’m not a bad mother.”

“Yes you are, Mary. Only a bad mother would force her boyfriend to fuck her daughter.”

“Oh, god.”

“To come all over her.”

“Oh, god. No.” Mary ground her pussy into her hand.

“Do you want to come?”

“Oh god, please. Please let me come.”

“Then say you’re a bad mother.”

“I’m not a bad mother.”

Sara opened the picture of Wendy spreading her legs on the back seat of Brad’s Jeep. She handed the phone to Mary.

“Look at that picture, Mary. Fuck yourself harder and harder while you look at Wendy’s leaking cunt.”

Mary held the phone close, eyes fixed on the image of Wendy’s pussy, rubbing her blazing cunt, plunging two fingers into her wet hole, and lifting them out to massage her clit in hard, heavy kneading.

“Please let me come.”

“Say you’re a bad mother.”

“Oh, god. I’m a bad mother.”

“Go ahead and come now, Mary.”

Mary shuddered, tightened her thighs against her hand, and shrieked in ecstasy.

“I’m a bad mother, I’m a bad mother, I’m a bad mother,” she moaned over and over, blubbering and sobbing.

“Maybe,” Sara answered. “But bad mothers don’t have to feel guilt.”

After several minutes of quiet sobbing, Mary sat up and started to put on her skirt.

“Don’t bother, Mary,” Sara said. “You’re missing the rest of the day. I’m taking you to my place. You’ve got me so turned on I’m going to have a stroke. I hope you like pussy. I really do, because you’re going to be spending a lot of time between my legs, girl. Right now, you should get in the back seat.”

Mary climbed out of the front seat and scrambled into the back, while Sara shuffled out of her torn jeans. Then she stepped out of the driver’s seat and walked to the back, not caring if anyone saw, but knowing no one would. An abandoned industrial center, far from prying eyes, and patrolled by her mother’s company security. Who knew better than to bother anyone in the Mercedes.

Mary’s heart beat in hammer blows striking the inside of her chest, pounding against the ribcage, as she sat, half-naked, waiting for Sara, eager to see the young woman in the blossom of youth, to see her groin, her hips, her shapely legs, to feel her skin, to touch her bareness, her tight body. My god, she thought. I really am. I must be. I’m so. Hot. I’m so turned on. My orgasm did nothing to calm me.

Sara climbed into the back seat. Scooting near Mary, she pulled her pink shirt over her head, swirled her auburn hair around her shoulder, and gestured at Mary to come nearer. Wendy’s mother gaped at Sara’s exposed breasts, her large areoles displaying the round points of her hard dark nipples. Mary longed to hold them in her hands, to suckle at Sara’s breast, to lean upon her lap, and half-cuddle, half-ravish her daughter’s new friend.

Mary scooted closer and shivered as Sara slowly began to unbutton her blouse, starting at the top and working her way down. Winking at Mary, Sara slid a hand under the side of Mary’s blouse, cupping Mary’s heavy breast in one hand over the fabric of the bra. Sara leaned into Mary’s ear.

“Touch me, Mary. Touch my body. Feel how hot my body is for you.”

Trembling, Mary reached a hand to cup Sara’s breast, delighting in the smooth skin, the warmth, the yielding flesh of Sara’s glands. Baiting her breath, she explored the sides of her breasts, the flesh underneath, the top, the narrow flatness of the cleavage before rising again in another hill of longing and promise.

Sara shivered at Mary’s touch.

“That feels so nice, Mary. Your hands are so lovely, so soft, so gentle. You don’t paw at my tits or smash them like soft dough, you feel them, you slide your loving fingers over them, gently and softly, like gentle lovers, quietly riding the wave of desire. Your mouth is beautiful, Mary, your eyes are lanterns, blue lamps on a low hill, Mrs. Love, and I’m going to kiss you now, Mary. I’m going to kiss the pink lips of your shining mouth.”

Sara leaned forward as Mary wrapped her arms around her, making small, soft circles in Sara’s back with the flat of her palms, then trailing her spine with the tips of her fingers, pressing against the girl’s exposed breasts with her own chest, covered in a bra, the parted blouse exposing the bare places of her body. Sara caressed Mary’s abdomen with the palm of her hand, rubbing circles around Mary’s navel and moving upward to cup a large, heavy breast, flicking the covered nipple of Mary Love’s tit. Then Sara brought her red lips to Mary’s pink mouth, brushing and teasing Mary’s lips with light, transient kisses, barely kisses, soft and light touches of the lip, until Mary flung her open mouth at Sara, seeking to devour, to taste, to take in. To devour. Tongue plunged against tongue, and Mary felt dizzy and proud, standing on the edge of a precipice she knew to be no precipice, but a dive into the deepest and warmest ocean where she could never drown but swim endlessly beneath the waves, beneath the clear blue waves, breathing the fluid air like a predatory fish.

Singing like a mermaid she groaned against Sara’s mouth, and Sara, recognizing the heat and fury of the beast she held, cooed and solaced, broke the kiss and held the woman, breathing and gasping, and whispered into the heaving woman’s ear, “Easy girl. I’ve got you.”

Sara withdrew her hand from Mary’s breast and sent it sliding down to brush the wetness of Mary’s fiery center, still wet and warm from her climax. Sara hooked her finger over Mary’s hardening clit, stroking it as she slipped her fingers between the slippery folds of Mary’s tumid labia, quivering and enflamed, soaked with her vagina lubrication. Sara returned her mouth to Mary’s mouth, her tongue entering Mary in a prolonged exploration, feeling and teasing Mary’s tongue, which returned the teasing, unrestrained, happy, joyful, and relieved.

A flood of emotions surged through Mary, too many to count, too many to care about, driving her headlong into the dizzy gulf below. Suddenly she felt the coming onslaught of a powerful orgasm, rising from her depths like a slouching monster, ready to consume. Mary thrust her cunt over Sara’s hand, over her finger, reaching down with both hands, she held Sara’s hand in a vice grip, tight against her scalding pussy as she squeezed her thighs together and came. She closed her eyes against the pleasure, the release, and held Sara tightly in her hands, gripping her with the iron of her thighs, unwilling to let the girl go.

Finally she breathed out, parted her thighs, and opened her eyes to the admiring smile and shining green eyes of Sara Craft.

“Feel better?” the girl grinned.

Mary shuddered, smiled, and nodded her head quickly, eagerly, then looked down, suddenly and unexpectedly bashful.

Sara raised her chin with a finger and kissed her lightly upon the mouth.

“Do you want to make me happy?”

“Oh god, yes, Sara. I want to make you happy more than anything. You’ve done so much for me.” Mary had no idea how much see sounded like her daughter, then, to Sara’s ears, her voice gushing childlike in a guileless gratitude. Then Mary lurched forward in a sudden hug, an embrace of thanks, of affection, of something Mary couldn’t label. Mary looked away bashfully again as she released her hold on Sara.

Then Sara leaned back, spread her legs, one over the passenger seat, and one over the back seat, along the edge of the back window. She ran a hand over her bare and shaven mound, glistening with the dew and honey of anticipation.

“Taste me, Mary. Kiss my pussy and taste me.”
* * *

Moby stomped down the halls of Kid Lester High School, pushing and clanging a dark olive-colored canister of bug powder on a green PVC cart in front of him. He hadn’t seen hide nor hair of that pink varmint since Monday, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t come back. So he spent the next two days shoving the door of the boys room open with his cart, spraying the yellow bug powder down the floor drains, and beating against the inside of the drain with his mallet or mop handle. Didn’t matter which one. Sometimes he used the mallet, sometimes he used the mop. Mm. When it came to the girls room, he knock first with the mop handle.

“Bug powder,” he’d say. “Need to check your drains.”

If he was lucky, the restrooms would be empty. Then he could go right on in and finish the job. More often than not, though, he’d have to wait outside the door, next to his cart, while those damned female things drifted and floated out the door, tittering, chirping, and giggling in that mysterious language of girls on the threshold of womanhood. Moby didn’t understand a word of it, and he didn’t need to. It sounded pretty. When it didn’t grate his nerves.

He knocked on the door of the last restroom.

“Bug powder,” he shouted. “I need to check your drains.”

Hearing no laughter, no twittering, no chirping, and no giggling, he braced himself for an inevitable shriek of outrage and thrust his cart, shoving aside the heavy wooden door. Empty. His shoulders relaxed. He stood over the drain, rattled it with his mop handle.

“Varmint?” he yelled down the pipe. “Hey, you varmint, you down there yet?”

Hearing no reply, he heaved the canister of bug powder off the cart and walked it to the drain.

“Last chance,” Moby muttered. “Get out now while the getting’s good.”

Moby lifted the drain grate and plunged the end of the hose with it long conical nozzle down the opening.

“You asked for it, eh?”

Moby let loose a torrent of yellow powder, laughing triumphantly.

Having completed his round, he shoved the cart into his downstairs closet, dodged a couple of nosy teachers, and made his way outside Kid Lester, to the dumpsters behind a brick enclosure, barred by a heavy gate, painted blue and gold in the school colors. He could catch a smoke break, a little help.

He rolled a fairly thick reefer, doing so in the morning before going to school, two for the day. Usually he’d only finish one of them, smoking half of one an hour or so before lunch, and the other half an hour or so before going home. Every once in a while he’d have to chase off some punk wanting a hit.

“Get lost, kid,” he’d say. “This my prescription.”

“But they don’t give prescriptions for that here,” countered the usual protest.

“It’s my prescription, kid. I wrote it myself. Now scram.”

He lit the joint with a tarnished brass lighter, and pulled a long drag, holding the inhalation for several long seconds before releasing the smoke with a loud sigh. The size of his head ballooned, his fingers swelled to fantastical size, and his feet lifted a few inches off the ground. A cricket crawled across the cement near the rusting bottom of the green dumpsters, paint peeled and worn off from years of use and abuse. Moby listened to the loud scrape of the insect’s six feet crawling over the concrete. A buzz whirred through his head, and he tilted it at the muffled voices behind the barrier, trying to hear something important. Sometimes that happened. You just couldn’t tell. Someone was yammering something right now, though. He cocked his ear.

Ah. Those bastards.

“What’s that,” he said or thought, never able really to tell. He waited for the reply.

“Yeah, I saw it. When? Day before yesterday. That’d be Monday. You know what a day is, right? Well, then, count two of them and go back.”

He paused.

“No, I haven’t seen it since, and don’t want to.”

Moby tilted his head angrily away from the barrier.

“No I won’t contact you if I see it again. No, you can’t contact me either. I don’t like you. I don’t like talking to you. Now get out of here you, you got no business in my head.”

Moby looked up. Two men in short-cropped hair wearing horn-rimmed glasses were standing in the opened gate of the dumpster enclosure, staring at Moby in confusion.

“You talking to—“

“— us?” the Roadmen asked.
* * *

Wendy got up from the couch to go to the bathroom. When she pulled down her pink gym shorts, the same pair as yesterday so sue me she thought, she expected to see a dirty pad, or at least a spot of blood. But the pad remained white, and Wendy realized with relief mixed with fear, that she had felt no cramps that morning. Nor any throughout the day. Those pills must have really done the trick, she thought, remembering that sudden heavy flow yesterday. I’d better take them again today, though.

Just to make sure, she said as she trotted upstairs to her room, grabbed two more pills, filled a Dixie cup of water in her bathroom upstairs, juggled the pills in her hand, lifting them to her mouth when she saw her reflection in the bathroom mirror. Her hair was pulled in a loose bun piled on the upper back of her head, her eyes looked haggard, with dark bags sagging under them, her cheeks seemed hollow, sunken, and her lips were pale. She hadn’t showered since yesterday. She looked bad, as if ill or newly recovered from a long illness.

She didn’t look sixteen or youthful. She looked worn, pale.

She looked at the pills in her hand. Sara had given them to her. Something else of Sara’s. Three days ago she wouldn’t have even questioned it, but now, something in her resisted any thought of Sara, refused any connection with that person. I need to dump her, and dump her fast, she said. Anything to do with her has to go.

She tossed the pills into the toilet, following those with the rest of the package, carefully ripping open each receptacle to pop a pink pill into the water of the toilet bowl.

She wouldn’t be needing those anymore.

She wouldn’t be needing anything Sara had given her.

She licked her dry and parched lips, leaning forward to inspect them.

They looked fine, just normal, everyday lips. A little pale, a little thin and deflated but normal.

Her mood lifted as she left the bathroom. The sudden buoyancy of freedom.

I feel pretty good as it is. All things considered.

She still worried about the photos, but the worry, the anxiety, the humiliation nestled in the back of her mind, where she didn’t have to dwell on it. Yesterday had done much to restore her spirits, to bring her back to that better place, the place she recognized as the home of her mind, herself, her own thoughts. Reading did that. Reading did that to her.

Yesterday, staying home from school, gave Wendy a sense of freedom, of adventure, of spontaneity spurred on by the Vendler book, by the Randall account of the Hightower Rock Meteorite. Today, however, lowered like a gray cloud over that feeling of liberation. Restless, she paced the living room, hopped to the kitchen, threw open the door to the refrigerator, staring blankly at the contents for several long minutes, slammed the door, paced the living room, plopped on the sofa, turned on the TV, jumped up, ran to the kitchen, and threw open the door to the refrigerator to stare blankly at the contents for several long minutes.

Not quite bored, Wendy endured that gray desperation of having to fill a time which habit and authority had already slated, outlined, and defined for her. Not missing French, she nonetheless missed the determined quanta of French, the cordoned-off space of time where Wendy the person could be Wendy the student. Not that she put it that way. God, I’m bored, she thought. At least I had something to do in school.

So she did what all teenage girls do. She snooped.

And snooping meant her mother’s room.

Her mother’s room occupied the rear of their house on the second floor, running along the entirety of the west side. Crossing the mezzanine at the top of the stairs, Wendy turned left, and with the fearfulness of getting caught in the act of committing some vague transgression, turned the polished brass knob to Mary’s bedroom. Sunlight came only indirectly into the dark, dimly lighted room through two tall and narrow windows lining the south side of the room, covered by layers of long white lace over billowing panels of gauze-like sheer. A long dresser with a long wide mirror stood against the east wall, while Mary’s queen size bed jutted perpendicular to the wall opposite.

A door to north of the bedroom, on the right side as Wendy entered, led to the master bathroom, and beyond that a fairly spacious walk-in closet. Not as large as Sara’s though, thought Wendy. All the furniture in Mary’s bedroom matched, stained a light brown, almost blond, in mid-century Vespuccian style, the headboard containing built-in shelves, the dresser and bed low, long, and sleek. On each side of the bed stood matching night tables, low and squat, mid-century étagères, stained dark blond or light brown, each with a short, polished brass lamp on the top shelf of the table. Mary prized her bedroom furniture, handed down from her own mother who had insisted on their future value.

The bedroom smelled of her mother’s perfume, vaguely vanilla with the scent of sandalwood. A warm, pretty aroma filled Wendy with a longing for childhood, a sudden desire to jump in her mother’s arms to show her a new doll bought that day for her by her father. What day, Wendy asked herself as she turned the lamps on, each one in turn, trying to find a memory for the sudden image. Gosh. She must have been young then, her mother and father towered over her giant-like, huge and almighty. The brass lamps suffused the room in soft, warm glow.

Wendy pulled open the doors of her mother’s dresser, one by one, rummaging through hose, underwear, some plain white or tan-colored panties, some more risqué panties made of silk or satin lace, plain and lacy brasiers, some full cups, some demi, socks, pajama tops and pajama bottoms, small, rectangular boxes filled with odd gimcracks, shells from a day at the beach, costume jewelry, plastic rings and necklaces plated in fake silver and fake red plastic rubies, bought from a gumball machine long ago and kept by the mother or father in testimony of a past joy and happiness, an unretrievable history. An envelope filled with photographs of a day spent at a fun park somewhere up North, with Wendy about ten or eleven, delighted and laughing, the husband’s arm cast affectionately around the wife’s shoulder.

Her surprise at finding the box of condoms was exceeded only by her discovery of her mother’s large, flesh-colored dildo, eight inches and descriptively life-like, replete with rubber-like testicles. Wendy held it loosely in her hands, amazed at finding something so sexual about her mother, something at once so intimate and intrusive. She ran her hands over it, by now familiar with the texture, familiar with the shape, familiar with the touch of rubbery phallus. She had one in her own room. Well, I mean. In the garbage now, she realized. But a dick nonetheless, so much like the dick she had used on herself. So much like the dick Brad had pumped into her. Just three days ago.

God, they were nice to feel. Strange, elusive, but somehow right. She held the dildo close to her face, then rubbed her cheek with its length, remembering how she had taken the entirety of Brad’s cock into her mouth, and into her innermost being, how she had coaxed and guided him with her legs. Wendy touched the tip, the bulbous tip of the artificial cock against her nose, trying to smell something beyond the faint, lingering plastic smell. Did she imagine it or did she really detect a broad, pungent odor, the barest trace of vaginal secretion? But the phallus seemed clean. She placed the tip against her lips, smiling at her image in the mirror.

Stifling a giggle, she swayed her hip to the left, and pulled up the bottom of her gym shorts, revealing her panties under the pink cloth of her shorts. Was this sexy? Was this a sexy pose? She placed her lips over the dildo’s tip, half-swallowing the cock head. She made a sucking face and winked at the girl in the mirror. Or is this stupid? The dildo having been in her mother, having been used to fuck her mother, having fucked her mother’s pussy, at night, while Wendy slept or did homework, perturbed the girl. Between a loathsome mixture of embarrassment, shame, disgust, and arousal, Wendy pulled the dildo from her mouth.

Gross.

Then she slid the tip of the dildo over her lips, along the rise and fall of her mouth, lips that felt dry, parched, and barren. The lips of one dying in the desert, dry and flaking in the heat of the burning sun. Gross, maybe. But somehow. Oh god. Somehow wonderful. But her dry lips felt parched, scorched. If she did what she planned on doing, if she really was going to do it, wouldn’t it be better in pink? Shouldn’t she dress for the occasion, wear makeup, and really get into it? If she did, though, that would be that. She wouldn’t even think about throwing that shit away. Not again. She needed to make up her mind.

She stood indecisively in front of the mirror, holding the tip of the dildo in her mouth, wondering if she looked stupid, sexy, or both.

I look at myself too much in the mirror, she thought, removing the phallus. She imagined her face, horribly scarred and disfigured by fire, perhaps a car crash, or a terrorist attack, a gas leak, or a maniac with acid. Would I still be Wendy? Am I Wendy now? Who is Wendy, and who named me me? What if she lost a leg or an arm? Succumbed to sclerosis, secretly lurking in her body, waiting to manifest on her 18th birthday? What if she had red hair and green eyes, brown hair and brown eyes? Could a Wendy have brown hair? Could a Wendy Love have freckles or contract leprosy, like the heroine of The Memoirs of Robin Lustrous?

She sat on the foot of her mother’s bed, still gazing into the mirror without looking, suddenly dizzy and afraid, almost terrified. She closed her eyes to the vision of a thousand Wendys, a million Wendys, whirling typhoon-like around a calm eye of nothingness. Each mouth open, calling out in a far away voice, demanding a claim to exist. But she alone existed, and they did not. And from the gaping mouths, or from some other source she could not see, a dim, faint, barely perceptible din arouse, a multitude of dries leaves rustling in a sudden gust, rising to a low murmur, a droning buzz on the edges of perception, that sometimes faded and sometimes rose, quickened or slowed.

Wendy stopped her ears with both hands and flashed open her eyes. Immediately the faces and the droning ceased, and Wendy saw Wendy, herself and alone.
* * *

Mary lurched forward and hovered over Sara’s exposed vulva, wet and enticing, her the pink lips of her mouth parted and trembling. Any lingering doubt fled in another gushing wave of euphoric desire, intense longing, and the searing heat of lust. This is it, she thought. Sliding on the side of her bare hip to position herself, she moved her right hand over the top of Sara’s knee, feeling a woman’s, a girl’s really, leg in a sexual manner for the second time in as many days. She ran the palm of her hand over the yielding flesh, marveling at the smoothness of Sara’ skin, so like and unlike Renee’s.

Sara was smaller, trimmer, fitter than the girl from the coffee shop. The muscles of her legs, though tighter, harder, than Renee’s still felt radically different from Steve’s. Smaller and more enticing. So, so good, so lovely. So feminine. Mary patted Sara’s left leg with her left hand, as she held both legs apart, moving her right hand inward, towards the inside of Sara’s thigh, moving slowly, slowly towards the warm and wet center. The fleshy outer lips of Sara’s pussy darkened and swelled as Mary’s hand drew closer, touching the smooth skin of the girl in loving, delighted strokes, sometimes with the tips of her fingers, sometimes with the palm of her hand, sometimes in straight caresses, now in circular motions. Sara sighed, and her legs trembled at Mary’s delicate touch.

“Well,” Sara said.

“Oh, god, honey. I just want to take my time, I could stay here for hours just looking at you, girl,” Mary said, almost chanting in a far away voice as she stared transfixed by Sara’s glistening and swelling lips, bare, exposed, ready.

“I can’t,” whispered Sara, as she raised her two hands, gripped the sides and back of Mary’s head, and pulled her inward, inward, inward.

When Mary’s lips made contact with Sara’s pussy, her mind seemed to explode. At first hesitant, she held her open lips against the intricate and moist swirls, then gradually moved up and down, parting her lips further and protruding an uncertain tongue. She tasted Sara’s honey and moaned, breathing in and into Sara’s heated musk. Moving her mouth from side to side, she first edge the smooth fatty flesh, the puffy side of Sara’s quivering lips, before lapping hungrily and greedily along the puffy labia with full length and flat of her tongue, bringing it over to the center to lick Sara’s pussy directly, eagerly trying to plunge her tongue directly into Sara’s vagina, the channel of her love.

“Lick higher,” Sara encouraged, “lick my clit, flick it with her tongue. Then hold your mouth against me, against my whole pussy.”

Slowly, step by step Sara instructed and encouraged Mary, until Sara’s undulating hips hammered and pumped into Mary’s open mouth. Sara ground her pussy into Mary’s mouth, holding her head against her spasming cunt and smashing the sides of her face with the vice of her thighs. Sara came in a relief of flooding pressure, her sticky fluids covering Mary’s mouth like syrup.

“You’re coming home with me,” Sara said, getting up quickly to open the car door. She got behind the wheel and adjusted her rearview mirror. She saw Mary start to get out.

“No, stay there in the middle of the seat. Spread your legs. I want to see you rubbing your hot pussy all the way home.”

“But I have to get back to work,” Mary frantically looked at her small rectangular watch on its thin black leather band. “Lunch hour been over for—“

“You can call in while you rub yourself, Mary. You’re not going back to work today.”

“I’m not?” Mary asked, confused.

“No, you’re not.”

Sara winked at Mary’s frightened face in the mirror.

“We’ll have so much more fun than you can have at work, Mary. Besides, it’s only a job.”

“But.”

“We’ll get to that later. Now go ahead and play with yourself for me. When you get ready to come, call your work.”

Mary closed her eyes, moved her right hand to her groin.

“Spread those legs wider, all the way, and pull your blouse away. I want to see your tits, Mary.”

Mary shivered at the thought of being so exposed in the back seat of Sara’s car. A muted voice, a far-away voice, a voice somewhere deep within Mary’s mind protested, but Mary, consumed with lust, desire, the taste of Sara’s pussy on her smeared mouth, Sara’s juices shining on the smeared makeup of her cheeks, ignored it. God she was hot, god she need release, and Sara was just so. So incredible and direct. Sara knew exactly what she needed. Mary pulled the sides of her blouse apart.

“Get rid of that bra. No more bras for you, Mary. Ever. You won’t need them.”

The older woman leaned forward, reached her hands behind her back and unhooked her bra, shuffling out of it. She leaned back against the seat. Her blouse fell open, and she spread her legs, stretching her feet to each side of the car. Then she plunged her right hand over her pussy, spreading her lips wide as she fingered herself with her middle finger, slipping it in and out of her wet hole and up and down the hood of her hard clitoris.

“That’s it, baby,” Sara said. “Keep doing that all the way home.”

Sara started the car, put it in gear, and drove off.
* * *

The black triangle floated lazily and lightly in the morning sky above, miles above Terra Infirma, a black butterfly above the Sovereignty of Nuevo Metziticli, a speck on the upper layers of the stratosphere. The pilot stared out the viewport, marveling at the world below, how tiny it looked, how fragile and vulnerable, how open and accessible to any kind of aerial assault, as he opened his thermos and poured a nice small cup of black of coffee.

“Want some?” he asked to his co-pilot.

“Nah, makes me a nervous wreck,” replied the co-pilot.

“Suit yourself.”

Suddenly the craft was jolted by a wave of disturbed air. Hot coffee splashed on the pilot’s flight suit, but the pilot ignored it to look out the viewport. Three circular, saucer-shaped craft darted past the black triangle, swung rapidly around it, one whizzed over the top canopy while another swung below, circling the craft, while the third maintained a direct line of sight with the pilot of the TR-3B. The three craft danced around the black triangle, as if mocking it, daring it to make a move. The TR-3B remained perfectly still, a butterfly caught in a game of wasps. Suddenly the three craft zoomed away at speeds which defied measurement.

“Should we give chase?” asked the co-pilot.

“No point,” the pilot said. “They’re already gone.”

He looked at the pool of coffee splashed on his lap.

“Dammit,” he said. “I hate those bastards.”

The three saucer shapes reappeared, seemingly out of nowhere because they moved so fast, over the parking lot behind Lynn’s Transmission and Fertilizer. Hovering only long enough to extend thin legs from their hulls, the saucers landed, propped low to the ground, each on a short tripod. Landing stairs dropped from the center of each saucer, lowering to the edge of each craft, past the rim. Tall, strange looking beings emerged from the saucers, descending the stairs. Difficult to discern clearly, any onlooker would have stood momentarily paralyzed before breaking into a sweating panic as far from the creatures as possible.

They might have been reptilian, or insect-like, or vampiric, or ghoulish. You couldn’t really say for sure. You could only tell that they exuded a foul air, the air of something best left in the dark, best left under the rock from which they had crawled. They carried terrible looking things, sharp looking things, pointy, stabby looking things, things best avoided. Clad in sinister black, they appeared altogether, well, evil—for lack of a better word. Again, something best avoided.

Each craft held three such beings. Each trio gathered around their own craft. One creature from each trio held a tightly packed blue bundle which it open and cast over the top of the craft. The blue bundle unwound, bursting open the moment the crew member tossed it, still holding on to one edge of what now proved to be a kind of blue tarp. The two other crew members tied the tarp down to the foot of each leg. When each crew finished covering their craft, they gathered in a group in front of the squad of concealed saucers.

“Should we keep a guard on watch?” one of them asked.

“No,” said their leader. “Not necessary. No one looks under a blue tarp. Not on this planet. Come. Let us go.”

The nine beings marched purposefully toward the steel rear door of Lynn’s Transmission and Fertilizer, which had been closed and vacant for several years now. But as the property was owned and taxes maintained, no one asked any questions. At any rate, the townsfolk told themselves, what Lynn did in and with his own damned business was nobody’s business but his. Had they known what condition Lynn had been kept in those past several years, they might have changed their opinion on that.

The leader of the nine reached into a pocket at his hip, pulled out a ring of keys attached to a flexible steel chain hooked by a leather loop to his belt, selected one and unlocked the heavy deadbolt locking the solid door.

“I love these things,” he said, turning behind him. “Planet’s got potential, I tell you. Just look at this chain.”

The leader held the chain of keys up, caressing the hard steel links with a clawed hand. Then he felt the loop of the chain hooked to his belt with admiration, closing his eyes as he ran his clawed finger over the leather’s texture.

“Real animal skin, too. Flayed from a real body. These monkeys will go far.”

The eight beings behind him murmured and nodded appreciatively. Then they entered the transmission and fertilizer shop, stepping through the narrow door one by one, dipping their heads as they did so.

The transmission shop had been gutted, the windows covered and barred, all shelves removed, until only a wide, dimly lighted, empty space remained. Or almost empty. A long steel table stood in the center of the room, racks, shackles, hooks, chains, sharp instruments, and other metallic objects of unknown purpose lined the walls. Fluorescent lamps hung from the ceiling in three rows, but only a dim, flickering, and useless light fell from them.

An interesting object lay on the table, covered and protected by a glass-like, transparent rectangular box, which completely enclosed the thing on the table. Tubes and wires ran along the sides and edges of the table and into the glass-like cover through holes and openings set at regular intervals near the bottom of the sides of the cover. Two wide tubes, white and corrugated, hung under the table, from the bottom of the tabletop to a drain in the floor. One tube hooked into the bottom of the table near the end of one side of the table, the short end of the table, and another tube hung down from the somewhere near the center of the table.

The nine beings clustered around the object on the table, peering intently through the top of the transparent cover. In front of each of the nine beings hung a kind of metal circlet, a kind of wire crown, resembling for all the world a tambourine without the drum skin, from a hook attached to the table edge. A wire ran from each crown into one of the holes in the transparent cover.

“Is it?”

One of the beings looked at a monitor at the side of the table and tapped a few keys on the below the monitor.

“Yes. Of course.”

“So peaceful.”

“So sweet.”

“So tasty.”

“Stop that,” said the leader, almost harshly. “You know the buzzers say we can’t eat them. We can’t do that anymore.”

“Who’s to stop us?” asked one of them. “They won’t know. They can’t be everywhere.”

“No. But they can be everywhen. And that’s almost as bad. They’ll find out. You don’t want them to find out. Trust me.”

The other eight bowed their heads. They all remembered the Stasis. Or, rather, didn’t remember it. Which was the whole point. But they knew to a certainty that it had been bad. Very bad.

No. We can’t eat them, they agreed. But we can hear them. We can share with them.

Yes, yes. We can share. Let’s share.

I want to share so bad.

The eight beings shimmied and oscillated from side to side, seeming to squirm as they stood, flowing from head to foot in smooth undulations.

So bad.

We want to share.

“Let’s share,” the leader said, bowing his head to the common will. “But then we have work to do.”

Then each of the nine raised the circlet in front of him and placed it on his head. Immediately they stood immobile, as if suddenly paralyzed, stiff, and erect.
* * *

Mary entered Sara’s house with trepidation, a sudden feeling of reluctance overcoming her, now that she had orgasmed, several times, on the way home, staring into Sara’s eyes in the rearview mirror as she groaned, shrieked and whimpered. The first orgasm came as she called her supervisor, letting her know that she would be taking the rest of the day off.

“Again?” her supervisor had asked, peeved and worried. “This is the second time this week.”

“Um. I, I, I’m okay. I just have to, oh god, I have an errand to run. It can’t wait.”

Mary quickly ended the phone call as her climax surged through her.

Afterward, Sara talked her through three more orgasms, each other more unrestrained, uninhibited than the last, until Mary found herself shaking and gyrating on Sara’s backseat, her hand a piston in her pussy as Sara urged her own.

“Because you’re just a filthy whore, aren’t you, Mary? Just a filthy dyke slut who needs to get off looking thinking about straight girls having sex with men. God, you just need to see that semen shooting all over their sweating naked bodies, don’t you Mary, streams of hot come shooting across their faces, their tits, pouring out on their pussies, their quivering hot pussies, Mary, just waiting for you to lick it all off.”

Mary whimpered.

“Just a hot lesbian slut fucking herself in the car for me. Cause you like people to watch, don’t you, Mary? You love it when women, girls, watch you fuck yourself, watch you come and come and come, don’t you?”

Oh god she did. She loved it so much.

“You want Maddy to watch you, don’t you? Oh god, you want Maddy to watch you come.”

Maddy.

“But Maddy’s never around is she? How can she be? She’s Wendy’s friend, and you’d have to fuck yourself in Wendy’s bedroom whenever she comes over. That would so hard, wouldn’t it? So hard to masturbate in front of Maddy when Wendy’s there. How could you get Maddy alone?”

Mary groaned. It was hard to do that. It was impossible. She couldn’t think of a way to get Maddy alone.

“You’d have to do it in front of Wendy.”

What?

“You’d have to fuck yourself in front of Wendy at the same time.”

Oh god.

“Wendy would have to be staring at your cunt while you fucked it with your fingers, she’d have to be sitting next to Maddy on her bed while you sat on the floor, legs up and spread out, showing little Maddy your steaming pussy, plunging your fingers into your wet hole.”

“Maddy and Wendy sitting on the bed in their little nighties, watching you masturbate, Maddy’s leg cast over Wendy’s, both of their legs spread out, showing you their little white panties while you fuck yourself staring at the wet spots in their underwear. Would you like that, Mary? Would like to see Wendy and Maddy on the bed, Maddy’s hand slowly trailing over Wendy’s belly to go between her legs as she slips her finger underneath your daughter’s wet panties? God, I bet you would. I bet you’d like that a lot.”

She would. She’d like that a lot.

“Does Wendy take Maddy’s panties off, Mary? Will Wendy take off her friend’s panties?”

Mary nodded.

“What’s that? I didn’t hear you. Tell me what Wendy does.”

Mary’s voice cracked.

“She takes off Maddy’s panties. Wendy takes off her panties.”

Sara smiled.

“Good, Mary. That’s very good. But what should Wendy do with her own underwear? Should she just leave them on, and leave Maddy the only one showing you her pussy, or should she show solidarity with Maddy and take her panties off?”

“Sara. Please.”

“Keep rubbing your pussy, Mary. We’re almost done. Should Wendy take her panties off too?”

Mary’s voice croaked out a dry whisper.

“Yes.”

“God, Mary, you’re such a slut, a total mom whore. Just getting off to Maddy’s pussy, staring at her young pussy while you fuck yourself. But you don’t stop there, do you, Mary? You don’t stop at looking at just Maddy’s pussy, do you?”

“Please, Sara.”

“Because there’s another pussy in the room. Whose pussy is it, Mary? Whose pussy are you looking at as you finger you steaming wet pussy? So hot now, the girls on the bed can smell you.”

“Please, Sara.”

“Whose?” Sara repeated the question in a tone that demanded a response, breaking Mary.

“Wendy’s. I’m fucking myself looking at Wendy’s pussy.”

Sara smiled into the mirror.

“Because you’re what kind of mother?”

“Because I’m bad, Sara. I’m a bad mother.”

When she calmed down from that orgasm, Mary withdrew into herself. Suddenly self-conscious, wondering what she was doing in the back seat of some teenage girl’s car, blouse undone, without her skirt or panties, she pressed her legs together tightly and slid to the passenger side of the seat, as far away from Sara as possible. She slowly and thoughtfully buttoned her shirt.

Sara glanced at her in the mirror but didn’t say anything.

Then Sara’s Mercedes pulled into the long driveway to her house, and Mary looked up at the large glass house in wondering curiosity.

Mary suddenly felt a tinge of worry, of outright fear, actually.

“What about your own mother, Sara? Is anyone else home? What if she comes in while I’m, while I’m here?”

“While we’re having sex you mean, Mary?” Sara laughed. “Don’t worry about her catching us have sex. She doesn’t live here. It’s just me.”

“Just you?” Mary said, shocked.

“Yes, silly. Just me.”

Mary hesitated.

“I’m not sure, Sara. Maybe we should. Maybe I should.”

Sara pulled into the garage, stopped the car, and walked around the back, in her bare feet, and still nude from her waist down. Sara opened the passenger door, and Mary came face to face once again with Sara’s bare pussy. Sara reached down, rubbed herself with her fingers, pumping two fingers into her hole. She had been playing with herself the entire drive home, and she was so wet. So wet. She took her hand out of her pussy and, holding her hand out towards Mary, plunged her fingers into the woman’s mouth. Mary resisted a second, then opened her lips to let Sara’s sticky fingers in.

“That’s right, baby. Suck on my pussy juice. God you love pussy, don’t you Mary? You can’t get enough of it. You can never get enough of it.”

Mary made soft mewing sounds as she closed her eyes and sucked on Sara’s fingers.

“Look at me, Mary.”

Mary opened her glazed blue eyes, looking for Sara’s instruction.

“We’re going to have sex, Mary. In my house. All night long. You’re going to spend the night me, Mary. I’m going to fuck every single one of your holes. Every one of your hot holes. And you’re going to love it, Mary. You’re going to love it so much.”

Mary whimpered, and Sara smiled at her gently, kindly. A small tear trickled from the corner of Mary’s right eye. Sara reached down and wiped it across the mother’s cheek.

“You’re going to be such a dyke whore after this week.”

Sara took Mary’s hand and led her through the garage to the house. They walked up a short flight of stairs. Sara placed Mary in front of her, holding her waist with one hand and gently palming the round cheeks of Mary’s ass as it swayed above her. She ran her fingers through the top of the crack of Mary’s ass, felt around the rosebud of her anus before sliding further down to plunge a fingertip into the woman’s leaking fuck hole.

Mary stopped and pushed her ass towards Sara.

“Keep going, sugar,” Sara whispered, pumping her fingers in and out of the soaking cunt. With the same hand she stuck the tip of her thumb into Mary’s asshole. “We’ve got the whole night in front of us. For me to fuck that beautiful ass of yours.” Sara gently shoved Mary’s shoulder forward with her left hand, cupping her breast over her blouse as she slipped her hand down to clasp her waist. Her right hand stayed in Mary’s pussy and butthole.

Mary shuddered and kept walking up the stairs.

The stairs led to a short, wide hall, almost a coat room or foyer. The kitchen opened up through two doorless entries, separated by a wall. Mary walked through the entrance, slowly, trembling, enjoying every moment of Sara’s hand up her soaking vagina and ass Sara’s thumb had inched its way into the mother’s asshole, and by the time they had reached the kitchen, it had fully submerged into the wonderful warmth of Mary’s ass.

“Okay. Just stand there, darling. I think it’s time we had some refreshments.”

Sara removed her fingers and thumb from Mary’s ass and pussy. She ran her right hand up Mary’s side and across her cheek.

“Open your mouth,” she ordered.

Mary opened her mouth, and Sara stuck her thumb in it.

“Suck on your ass, Mary. Clean my dirty thumb.”

Mary slumped against Sara, who propped her up while Mary squirmed, tasting her own ass while sucking greedily on Sara’s thumb.

“That’s it, girl. Clean my thumb with your mouth. God, you’re such a dirty whore.”

Finally Sara removed her thumb, spun Mary around, leaned up, and kissed Mary full on the mouth, passionately exploring her mouth with her tongue, tasting Mary, tasting Mary’s ass, tasting Mary’s desire. Mary shook as she grabbed the young girl with both arms, embracing her madly in a tight, lust-fueled hug. Sara pulled away at least, marveling at the woman’s face above her own, smeared with vaginal fluids, pink lipstick smudge across her mouth, across the edges of her lips like a demented clown. Her black mascara and eyeliner a blurry mess from Sara grinding her cunt against the whole of Mary’s face, using her sweating thighs for leverage.

Sara held a hand against Mary’s breast as Wendy’s mother continued to hold her. She slipped her hand under Mary’s blouse and cupped her breast, pinching and pulling her nipple to make it hard. Mary closed her eyes at the sensations this young woman, the adolescent, unrelentingly produced in her, stimulating her without letting up. She pressed her thighs together.

“God, Sara, you—“

“Do you like that, baby girl? Do you like it when I make your tits all hard?”

“Oh, god, Sara.”

“Just you stay there while I get us something to drink. You want a vitamin? I’ll get you a vitamin.”

Sara’s hand lingered on Mary’s tit. Then the girl sighed, pinched it a last time, and turned to go to the refrigerator, which stood in a built-in recess between the two entries to the kitchen.

She came back with two drinks, two pink smoothies in pint-sized bottles. The bottles sported no label, but the pink liquid in the clear glass bottles seemed to glimmer and sparkle as Sara handed one to Mary. Mary took hers, twisted the flat cap off, and put the bottle to her lips. She did feel a little thirst. A little hungry, too. Her mouth had watered at the first sight of the pink smoothie, and a tiny thrill of excitement ran through her.

Mary upturned the bottle for a long swig of the smoothie, sucking almost a third of the bottle before pulling it back from her mouth. She saw Sara staring at her and giggled.

“I just like these so much,” she said, her eyes twinkling and glazing over.

“I see that,” smiled Sara, taking a small sip from her bottle. “Here,” she added. “Put this pill in your mouth and swallow it with your next gulp of smoothie.”

Sara held two elongated gel capsules, about the size of a multi-vitamin, pink on half of the capsule and red on the other. She put one in her mouth, leaving the other for Mary.

“What is it?” Mary asked, somewhat suspiciously.

“It’s good for you, sweetie. Don’t be shy. Put it in your mouth.”

Mary gingerly took the capsule from Sara’s open palm and popped it into her mouth without further hesitation. After all, if Sara took these.

“Drink up,” Sara said, lifting her bottle.

“Drink up,” Mary repeated, not knowing exactly why.

Ten minutes later, Mary sprawled on the sofa in the large entertainment room upstairs, completely naked, her back against a cushion on the arm of the sofa, her legs spread out, her left leg hooked over the sofa back, her right leg out and bent at the knee, her barefoot flat on the plush carpet. Between her legs, Sara nuzzled, mouthed, kissed, and licked Mary’s incredibly wet and enflamed flower. Mary’s hips rose and fell and shimmered side to side to Sara’s relentless mouth, lip, and tongue.

By now, the effects of the pink smoothies, loaded with stimulants, aphrodisiacs, and chemicals designed to collapse inhibition, had begun to overwhelm Mary’s mind, already turned on beyond anything she had ever experienced in her life. Combined with capsule, loaded with chemicals designed by The Diana Group Research Division to increase blood flow to the vulva, to hyper-stimulate the erogenous zones of the body. Mary’s nipples poked erect like bullets, hard and long, from her aching breasts, her clit trembled rock hard and red, and still Sara kept licking, licking, licking, driving Mary to the edge of a paroxysmic orgasm.

Sara hands kneaded the sweating flesh of Mary’s tits, flicking, cupping, and pinching her hard bullets, sometimes playfully, sometimes almost mercilessly painful, pulling them harshly from her breasts, stretching the skin until Mary cried out in delighted pain, before letting them go and caressing them lovingly, softly.

Sara released her mouth from Mary’s drenched and steaming hole. Her mobile phone lay next to her on the sofa. Sara picked it up and held it out to Mary.

“Call your daughter, baby. Tell her won’t be coming home tonight. Tell her you won’t be coming home until tomorrow night.”

Mary took the phone, holding it loosely, indecisively.

“What will I tell her?”

“You’ll think of something. Just call her. Call Wendy.”

Mary dialed her home number. After several rings, the other end of the line picked up.

“Hello, Wendy, honey? How are you doing, baby? It’s me, sweetie.”

Sara’s mouth returned to her work on the mother’s hot snatch.

Mary voice quaked and croaked as she continued speaking to her daughter.

“Wendy darling, listen. I’m not, oh god, I’m not going be able to come home tonight. A friend called and—“

Mary brought her thighs together in a tight vice, but Sara pushed them apart, lifted her mouth off Mary’s pussy, and said, in a loud enough voice to alarm Mary, “Keep your legs wide, baby. Spread your legs wide for me, that’s a good girl.”

Sara turned to the pussy, then paused and looked up again to wink at Mary.

“I want you to come nice and good for Wendy. Don’t hold back, okay, honey?”

Sara covered Mary’s vulva from the mons pubis to almost the entirety of her vaginal opening with her mouth, her red lipstick smearing red marks along the bare, puffy sides of the mother’s cunt. She sucked and licked at the hot pussy in her mouth, and Mary thrust her pelvis further and further into the mouth of the girl between her legs.

Mary felt her rising orgasm, delayed for a moment’s pause, surge back, flooding over her in powerful waves.

“It’s just that, oh Wendy, Wendy, it’s just that, I’m not going to be, oh god, Wendy, a friend had an emergency. She’s just crushed, Wendy. Her boyfriend broke up with her. I need to, I need to, stay with her tonight. Oh god. I won’t be coming, coming home baby. Tonight. Oh god, I’m coming.”

“Tell her how hard you’re coming, sugar.”

“Oh god, Wendy, I’m coming, I’m coming so fucking hard, I’m so fucking wet, Wendy. Sara’s sucking on my cunt, and she’s making me come so fucking hard.”

“Because you’re a dyke whore, Mary,” Sara added.

“Because I’m a dyke whore, Wendy. Oh god, you’re mother’s a dyke whore.”

Mary exploded.
* * *

Wendy dropped her mother’s dildo onto the bed, and flung herself back against the plush, quilted duvet, and scooted herself up to the orderly pile of cushions and pillows heaped against the headboard. She struggled up against the three layers of cushions, pulling back the bedcovers and rearranging the pillows. Reaching under one of the pillows, her hand encountered something flat, cold, and plastic. Moving the pillow aside and pulling out the object, she saw her mother’s laptop. Curious, she flipped the lid open and tapped the Enter key.

The screen came alive to the picture of Wendy leaning against the passenger door of Brad’s back seat, her face a mess of semen and her legs wide open for the camera on Brad’s phone.

“What the fuck, Mom,” Wendy cried aloud. “Why the fuck is this open on your computer?”

Wendy stared at the picture, thinking her face looked flat and chubby. She never liked to see herself in a photo, and now here she was. But why had her mother left it open like that? She knelt on the bed staring at her image on the computer screen. Why on earth would her mother have this open? Then it dawned on her. How deeply ashamed her mother must have been, how embarrassed for her daughter. She must have opened the picture, seen her only daughter splayed out like a whore, and closed the laptop, unable to bear looking at. No wonder she stuck it under the pillow.

But why did she have it in the first place?

She closed the photo, saw the forwarded message in her mother’s inbox. So she forwarded it from Wendy’s inbox. She forwarded both pictures! Wendy felt humiliated, shocked, and violated. How dare she! How dare she! I’ve never gone through her stuff. I’d never snoop through her email. Which gave her an idea. Now was the chance.

Wendy poked through the rest of her mother’s email, most of it junk. She saw a lot of cat photos sent to her from Maddy’s mother, and a couple from Steve. Noticing an attachment in one of the emails, she opened that one, clicked the file. Her eyes shot wide open at a close-up photo of someone’s dick, apparently Steve’s, at full length, long and wide, with his hand gripping his cock near the base, just in front of his testicles.

“No way,” she said. “He sends her dick pics?”

She studied the penis in the photo, curious, sitting on the side of her hip, her legs stretched towards the foot of the bed, bare thigh and calf on top of bare thigh and calf. She had already seen Brad’s cock, the dicks of the men in the magazine, and the cocks of Cock-Hungry Coeds, but she liked to look at them, even if they looked kind of funny. A warm feeling tingled and spread in the pit of her stomach, just above her groin, and her pulse quickened. She wished she had paid more attention to Brad’s cock while sucking on it. She remembered the feeling now, it came back to her in a sudden upwelling of something like pride and something like desire and something like. Something like. Care?

She had cuddled Brad’s balls, running her fingers through the stiff hair on his testicles, cupping and lightly squeezing them in her hand. Not too hard, Sara had said, and she remembered to treat them kindly. All those jokes she had heard about the boys in school wracking their balls. She didn’t want that. Not for Brad. She wanted to stroke him, to feel him, to dote on him. To show him how much she, what, cared for him. Care.

Not love. No, she’d known that from the start. She didn’t love Brad. She never imagined that she could love Brad. But she wanted, and had wanted for a long time, a long time without knowing it, or being able to admit it, to show him how nice Wendy could treat him.

Why?

Oh god. So I wouldn’t be overlooked.

I’m always overlooked.

Brad has never noticed me, never talked to me, not really, never really looked at me. I mean, why would he?

I’m just plain. I’m not in sports, I’m not in band, I don’t do anything. I’m not in glee club, I don’t even play chess like the other dorks. I’m not even on the debate team. She had been asked to consider joining, but Wendy, horrified at the idea of speaking in a group, quickly shook her head and smile a polite but firm no.

Then all those boys started looking at me when I wore Sara’s makeup the week last week. Even Brad struck a conversation with me. Even Brad asked me out. Me. Going out with the star quarterback. It had felt like a dream, an old movie from the last century, one of those her mother used to watch. And god, I was just so horny that night. I don’t know how things got so fast, so far. I’m kind of getting horny now, she realized, her eyes fixed on the thick cock leering at her from the screen of her mother’s laptop.

The weight of her body had caused the dildo to roll down to her hips, reaching with her left hand, she grasped the dildo and rolled over on her back, raised her legs to her chest, lifted her ass, and slid her gym shorts and panties down her legs, kicking both items of clothing off with a kick of her foot and a twist of her ankle. She scooted close to the big fluffy pillows, enjoying the feeling of her mother’s bedcovers against her bare thighs and on the cheeks of her bare bottom. Spreading her legs wide apart, she checked her image in the mirror of her mother’s dresser, smiled, and looked at the long thick cock showing on her mother’s computer screen.

She held the dildo against the lips of her pussy, already wet with anticipation, already wet with desire. God, it didn’t take her long at all anymore, did it. Before touching herself the week before last, she had never noticed her pussy, not really. I mean, it was there. I mean, her panties were sometimes dirty, she knew about discharges. She did read. Her doctor did talk to her. She wasn’t entirely oblivious. Just not curious. Not until last week. The week before. Not until Sara.

Wendy inched the tip of the dildo into her, biting her lip and suppressing a light moan. She tilted her hips, tilted her pelvis upward towards the intruding phallus, angling her pussy at the penetrating object. She stared at Steve’s dick jutting at her from the screen, imagining it in her, imagining her fucking Steve like she had fucked Brad. He was a creep, Steve. Lurking around, trying to catch a glimpse of her tits, her ass, a bare leg. Trying to catch her walking out of the shower, dressed only in a towel covering her tits down to just below the cheeks of her ass. Her cleavage exposed to Steve’s greedy eyes. A creep.

But his dick was huge, Wendy admitted, almost as big as this dildo. She had a third of it in her now, moving it in and out slowly, enjoying the pleasure of having a cock inside her pussy now, no longer empty now, but stuffed. Her pace picked up, her hips rolled and bucked, her breath came shorter and shorter, louder. Brad had fucked her good, had come inside her, had shot his hot load right up into her hot pussy. She giggled. Her hot cunt. God, sometimes that word just felt right. Her hot, nasty cunt.

Would she let Steve blow a load inside her? How would his cock feel inside her, fucking her like he had fucked her mother so many times now. She heard it, she could hear them. Not just once or twice, but several times, two, three, sometimes four times a week. Sometimes two or three times a night. It must have felt great, the way her mother moaned and groaned. Sometimes a high-pitched squeal. Yes, Sara. Sometimes she listened. How could she not?

She’d open her door, but never walk down the hall, afraid of the creaking floor. But she could hear them from her doorway. The headboard banging against the wall, Steve grunting like the pig he was. Mom squealing, rutting like a beast in the forest, groaning into the night. Wendy’s fist gripped the base of the dildo as she rammed four inches, five inches, six inches into her, fucking herself with her mother’s sex toy, the bed below her shaking, the headboard striking the wall as Wendy tried to impale her pussy onto the manmade rod.

Oh my god, was that? She peered at the screen closely, astonished and wound up beyond belief, noticing a small droplet of pre-cum on the tip of Steve’s dick. She’d missed it fucking herself, but now it stood out, glistening. Wendy licked her lips and moaned, wishing she had it her mouth now, remember the way Brad shimmered and shook when he came in mouth.

And she had spat it up! She had spat it all up! She didn’t even try to swallow, or lick it off poor Brad’s cock, his amazing cock. She’d lick Steve’s. She swallow all of Steve’s come, if only he’d shove that hot rod into her mouth. She’d show him she could suck cock with the best of them. Sara taught her how. And Sara knew everything.

But right now Steve was fucking her, fucking her hard and fucking her fast. Wendy trembled and shook, tossed like a ragdoll from the power of his thrusts. God he was fucking her. Wendy thrust her pussy harder and harder at the dildo she pumped into her, rolling, writhing, gyrating and undulating her hips at the huge phallus. She was groaning now, between breaths, groaning at the approach of her orgasm, squealing with each new thrust of her mother’s dildo. Suddenly she clawed at the bedcovers, the soft fabric of her mother’s elegant duvet, and came and came in. The ocean of her orgasm rolled over her, and she drowned.

A phone ring roused her. The cordless phone on the night table beside the bed. Wendy slowly moved her body over to the phone and, answering it, woke fully at the human voice. It was her mother.

“Wendy darling, listen. I’m not, oh god, I’m not going be able to come home tonight. A friend called and—“

Mary continued talking, but Wendy had already hung up.

Bitch, she thought.

After taking time to soak up the last, lingering effects of her climax, she pulled the laptop to her, went to her mother’s inbox, forwarded her pictures back to her own email, and deleted her photos from her mother’s device. Going into the trash, she permanently deleted them.

You’re not going to hold those over me.
* * *

Later that afternoon, as evening approached, Mary had been plied with another pink smoothie and two more capsules. Sexually stimulated beyond anything she had ever known in her life, her mind dulled to rational thought as her limbic system took over mental functions, Mary orgasmed over and over as Sara first fucked her with her hands and mouth, then with a set of increasingly large dildos, until finally screwing Wendy’s mother in both holes with an enormous strap-on dildo, fucking her doggie-style on the plush carpet of the entertainment room, reducing Mary to a sweating, quivering mess, and still Sara did not let up.

“Oh gosh, Mary,” she’d say. “I just loving fucking your hot ass, I just love sticking my cock in your tight ass. Shake it for me, baby. Push that ass against my hard cock.”

Mary, who until that afternoon had never had anything in her ass, shuddered, shrieked, wept, howled, and pushed her ass as far back against Sara’s plastic phallus as she could. Sara had been gentle to start with, generously lubing along the length, smearing both lubrication for the dildo and the fluids flowing from Mary’s pussy between the cheeks of her ass, covering the outside of Mary’s hole and pumping a lubricated finger into her asshole. Sara encouraged Mary sweetly and tenderly, gently and slowly prodding the tip of her cock into the anal ring of Wendy’s mother, tipping it past her rosebud, then pulling it out, the tipping it just a little further in. At Sara’s urging, Mary reached a hand to her groin, rubbing her pussy, stroking the hard clit of her pussy along the length of her middle finger, stroking in long lines and circular motions.

“That’s it, baby, rub that beautiful pussy. Get your gorgeous cunt all wet and hot for me. Feel the tip of my cock on your ass. It feels good, doesn’t it baby? God you love this, don’t you, Mary? You just love it when I fuck your beautiful ass. You just want me to do this all night long, don’t you, you little dyke. You little dyke slut.”

Mary nodded as the artificial cock sank deeper in her hole.

Soft groans, sighs, cries, plaintive cries of longing and lust filled the room, coming from speakers set into the ceiling. Videos of naked women fucking each other, touching each other, lesbians kissing each other loudly, sloppily, the sounds of the kissing echoing through the room, showed on the large flat screen covering the wall. From time to time images of Wendy’s come-covered face flashed across the screen, along with the photo of her splayed legs, mixed with the videos in a collage of sapphic lust and longing, of lesbian release, and female heat.

Mary faced the screen as Sara pumped her from behind, her cock a piston in Mary’s ass. Sara gripped the sides of Mary’s smooth ass, sometimes in hard grips producing groans from the woman below and in front of her, sometimes smoothly caressing the soft curves and flesh with the palms of her hands, delighting, as Sara always delighted, in the soft, lush feel of a woman’s body.

“That’s it, baby. Look at all those beautiful women. God, women turn you on so much, don’t they Mary? You can’t get enough of them. You can’t get enough of looking at women, of touching them, of wanting them to touch you, to feel you, to caress you, to kiss you. Over and over and over again. Just to fuck you, really. Isn’t that right, honey? Oh god, you just want sex with women, don’t you sweet Mary? My sweet, sweet Mary.”

The red and pink capsules Mary took reduced her to a shivering mess of suggestibility, readily accepting anything Sara told her, greedily accepting as truth every word uttered by Sara. Because it was true. Everything Sara said was true. Beneath the sighing murmurs, the sudden squeals and shrieks of climaxing women, women in the throes of lesbian orgasm, Mary heard or thought she heard a kind of music.

Not music. Not really. But something very like music. A steady beat, a constant rhythm of tones, almost inaudible, pulsed against her ears, sometimes rising, sometimes falling below hearing.

In truth, what Mary heard was neither music nor not music, neither subliminal nor not subliminal. Using a technique invented decades ago by The Diana Group, refined by years of development under the tutelage first of Nero Craft, then of his daughter Serena, The Diana Group learned how to embed non-linear, non-verbal, and non-textual content into sonic forms, crystallizing a meaningful but non-specified content into packages delivered by the twelve notes of the Western musical scale, with variations in each note to produce subtle and unrecognizable variations in the neurological structure of the recipient.

Knowing how music could tame the savage beast, The Diana Group used music, the form of music, to reshape the human mind. See the article “Using Non-Verbal Information as Scalar Tonal Quanta in Discrete Units of Layered Sonality in Neuro-Realignment Conduction” in the New Holland Journal of Extraordinary Techno-psychology, Volume 10, Issue 4 for more information concerning The Diana Group’s research in this area.

The lipstick increased sexual desire, a desire for sensual experience, a desire to kiss and be kissed, specifically, it increased attraction to human females, the mouths and lips of human females. Women, in other words. It burned through the recipient, and created a steady glow of longing. The pink smoothies contained concentrated doses of the same substance as the lipstick. Taken internally, they had a quicker and more pronounced effect, increasing the libido beyond the ability to resist. Sex with a woman became imperative, desire for the female body all-consuming. The capsules were another story.

The red and pink capsules were designed by The Diana Group to dull or inhibit the rational part of the human psyche while building up sexual tension and suggestibility to the spoken word. Though containing little of the pink active ingredient of both the lipstick and smoothie drinks, they nonetheless produced a pronounced receptivity to sapphic implication as well as an openness to any general suggestion. When combined with the effects of the sonalistic conduction, Mary was fucked, literally and figuratively. With each new orgasm, Mary could almost feel her mind change as new ideas, new longings, new needs were created inside it.

She watched the women on screen, her glazed eyes affixed to the nude images of beautiful and lustrous women, caress and pet each other, feeling their breasts, their round asses, holding each other’s faces, smiling into each other’s eyes in mute wonder and shocked ecstasy as they came, over and over again, hands gliding over their wet, sweaty, glistening smooth bodies, each feminine curve exploding a new idea in Mary’s mind. Lesbian, her mind told her. Hot women, women are hot, she seemed to think to herself, ideas forming inside her, each new idea a new realization springing from her own being.

Dyke whore. Lust, lesbian lust. The sighs of women kissing each other, sloppy kisses as soft lip smacked against soft lip, filled the room. Mary panted alongside the sighs, backing her ass against Sara’s cock, mewing and whining to the images of women pleasuring women, leaving red lipstick marks on their bodies as they kissed and caressed each other, plunging their lovely, delicate fingers into the lovely, delicate holes of their lovers and partners. Dyke slut.

Wendy’s image flashed in and out of the videos, mesmerizing the mother.

Mary came again, and with her climax, Sara pulled her dildo from Mary’s ass, grabbed a handful of hair from the back of Mary’s head and pulled harshly, swinging the older woman around to face the remorseless teenager. She stuck the dildo in Mary’s face, a little soiled from Mary’s anus.

“Clean it, baby girl. Clean your ass off my cock. God, you want to suck this cock, don’t you? You want to suck this cock like the dirty lesbian whore you are.”

Mary nodded hungrily.

Sara plunged the cock into Mary’s ravenous and open mouth, her pink lips wrapped around the penis, sucking and working the dildo clean, grimacing and groaning as she sucked her ass off the cock, almost choking in disgust, but continuing to swallow and suck the cock, starving to satisfy the aching need building within her.

When Sara thought Mary had finished, she nudged her backward with her foot, raising her right leg and pushing the woman’s shoulder till she fell back. Sara laughed.

“You need a little break yet, baby? Do you need to take a little break?”

But Mary didn’t answer. Her head tilted to one side, her cheek pressed into the carpet, while she rubbed her red and swollen pussy frantically, desperate for another orgasm. She turned over on her side and humped her fist with her hand.

“You just stay there then. Keep rubbing yourself. Just keep coming. Over and over. I need to get the girls ready when they get here to see you.”

Girls? What girls, wondered Mary, excited beyond measure at the thought of girls coming to see her.
* * *

It struck Wendy as odd, the amount of doing and undoing with which she had busied herself the last few days. She had never taken her computer downstairs. Her mother hadn’t even mentioned it again after their conversation downstairs on Monday. Now it was Wednesday afternoon, her computer still stood in a pile outside her door. Her mother wasn’t coming home tonight. Still angry, she hadn’t bothered to listen to her reason, but just hung up.

Fine, she thought. Don’t come home.

But that meant she couldn’t really be grounded, didn’t it? I mean, she couldn’t be grounded if the person who guarded the grounding just decided to skip out. Not that Wendy wanted to go anywhere. But that also meant she couldn’t really be grounded from her computer. Or her phone. Which meant she could hook everything back up. Set everything back up before. Before Sara. Which meant she could put her computer back to where it belonged. On the vanity dresser. No. Not the vanity. She’d need it. It’s time to grow up, she thought. It’s time to start paying attention to my appearance. But she could set her computer up on that little table, where she’d stacked her books. Where it should have been in the first place. It was a little small, but it would work.

She spent the next half hour setting her room up. After having been so productive, or so she felt, she plopped back on her bed, settling down to listen to music, adjusting the headphones to her MP4 player, when she heard the doorbell ring. Sitting up, Wendy checked her appearance. Not really dressed for visitors, still wearing the T-shirt and pink shorts she’d masturbated in, she felt a little exposed. Still.

She peeped through the peephole, and once again saw Trina’s distorted face peering up at her. Wendy smiled, happy to see a familiar face, if only momentarily. Feeling lonely all day, she opened the front door in a happy welcome, surprising Trina with its buoyant enthusiam.

“Trina! You’re back!” Wendy practically shouted.

“Hey, Wendy,” Trina grinned, “I’m back. I brought your homework again.” Trina held up a plastic bag. “Probably not what you really want to see right now.”

“Are you kidding, I’m getting bored to death just sitting around.”

“Are you coming back, then? I mean, are you coming back to school?”

“Hm. I haven’t really decided. I just don’t know. God, it was so embarrassing.” Wendy peaked out the door. No pickup truck in the driveway or in front of the house. “Hey,” she asked, “where’s your ride?”

“My dad, you mean? He dropped me off, said he’d be back later. Had somewhere to go. You don’t mind do you? I mean, if I have to stay here for a couple of hours?”

“Oh gosh, Trina. Of course I don’t mind. C’mon in.”

Wendy held open the door widely, and Trina sidestepped around her into the hallway.
* * *

Wendy led Trina to the living room. They both plopped down on the couch, on separate ends. Sitting on the side of her hip, Wendy curled her bare legs to the side and leaned against the sofa’s arm. Trina sat upright in her seat, back stiff and straight, as if afraid to relax. Her first time in Wendy’s home, she eyed each object and piece of furniture with a fearful apprehension, as if just looking might break or damage all the lovely things she saw, each so orderly and neat in its place. Tall, wide wooden shelves holding books, jade figurines, porcelain vases and statuettes, photographs in silver frames, brass and silver candlesticks or scented candles in glass containers lined two walls, while fresh flowers arranged artfully in a blue and white Italian glass vase stood on the polished coffee table, beside a thick wide book on van der Rohe and other minimalists.

A large flat screen television stood on a wide, low table with wide, shallow drawers against the back wall of the living room. A low table stood on either side of the television, on top of each holding a lamp and a small pile of magazines. Trina fought back an urge to get up and inspect every item, especially the photographs. She turned her head and glanced at Wendy, her eyes trailing from the curl of Wendy’s bare toes, to the curves of her bare calves and thighs. She quickly looked up, but Wendy had turned away, searching for a remote on the top of the table at her end of the sofa.

“How are you, Wendy? I’m. I’m. Sorry about everything.”

“Oh, Trina. You know. It’s just so.”

Wendy paused.

“Did you see it?”

Trina bit her lip, then nodded slowly.

“I did.”

“It’s bad, isn’t it?”

Trina didn’t answer.

Wendy teared up, and her voice broke as she groaned loudly.

“I knew it. It’s just horrible. I’ll never be able to show my face again.”

Trina burst out emotionally.

“No, Wendy, it’s not. It’s not bad at all. I liked it.”

Wendy threw a shocked glance at Trina.

“What?”

“I mean, I don’t think Brad should have sent it out. Brad definitely shouldn’t have sent it out, but. I mean.”

“What?” Wendy asked again, but this time more softly, less outraged, her voice expressing curiosity.

“I mean. You looked good. Happy. You looked like a big rock had been taken off your shoulders. A huge weight. I’m sorry. That sounds stupid, I know.”

Wendy thought about what Trina had just said. Did that make sense? Had she felt that way Sunday night, like a weight had been taken off her shoulders? She looked happy. That sounded like something Sara would say. It sounded strange coming from Trina. But when she thought about it, she realized she didn’t really know Trina, didn’t really talk to her. Just kind of put up with her. She clang to Maddy anyway. A tinge of jealousy flared up sometimes, but that’s all she really felt about the girl. But now she came to visit, not once but twice, bringing her homework so she wouldn’t fall behind.

Wendy should feel grateful. She supposed she did. And that feeling of joy on having company remained, a glow at the reminder that her she didn’t live in this world alone.

“No,” Wendy said. “I think you’re right.” She paused. “That wasn’t the only picture, you know.”

“He took more, Wendy?”

Wendy nodded her head quickly, impishly.

“Hm hm.”

Wendy fell quiet for several seconds.

“Do you want to see?”

Trina’s face turned red.

“I’m sorry, Trina. I didn’t think. That’s a stupid idea, isn’t it?”

“No,” Trina apologized. “I mean, if you want to show me. But only if you want to show me.”

“I don’t mind,” replied Wendy. “I want to show you.”

Another pause.

“It’s kind of gross. Are you sure?”

Trina just turned a darker shade of red.

“Okay, but it’s upstairs. On my computer. C’mon!”

Trina followed Wendy up the stairs in a daze of dread and confusion. For months she had been fighting back a desperate longing for Maddy’s friend, always falling quiet, stammering, and shy in her company. Forever deflecting and deferring to Maddy, who enjoyed pushing Wendy, nudging her and prodding her with, well, not abuse. Not that. But somehow always with an upper hand, always somehow taking a superior air with the blonde. And Wendy let her. Wendy didn’t even notice, Trina understood, and that more than anything endeared her to her. God, Trina thought. How beautiful.

And now I’m in her house.

And now I’m walking up her stairs.

And now I’m walking to her room, her bedroom, to look at pictures of her, pictures that might be more than what she’d already seen.

But Trina really hadn’t looked. She peaked, felt bad for her friend, and immediately deleted the photo. But not before her smile, Wendy’s smile, burned a hole in her brain with its image of pure and utter joy.

Trina stifled an exclamation when she entered Wendy’s bedroom. All that pink. She hadn’t expected it. Not from Wendy. Wendy seemed to cool and aloof for pink. But she didn’t know Wendy at all, did she? And lately, with all that makeup she’d been wearing. All that pink lipstick. But not today, Trina noticed. Just plain Wendy. Plain and pretty Wendy.

Wendy woke her computer, opened her email, found the photos.

Just before she opened them, she turned to Trina and asked, “You sure? I mean, it might embarrass you.”

“I won’t be embarrassed if you won’t be embarrassed.”

“Okay.”

Wendy opened the photo and maximized the picture to full screen, turning her monitor to Trina.

“Oh. My. God. Wendy. I just.”

“Do you hate me?”

“No. Of course not. Why would I hate you?”

“Maddy hates me now.”

Trina sat down on the bed. She wanted to hold Wendy, to embrace her, to soothe her fears.

“She doesn’t hate you, Wendy. She’s just being Maddy. She’s angry because she doesn’t know what to feel. By being mad at you, she gets to protect herself. She sometimes talks to me, you know. That Jeremy broke up with her last year because she wouldn’t have sex. She was just a sophomore. She didn’t want to have sex that young. But now you have, and she hasn’t. Now you have a reputation. What will that mean for her, do you think? I mean, if she keeps hanging out with you? Will that mean she’s easy, too?”

“I’m not easy!”

God. Trina was giving her an earful. She’d never heard Trina talk so much.

“I didn’t mean it that way! I meant, will everybody think she’s easy like you.”

“I’m not easy!”

“I meant think she’s easy like they think you’re easy.”

Wendy fell quiet.

“What does it matter what they think?” she asked.

“It matters to you. You won’t go back because of what they think.”

Trina fell quiet next, but she screamed at herself internally. Why can’t you shut up? Why can’t you be quiet? Why do you always have to speak to people like you’re smarter and better than everyone else? Just be quiet. Just be quiet. Just be quiet.

“What about you, Trina? Have you?”

Wendy’s question broke through Trina’s internal upbraiding. The surrealism of the moment hit Trina hard as she regarded Wendy sitting next to her on the bed, on Wendy’s bed, on her bed, beside a large monitor showing Wendy displayed lewdly, gloriously lewd and full-screen, with male come dripping from her exposed vulva and blond, heavily made-up, smiling face.

“Have I what?”

“Have you ever, you know, done it?”

“You mean? With a boy?”

“Of course with a boy,” laughed Wendy humorously, gently ribbing her friend. “Oh my gosh, did you mean, are you, I mean, have you?”

“No! Never. Not with either. I’m. I’m still.”

Trina shifted her gaze to the image of Wendy, focusing on the area between her widely spread legs, eyes unable and unwilling to look away.

“Earth to Trina, eyes up here, girl.”

Trina looked up embarrassed, red, almost frightened.

“I’m sorry, Wendy. It’s just that.”

Wendy started to respond, but at that moment a loud honk blared from the driveway below.

“Gotta go now,” Trina shouted, leaping up and running out the room. “I’ll try to bring you your homework tomorrow, but Dad, he’s getting kind of put out.”

Wendy tried to have the last word, but Trina was already out the door and down the stairs. She turned to her monitor, suddenly realizing the weight of what she had exposed, revealed. What on earth was I thinking? God. I’m really a mess, she thought. She closed the photo, clicked out of her email, and then shut down her PC. Better leave it off for a while, she thought, walking downstairs to flop back down on the sofa.

She had inserted Beauty from Ashes earlier, just before Trina showed up. She grabbed the remote, turned the TV on, and played the DVD.
* * *

On the television screen, Linda and James were standing in the middle of their burned-out home, picking up and discarding burnt and carbonized objects, wiping away tears, looking grim at the destroyed remains of their once happy home when Wendy’s doorbell rang again. She stopped the movie and walked to the front door, smoothing her pink gym short and tugging on the hem of her T-shirt. A vain struggle which led to either exposure of her midriff or an increased display of her cleavage as the V-neck plunged lower. Letting the matter drop, she opened the door without looking through the peep hole.

Great. That asshole Steve was here.

“Hey, sport, how’s everything going? Your mother called and asked me to swing by. I guess she’s not going to be coming home tonight?”

“Um. Yeah. No. She called earlier. Something about a friend.”

“Have you eaten? I make a mean casserole.”

Steve reached over Wendy, holding the door open, but not moving to go around her.

“Come on, Wendy. Give me a chance. I’m not that big of an asshole.”

Linda’s and James’ house burns down, destroying all their family’s goods and memories.

Steve flashed a wide smile at Wendy. Not much taller than Wendy herself, maybe not even taller than her mother, he looked up at her from the lower step of the porch. Steve possessed one of those tightly framed, muscularly taut bodies capable of unleashing ferocious amounts of strength. His long brown hair trailed over his ears, almost touching the collar of his denim jacket. He wore his hair brushed backward from his forehead. Boyish youth still clung to his thirty-one years, and his round, flat face peered at the world through soft, light brown eyes. His lush hair showed no sign of thinning. The lips of Steve’s mouth parted in a smile hovering above a wide chin ending with a flat and narrow point. His top lip much thinner than his bottom lip, Steve’s resting face showed the world a much more serious-looking, austere man than he felt inside.

Steve shrugged his shoulders and lowered his chin while raising his eyebrows with a questioning, beseeching expression.

Wendy relented. I mean, he’s already spent the night here. Several times. And I am getting hungry.

Wendy stepped aside and let Steve in.

She considered changing into a less revealing outfit, but felt, how did Trina put it, put out at the idea of having to cover up in her own home. I’ll just go back to my movie. He knows where everything is. She turned her ass to Steve, swinging it side to side in its pink enclosure, the loose pile of her blond bun bobbing up and down on the back of her head as she sauntered to her spot on the couch in the living room.

Steve busied himself in Wendy’s and Mary’s kitchen. If he thought it odd to be in such a situation, he didn’t dwell on it. He liked to cook anyway. And that girl, that Wendy, she needed looking after. Sure, that picture looked good, she looked good, but c’mon. Who lets somebody take a picture of them like that? Her own mother, for one thing. Well. And of course, certain thoughts just naturally cross your mind. They shouldn’t, but they do all the same.

Soon, however, he had gathered all the ingredients for his famous shepherd’s pie with Brussel sprouts. He found olive oil, onion, parsley, rosemary, thyme, flour, tomato paste, and unopened beef broth in a cardboard box in the pantry, along with garlic powder and large russet potatoes. Butter and parmesan cheese, of course, could be found in the refrigerator. Looking in the freezer, he located a frozen package of ground beef. You can thaw that in the microwave, he thought. Or in a large bowl of hottish water.

Wendy cocked an eyebrow at all the ruckus coming from the kitchen. What in the world is he doing in there, she muttered to himself. She snuggled into her cushions, wrapping a floral-patterned throw around her legs and pulling it close to her neck. She wondered what Steve would do if he came in the living room during one of the sex scenes in the movie. Now that there was a chance someone else could watch it with her, she grew alarmed at the number and length of all the nudity shots. Ostensibly a drama about a family recovering from a house fire, the movie related, sometimes in graphic detail, the loves and losses of the Henderson family, James, Linda, Becky and her little sister, Rosanne. Becky loved Peter, her high school romance, while Peter’s sister Lilly secretly pined for Rosanne. James and Linda, married for twenty years, re-ignited a dying passion after the house fire that destroyed all their possessions.

The sex between Becky and Peter blazed on the screen, the story focused on their high school romance, but midway through the film, the growing love between Lilly and Rosanne rising to a crescendo of passionate kissing and topless petting, both girls exploring each other’s bodies in a slowly building heat of desire. Wendy’s hand strayed under the throw to her inner thighs, parting her legs gradually as the film progressed. Her eyes focused on the kissing between Lilly and Rosanne, and she forgot about Steve as sighs and mews and the wet smacking of lip upon lip filled the living room. Wendy slipped her fingers through the leg of her gym shorts, reaching the moist center of her groin under her damp panties. Her cheeks flushed red, and her breathing grew shallow.

“Whoa!” Steve exclaimed as he waltzed into the room. “Dinner’s ready.”

Wendy jerked her hand away, hoping Steve hadn’t caught her. He had.

The dinner actually passed pleasantly. Talkative but not overbearing or stupid, Steve asked questions about school, about Wendy’s friends, about what she wanted to do with her life, but not in a challenging way. Just questions he fired off because he was genuinely interested. What did Wendy want to do? When she hemmed and hesitated, he just nodded his head and said, “You’re young. You have plenty of time to figure all that out.”

He was funny too.

Wendy soon found herself relaxing and laughing at his silly jokes, his play on words, the faces he made. Cute. Stupid, but cute. A good cook, too. No wonder her mother put up with him. Was it love, though? Did her mother love Steve? I mean, he was her boyfriend, wasn’t he, so I supposed she did love him. Did Steve love her? Did they love each other? Oh my god, was Steve going to move in? We’re they getting married?

Still deep in thought, Steve cleaned up the table around her, clanged the dishes loudly in the sink, and suggested going back to the living room.

“Listen, Wendy. I’d like to talk to you some more. I’d like to get to know you a little better. I mean, if you’re willing.”

Steve pulled a bottle of wine from the built-in wine rack in the pantry, a Malbec. Finding an opener, he tore the metallic seal, pulled the cork, and poured himself a glass. Wendy braved a resounding and automatic refusal.

“Can I have one, Steve?”

Steve stopped pouring his wine. He put the bottle down. He looked deep inside himself and thought to himself, “Get out. Get out now. Run.” Then another thought immediately responded, “Stay. This is what you want. This is what you always wanted. You need to talk to her. The girl needs someone to talk to. Go ahead and pour a drink. It’ll loosen her up. It’ll get her to talk.”

Steve turned around, took another wine glass from the cabinet and poured Wendy a drink.

“Don’t tell you mother.”

“Oh, she lets me have a glass all the time.”

“I doubt that,” Steve replied. “I doubt that very much.”

Wendy raised her glass and drank a large sip. She followed it with another. Soon a warm glow diffused through her body. She felt relaxed, happy, and glad to have company. Steve suggested going to the sofa to talk. He had some things on his mind.

Wendy’s ass flirted with Steve’s eyes, swinging from side to side in its hypnotic sway.

She knows what she has, he thought. How could she not?

They both sat down, slightly facing each other, a few feet apart, near the middle of the plush sofa. Wendy placed coasters on the coffee table. They both set their glasses down at the same time.

“The thing is,” Steve said.

“Yes, Steve?” Wendy’s tone took on a mature edge, a slightly mocking tone.

Steve didn’t bit.

“The thing is, I’ve seen your photograph Wendy.”

I’m going to put down my glass, thought Wendy. No, I’m going to throw my glass in his face. I’m going to throw my glass in his face, run upstairs, lock my door, and never, ever, come out of my room again.

Wendy stayed perfectly still, her fingers trembled around the stem of her wine glass.

“It’s okay. I’m not trying to upset you. It’s just that. It’s just that I want you to know that you can get through all that. You can get through all that at school. You just have to defend yourself. You can’t just hide away. You’ve got to go back to school, Wendy. There’s no one here to home school you. You’re better than a G.E.D.”

“What business is it of yours, anyway? I mean, just because you’re my mom’s boyfriend doesn’t give you the right to tell me what I need to do. Or look at disgusting pictures of me.”

“They’re not disgusting. You’re not disgusting.” Steve pulled out his cell phone. “Look.”

He scooted over to Wendy, who scooted closer to him. Steve held the cell phone out, open the pictures on his phone to the two pictures of Wendy.

“Oh my god. You’ve seen both of them? But I’m naked in that one Steve. You’ve got a picture of me naked on your phone.”

Wendy’s voice rose in an outraged panic.

“Yes,” he said calmly. “I just had to have them after your mother showed them to me.”

“She what?”

“She was upset, Wendy. She didn’t know what to do. She had to show me. So that I could understand.”

It all seems so reasonable, thought Wendy as she finished her glass.

“Want another?” Steve asked, looking at her empty glass.

“Why not?” Wendy shrugged. “Yes. Definitely.”

When Steve came back with two full glasses, Wendy was looking at her photo in the phone. Wendy took the proferred glass, swallowed a long mouthful, and giggled.

“I’ve seen your picture, too, Steve. It’s huge.”

“Picture? Picture of what?”

“Your cock, silly. I’ve seen a picture of your cock. The one you sent mom. It’s huge. I—“

“Oh, that. That was a couple of weeks ago.”

“I masturbated to it.”

Steve choked.

He scooted closer to Wendy until their knees were touching.

“Want to see something else?” he asked in a sly voice.

“Okay,” Wendy said playfully.

Steve took the phone from Wendy’s hand, flipped through some files and found the picture he’d taken of Mary.

“Look. What do you think of that?”

Wendy’s jaw dropped.

Her mother’s face shone with Steve’s come, and she held her legs spread wide and bent in reproduction of Wendy’s pose, her trimmed pussy exposed to her daughter’s hungry eyes. Her mouth felt dry. Wendy licked her lips. She placed a hand on Steve’s leg, mid-thigh.

“You mean.”

“I couldn’t stop her. She was like an animal.”

Steve face inched closer to Wendy’s face, almost brushing it as they stared at the picture between them. Wendy breathed in the smell of Steve’s aftershave, enjoying the male scent, the proximity of, of. Of doing it again. She could, she thought. She could have sex with Steve. She could have sex with her mother’s boyfriend.

Steve turned to say something to Wendy, and the girl, sensing it, immediately turned her face to his. Their mouths were so close. Their lips were almost touching. Wendy tilted her head slightly, leaning in just the barest fraction of an inch, and Steve, god help him, went for it, maddened to have the girl sitting next to him in thin gym shorts and a cutoff T-shirt.

The ferocious kiss took both by surprise.

Finally breaking away, Steve looked at Wendy.

“Are you sure?”

Wendy nodded as she pulled her T-shirt over her head, her full breasts open to Steve’s view. Leaning in to kiss her, Steve lay her back against the sofa, kissing her breasts one by one, kissing and nibbling the soft areas around her nipples, slowly and patiently working his rough hands around the fleshy mounds, as he took one tit and then another into his mouth, lightly tonguing each nipple before sucking it and pulling it away from the soft globe. He kissed the flat and bony valley between her breasts, slowly kissing down the sternum to the belly, arriving at her adorable and shallow navel, her button below which lay paradise.

She had not showered that day, and Steve could smell the scent rising from her, delighting in the salt of her skin, the taste of her magnificent body, the stink rising from below her shorts as he nosed a path towards the warmth between her thighs. He kissed the top of her shorts and moved back up her body, slowly and deliberately, returning to her lips, her mouth, the sides of her face, nuzzling his rough skin against her cheeks, nibbling at and kissing the unpierced lobes of her ears. Kissing and whispering all around her ear, he brushed the hair above the top of the lobe with his mouth, then moved towards her lips again, endlessly pouring that curious mix of masculine brutality and gentleness upon Wendy’s trembling body, now beginning to surge with desire and need.

Again and again he moved towards her groin, now damp and hot, flushed and swollen. Again and again he moved away, kissing her belly, the soft flesh of her belly, the swell of her breasts, the hard nipples of her tits, pulling them playfully with his lips and the lightest touch of his teeth away from her body. Wendy became a surging, shaking, writhing body of need, thrusting her pelvis again and again at Steve’s body, until finally, finally Steve reached the hem of her pink gym shorts. Quivering, Wendy held her legs up, bent at the knees and spread for Steve’s access. She raised her ass off the sofa cushion.

“Are you ready, Wendy?” Steve asked.

“Oh, god, yes, Steve. Please.”

“Please what, baby?”

“Please. You know. Do me.”

Steve pulled Wendy’s soft gym shorts off her legs, sliding her wet white panties off along with them. He shuffled out of his jeans and boxers. Holding the tip of his hard and throbbing cock at the soaked steaming entrance of Wendy’s pussy, he looked up and asked again.

“Really?”

“Please, Steve. Just do it. Fuck me. I need you inside me.”

Wendy thrust her pussy at Steve, and Steve plunged his cock into Wendy’s hot, wet, swollen hole.


End of Phase II