Juicy Secrets Forbidden Tales of Lesbian Love

For a brief description of what takes place in each of the previous chapters, visit this page.

For a list of the characters from the story you are now reading, visit this page. 

For a list of the characters from the previous two stories that you will encounter here as well, visit this page.

And now, dear readers, we make our way into the next installment. Read on…

by Rachael Yukey

Invisible hate inside me now
Invisible hate ‘cos I am down 
Witchfinder General, 1982

“Here it is.” Vicky turned her laptop so Julie could see the images she’d pulled up. Julie moved the device from Vicky’s lap to hers, adjusting the angle of the screen a bit.

“Hmmm,” she murmured, scanning the listing Vicky had found on the Lute Society of America’s website. “Thirteen course baroque lute with bass rider after Burckholtzer/Edlinger. Constructed in twenty-twelve by luthier Jessop Goodall. Fifty-two hundy.” She pursed her lips, then grinned. “Gotta admit, the only part of that I understand is the price tag.”

“That means it’s a copy  of a lute that was made by Hans Burckholtzer in the late Renaissance, then converted by Thomas Edlinger in the late baroque,” Patty Spisak put in from Vicky’s opposite side. “Edlinger was a violin maker in Prague in the eighteenth century, and he converted Renaissance instruments into baroque lutes as a sideline. He—”

She broke off as Vicky whipped around to face her. “Good grief, Patty—how do you know all that? You don’t even play!”

Patty colored, looking down at her hands. “Yeah, but you know me. I get just a little interested in something, I have to find out everything about it. You showed me the listing yesterday, and I kind of went down a rabbit hole on the web last night. There’s this luthier who has a blog, and he wrote an article about how they did these conversions. Did you know they actually just sawed the neck off at the block, then stuck a new one in its place?”

“Jeez,” said Vicky. “You literally know more about this than I do.”

Lifting her gaze, a blushing Patty looked first to Vicky, then Julie, then finally Mallory, who was occupying the love seat. “I read that whole blog last night, plus a bunch of other stuff. I was up till like two. Pretty weird of me, huh?”

Vicky slapped her arm. “Stop that. You shouldn’t ever be embarrassed about wanting to know about stuff.”

“You’d make one hell of a historian, it sounds like,” said Mallory. Patty gave her a grateful smile.

“What about the guy who actually made this thing?” Julie wanted to know.

“Goodall’s a big deal, as far as luthiers go,” said Vicky. “He’s made instruments for some of my favorite players. When he makes stuff on commission, they go for like ten thousand, and that’s if they don’t have any fancy inlays.” Patty let out a low whistle.

“That’s not a surprising amount of money for a pro-quality musical instrument,” Mallory put in. “Especially one built on commission.” She stretched, stifling a yawn. She was feeling a little run down this afternoon, and wondered if it was the baby or just a touch of a bug. Probably the former—she was also ravenously hungry.

She cast her eyes about, reflecting that the living room of Julie’s childhood home felt more like her own than her father’s house ever had. Her most vivid memories of feeling like part of a family were right here.

Four heads turned as the front door opened. Jason Hanson entered, plastic shopping bags dangling from both hands. Lisa was right behind him, similarly laden.

“Afternoon, ladies,” said Jason, kicking off his shoes and making his way across the room in the direction of the kitchen. Stepping out of her flats, Lisa trailed along in his wake. “Hi, girls,” she said as she passed them by.

“Is there more to bring in, Mom?” Vicky wanted to know.

“No, sweetie, this is all of it,” Lisa called over her shoulder as she disappeared into the kitchen.

Julie turned her attention back to the laptop screen, lips pressed together. “Just how many strings does this fuckin’ thing have, anyway?”

Vicky grinned. “Twenty-four.”

“And people actually play these things…?”

“Yeah!” Patty enthused. “Vicky’s been showing me videos. Some of the players are pretty awesome.”

“So—” Julie hesitated for a moment. “If you were going to commission a lute for yourself, is something like this what you’d want? Or is it just your first choice of what you can find used online?”

“This one’s perfect, actually,” said Vicky. “Checks all my boxes.”

Lisa appeared in the kitchen doorway, dressed to kill in an ankle-length emerald skirt and light pink low-cut blouse. She smiled. “Julie, Mallory—are you staying for supper?”

Julie looked across the room to her lover. “Whaddya think, Mal? Free eats?”

“Sure.”

“Will you stay, Patty?” asked Lisa.

“Oh, jeez—thanks, Ms. Hanson! I’ll text my mom and see.”

“You do that. And call me Lisa.” Turning around, she disappeared back into the kitchen.

Jason appeared a moment later, crossing the room to his chair. “What are you ladies up to?”

“Vicky was just showing me this lute she’s interested in,” said Julie. “I told her a few weeks ago that if she’s really serious, I’ll help you get her one.”

Jason raised his eyebrows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. She said you offered to put up three grand?”

“Yup.”

“And I have a thousand saved,” Vicky put in.

Julie shook her head. “Hang onto your cash—you’ve got college to get ready for.” She turned to Mallory. “Think we can manage twenty-three hundred, babe?”

Mallory chuckled. “She’s jerking your chain, Vic. We already discussed it, and decided how much we’re ready to spend. Can I see what we’re buying?” She started to rise, but Julie beat her to it, pushing herself from the couch and crossing the room. Settling herself on the love seat next to Mallory, she handed her the laptop. Not bothering to read the advertisement, Mallory enlarged the first picture, then began scrolling through the rest.

“It sure looks gorgeous,” she observed. “And it’s in Milwaukee. Might even be worth a road trip to pick it up, so there’s no chance of it getting damaged in shipping.”

“Contact the seller, Vicky,” said Julie. “Tell ‘em you want it, and make the payment arrangements. We’ll hook you up.”

Vicky had tears in her eyes. “I—God, I don’t even know what to say. You guys are the best. You too, Dad.”

“Just promise you’ll make beautiful music on it, and we’ll be happy,” said Mallory.

“Oh, I will. Thank you so much!” She leaned into Patty, who squeezed her arm.

“In other news—” Julie put her arm around Mallory’s shoulders, drawing her close. “Lisa,” she called out, “come in here when you get a moment. We’ve got something kind of big to tell everyone.”

Lisa reappeared in the kitchen doorway almost at once, a bag of frozen peas clutched in her hand. “What’s up?”

“Um—is this something I should duck out for?” asked Patty.

“No, it’s okay,” said Mallory. She took a deep breath. “I hope you’re making a big meal, Lisa. These days, I’m eating for two.”

***

Shannon Brentshaw took another sip from the bottle of Old Crow that sat open on the coffee table before her, shuddering a little as the harsh liquor slid down her throat. Cheap, nasty, and to the point—just like everything else in my fucked-up excuse for a life.

She’d never developed much of a taste for straight whiskey, and the best she could afford these days was rough as a standing fuck in an alley, but the more palatable alternatives were nowhere near fast-acting enough to suit her. The way Shannon figured it, if you had to get up to pee before you got shitfaced, whatever you were drinking was for sissies.

Setting the bottle back down with a satisfying clunk, she adjusted the screen on her laptop, then typed a name into the search box of her browser, a name that had taken a second bedroom tryst with that smarmy, self-absorbed sheriff’s deputy to obtain. She hoped with a savage sort of bitterness that it was worth it. That fat fuck didn’t even try to get me off.

But he’d been able to dredge up what might be the answer she needed. Seems a DEA agent by the name of Bridgett Ramscone had come in to seek out the origin of the drugs that fat babysitter had been on, and brought with her some super-sleuth who’d cracked open the whole thing in just a few hours. What the worthless fucking pigs didn’t have was the super-sleuth’s name. Crossing mental fingers, Shannon double-checked the spelling of Ramscone’s name against the scrap of paper in her hand, then hit enter.

Paydirt right away. The DEA agent in question had made news just a few months ago. Seems this lady had been supervising agent on a high-profile drug bust in—Shannon sat up straight, her jaw dropping. Bronning, Minnesota was not a town she was likely to forget in either this lifetime or the next. Not after that catastrophe fifteen years ago.

There had been considerable press on the subject, because there’d been a number of overdose deaths, the shooting of a twelve-year-old girl, and a hostage situation that ended with national guard intervention up by International Falls. Also, a large cache of heroin had been found, and in the ensuing weeks they’d been able to link that to a major international drug kingpin who’d been on the radar for decades, finally obtaining enough evidence to make an arrest.

Ramscone had been much lauded for resolving the situation, but had insisted on sharing that credit with a consultant. This particular lady, it seemed, had connected the dots that had led to the discovery of the heroin stash, and subsequently found the bits of evidence necessary to pin down the infamous Gordon Musciari.

The news stories regarding the Bronning incident all made mention of this elusive consultant, but never dropped a name. Abandoning that line of research, Shannon clicked on an article that was specific to Musicari’s arrest. And there it was—towards the bottom of the story, a picture of Ramscone standing alongside that smarty-pants bitch who seemed to have the answers to everything, looking as if she’d rather be anyplace else in the world. Something about that face set off alarm bells in Shannon’s consciousness. Squinting a little, she read the ridiculously tiny font the caption was comprised of.

Her eyes widened. “Antoinette Hastings,” she murmured. Then louder. “Antoinette Hastings? No way. No fucking way at all. Holy shit.” A trembling hand closed on the whiskey bottle before her. She took a generous slug, barely noticing the rough burn as it slid down her throat.

***

Vicky Hanson awkwardly wrapped both arms around the unfamiliar instrument, shifting a bit on the piano stool. Avoiding the bass courses, she brushed across the higher-pitched strings with her right-hand thumb, then grinned up at the seller.

“That sounds great!” she said.

Lacey O’Donnell, an elegant, stately fiftyish woman, smiled. “I think so. I’m reluctant to let it go, but all of my professional work is on the theorbo these days. I haven’t had this lute out of the case in months, and a fine instrument unplayed is like a puppy forced to spend its waking days in a kennel. I want it to be with someone who’ll make music with it. ”

Vicky brushed the strings again, a frown creasing her brow. “Okay—so the top six courses are a minor chord, and the lower ones—” her right hand thumb plucked the bass strings one by one, moving down the scale. Finding the note she wanted, she placed the fingers of her left hand on the fingerboard, then began playing a simple melody on the highest-pitched string, hand moving up and down the neck. She plucked the melody notes with her right-hand fingers while repeatedly thumbing that same bass note.

“Cool!” she said, her face lighting up. “And as long as I just stay on the same bass, I can use some of the other strings as drone notes.” She began alternating the melody notes she was playing on the high string with notes on the open strings directly adjacent to it.

“Okay,” she said, “the basses are diatonic, so to do a chord change I can just change bass notes like—” The next sound that emanated from the instrument was shocking and discordant.

“Oh, damn,” said Vicky. She stopped playing, wearing a rueful expression.

“Pretty sure that wasn’t the right note, Vic,” Julie observed. She, Mallory, and Patty Spisak were seated on a couch upholstered in plush velvet. The music room in Lacey’s home was cozy and tastefully decorated. Paintings adorned the walls, with statuary displayed on the few shelves that weren’t lined with books of music.

A Steinway baby grand took up a fair chunk of the space, and one entire wall was devoted to historical plucked instruments. Another contained a well-stocked bar. It clearly was not just a room for practicing, but a social environment for a woman whose friends were mostly other musicians. It was a space that seemed to fit Lacey like a glove.

Lacey, facing Vicky in an antique armless chair with a carved wood back and upholstered seat, gave a wry chuckle. “Don’t feel bad, dear—that was a very good first try for someone who’s never played in the D minor tuning before, and who isn’t used to an extended open bass range. Maybe the best I’ve seen.”

Vicky tossed her a relieved smile. “How long does it take to get good?”

“Bearing in mind that she’s already a very accomplished classical guitarist,” Mallory chimed in.

Lacey thought for a moment, then smiled. “So was I, but even so—learning to consistently find the bass courses you want with your right-hand thumb is a bit of a journey, to say nothing of getting comfortable in this tuning. It probably took me a full year to really feel proficient. But if you have the fortitude to push through the rough patches, it’s well worth it in the end.”

“Can I hear you play it?” Vicky asked.

Leaning forward to take the instrument from the teenager, Lacey ran practiced fingers over the strings, pausing several times to tweak tuning pegs. “Do you have a favorite composer for the baroque lute, darling?”

Vicky pursed her lips. “I’d say Weiss, but then, every second recording you find is either Weiss, or a Bach transcription. What’s your favorite that isn’t Weiss?”

Lacey cast her eyes to the ceiling for a moment, then back to Vicky. “In the bookshelf right behind you, the second shelf from the top is all literature for the baroque lute. You’ll find a book there of music by Denis Gaultier. His name is on the binding. Would you get it down for me, please, and bring it over here along with the music stand next to the bookshelf?”

Rising from the piano stool, Vicky located the requested tome, and brought it over along with an elegantly carved wooden music stand. Hanging onto the instrument with one arm, Lacey flipped through the book’s pages to find the one she wanted. When she spoke, it was in reverent tones.

“Denis Gaultier was a French lutenist and composer during the seventeenth century, following in the footsteps of his older cousin Edumond. The piece you’re about to hear is a tombeau, which is intended as a sort of musical tombstone, dedicated to a dearly departed. The dedication in this title is to Charles Racquet, Gaultier’s teacher. The resulting work is, in my opinion, a great masterpiece.”

A blissful expression on her face, Lacey placed her fingers on the strings and began. It was a piece of simple, melancholy beauty, and Lacey brought out its emotional overtones with exquisite artistry. When she finished, all eyes were riveted on her.

Mallory had tears on her cheeks, yet was the first to find her voice. “That was—extraordinarily beautiful.” There was a chorus of agreement from the others. Mallory wiped her face with the back of her hand.

Lacey favored her with a smile. “There’s tissues on that side table, dear. This is a place where overly sensitive people of an artistic persuasion—and I include myself in that count—come to tug on each other’s heartstrings. Yours aren’t the first tears to be shed in here. I’m glad to see I’ve returned the favor; I was in the audience for your performance at U of W Milwaukee in February, and shed tears of my own during the Debussy, as well as your own work entitled ‘Frosted Moonlight’.”

Drying her eyes, Mallory smiled. “Wow—you even remembered the title. Thanks. I have an album coming out on Naxos late next month, and that piece is on it. I’ll mail you a copy. What’s your preference for format?”

“You’ll do no such thing—I’ll buy a copy. It’s lean times for our particular art form; we have to support each other, don’t we? Now then.” Lacey turned her attention to Vicky. “What do you think, then? Is that what you were hoping for?”

“It sounds exactly like I dreamed it would,” said Vicky. “I just hope that one day I can make music on it the way you did just now.”

“Oh, I think you will,” Lacey murmured. “You have the soul of a musician, my dear. It’s there in your eyes; your hands.”

Vicky’s cheeks pinked slightly. “It’s not all me,” she insisted. “An instrument like yours… it’s hard not to shine when you’re playing it.”

Julie spoke up. “I liked it, too, but it’s not what I expected,” she said. “I was thinking it’d be like a big-sounding classical guitar, but it isn’t at all. It’s a lot brighter—almost a glassy sound.”

Lacey nodded agreement, casually stroking the lute’s neck. “A delicate, intimate instrument. One for bringing out exquisite threads of emotion in small groups of people, not so much for filling a concert hall with sound.”

She rose, bending over to gently place the lute in an open case next to the piano stool Vicky was perched on. “In any event, it’s yours now, Vicky. Your payment came through with no issues, and thank you very much.”

Straightening to her full height, she plucked the book from the music stand, returning it to its place on the bookshelf. Brushing her fingers across the spines of her collection, she selected another. Returning to the chair, she sat, then solemnly handed the book to Vicky.

“Also, a gift. This is a facsimile copy of the lutebook of the Princess von Wurtemburg, otherwise known as the Rostock Manuscript. It hails from the middle of the eighteenth century, when the German-speaking countries were the last bastion of the lute’s time in the sun. It’s filled with charming little pieces by mostly anonymous composers, none more than moderately difficult, and some quite easy to play. I use it pretty extensively for students, and I have a list of the pieces graded by difficulty, which I’ll email to you. Start with the easiest, master each one before moving on to the next, and a young lady of your talents is bound to succeed.”

Vicky’s face lit up. “Oh, wow—thank you, Lacey!”

“You’re quite welcome, my dear. Now—I must insist that you all stay for dinner. When I was informed that this many would be traveling to collect the instrument, I prepared accordingly, and it’d be unconscionable for all that food to go to waste.”

***

The three-person council of war met in the living room of Ellen Brentshaw’s musty-smelling trailer. Ellen rocked gently in her glider, a Marlboro clenched between gnarled fingers that shook slightly with a now-perpetual palsy. Her daughter Shannon perched on the edge of the sofa, while the quiet, brooding man in the olive drab jacket occupied an armchair.

These two are going to get me locked up as an accessory, she told herself. The thought did not carry much emotional resonance for Ellen. She’d spent her share of time in jail during her younger days, including two stints in the Iowa state pen that added up to a little over eight years. And now? She was old and infirm, her encroaching COPD and CHF virtually guaranteeing that any further incarceration would be of short duration. Might be worth it. Won’t have to cook my own damn meals anymore.

Because they were going to get caught; Ellen had little doubt of that. She’d known as much twenty years ago, when she’d sent a nosy cop off on the wrong tangent, just barely staving off catastrophe. It was that incident that had clued her into what her daughter was involved with, leaving her with a hard choice to make.

What these two psych-ward cases were up to was a shock, even to someone who had operated on the wrong side of the law for damn near her entire life. Then again, was it really so different from that time back in the seventies when she’d scragged that pimply-faced teenager before he could blow open their trade in duty-free cigarettes? Or when she’d held a gun to the head of the sniveling brat whose dad was refusing to cough up what was owed for the Oxys he’d scored from her?

She’d decided it was not. Some needs were their own imperative, and besides—this was family. You always protected family.

But of course, she’d been right—they got caught. And now these two idiots wanted to go after a goddamn DEA consultant, when all they really needed to do was lay low for a while and not do anything stupid. Ellen at least understood what was driving Shannon to this act of lunacy; it was the same blind rage that fueled her entire existence. Ellen understood it because—well—it ran in the family. As for the other member of their council, did anyone really understand his motivations? Ellen suspected there wasn’t anything there you could really pin down. The man was just deeply, hopelessly insane.

One more try to make these fools see sense, she decided. “Think this through before you both end up in the hoosegow,” she said.

“Jesus, Ma, that’s what I’m trying to avoid,” Shannon’s voice was petulant, bitter. “If she’s as good as everyone seems to think she is—”

“You just hush up and listen to me.” The old woman’s voice was suddenly harsh, a reminder of the commanding presence that had made Ellen Brentshaw the undisputed queen bee of the region’s trade in low-level contraband. It was the voice of a woman who had once been well on her way to achieving real wealth and power. That is, until her second trip up the river, which gave her fool husband the chance to run their operations himself. His terrible business decisions had wiped them out, a calamity from which the Brentshaw clan had never recovered. Shannon subsided, scooching back on the cushion and folding her arms, her jaw set in a pout.

“That’s better,” said Ellen, returning to her vaguely pleasant dear-old-granny tone of voice. “Now listen. She might be good, but she’s not God. The feds buy smart investigators in packs of ten. You got tracked down before, and it wasn’t her that was looking for you.”

Ellen took a drag on her cigarette, taking a moment to gather her wind. It didn’t take much talking these days to whisk it away from her. “Let’s say you get the job done. She ain’t just some random consultant, she’s the one that got rescued in the raid all those years ago. She disappears, or dies in a way that don’t look natural, just who the hell you think they’re gonna be looking at?”

A closed, mulish expression stole over Shannon’s face, confirming what Ellen already knew. This wasn’t about closing down the investigation. It was about revenge. It was either this tall, dark-haired cunt or her bitch sister who’d gotten her hands on the phone that had derailed everything and got Jacob sent up all those years ago. And now here she was again, sticking her nose in where it didn’t belong. Okay, that wasn’t great, but Shannon was too concerned about payback and not nearly enough about risk.

The man in the armchair spoke for the first time. “She has a point, Shannon.”

Shannon’s head whipped in his direction, betrayal written all over her face, while Ellen raised her eyebrows, surprised to receive support from this unexpected quarter. “If she dies,” he went on, “the feds are going to suspect a revenge killing. Why wouldn’t they? And who would they be looking at first? The family of Jacob Brentshaw. You’d have agents crawling up your ass with a microscope, and probably down your throat, too.”

“Hell, they’d meet in the middle,” Ellen observed with a nod of the head. “I think you’re better off staying with what you were doing in the first place: keeping your noses clean and your heads down. What does she have to work with, really? Nothing that points to us. I mean, it has to have crossed her mind, but if they had anything solid, they’d have been here to talk to all of us by now.”

That stormy expression had yet to leave Shannon’s face, and her arms were still folded defensively over her chest. But she grudgingly nodded assent. “Fine, whatever. But we need to keep an eye on things. If this, this Hastings woman shows up around here, starts asking questions—”

“Then we chew the fat some more,” said Ellen. “Until then—just wait.”

***

As the last note faded away, Patty burst into applause. Julie, who had a drink in her hand, clapped the other against a denim-clad thigh. Vicky looked up from the classical guitar on her lap, face lit up in a delighted grin. Mallory, seated at the baby grand in Lacey O’Donnell’s music room, gave a gracious nod. Lacey inclined her head. She was holding a theorbo, an enormous lute-like bass instrument that Vicky reckoned was probably a real menace to poor, unsuspecting tchotchkes if one wasn’t keeping track of where the bass course extension was pointing.

A smiling Lacey looked up at their audience of two. Her cheeks were a little flushed, whether from the exertion of music-making or from the wine she’d consumed over the course of the evening, Vicky wasn’t sure.

“You’re both very kind,” said Lacey. She looked to Vicky. “You improvise well.”

Vicky blushed with pleasure. “Thanks. To be honest, I feel like I’m kind of faking it a little. I mean—I can jam all day in a rock or blues situation, but this kind of improv is a little different. I’m just going off the chord progression and playing what I know will work.”

“Which is an excellent start, and leads to very pleasing results if your ear is good enough—and yours clearly is. I’m not surprised that you haven’t learned to play from a figured bass; it’s not a part of any standard classical guitar curriculum I know of, even at the university level.” She turned her attention to Mallory. “Or piano, for that matter. Where did you pick it up?”

“It was an elective in a conservatory prep program I attended in high school,” said Mallory. “I learned the basics there, and kept on learning because I got into playing with historical ensembles for awhile. Lots of baroque music, mostly on the harpsichord. Fun stuff. I’m working on an original piece for baroque ensemble; it’ll have figured bass accompaniment in some parts.”

Lacey’s eyes lit up. “If you haven’t already lined up an ensemble to premier it with, I’m the director of our historical music division here at U of W. I’d be interested.” She turned back to Vicky. “Now that you’re taking on the baroque lute, I recommend learning this style of playing in the strongest possible terms. It’s very much like a jazz ensemble playing from a lead sheet, although the learning curve is steeper. But at the time that lutes like yours were in vogue, it was a thing that any competent musician knew as a matter of course. I’m already planning to email you some instructional material; I’ll add to that a doctoral thesis written by a student of mine some years ago. It’s a beginner-level treatise on continuo playing, with instructions specific to the baroque lute’s tuning. That should get you started.”

Patty spoke up from her place on the couch. “Improvisation isn’t really a thing you picture when you think of classical music. What you guys just did was so cool.”

Lacey inclined her head. “Many things have changed over the past century where our art is concerned, little of it for the better. Complex art music has become almost exclusively the property of academia, and that’s led to a certain—calcification. The rigid lines drawn between performer and composer, for example—that’s a modern phenomenon, with no equivalent before the turn of the twentieth century.” She looked back at Mallory. “I applaud you for daring to perform and record your own compositions. It’s much needed. As is a return of the noble art of improvisation. I know a number of virtuoso performers with astounding technique, who if I asked them to play ‘Happy Birthday’ in C, would ask me if I had the sheet music for it. I imagine you’ve encountered a few such players yourself.”

Mallory screwed up her face. “More than a few.”

“Just so.” Lacey rose with the theorbo, handling the lengthy instrument with care. She carried it to the wall where her other plucked instruments were displayed, hanging it from a set of hooks that had clearly been custom–designed for it. Crossing the room to the smaller of the two sofas, she settled in.

“This has been very exciting,” she said. “Vicky, it’s a thrill to see someone as young as you choose the baroque lute; most people don’t gravitate towards it until at least their university-level classical guitar studies. But honestly, you’ve all been a delight to have as guests. Mallory, Julie—” she hesitated, then plunged ahead. “It’s so good to see a lesbian couple openly enjoying a life together, yet not going out of your way to call attention to it. So comfortable in your own skin. Twenty-five years ago, when I moved in with my partner at the time, it was something of an act of defiance, daring the system to retaliate.”

Julie’s eyebrows shot up. “I didn’t realize—”

“That I’m a lesbian? I suppose not. That’s how far we’ve come—I don’t feel compelled to make a statement of it anymore.”

She turned her eyes to Vicky. “I think I sense something between you and the tall young lady sitting next to your sister. Am I mistaken?”

Vicky colored. “Can I talk about it, Patty?”

Patty gave a shrug and a lopsided smile. “Guess I don’t see the harm.”

“We haven’t really figured out what’s happening,” said Vicky. “I don’t think we’re really girlfriends yet; more like friends with benefits.”

“Which is a perfectly fine thing to be. I admit, I’m a little envious.”

“I take it you’re not with anybody now?” said Mallory. Rising from behind the piano, she crossed the room, seating herself on the cushion next to Lacey. Lacey raised an eyebrow, then shot a glance towards Julie, who wore a knowing smile.

Comprehension dawning in Lacey’s eyes, she turned her attention back to Mallory. “Darling,” she said, “I’d be careful if I were you. I might be tempted to think you’re coming on to me.”

Mallory placed a hand on the older woman’s thigh, then caressed it through the fabric of the turquoise skirt. “Be tempted.”

On to Chapter Twenty-Five!

The Story Thus Far

Chapter 1: In which Sarah and Frankie peruse some rather risqué entertainment, then get intimately acquainted with a pair of soiled undies. Who says staying at home on weekends is boring?

Chapter 2: In which Kerry comes home, the Panty Fairy pays a visit, Sarah confides in her sister Judy, Kerry catches a whiff of pussy on Mummy’s fingers, and plans are made to let Kerry watch Sarah and Frankie have sex. Goodness me!

Chapter 3: In which Sarah and Kerry’s pussy-smelling game escalates, Sarah has a quick diddle in the school carpark, and Sarah and Frankie put their unorthodox sex education lesson into motion. Oh, and a traumatised teddy bear called Mr. Ruffles.

Chapter 4: In which smelling becomes tasting, and a visit to the bird sanctuary turns into an afternoon of naughty panty-modeling fun with Sarah, Judy and five-year-old Izzy. Bloody hell, now sister and niece are in on the act!

Chapter 5: In which poor Mr Ruffles suffers more teddy abuse, Sarah and Kerry’s kinky game goes one step further, and Judy pops round for coffee with little Izzy. A shared lollipop leads to more sharing. Appalling!

Chapter 6: In which Frankie and Sarah tiptoe into Kerry’s bedroom while she’s asleep, and an innocent picnic for the children turns into an afternoon of amateur taboo photography. Snap snap snap!

Chapter 7: In which Kerry’s teacher asks awkward questions, Sarah and Kerry finger each other in the car, and Kerry picks on Frankie while Sarah watches. Why, I’m all aquiver!

Chapter 8: In which Frankie and Sarah show Kerry the delights of lesbian sex again, this time the hardcore version, and Judy and Sarah hatch a plan to swap daughters for the night. Oh boy, it’s gonna get messy!

by BlueJean

1

If you tell yourself the same lie enough times, you can almost convince yourself it’s true. I’d gotten very good at lying to myself. It’s probably a defense mechanism or something.

Case in point: I was about to pimp my eight-year-old daughter off to my sister for the night. It was wrong, it was disgusting, and I was a serious contender for Worst Mother on Planet Earth.

Solution: Pretend it’s just a fun sleepover with Aunt Judy. Because it is. Kind of. There’ll be all the usual sleepover stuff – movies, chocolate, fizzy pop. And later on, when Marco gets relegated to the spare room and Kerry and Judy retire to my sister’s bed… Well, what you can’t see can’t hurt you, right?

And why was I agreeing to this madness in the first place? Because Frankie and I were getting my five-year-old niece in exchange. We had little Izzy to ourselves for the whole night, and unlike me, my sister had very few reservations when it came to swapping daughters. In fact, I’d come to realise that Judy seriously got off on sharing her little girl. She’d asked for pics, for Christ’s sake. My dear sister wanted to see all the lewd, unspeakable things we were going to do to Izzy. Didn’t bother her a bit.

2

During the short car journey to Judy’s, Kerry sat in the passenger seat demolishing a large bag of Maltesers. She didn’t seem the slightest bit concerned about what might be in store for her that evening.

I reached across and helped myself to a sweet. “Alright?”

Kerry blinked her eyes at me. “Huh?”

“I said, are you alright?”

“Yeah. Why?”

I gave a quick shrug. “No reason. No reason at all. What’re you gonna get up to with Aunt Judy on your sleepover tonight?”

“Dunno,” Kerry said, but I noted a sly little smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Maybe Aunt Judy will put on a movie or something.”

“Yeah. Maybe. Will you and Frankie watch a movie with Izzy?”

“Uh… Yes, I expect so. Definitely.” We travelled in silence for a while until I spoke again. “Listen, if you’re not happy with anything Aunt Judy is asking you to do, you don’t have to do it, you know?”

“Like what?”

“Well… like… if she offers you a muffin but you’re not in the mood for one, it’s okay to tell her you don’t want to eat her muffin. She’ll understand. Okay?”

Kerry gave me a side glance. “Why are you saying weird stuff?”

I pulled into Judy and Marco’s driveway. “It doesn’t matter. Forget I said anything.”

Judy will respect Kerry’s boundaries. She’s a pervert, sure, but she still loves her niece. She’s not going to force herself on your little girl, for Christ’s sake. Stop worrying.

I could have called it off, of course. It would’ve been the sensible thing to do. The sane thing to do. But then again, Frankie was waiting for me to return with our little guest. The daft cow was most likely pacing the lounge, chewing her fingernails in anticipation. I couldn’t let Frankie down. It was all for her benefit, really.

See how easy it is to lie to yourself?

“Mum!”

I nearly jumped out of my skin. “Bloody hell! Don’t scare me like that!”

Kerry was looking at me like I’d gone completely mental. “Omigod, I said your name three times! You just kept staring out the window! We’re at Aunt Judy’s already. We’ve been here for, like, five minutes. I dunno, maybe we should knock on the door or something?”

“Alright, sassy pants, keep your hair on. Don’t forget your overnight bag.”

Clambering into the back seat, Kerry took up her bag, exited the car and set off for the front door, giving me a baffled look over her shoulder. I poked my tongue out at her.

3

Marco answered the door with the untroubled comportment of a golden retriever. “Hey, look who it is,” he said, then ushered us into the lounge where Judy sat on the couch with Izzy nestled in her lap. My sister had let her hair loose. She seemed flushed; restless. The look she gave me was the same one I’d grown up with – the twinkling eyes, the merest hint of a smile threatening one corner of her mouth. I’m going to do something wicked, it said. I just can’t help myself.

“I hear you’ve been banished to the guest room tonight, Marco,” I said with a breezy smile, trying to project an air of normality.

“Oh, you don’t need to feel sorry for him,” Judy told me. “My snoring usually drives him in there anyway.”

Marco offered a good-natured shrug. I think my sister’s husband must be the most unruffled man on the planet. Funny, I thought Italians were supposed to be all fiery and emotional.

“Pfff, I know how it goes with you girls,” he crooned. “The cheesecake, the toenail painting, the Nightlight movie with the moody girl and the vampire boy.”

“Um… do you mean Twilight?” I ventured.

“Yeah, that one. So bad. And they just kept making more! Sheesh.”

Judy playfully shooed her hubby away with the wave of a hand. “Off you go, then. Kerry and I might let you back in later to watch a movie with us.”

Once Marco had sauntered off to whatever passed for his version of a man-cave (I imagine Michael Bublé albums, leisure-wear catalogues, a signed hardback copy of Eamon Holmes’ autobiography… then my mind shuts down to protect itself), Judy trailed a less than motherly kiss down the nape of Izzy’s neck before slipping the cutie off her knee. “Be good for Aunty Sarah and Aunt Frankie.”

“Did you pack my bag, Mummy?” Izzy asked.

“You’re only going for one night, silly. Take your toothbrush, though. And some toys, if you like.”

“I’ll take Twister to play with Frankie!”

I scooped up my niece, brushing my nose against hers. “We’re going to have lots of fun,” I told her. “Aunt Frankie was so excited about you coming to visit she nearly peed herself!”

Izzy found that hysterical. Judy sidled up to me, wrapping her arms around Kerry’s shoulders. “Remember – lots of pictures, okay?” she murmured. Her breath was warm against my ear. “Real dirty ones, too. I mean it.”

“God, you’re awful,” I told her. “I can’t believe I’m related to you.”

We drifted together in a lewd kiss, which Izzy found highly amusing, and Kerry, mildly intriguing. “Don’t break my daughter, please,” I said when our tongues had parted.

Five minutes later, I was heading back home to Frankie with my yummy niece in the passenger seat.

4

When I slotted the key into the front door and pushed it open, the house was unusually quiet. Normally on a Friday night, it would be a hive of activity, especially since Kerry started spending the weekends at home again. I’d expected to hear music playing, at least.

“Oh, Fran-keee!” I cooed, a hand cupped to my mouth. “Where are you?”

Izzy beamed up at me in delight, then put a hand to her mouth in mimicry. “Fraaan-keeee! Where aaaare yooooo?”

“Let’s go find that naughty Frankie,” I said, and Izzy raced ahead to begin the search.

Of course, it wasn’t long before we found her, stretched out on our bed, phone in hand. As we entered the bedroom, she discreetly withdrew the other hand from inside her unbuttoned jeans, face betraying the familiar flush of intense arousal.

Izzy registered none of this, just climbed on top of Frankie with a giggle. Frankie cupped my niece’s pert bottom through her skirt, nuzzling her neck. “Why, hello, Izzy Wizzy,” she cooed.

Perching on the end of the bed, I plucked Frankie’s phone from her grasp, giving her a wry look when it became apparent what she’d been watching. Kiddie porn. Pictures of little girls with their panties stretched round their knees.

“Izzy, go and have a look through our DVD collection and pick something for us to watch,” I told my niece. “We’ll come join you in a minute.” Izzy ran off in the direction of the lounge.

“Oi, I was about to come!” Frankie protested, reaching out for her phone.

“Yes, I’d noticed. But you’re not allowed to yet.”

Frankie looked shocked at the very suggestion. “I – I’m not?”

I shook my head slowly. “Seeing as you edged me for a near-eternity with the strap-on last week, you get the same treatment tonight. Except this time, Izzy’s the strap-on.”

“I want her so bad, Sarah. I’m fucking soaked just thinking about it.”

“I know. But we’re going to take our time with my sexy little niece. We have all night. Let’s make the most of it.”

5

Izzy picked My Neighbour Totoro to watch. She sat between me and Frankie on the couch, a big bucket of popcorn in her lap. Frankie alternated between helping herself to handfuls of the buttery snack and stroking Izzy’s thighs underneath her skirt, straddling the line between innocent affection and something of a more sexual nature. Every now and then she and I would drift together over Izzy’s head to share a deep lust-fuelled kiss. Izzy either didn’t notice or was too engrossed in the movie to care.

When the movie was done, and little Mei had found her way back to her older sister with some help from Totoro and the Catbus, Izzy turned to Frankie with a very serious expression.

“Frankie, I bringed Twister. Would you like to play it with me?”

“Fuck yes!” Frankie blurted, and I slapped her on the arm with a breathless laugh.

I ushered a lock of my niece’s dark, lush hair back behind an ear. “What Frankie means to say is: Yes, she’d love to play Twister with you, Izzy.”

Izzy nodded her approval. “Do you want to play it with us, too, Aunty Sarah?”

“Mmm… I’ll just watch you and Frankie have fun, I think. We’ll need a referee to work the spinner anyway.”

It wasn’t long before Izzy had the Twister mat unfolded on the floor, and after a few spins she and Frankie were contorted into increasingly awkward positions. No surprise that Frankie was doing everything she could to peek up my niece’s skirt and press herself up against Izzy at every opportunity.

During one particularly complex manoeuvre, Frankie had to spread each foot on the outer edges of the mat. Izzy was in a crab-like position beneath her, giggling away happily.

“Hey, this isn’t fair!” Frankie groused. “I can’t spread my legs properly in these tight jeans.”

“So take them off,” I suggested.

Frankie peered back at me with a sly smile. “I could do, couldn’t I? That wouldn’t be against the rules, would it, Izzy?”

Izzy gave the matter serious consideration. “No, I think you’re allowed to do that. Does that mean I have to take my skirt off?”

Frankie’s eyes lit up. “Yes. Yes, I think it does. I’m a little hazy on the rules of Twister, but I think that was definitely one of them. Right, Sarah?”

“Uh, yeah, I’m pretty sure if one player removes an item of clothing, the others have to do the same. So everyone’s on an even footing, as it were.”

“Okay,” Izzy conceded, “but we have to remember our places, so we can do them again.”

“Don’t worry, I’m keeping track,” I assured her.

Frankie stepped off the mat and unbuttoned her jeans, pushing them down her legs while she watched Izzy slip out of her skirt. I remembered my sister’s request, and knew this was where the pictures should commence.

“What’re you doing, Aunty Sarah?” Izzy asked when I pulled my phone out and clicked a shot of her and Frankie in their knickers. I sent it to Judy with the caption: Frankie and Izzy prefer to play Twister in their undies!

“Just taking a couple of pics for your mum, sweetie. She wants to see all the fun we’re having.”

Now unhindered, Frankie assumed her position again, legs spread wide over Izzy. Her eyes immediately fixed on the five-year-old’s pink Hello Kitty panties.

   You picked those knickers out specially with us in mind, didn’t you, Judy? I thought. You devious, calculating pervert. I wouldn’t expect anything less of you.

My phone pinged, and a new message popped up.

   DIRTY ones, I said! I can look at pictures like that in the underwear section of a mail order catalogue.

Ooh, feisty. Someone’s not taking any shit tonight. I messaged her back.

   Patience, sister. They’re going to get dirtier. Much dirtier.

   They’d better!

Such a brat. I fired a text back.

   How’s Kerry?

  Oh, she’s just peachy. We’re in the lounge watching Wonder Woman with Marco at the moment. Kerry and I are on the couch with a blanket over us. I have a hand down her panties. Is that okay?

   Yes, it’s okay, as long as Kerry’s fine with it.

   She’s squirming around, and she keeps looking up at me and smiling, so I guess she’s okay with it.

   Good. Just don’t get caught!

   Don’t worry. When the movie’s finished, I’m taking her to bed. Then I’ll send you some pics you’ll NEVER forget!

Did I want to see pictures of Kerry and my sister going at it? Maybe. If nothing else, it was a good way to check up on them, to make sure Judy wasn’t taking things too far. Of course, my idea of what constituted “too far” had become quite blurry of late.

“Um, Sarah?” It was Frankie, still spreadeagled over Izzy.

“Mmm?”

“Can you spin the dial again, please? Much as I enjoy the view, I don’t think I can keep this position much longer.”

“Frankie? Why’s your knickers all wet?” asked Izzy, and it was a perfectly reasonable question.

Looking closer, I could see Frankie’s panties were soaked through, the wet patch on her crotch spreading ever wider. “I told you Frankie pees herself when she gets excited,” I said to my niece with a grin.

Izzy offered Frankie a sympathetic look. “Do you want to go put on clean ones?”

“Nah,” Frankie told the five-year-old. “I’ll only pee the fresh pair, too. Besides, I like wearing messy knickers. Makes me feel all tingly.”

“You’re dirty, Frankie!” Izzy declared with a giggle.

The game of Twister continued.

When Frankie and Izzy ended up in an awkward variation of sixty-nine, Frankie splayed out on the mat while Izzy crouched over her, I knew it was worthy of another pic. Frankie was discreet as she was able when she brought her face to my niece’s knickers and breathed in the scent of little girl.

I attached another message to the photo and clicked send.

   Frankie has a sneaky little sniff. Naughty, isn’t she?

   It’d be naughtier if she pulled those sexy undies to one side and had a little taste.

   Nuh-uh. We’re not quite there yet, my twisted sister.

As the game continued, Frankie ended up in a crab pose with Izzy’s face perilously close to her sodden crotch.

Izzy screwed her face up with a smirk. “You smell funny, Frankie.”

Frankie’s knickers were now more liquid than fabric. She lifted a hand from the mat and stroked herself between the legs, no longer able to exercise restraint.

“You took your hand away, Frankie!” Izzy cried triumphantly. “That’s cheating, so I win!”

“I’m afraid Izzy is correct, Francesca,” I cooed. “It is indeed cheating. That’s not what we agreed on, was it? I said we were going to take things slowly.”

My lover stared at me with pleading eyes. “I wanna come so bad, though.”

“I know, darling, but we’ve got all night. Take your hand away from your cunt now, there’s a good girl.”

Frankie complied with a pout. She brushed her wet fingers across Izzy’s lips before I could tell her no, then got to her feet.

Izzy climbed into my lap and I nuzzled her face, my hands cupping her bottom. Frankie knelt next to us and peppered Izzy’s neck with her own kisses, fingers brushing back and forth along the little girl’s bare arm.

“How about we all go upstairs for a nice bath?” I suggested. “Playing Twister looks like it got you both all hot and sweaty.”

“I already had a shower with Mummy,” Izzy said. ”She washed me all over.”

“That’s okay,” Frankie told her. “I had a shower earlier too, but we’re allowed to have another. And it’s lots more fun to have a bath together. We get to wash each other!”

Izzy seemed to be mulling it over. She looked from me to Frankie, eyes narrowed into lines of mock suspicion, the hint of a smirk creating dimples at the corners of her mouth. She was a smart kid, and was no doubt coming round to the idea that some ladies wanted things from little girls that weren’t entirely innocent. We’d already shown her some of the sexy games big girls liked to play, and I knew Judy had been having her own fun with her five-year-old when Daddy wasn’t around.

I rubbed my niece’s belly through her My Little Pony t-shirt, giving her a winning smile. “What do you think, Izzy? Does a bath with your two favourite aunties sound nice? Hmm?”

Mind made up – or played like a fiddle, if you’re of a cynical nature – Izzy bobbed her head up and down. Frankie and I shared a look, as if convincing a five-year-old to get naked in the tub for our pleasure somehow made us especially clever instead of devious and manipulative.

6

Up in the bathroom, we had Izzy right where we wanted her, naked in the tub while Frankie and me, now reduced to our knickers, sat on the rim and gleefully soaped her up, running our hands all over her babyish body. Now we had a perfect excuse to touch her, and we were going to exploit the opportunity for all it was worth.

I snapped another pic for Judy, then attached a message.

   Bath time! What could be more innocent?

   Make sure you give my little girl special attention between her legs…

Frankie didn’t need telling, though. Her soapy fingers were already engaged between Izzy’s thighs, gliding through the little girl’s delectable vagina.

I had Izzy stand up in the bath, on the premise that we needed to get her soaped up one last time before rinsing. Of course, it was really just an excuse for another picture and text.

   Frankie just can’t help herself!

   Tell Frankie to put a finger in her pussy. Trust me, it’ll go right in.

Yeah, I bet it will, I thought. I’d no doubt my sister had been a busy little bee these past few weeks.

“Finger fuck her,” I whispered in Frankie’s ear, not wanting to give the game away too soon. “Judy says you can. But just one finger, okay?”

I was quick to take another shot of Frankie sliding a finger in and out of my five-year-old niece’s tight little hole.

   Is this what you mean, Judy? We don’t know much about that kind of thing, so I hope we did it right.

   That’s more like it. Stick a finger in her bum, too. Taking Kerry to bed now. Have fun with my baby girl.

“Why you doin’ that, Frankie?” Izzy asked as she watched my girlfriend finger her, but judging from the little smile she wore, I think she had some inkling what we were up to.

On Judy’s advice, I cupped my niece’s pert little bottom, then slipped a soapy finger into her arse.

“We’re just washing you properly,” I told my niece. “Getting to all those nooks and crannies so you’ll be as clean as a whistle.”

Frankie let a hand wander down to give herself a quick stroke through her soaked knickers. “I think it’s about time we got these panties off and joined Izzy, don’t you?” she said to me.

I gave her a nod, and we both slipped our knickers down our legs and away. We leaned in for a nasty tongue kiss, the kind of kiss that speaks more of pure lust than affection.

There wasn’t exactly ample space for three in the tub (two and a half, really), but we managed. I sat behind Izzy, her bottom pressed snugly against my mons, while Frankie perched on the corner, her feet in the water. She soaped her tits up, then guided Izzy’s hands to them.

“Wash my boobs, Izzy.”

Izzy let her hands glide over the swell of Frankie’s breasts.

“A little harder. You won’t break me.”

I sent another pic; another caption.

   What part of Frankie should we have Izzy wash next, I wonder…?

No reply from Judy this time. A picture instead. My sister’s hand pulling down Kerry’s pyjama bottoms and knickers, my daughter spreading her bum cheeks open to expose her arsehole.

I felt a surge of lust ripple through me, and nearly dropped my phone into the water, managing to juggle it back into my hand at the last second. Kneeling in the bath behind Izzy, I found myself rubbing my pussy against her bare, soapy back. “It’s time to wash Frankie between her legs now, Izzy,” I said. “Just like she did to you.”

Frankie’s eyes glazed over for a moment, and she quickly lathered up her pussy. When she was done, she spread her legs wide, one foot on the side of the bath. Izzy could only stare in wonder. Frankie took one of the little girl’s hands and brought it to the epicenter of her throbbing sex.

“Come on, Izzy Wizzy. Give my cunt a real good wash.”

Izzy moved her fingers around clumsily. She smiled up at Frankie. “Like this?”

“Yeah, that’s it. Put one of your fingers inside. Let me help you find the opening. Right… there. Oooh, f-fuck, that’s nice… Push it in, cutie. Mmmm, just like that. Now put two fingers in. Clever girl! Move them in and out. A little f-faster… Fuck yes!”

I managed to snap another pic while I ground my pussy on Izzy, a shot of my niece’s fingers jammed inside Frankie’s cunt. I clicked send, and soon received another dirty photo from Judy. She and Kerry were now completely naked. My sister was leaning back against the headboard, Kerry sitting spreadeagled between her open thighs. Judy’s hand was preserving my daughter’s modesty, though I seriously doubted that was her intention.

When I turned my attention back to Frankie, I could see she’d persuaded Izzy to penetrate her with another finger. And another. A little thumb soon slipped in alongside the other fingers, then Izzy’s hand was buried inside my girlfriend’s cunt.

“Look, Aunty Sarah!” the five-year-old cried.

“Wow, you’re so clever, Izzy!” I told her. “You got your whole hand in there!” I think it’s important to encourage children when they do a good job.

Frankie looked down at my soapy niece with an almost predatory gleam in her eyes. Taking hold of Izzy’s wrist, she began fucking herself. “Omigod… always wanted to be fisted by a little girl. Fuck, I’m g-gonna come so hard…”

I had to capture this for Judy, but decided to send her a thirty second video clip instead of a pic. I knew my sister would get off in a big way when she heard the wet sounds Izzy’s fist was making as it pounded into Frankie, not to mention the way my girlfriend was talking dirty to her five-year-old.

“Fuck me, Izzy! Fist-fuck Aunt Frankie’s cunt! Oh, shit… gonna come all over that sweet little hand.”

“Um, are we still washing?” Izzy asked.

“Yeah,” I told the five-year-old as I slipped a hand into the water to fondle her slit. “We’re still washing.”

Frankie clamped a hand around Izzy’s wrist and held her fast while she rode out what looked like a real wall-shaker of a climax. “F-fucking hell… Fuck-ing hell!”

A message from Judy popped up on my screen.

   What’s my daughter’s hand doing inside your girlfriend’s vagina? Filthy! That settles it – I’m going to lick Kerry’s pussy now. It’s only fair.

I felt a brief pang of jealousy. It should’ve been me going down on Kerry, me showing her all the ways girls and women can make love.

You had plenty of chances, I admonished myself. But you were too busy setting those silly imaginary boundaries. I mean, did you really think rubbing your pussy on Kerry’s face was okay just because you kept your knickers on? That fingering her in the car was just harmless foreplay?

I thrust my envious stirrings aside as I dipped Izzy’s hand in the water to wash away Frankie’s mess, then set about lifting her out of the bath to dry her off.

Judging by the wild gleam in her eyes, Frankie wasn’t quite done for the night. And me? Well, I found myself wondering if it was possible to bring a five-year-old to orgasm.

We led the naked little girl into our bedroom.

7

While Izzy and I nuzzled one another on the bed, my niece straddling me like little Mei had straddled Totoro, Frankie dug around in the bottom of the wardrobe for something or other. We hadn’t bothered getting dressed, of course, so I had no idea what she was up to.

“What’re you doing?” I finally asked her.

“Just a minute. Ah, here we are.” She pulled out her black leather thigh boots and climbed into them, zipping them up at the back.

“And… you’re wearing those to bed?” I ventured.

Frankie ignored me. She climbed on the bed, sat back against the headboard, and spread her leather-clad legs just about as wide as they’d go. Her pussy glistened with moisture. “Izzy?”

Izzy stared openly as Frankie brazenly displayed herself. “Hmm?”

“Do you remember that day a while back when Mummy showed you how to lick my pussy?”

Izzy nodded. “It tasted nice, ‘cause you made my lolly go inside.”

“Will you do it to me again? You did an amazing job last time.”

My niece peered back at me with a shy smile. I gave her a nod of encouragement. “Go on, poppet. You’ll make Frankie really happy.” Acting on impulse, I gave her an added incentive. “Tell you what – if you lick Frankie’s, I’ll lick yours at the same time. How’s that?”

Izzy’s smile widened. “Okay, Aunty Sarah. But you have to do it for longer, ’cause last time you stopped too quick.”

That was music to my ears. The last time I’d gone down on my niece was the day my sister popped round. We’d taken Izzy upstairs, and Judy had encouraged me and Frankie to touch and lick her little girl while she watched and masturbated, finally giving in to the temptation of tasting Izzy herself. I’d been aching for another taste of that sweet little pussy ever since.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep licking you as long as you do the same to Frankie,” I assured the child, and that was all it took to convince her.

She crawled between two pillars of black leather and put her mouth on Frankie’s hot, throbbing sex as if it was the most natural thing in the world. Frankie’s eyes nearly rolled in their sockets. Cradling Izzy’s head, she began to gently roll her hips. “Yeah, fuckin’ lick me, little girl!”

I was so enraptured by the filthy scene taking place before me that I nearly forgot my own task, at least until Izzy looked back at me with a cute pout, her mouth already coated with Frankie’s juices. “Come on, Aunty Sarah. You’re s’posed to lick me, too.”

I didn’t need telling twice. With my niece’s bottom jutting up in the air, I spread her cheeks apart and got to it, lashing my tongue through those exquisite lips.

I could hear Frankie muttering obscenities. “Fuck, yeah, that’s so good. You like my pussy cream d-dribbling into your mouth, Izzy Wizzy? Mmm? What a good girl, eating Aunt Frankie’s cunt like that. Ohhhh!”

Briefly withdrawing my tongue from Izzy’s smooth slit, I quickly scrambled for my phone to take a nice shot of my niece pleasuring Frankie. My girlfriend’s cunt was oozing rich, creamy nectar, soaking into the sheets below.. I clicked SEND, then got back to work on Izzy before she had cause to complain.

I spread the child’s cheeks even wider to get at her arsehole, bathing the wrinkled treat with my tongue.

Izzy peered back at me. “You have to lick both at the same time, Aunty Sarah. The way Mummy does. Like you’re eating an ice cream.”

Well, you have been busy, big sister, I thought. I followed Izzy’s instructions to the letter, drawing my tongue all the way from her pussy to her arse and then back down again. I paused long enough to take a deep breath, taking in the scent of little girl – subtle but oh, so intoxicating.

I peered across the child’s bare back to watch Frankie thrust her hips up and down, grinding her cunt into Izzy’s face. “Keep tongue-fucking her, Sarah,” she told me. “See how she likes to eat pussy? Look at that pretty mouth, just dripping with cunt. I bet Mummy would love to give her a nice kiss right now.”

My phone pinged. It was my sister sending another pic. Judy and Kerry were tribbing while they sat opposite one another. There was an accompanying message.

   Omigod, I LOVE the kinky boots. I am so borrowing those. Frankie better come in Izzy’s face. I need to see that!

I didn’t bother replying. Too busy feasting on my niece.

Frankie suddenly got up onto her knees. “Turn her over, Sarah. I wanna try doing her a different way.”

“Lay down, poppet,” I told the youngster, gently easing her back onto the bed. “Frankie’s got something special planned for you.”

Frankie squatted over the little girl reverse-style, splaying herself open with her fingers. She sunk down and began rubbing her cunt in Izzy’s face, hips rocking back and forth. Getting the idea right away, Izzy poked her tongue out, letting Frankie do most of the work.

“Lick her pussy some more, Sarah,” Frankie panted. “I’m gonna come on her face.”

“Go easy on her, Frankie,” I cautioned. “Slow and gentle, okay? She’s not one of your dildos.”

“H-hey, I can be a nice girl. Just wanna rub my c-clit on her nose; feel that little tongue go inside me. Fuuuck…”

After snapping a few more shots of Frankie riding Izzy’s mouth, it was time to see if I could make my young niece come. I worked a finger into her tight pussy while flicking her clit with lightning-fast swipes of the tongue.

After several minutes of intense exertion, Frankie put her arms behind her head and let her climax come freely, hips twitching as she oozed warm, creamy ambrosia over Izzy’s tongue and mouth, leather boots creaking with the effort of it. “Yes!” she squealed. “Yes! Yes! Yes! Fuck yes!” She fell back against the headboard with a satisfied groan and began idly spreading her copious juices around her pussy and inner thighs while she watched me lick my niece.

“Rub my belly, too, Aunty Sarah,” Izzy murmured, so I did, nursing on her tiny clit at the same time. She began squirming beneath me, her mouth still wet from Frankie’s spend. When she began making little mewing noises, her hands clutching at my hair, I knew I’d brought my niece to some approximation of an orgasm.

“Oooh!” Frankie cooed. “Izzy did a big girl come!”

I blew on my niece’s belly, drawing a giggle from her, then peppered kisses up her body. “Was that good?” I asked when my lips had reached her mouth.

Izzy bobbed her head up and down.

“I think it’s Aunty Sarah’s turn now. Will you give me a nice lick, too?”

Izzy’s eyes gleamed with mischief. She gave me an impish smile, then shook her head.

I gave her a pout. “Awww, no fair! Just a little lick? A teensy weensy one?” I pinched two fingers together to emphasise the point. “Then you can tell Mummy what a big girl you were, making both aunties feel good!”

“Only if you give me all the lollies in the lolly jar.”

I opened my mouth in pretend outrage. “All the lollies?! Uh-uh. How about two lollies?”

“Three lollies!”

“Take the deal, Sarah,” Frankie advised. “We can rebuild.”

Christ, I needed to come so bad. “Very well, Isobel Sophia Benedetti,” I agreed. “Three lollipops it is.” I gently coaxed Izzy from the bed until she stood beneath me, then pressed her face to my pussy. “Lick it, sweetie,” I implored, rolling my hips back and forth. “Be a good girl and lick Aunty Sarah’s slutty pussy.”

I was rewarded with a little tongue flicking across my clit. I cradled Izzy’s head and ground myself into her.

Frankie was watching us intently from the bed. She’d gotten hold of Izzy’s panties and was now stuffing them into her cunt while she attacked her clit. “You dirty bitch, Sarah.”

“T-takes one to know one,” I muttered, then quickly came on Izzy’s face. “Oh! Oh, God…”

When I’d released her, Izzy wiped her mouth with the back of a hand before slumping onto the bed with a yawn.

Having spent a few moments to recover, I snatched up my phone and took one final pic of a sleepy, very messy niece, then sent it to Judy.

“Okay, sweetheart?” I asked the child soothingly, stroking her hair.

“Mmm, I like that game,” Izzy said with a smile. “Is it bedtime, Aunty Sarah? I’m sleepy.”

“If you like,” I told her. Another message came through from my sister. “Wait just a second, and I’ll tuck you in.”

   My God, what did you do to my baby girl? I am SO turned on right now. I’m going to ask Kerry to eat my pussy so I can come.

   I hope the pics were dirty enough for you, big sister. We should probably get Izzy cleaned up now.

The next text arrived quickly.

   No, don’t. Do something for me first.

   Yes?

   Clean Izzy up with her panties and put them back on her. I want to smell you and Frankie on my little girl tomorrow when I pick her up. Okay?

I was about to message her back to tell her how depraved she was, then realised I didn’t have much standing to make that argument. I settled for something simpler.

   Whatever works for you. We’re all very tired now. Nighty-night. Kisses.

Izzy was adamant in flat-out refusing to put her Hello Kitty panties back on after they’d soaked up Frankie’s mess, and I couldn’t blame her. We hung them on the end of the bed to dry and told her she could wear them tomorrow. She seemed satisfied with that.

We slept naked that night, Izzy cozily wedged between me and Frankie. At some point, I woke to the sight of Frankie kneeling on the floor, gently lapping at my niece’s puffy slit while the child dozed on.

“Do you plan on doing that all night?” I asked my lover.

She came up for air long enough to tell me, “Yeah, I think so. Maybe just another hour or two.”

I shook my head in wonder. “Well, bon appetit,” I told her, then drifted back to sleep.

On to Chapter Ten!

For a brief description of what takes place in each of the previous chapters, visit this page.

For a list of the characters from the story you are now reading, visit this page. 

For a list of the characters from the previous two stories that you will encounter here as well, visit this page.

And now, dear readers, we make our way into the next installment. Read on…

by Rachael Yukey

I’ll kill the beast so to free my soul
And smash the mirrors that won’t let me go 
W.A.S.P. 1995

“Pregnant, huh?” Paulette Reid shoveled her last bite of Eggs Benedict into her mouth, seemingly unfazed by her granddaughter’s news. Mallory only nodded.

Patting her mouth with a napkin, Paulette looked to Julie. “How’d you pull that one off?” The two younger women shared a glance, then cracked up. Mal’s grandma had lost none of her dry, cutting wit.

Julie knew it was a mistake to try keeping up with Paulette, but took a stab anyway. “It’s this service out in Colorado, Grandma. Rent-a-Stud. You call them up and—”

“For an extra five bucks do you get to watch?”

Dissolving into laughter again, Julie rubbed her eyes. Paulette could run rings around her; always had been able to.

Grinning, Mallory laid a hand on her partner’s arm. “I don’t know if we’ve ever really talked about it, Grandma, but see, I’m bisexual. I sometimes—you know—”

“Get yourself a little pickle tickle?” Paulette murmured, gazing over the rim of her coffee mug as she took a sip.

Julie and Mallory cracked up again. “Something like that,” said Mallory, talking around her laughter. “And yeah, Julie knows. I don’t do it very often, and never without talking to her.”

Paulette raised an eyebrow. “Do you talk to her before, or during?” As the younger women erupted in mirth yet again, Paulette finally allowed a smile to touch the corners of her lips. “Y’know, someone once asked me if I talked to your grandpa during sex. I told ‘em I did, if there was a phone handy.”

More laughter. Finally Mallory sobered. “The guy lives up in Bronning; he’s a friend of Nettie’s. We haven’t figured out how we’re going to work everything out yet, but I’m having the baby.”

Paulette nodded. “And I get to be a great-grandma. I was starting to wonder if that was gonna happen.”

“I always assumed one of my cousins was going to take care of that for you,” said Mallory with a grin.

“You mean Michael, by any chance?” Paulette shook her head. “The way that boy jumps from one to the next, he’s either really careful or really lucky.” She cocked her head. “If I know my Mallory-girl, you’re careful. So… not that lucky, I guess?”

Mallory chuckled. “That depends on how you look at it, right? If you’d asked me right after I found out, I’d agree with you, but at this point I’m feeling pretty damn lucky.”

Paulette positively beamed. “Then I’m happy for you, sweetheart.” She rubbed her chin, the smile fading from her lips. “Tell your mom yet?”

“Not yet. And speaking of that…” Mallory broke off, pursing her lips and looking down at her plate. “I’m not sure how to ask you this.”

“Opening your mouth and letting the words roll out usually works, dear. But I think I might just have an inkling what it is you want to talk about.”

Lifting her head to meet her grandmother’s gaze, Mallory blew out her breath, a relieved look on her face. “I should’ve known. Julie said you’d already be aware.”

Paulette gazed down at her coffee cup. “Oh, I’m aware. I was hoping she might be different with you. Guess not, huh?”

“So—she’s been all distant and icy with everyone?”

“Fraid so. We live maybe forty minutes apart, and she never visits anymore. I see her when I’m in Alex, or try to. But I never feel like she’s happy to see me, and all I get from her is the duty phone call every few weeks.”

“That’s damn peculiar,” Julie put in.

“Oh, not so much,” said Paulette. “Sharon was always mood-swingy. We maybe should’ve taken her to a shrink and seen about a diagnosis when she was a kid, but it wasn’t something people thought about all that much in those days. Mallory-girl, has it occurred to you that she’s just plain depressed?”

Mallory shrugged. “She was when I was little, sure. But going her own way and getting a career and all that seemed to fix it—”

“Bull caca,” said Paulette, her tone soft but firm. “You’re really gonna tell me that it was all roses and whipped topping when you were in high school?”

Mallory’s face turned thoughtful. Her eyes flicked to the ceiling. “I guess not. It was better, but—there were episodes, sure. Mom always took even small setbacks really hard. She put a hole in the drywall of her apartment with a frying pan when Shirley Foster broke up with her, then she was really down for a couple of weeks—”

“A couple of months, more like,” Paulette broke in.

Mallory rocked back in her chair. “Was I really that oblivious?”

“No, honey, you weren’t,” Paulette rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Your mom didn’t want you to see, is all. Maybe I should have clued you in on this long ago, but the number of times she was at my place, crying about this or that, or sometimes just crying—it was a lot. She was hiding the hurt from you, because she felt like she’d already messed up pretty bad when you were little. I tried talking her into getting into therapy, but she never would listen. I guess maybe if I’d told you about it, we could’ve ganged up on her and done one of those intervention thingies. I’m more to blame than you.”

“It never lasted this long, though,” Mallory protested. “Mom would be down, then things would seem normal—at least to me—then something good would happen and she’d be on Cloud Nine for awhile. But this has been going on for over three years, Grandma.”

“Ever since she split with Katerina, yup.”

Julie and Mallory shared a wide-eyed glance. “Whoa,” said Julie. “You mean Katerina Jorgenson? The Katerina she went to tech school with?”

“Yup,” said Paulette, “that Katerina.”

Mallory fixed her gaze on her grandmother’s placid face. “She never told me she was dating Katerina.”

“Didn’t she? That’s interesting. It was right after Katerina broke it off with that girl Tracy. There was a thing with your mom for—I dunno—maybe six months. Then they split, and I’m pretty sure Katerina is the one who pulled the plug.”

“I’ll be damned,” said Mallory. “She never breathed a word to me.”

“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” said Paulette, in the same measured tone she’d maintained throughout the conversation. “Your mom’s got a problem already—big highs, deep lows. There’s a word—”

“Manic-depressive,” Julie supplied. “Maybe bipolar. Jesus.”

“Yeah, that. Anyhow—she’s damn near fifty, getting close to her cycles ending, or maybe it’s already happened. Still single. Wouldn’t surprise me if the mood-swingy thing has something to do with that. Plus, she’s got a steady job, but hasn’t had much luck climbing the ladder. Most of her old school friends are supervisors or engineers, and she’s still just tech staff. I reckon she’s been feeling pretty down on herself these past few years. She won’t talk about it—and believe me, I’ve tried.”

“So—” Mallory hesitated, collecting her thoughts. “You’re thinking it’s a midlife crisis, on top of untreated clinical depression.”

“Pretty much that, yep.”

Julie rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “Didn’t you say she used to come talk to you when she was in a down phase, back when Mal still lived at home?”

“Cry on my shoulder more than talk, but yeah.”

“And now she’s keeping you at arms length,” Julie persisted. “Is there maybe someone else she’s going to?”

Paulette shook her head. “I doubt it. I’m thinking that after Katerina, your mother decided she’ll get hurt less if she just keeps everyone away.”

Julie was shaking her head. “That’s exactly the kind of thing that leads to some very not-good shit. Maybe we should be thinking about some kind of intervention.”

“First of all,” said Paulette, leaning forward and lacing her hands together on the table, “without an official diagnosis, we’re just guessing here. Second, if someone does decide to step in, neither one of you ought to be anywhere near when it happens.”

“But–but why not?” Mallory protested. “I’m her daughter, for Christ’s sake!”

Paulette’s expression didn’t change, but she held her hands up in a placating gesture. “Easy, pumpkin. And listen. We mostly kept it hid from you, but I’ve been dealing with this for a long damn time. If I’m right about what’s going on here—and I think I am—you’re gonna be salt in the wound for her. You’re everything your mom wanted to be at your age, and everything she regrets not becoming. Top of your working game, solid relationship—”

Mallory’s face set. “You do know how that sounds, don’t you?”

“Oh, I know it. You’re supposed to be happy if your kids do better than you—means you did something right, for one thing. And most likely she’d feel that way, if her head was on straight. But it’s not. She’s sick, sweetie. I’ve known that for a long time. I just never did know what to do about it.”

“If you’re telling me I should just sit on this and do nothing,” said Mallory, “I’m not sure I can.”

“I don’t think that’s what’s being said, exactly,” said Julie, “but we’ve been down this road before, Mal. Remember Janey Smith, from college? The one everyone called Iowa? We all tried to be there for her, and nothing changed until her boyfriend left and took the kid with him. A person has to want help. Maybe all we can do right now is be a little more regular about staying in touch with her, and be ready to help if we see a window.”

“Go tell her about your impending little stranger,” said Paulette. “You’re about to make her a grandma; that’s a big deal right there. Maybe it’ll give her something to fight for.”

***

Four shots rang out in rapid succession, reduced to dull thuds by large earmuffs adorning the heads of the two women, sole occupants of the downtown Minneapolis indoor firing range this sunny Saturday afternoon. Realizing her hand was drifting, Nettie paused, readjusted, and let off five more rounds, emptying the last of the Glock’s fifteen-round clip.

Lowering the weapon, she turned to face Bridgett, stifling a grin. The muffs, Nettie decided, made the DEA agent look like an anime Princess Leia. Tugging the earmuffs from her head with one hand, Bridgett used the other to press the button activating the carrier system that transported the cardboard human head and torso from downfield to the firing line.

As the target traversed the thirty yard distance, Nettie thumbed the safety, extracted the clip, and visually verified there wasn’t a round in the chamber. Only then did she put the pistol on the shelf to her right. Bridgett, who had spent half an hour drilling her on this procedure, nodded her approval.

Nettie doffed her muffs, then joined Bridgett in her examination of the target. The DEA agent folded her arms, eyeballing the faux bad guy critically. Nettie counted her holes, then made a face.

“Sucks, doesn’t it?” she lamented sourly.

Pursing her lips, Bridgett shook her head. “Six hits in the torso kill zone. One in the head—I know that’s not where you were aiming, but it still counts. Two more that hit somewhere on the target. Out of fifteen rounds, that’s not bad at all for thirty yards. I’d have done better, but I’ve been doing this for a minute or two.”

Nettie shrugged. “Thirty yards doesn’t seem like a lot.”

“It is with a handgun. We qualify at twenty-five.”

“That doesn’t sound like anywhere near enough.”

Bridgett shook her head. “Stop thinking in terms of rifles and deer hunting. Most of the time, if we have to use our guns, longer ranges are out of the question. Too much risk of hitting bystanders. If you have to engage, it’ll be closer than you think. The big trick is just to anticipate the need, and have the weapon out before you have to use it.”

“I’ll have to practice my quick draw,” said Nettie with a grin.

Bridgett let out a single laugh. “Don’t let old westerns get into your head. A quick draw looks cool, but if you’re bringing the weapon up that fast and letting off a round, it means you’re not aiming. Anyway, you’ll be using a shoulder holster, so the weapon isn’t visible.” Loosening the single button, she opened her black blazer to reveal the handgun holstered on her left side.

“No quick draws with these,” she went on. “But so what? This way nobody even knows it’s there until you pull it, and once it’s out and level, you can do all the shooting you want.”

“Bridgett—” Nettie let out a heavy sigh. “Is all this really necessary?”

The agent fixed her with an incredulous stare. “You’re going to be questioning the family of a serial murderer regarding a recently committed crime with an unknown perp who’s still at large. You’re goddamn right it’s necessary.”

“So—you actually want me to take one of these when I go to Iowa to interview Melissa Brentshaw? It’s not even legal. I’m not an agent, and I don’t have a permit to carry.”

Bridgett looked down at her feet, lips pursed. Then she pivoted on her heel, pulling open the zipper of a large faux snakeskin tote bag on the metal shelf next to the Glock. “Yes, you do.” Dipping her hand into the bag, she came up with a shiny black portfolio folder, from which she extracted a piece of stiff paper embossed with an elegant border and calligraphy print.

“Here’s your completion certificate for the firearms safety course my friend Alfred Tator taught last month. If asked, he’ll say you were a model student.” Nettie took it wordlessly, her mouth hanging open.

Bridgett pulled out a pair of wallet-sized laminated cards. “Permits for concealed carry. One for Minnesota, another for Iowa. If you need to add more states, give me a shout.”

“But—”

“Your permit applications are on file with the appropriate agencies. All suitably backdated, of course.”

“How the hell—?”

“Let’s just say I know people. We can further stipulate that some of them owe me favors.” Bridgett rummaged around in the bag again, coming up this time with a black leather shoulder holster with cloth straps. She held it up by the shoulder straps for closer inspection.

“Gun on the left, two clips on the right,” she said. “If the weapon already has a clip in it that gives you forty-five rounds, and if you need more than that, you’ve got bigger problems than an ammo shortage.” Nettie took it from her, looking dazed.

Bridgett plunged her hands into the bag once more, coming up with two clips in her right, one in her left. She placed them on the metal shelf next to the pistol.

“Those are all full,” she went on, dipping into the bag one final time, coming up with two boxes of nine millimeter ammunition. “And this will give you enough to refill the clip you just emptied, with a shitload left over. You have a total of four clips. And finally—” she picked up the Glock, handing it to Nettie butt-first.

“Merry very early Christmas. This is a Glock 19, and I just picked it up brand-new yesterday. Compact, easy to handle, takes ammunition that’s readily available, and you’re already doing pretty well with it. I’ll email you some links; there are great YouTube videos on the care and feeding of these things. Also some places to shop that sell clothing designed to conceal this stuff without leaving a bulge. Get yourself a couple of blazers.”

“I—I don’t know what to say.”

“Don’t say anything. This is at least fifty percent about helping me sleep a little better, knowing you’re out there pursuing this case. Just promise me you’ll practice, that you’ll carry it, and that you won’t pull the trigger unless you’re absolutely sure of your target. Can you do that, Agent Hastings?”

Nettie met Bridgett’s eyes. “Yeah. I can do that. Thanks, Bridgett.”

“My pleasure. One thing though: if you’re carrying, you need to have your concealed carry permit on your person. Otherwise you’re illegal. Ready to get out of here?”

“Yeah.” Nettie began gathering up her things.

“You know,” Bridgett mused, stuffing her earmuffs into what was now a much lighter tote bag, “I’m almost sorry you have a girlfriend. The range always gets me in the mood.”

Nettie rolled her eyes. “We’re on your home turf. Are you telling me there’s nobody you can call?”

Bridgett turned to Nettie with a glint in her eye. “There just might be at that.”

***

Same restaurant, same corner booth. Mom was even wearing the same damn gold hoop earrings, and had just placed an order for the exact same chicken fettuccine. The only difference, Mallory reflected, is that this time she had her partner at her side. Oh, and I also happen to be just a wee bit more preggers than I was last time. 

Mallory had tried to arrange a meeting in a more private setting, but her mom had adroitly sidestepped, and they’d ended up right back at Longtrees. At the dinner hour this time around, which meant the place was much more packed than the last time she’d been there. So I can’t count my differences today. Big deal.

As the chipper, pretty young waitress walked away with their menus, Sharon Kalvornek gazed across the table at her daughter, wearing a smile that Mallory wasn’t buying at all.

“So!” said Sharon, clapping her hands together. “Now that we’ve ordered, what’s the big news?”

Julie and Mallory shared a look. Julie gave a helpless shrug. Your call, Mallory.

Mallory took a deep breath. “I’m pregnant.”

Sharon froze, her glass of wine halting only inches from her lips. “Come again?”

Mallory gave a wan smile. “Pregnant. Knocked up. Bun in the oven. Up the duff, if you’re British.”

“But—” Sharon set her glass down, red wine sloshing over the sides. She looked as if she’d been slapped. “You’re pregnant?!” Her voice had gone up half an octave in pitch. Several heads turned at neighboring tables.

Mallory rolled her eyes. “Dial it back, Mom. This is why I wanted to meet someplace a bit less public.”

The slapped expression remained on her face, but Sharon did manage to reign in her tone. “Well, I didn’t think you were going to tell me something like—pregnant? How did it happen?”

“Unless I’m a test tube baby,” said Mallory, trying to sound playful rather than sarcastic, “exactly the same way you got pregnant with me.”

Julie lifted her hand to her mouth to hide a smile. Sharon, however, looked less than amused. “I seem to recall,” she said stiffly, “that you’re in a relationship with the young lady sitting next to you. Don’t tell me she’s the one who got you this way.”

Julie laughed out loud, tipping her head towards Sharon. “Your mom asked me how I pulled it off.”

Finally, the ghost of a smile touched Sharon’s lips. “Yes, she would ask that.” The smile disappeared, her lips thinning to a flat line. “None of which answers my question.”

Despite her best intentions, Mallory realized she was getting mad. No matter what else was going on, her mother had no right to behave this way. Choking back her irritation, she soldiered forward. “You didn’t really ask one, Mom. Look—Julie is sitting right here next to me, giggling at my lame-ass jokes. If I’d done anything behind her back, this would probably look a little bit different.”

“So—this was planned, then?”

“No, Sharon, it wasn’t planned,” said Julie. “But Mal does have occasional one-offs with guys, and not behind my back. The baby was an oopsie.”

Sharon nodded. Her eyes had softened, but her mouth was still set in a firm line. “I see. Am I allowed to ask who the father is, and what you’re planning to do?”

Julie grinned. “Ever seen The Angira Conspiracy? Or Snakeskin Overshoes?”

Sharon’s eyebrows lifted. “No, but I’ve read the novels. Terrance Wilder—he’s one of my favorite authors. He—”

“He’s also the father of your grandchild,” said Julie. Her grin got bigger. “I guess that makes Mal kind of a groupie, doesn’t it?”

Malllory smacked Julie on the shoulder, but with a smile. “Terry lives up in Bronning now; he’s a friend of Nettie’s. I met him early last month and—well—”

“Yes, I get the picture, thank you.” Sharon frowned. “Wait a minute—he made the news a few months back—his daughter got shot, and he got kidnapped, isn’t that right? By his ex-wife?”

“Yup,” said Mallory. “Nettie saved his daughter’s life, apparently. The girl’s doing well; she cooked us dinner when we were up there last time.” She shared a sidelong glance with Julie, both of them basking in the memory of having shared a lot more with Halee Wilder than food.

Sharon was nodding. “Sure. I remember seeing the news, and wondering what someone like that would be doing living in Bronning. It’s been a long time since he’s had a new book. Do you know if he’s working on anything?”

Mallory shook her head. “I have no idea about that.”

Sharon gave her head a rapid shake, as if to clear it. “You still haven’t told me what you’re planning to do.”

“I’m going to have it, and keep it. We’re still trying to figure out how we’re going to make it work so it’s fair to both me and Terry. We’re both agreed that whatever we decide has to put the kid’s needs first, but that’s about as far as we’ve gotten.”

The waitress chose that moment to arrive with their food. Plates were passed around the table; Julie asked for a little hot sauce. The leggy brunette favored her with a warm smile and promised to be right back with that.

“Look at that ass,” said Julie soto voce, as the jeans-clad buttocks in question sashayed back in the direction of the kitchen.

“Believe me, I’m looking,” Mallory intoned, also keeping her voice low.

Sharon stole a quick glance over her shoulder, then turned back wearing her first genuine smile of the evening. Julie, Mallory realized, had done that on purpose, rekindling a game the three of them had played whenever Sharon took them shopping during their middle school and early high school days.

“Nice piece,” Sharon murmured. “Julie gets first sighting on that one. She won’t get the drop on me again, though.” As Sharon turned back to her first bite of fettuccine, Mallory tossed her partner a grateful smile.

***

Patty Spisak strode along Douglas Avenue, making a conscious effort to keep her shoulders back, head high. A long habit of scurrying around hunched over and staring at her feet was brutally hard to break, but she’d been working with her therapist on this. It was more a mental habit than a physical one, the cruel manifestation of a crippling inferiority complex. You can meet the world head-on, she continued to remind herself as she walked. You’re as good as everyone else walking around out here. 

As she passed Cory Stitch, owner of Stitch Bait and Tackle, she not only met his eye, but actually managed to coax forth a smile. True, it was timid and fleeting, but still a genuine smile. Stitch tipped her a slight nod as he passed. “Afternoon, Patty.”

Patty opened her mouth to reply, but nothing came out. Just as well—the barrel-chested, scruffy-bearded man was now behind her, and hadn’t noticed her moment of awkwardness. Cory Stitch would never know what a triumph it had been for her to look him in the eye and smile, earning a greeting in return. “Big win for Patty today,” she murmured under her breath. “Not as big as the other night, though!”

Her cheeks flushed, and she felt warm and tingly all over as her mind turned to that incredible evening with Vicky Hanson and Crissy Moen. Best night of my life, Patty told herself. She and Vicky had been texting back and forth since, just the two of them. There was something developing there, something that Crissy would not entirely be able to share in, but Patty thought that was okay. At the same time, the friendship between the three girls was deepening, and Patty loved how it felt to feel wanted rather than just tolerated.

Just now she was on her way to Crissy’s house, and from there they’d head over to Vicky’s. The plan was for the three of them to hike out to Lake Norman and go swimming. “My aunt and Vicky’s sister used to do the same thing,” Crissy had commented. “So this is kind of like—I dunno. The circle of life, right?” Vicky had rolled her eyes and swatted Crissy on the arm.

“Hey, Patty!” The voice shook her from her reverie. Looking to her right, she saw Sarah Spencer strolling in her direction across the city park, diverting course to skirt the playground equipment, then coming up alongside. Despite Patty’s feelings of ambivalence toward the girl, she had to admit the short brunette was stunning, her feminine attributes accentuated in all the right ways by a low-cut mauve tank and jewel-bedecked denim shorts.

“Where ya headed?” Sarah wanted to know, talking around a wad of gum she was chewing.

Patty felt a shiver course down her spine, and had to fight down a sudden impulse to make something up rather than admit where she was really going. Then her uneasiness turned to irritation, partly at herself for letting this girl intimidate her, partly at Sarah for going out of her way to intimidate anyone she perceived as weaker. I’m NOT weak, you bitch. She desperately wanted to believe that.

“To Crissy’s house,” she said, keeping her tone carefully neutral. “We’re going to meet up with Vicky and go swimming.” Sarah stopped in her tracks. Patty decided not to break stride, but was brought up short by Sarah’s hand on her arm. The grip was hard, fingertips digging into the muscle.

“Let go.” Patty yanked her arm from Sarah’s grip. “What’s wrong with you, anyway?” She hadn’t meant to say that last; it just popped out.

Sarah let out a short bark of laughter. “What’s wrong with me? What’s wrong with you? Crissy was my best friend since fucking elementary school, and all of a sudden Miss High Horse turns her back on me. Think she’s not gonna do the same with you, of all people?”

You of all people. Patty cringed at first; almost by reflex. See, you’re a loser, you’re not good enough, everyone knows it, even Crissy and Vicky are just pretending, they actually hate you hate you HATEYOU…

Then a hot jolt of anger surged through her gut. Pushing that evil inner voice aside, she drew herself to her full and considerable height, towering over Sarah. She advanced forward a step.

“Me of all people? Me of all people? That says everything about who you are, Sarah, and why Crissy doesn’t want you around anymore. What are you so, so bitter for, anyway? You’re pretty, you have friends, your parents have money—why do you have to cut down everyone who’s not like you?”

Patty realized she was almost yelling, her breath coming fast and hard. She recognized the onset of a panic attack, and knew she could head it off if she was quick enough. She forced her breathing to slow—in through the nose, out through the mouth, like she’d been taught.

Sarah was staring at Patty as if she’d never seen her before. Perhaps even a little frightened.  Patty wondered how she must appear to anyone in the vicinity, who only saw her looming over a smaller girl and shouting. Having always been intimidated by others, Patty marveled at the possibility that she had it in her to frighten anybody at all.

She backed off a step. “I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t mean to shout. But you’re not a nice person, Sarah. I hate to say that, but it’s true. You used to be, and maybe you will be again, but you’re not right now. And Crissy didn’t turn her back on you. She misses you—I’ve heard her say so. You could have her as your friend again, if you wanted. You don’t even have to stop being who you are, you just have to stop being—you know—whatever you’ve turned into.” She waved her hands vaguely in Sarah’s direction.

Sarah was frozen in place, still looking a bit fearful. Patty wondered what it was she’d unleashed here. “Did you know I used to look up to you?” she said. “That’s why I agreed with you when you were talking shit about Vicky at that sleepover, even though I didn’t really agree. Ever since, I couldn’t stop thinking about how mean you were to say those things—and how much I sucked for going along with it.”

She paused; heaved a deep sigh. “I wanted so bad to be like you, Sarah. You were always so cool and popular, and me—well, I’m autistic, so that means I never know what to say or how to respond to people. I’ve always felt worthless because of that.”

Something amazing was happening, Patty realized—getting all this off her chest was taming her panic attack right the hell down. She felt calm, poised, and a little sad. “I still hate myself sometimes, and I still feel worthless a lot, but I don’t want to be like you anymore. At least I’ve come that far. What I really hate myself for is that I was mean to Vicky, just because I wanted to impress you. Well, I’m not that person any more. If that’s the kind of thing you respect, if that’s what it’s gonna take to get you to like me, then fuck you, Sarah.”

“I—” Sarah’s eyes were narrowing, her face pinched, but she still couldn’t seem to form a reply.

“I’m going to go hang out with my friends now,” said Patty. “Because they like me enough to not care that I’m weird. And you know what? You could come, if you wanted. I think if you said you were sorry and meant it, Vicky would forgive you. I know Crissy would. We could all be friends. Know what else? I think you really are sorry. I think you don’t want to be this, this person you’ve turned into. I know what that’s like. What do you say? Come with me? Talk to Vicky and Crissy; make things right?”

Sarah’s mouth was working soundlessly. Then a sob escaped her lips, and tears spilled onto her face. Patty took a step forward, reaching out to draw Sarah into an embrace. But instead, Sarah flung out her hands, gripping Patty’s shoulders and shoving her back a step. “Fuck you, bitch,” she snapped. “You think you know everything. You don’t know shit. G-go to hell!” Whirling on her heel, she stomped off, breaking into a clumsy run after just a few steps.

Patty watched her go, feeling a bizarre combination of sadness and elation. The sadness was for Sarah, what she’d become, and her unwillingness to find a better way. She was also sorry to have frightened the girl, and hurt her feelings.

The elation was for herself, for the unprecedented courage she’d dredged up. “I did it,” she murmured. “I stood up for myself. I stood up for my friends. I said what I felt, and I don’t feel like a loser for doing it. Holy fuck, Patty. How cool is that?”

Setting her feet in the direction of Crissy’s house, Patty continued on her way. Her shoulders were set back, head held high, and not only was she not trying, she didn’t even notice.

When she passed Chiara Ness from the drugstore, Patty looked her right in the eye and beamed, her mood positively buoyant. Chiara smiled back.

On to Chapter Twenty-Four!

The Story Thus Far

Chapter 1: In which Sarah and Frankie peruse some rather risqué entertainment, then get intimately acquainted with a pair of soiled undies. Who says staying at home on weekends is boring?

Chapter 2: In which Kerry comes home, the Panty Fairy pays a visit, Sarah confides in her sister Judy, Kerry catches a whiff of pussy on Mummy’s fingers, and plans are made to let Kerry watch Sarah and Frankie have sex. Goodness me!

Chapter 3: In which Sarah and Kerry’s pussy-smelling game escalates, Sarah has a quick diddle in the school carpark, and Sarah and Frankie put their unorthodox sex education lesson into motion. Oh, and a traumatised teddy bear called Mr. Ruffles.

Chapter 4: In which smelling becomes tasting, and a visit to the bird sanctuary turns into an afternoon of naughty panty-modeling fun with Sarah, Judy and five-year-old Izzy. Bloody hell, now sister and niece are in on the act!

Chapter 5: In which poor Mr Ruffles suffers more teddy abuse, Sarah and Kerry’s kinky game goes one step further, and Judy pops round for coffee with little Izzy. A shared lollipop leads to more sharing. Appalling!

Chapter 6: In which Frankie and Sarah tiptoe into Kerry’s bedroom while she’s asleep, and an innocent picnic for the children turns into an afternoon of amateur taboo photography. Snap snap snap!

Chapter 7: In which Kerry’s teacher asks awkward questions, Sarah and Kerry finger each other in the car, and Kerry picks on Frankie while Sarah watches. Why, I’m all aquiver!

by BlueJean

1

When Kerry was six years old, she was given the task of writing a school essay about a subject of her choice. She chose Frankie. It went like this:

Frankie has tattoos. Frankie has red brown hair that is shaved on one side. Frankie has green eyes. Frankie is funny and makes me laugh. Frankie likes anime and music and sometimes she reads me bedtime stories and I like it because she does all the voices. Frankie and me like to dance in the living room. Frankie is pretty when she dresses up.

I sidled up to my lover, twining both arms around her slender waist as she stood in front of the mirror applying lipstick. We were both clad in our lingerie, the expensive stuff we kept for special occasions, all sheer satin with neat seams and trim. You know it’s a mark of quality when Frankie says, “It’ll almost be a shame to get pussy juice on these. Almost.”

I brushed my lips down the nape of her neck, just above the black lace choker she wore. “Frankie is pretty when she dresses up,” I cooed. It’s our little joke, but paddle my arse with a copy of Woman’s Weekly if it isn’t true.

“Damn right,” Frankie agreed.

It was Friday night. Kerry was waiting for us downstairs in the lounge. We’d told her she could watch us have sex again. A promise is a promise.

2

Kerry was sitting on the couch in just a pair of skimpy baby-blue panties, knees pulled up under her. “Omigod!” she squealed. “You two look amazing!”

“Why, thank you, Peanut-chan,” Frankie purred. She sauntered over to the couch to stroke Kerry’s bare shoulder.

“Where’re your jammies?” I asked.

Kerry shrugged. “I didn’t see the point of wearing any when I’m just gonna end up taking them off.”

“And no Mr. Ruffles tonight?” Frankie said.

“I don’t need him,” Kerry said defiantly. “And he smells a bit,” she added, shooting me and Frankie a suspicious look.

I sank down next to my daughter and teased the tip of a finger beneath the waistband of her knickers, idly sliding it back and forth. “That’s okay. It’s probably best if Mr. Ruffles isn’t here to witness events. A teddy bear can only take so much.”

“Aren’t we gonna go up to your bedroom?”

“Nope. We’re going to have sex here in the lounge. It’s fun to do it in different places.”

Like your room when you’re away at your dad’s. Oh, there’s nothing quite like doing the nasty in a little girl’s bedroom, Peanut. What a mess we made of your pretty pink sheets.

“‘Kay,” Kerry said with a shrug.

I swept her hair back behind her ears. “We’re going to watch a naughty video now, Kerry. You don’t mind, do you?”

Kerry looked from me to Frankie. “Oh. But I thought you were gonna have sex.”

“We are,” Frankie told her. “But we like to have some porn playing in the background. It makes sex even better.”

Laptop already hooked up to the TV, Frankie clicked on one of her many thumbnails. We’d discussed the possibility of putting on the video of Kerry and Izzy, the one Judy and I had filmed back at her place. Frankie had given it the title Play Date, along with some cute decals of flowers and bunny rabbits, and fuck, if that didn’t make the whole thing even dirtier. But I insisted on something a little more mainstream for my little girl’s first foray into pornography. Yeah, I know. Messed up, right?

After much debate, we settled on a fairly diverse lesbian compilation. Kerry’s eyes went all wide as a series of montage shots rolled across the screen.

I found myself getting more turned on by my daughter’s reaction than anything that was going on in the video. “Okay, Peanut?” I asked, trailing my fingers up and down her arm. Two young women on screen were scissoring their fingers in and out of each other’s pussies. Tame stuff, the kind of porn that just wasn’t doing it for me like it used to. I needed it hard and nasty, preferably illegal.

Kerry gave me a shy smile and a nod of the head.

“Have you ever seen videos like this before?” Frankie asked. She let her eyes travel up and down Kerry’s bare torso.

Kerry shook her head. “Not really. There was a boy in the year above me who kept going round with his phone showing all the girls a clip of a man squirting his stuff on a lady, but it was only like a few seconds long.” She shrugged. “It looked sort of weird to me.”

Frankie let a hand wander down to her crotch. “Awesome,” she imparted, which is generally a sentiment she shares when she’s not paying much attention to what anyone’s saying. “Oh, by the way, we’re being evicted.” “Awesome!” “And I’ve met someone else.” “Awesome!” “And my entire family has perished in a plane crash. Are you even listening to me?” “Awesome!”

“Do you want to touch yourself, sweetie?” I asked Kerry. “Like Frankie’s doing?”

Kerry hesitantly snaked a finger through the shallow crease in the crotch of her knickers, then slipped a hand inside.

I sat and watched her for a while, fingers hooked into the waistband of my panties to get at my throbbing clit.

Twenty minutes into the video, in which two busty women dressed as nurses were tangled together in a sixty-nine, Frankie pulled her hand from her knickers and got to her feet. “I need to get these off,” she said, slipping the wet, shimmering undies down her legs. She gave Kerry a wink.

“Kerry, go and sit in the chair over there,” I said. “Me and Frankie are going to show you some new things now.”

“I’ll just stay nearby so I can see everything,” Kerry insisted. “I promise I won’t get in the way.”

I shrugged, then focused my attention on Frankie. Standing behind her, I slipped a hand between her thighs and found the hot, wet nest of her sex. “Well, someone’s a sticky girl,” I murmured, and to prove the point, I dipped two fingers into her cunt, drawing them back out to show Kerry. “See how wet Frankie gets?”

“Mmm, yeah.”

I reached down to brush a slippery finger across my daughter’s top lip, leaving a thin sheen of Frankie’s pussy juice.

Slapping Frankie on the arse, I pushed her over the couch. “Spread your feet apart. I’m going to tongue-fuck you.”

Frankie braced herself against the back of the couch, then planted her feet firmly apart. She peered back at Kerry with lust-filled eyes. “Why don’t you take your panties off, Kerry?”

I gave her another slap on the bum. “Never mind what Kerry’s doing.” Kneeling on the floor, I spread Frankie’s arse cheeks apart and began lashing my tongue through her creamy cunt.

Kerry knelt beside me, utterly enthralled. I prised Frankie’s pussy open with my thumbs and stabbed my tongue in and out of her hole. Frankie groaned in pleasure, her fingers reaching back to strum her clit.

“Can you smell Frankie?” I asked Kerry.

“Yeah,” she murmured, nostrils flaring. “Can I have a go at licking her?”

“That sounds like a good idea,” Frankie cooed, eyes lighting up.

I shook my head. “No, sorry, Peanut. That’s going too far. You’re just supposed to be watching.”

Kerry went into Pout Mode. “Oh, please. I won’t tell anyone.”

I scooped a breast out and used it to dove-fuck Frankie while I thought good and hard about Kerry’s request. To let my eight-year-old daughter lick my girlfriend’s cunt or not? Such are the dilemmas a parent faces.

“I can’t let you lick Frankie,” I finally decided, quickly continuing before Kerry could register an objection. “But,” I emphasised the word with a cautionary finger, “we can do it another way.”

I drew my tongue through Frankie’s hot, wet slit, then turned back to Kerry. “Kiss me,” I told her.

Kerry switched effortlessly from startled to amused to eager. She laced her hands in her lap, then leaned forward to plant her mouth on mine. I kissed her full-on, but was met with a timid response.

“Come on, Kerry,” I told her, “give me a proper big girl kiss. You want to taste Frankie, don’t you?”

“I’ve never kissed anyone like that before. Let me try again.”

“Lots of tongue this time,” I told her.

I dipped my head back between my girlfriend’s thighs and stabbed my tongue deep into her cunt, then leaned in to kiss my daughter. Kerry gave as good as she got this time, her tongue sparring with mine. I continued swapping back and forth between Frankie’s pussy and my little girl’s mouth, enjoying the sheer debauchery of it.

Frankie peered back at us with teeth bared. “Fuck, that’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. You filthy bitch, Sarah.”

I flashed her a wicked smile, then turned back to Kerry. “Did you like it, Peanut? Is that what you wanted?”

Kerry gave me a big smirk, her lips and mouth glistening with Frankie’s nectar. “I’d prefer to actually lick it for real,” she admitted, “but it was quite fun doing it that way.”

I thought I’d hit rock bottom at that moment. But there’s always room to dig a little deeper, isn’t there? There was something Frankie and I did that Kerry hadn’t been exposed to yet, and this seemed as good a time as any to clue her in. “Wanna see me lick Frankie’s bumhole?”

“Uh, I guess? That’s quite a dirty thing to do, though.”

I gave her a grin. “Maybe a little. But it’s fun to do dirty things. And Frankie loves a tongue in her arsehole.” I whacked Frankie across the bum again. “Don’t you, Fran-keee?”

Frankie reached back to spread herself open. “Yeah, eat my arse. I want Kerry to see.”

So I dipped my head back between Frankie’s buttocks and scrubbed my tongue round her arsehole while Kerry watched, fascinated. When I drew my little girl cheek to cheek with me, then turned to French kiss her, I knew I was a lost cause. Kerry didn’t hesitate, either, her tongue darting between my lips.

Frankie peered back over her shoulder, eyes flashing at the sight of us kissing right after I’d had my tongue in her bum. “Oh, fuck!” she blurted, attacking her clit with a breathless urgency.

“Watch Frankie,” I told my daughter. “She’s about to go off.”

“Looks like a big one,” Kerry murmured, staring avidly.

“Gonna come,” Frankie was muttering. “Gonna. Fucking. Come!”

She came hard, fingers glazed with her creamy spend. I caught her wrist before she could bring them to her mouth. “No. Smear it over Kerry’s nipples.”

Frankie turned round and scooted to the edge of the couch, her knees slung wide. “Bloody hell, you’re such a pervert,” she told me. “I really need to up my game.”

I nudged Kerry forwards, and she stood dutifully between Frankie’s open thighs, hands laced behind her back. Frankie smeared her essence over one tiny nipple, then the other.

Kerry giggled playfully. “I like how it smells.”

I stroked her blonde curls; kissed her softly on one cheek. “Mmm. It’s a fun game, isn’t it? A very naughty game.”

So Kerry got to taste Frankie’s pussy after all, and Frankie made herself come watching me share her juices with my little girl. And I could happily fool myself into thinking I’d reached a suitable compromise. I’ll take that Parent of the Year award now, if you don’t mind.

But before I got the chance to dissect my fucked-up logic, Frankie had me on all fours on the rug. She strapped a large black dildo to herself before kneeling at my rear. “I’m gonna fuck your mum now,” she told Kerry plainly.

Kerry stood next to Frankie, hands on her hips. “I can see that, Frankie.”

Frankie slid the tip of the strapon back and forth through my wet folds until it glistened with juices. Then she brought it to the entrance of my cunt, turning to Kerry with a sly smile. “Tell you what, Peanut-chan – if you take those panties off, I’ll put it inside Mummy.”

Kerry slipped her knickers off without so much as a second thought, leaving her entirely naked. All at once, I felt the satisfying swell of the nine-inch toy filling me up. Frankie pistoned her hips back and forth, working it ever deeper.

When I glanced back, Kerry was leaning in to get a better view. “Is it just Mummy that feels good when you do that, Frankie?”

“It’s, uh, mostly for your mum, but it feels good for me too. The dildo has a thing on the other end that pushes against my clit. Ah…”

“Shut up and fuck me,” I told her in no uncertain terms.

I felt the dildo pull back until only the head was still inside. Frankie took her hands away from my hips, then stopped moving against me. Well aware of the game she was playing, I peered back to give her a disapproving scowl.

“Well, that was rude, wasn’t it, Kerry?” Frankie crooned. “I don’t think mums who tell their girlfriends to shut up deserve to get fucked, do you?”

Kerry gave a shrug. “Uh… I dunno.”

“Just fuck me, will you?” I groaned, pushing back onto the toy.

Frankie slapped me on the arse. “Do not move! If you try to push back, I’ll take it all the way out. You hear me?”

“Bitch,” I hissed, trying to resist the urge to fully impale myself on the dildo.

“Why are you being so mean to each other?” Kerry asked, a hint of concern in her voice.

“We’re just pretending,” Frankie told her. “It’s a game we like to play. Mummy makes a terrible fuss, but she always comes harder when I make her wait for it. You’ll see.”

I tried to rock back and forth as covertly as I could, but Frankie was having none of it. “I said don’t fucking move! I’m pulling out!”

“No, d-don’t! Leave it in!”

“Just the tip, then,” Frankie cooed, switching effortlessly from Bad Frankie to Good Frankie. “Look at Mummy’s pussy, Kerry. See how wet she is?”

“It’s… oh wow, it’s twitching,” Kerry was keen to point out.

“Yeah, she wants to get fucked really bad. But we’re not going to let her come just yet, are we?”

I could feel warm juices trickling down the insides of my thighs. “Oh, please, Frankie,” I whimpered. “Just move it in and out a tiny bit.”

“No. You’ll come when I say. And don’t think I can’t see that hand moving towards your clit. Touch it and this fuck is over.”

“You’re such a cow,” I pouted. “Be nice to me.”

“I’ll tell you what I’ll do,” Frankie said. “I’ll stick the tip of my thumb in your arse. ‘Cause I am nice.”

“You two are weird,” Kerry proclaimed.

“Hey, I’ve got an idea, Kerry,” Frankie said, then whispered something in my daughter’s ear.

Kerry gave a breathless giggle, then sat down on the floor in front of me, her legs spread as wide as she could get them. Her bare vagina was only a few inches from my face.

“Oh, yeah,” I murmured. “Such a pretty little pussy. Frankie, I need you to fuck me. Now.”

“No.”

“Frankie!” I cried, thrusting back against the strapon.

Frankie pulled the dildo out of my quivering cunt. “I said no! Bad Mummy! Now the toy goes back in the box. No toys for bad girls! Uh-uh.”

“No toys for bad girls, Mummy!” Kerry echoed.

“Put it back in! I’ll keep still, I promise!”

“One more chance,” Frankie crooned. She slipped the head in again, her thumb pressing deeper into my arsehole. My cunt was throbbing now, the need exquisite. I knew once she finally started fucking me I would go off like a firework.

Frankie kept me on edge for what seemed an eternity, the fingers of her free hand tracing featherlight trails down my spine. I stared at Kerry’s smooth pussy as she spread her labia open for me; listened to the exaggerated moans of porn actresses performing for the camera.

I was right at the point where I thought I’d probably come anyway, regardless of whether I got penetrated or not, when Frankie spoke up. “Ready to get fucked, Sarah?”

“Oh, my sweet fucking lord, yes!”

“Shall I fuck Mummy now, Kerry? Do you think she deserves it?”

“Well. I think you’d better, because it looks like she might explode otherwise.” Kerry declared, then bounced onto her feet. “Oh, wait! I want to see it up close!” She squatted at my rear with rapt attention.

“Tell me when to start, Kerry,” Frankie said. She licked her lips; gave me a wicked smile. Oh, the nasty bitch was milking this for all it was worth.

“For fuck’s sake, if you don’t shove that dildo in me in the next few seconds, I’m gonna—”

“Go!” Kerry shouted.

Frankie thrust into me.

“Fuck yes!” I wailed, as Frankie pounded away. “Fuck me, you mean bitch! Fuck me! Fuck me! Fuck me!”

“Oh yeah, look at that dildo sliding in and out of Mummy’s cunt, Kerry,” Frankie panted as she hammered into me. “Look at all that creamy juice.”

I must have lasted all of thirty seconds, coming so hard I blacked out for a moment, white hot waves of pure, searing ecstasy rushing through me.

When I regained some of my senses, I was flat on my belly, face against the rug, my body still writhing and twitching. I felt something brush against my bum cheeks, and looked back to find Frankie kissing me there attentively.

“Don’t try sucking up to me now, Francesca,” I told her with a wan smile, reaching back to stroke her cheek. “You’re mean. Mean.”

Frankie smiled back, then gave my bumhole a long, slow swipe of her tongue.

Kerry squatted down next to Frankie and offered her pussy to my girlfriend. “I’ll let you lick me now, Frankie, okay?”

I spoke up quickly. “Uh, no, Kerry. I don’t think so.”

Another pout. I think she gets it from me. “Oh, why?”

Frankie gave a pout of her own, barely managing to draw her eyes away from Kerry’s puffy slit. “Yeah, why-ee?”

I gave her a half-hearted slap on the arm, laughing despite myself. “You be quiet. You’re not helping.” Then to Kerry: “We’re not doing lickies tonight, Peanut. You were just supposed to be watching. Mostly watching.” A moment too late, I realised my choice of phrasing hadn’t exactly ruled out the possibility of allowing my little girl to get more involved in our lovemaking.

Kerry let her thighs drift closed with a sigh. “What else will you show me, then?”

I had her fetch the big veiny flesh-coloured strap-on cock that my girlfriend was so partial to. Frankie bounced up and down on it in my lap while I held Kerry’s panties to her nose. I told my daughter to finger herself while she watched, and she was happy to oblige.

Yeah, no lickies for Kerry. But this is okay, Sarah. Perfectly acceptable. Well done.

I can’t help it. I’m addicted. I’m messed up. What the hell happened to me?

3

The days that followed seemed to blend into one. My sleep patterns were totally fucked up, and I couldn’t think straight anymore. I’d wake up thinking about sex, spend all day thinking about sex, then go to bed thinking about sex.

And truthfully, it was Kerry who was at the epicenter of my fantasies. It’d always been about Kerry, right from the moment I’d fished her dirty knickers out of the laundry basket. I’d been circumnavigating her up until now, tiptoeing around her, pretending that the flirty little games we’d been playing hadn’t really crossed the line into full-on incestuous sex. And don’t get me wrong, I’d enjoyed the escalation, enjoyed taking things a little further each time, but picking at the scraps just wasn’t good enough anymore. I wanted to sink my teeth into the whole juicy carcass and gobble it down.

I began to carry pairs of Kerry’s used undies around in my pocket, pulling them out to sniff in the most inappropriate of places – leisure centre changing rooms, supermarkets, in the forecourt of the garage while I was filling up the car at the pump.

Kerry wasn’t exactly helping either. She’d take every opportunity to flash her pussy and arse at Frankie and me. Well, I’d given her permission to do that, I suppose, so I only had myself to blame.

When bedtime arrived, I’d tuck Kerry into bed with every intention of being a normal mother, but she usually had other ideas – ideas that invariably involved sitting on my lap while I fingered her to a gentle orgasm.

While not entirely innocent, those quiet moments were still very sweet, a chance to breathe. Freed from the subversive nature of sex with Frankie, which seemed to be the sexual equivalent of two naughty teenagers egging each other on, I found myself enjoying simple quality time with my little girl, rocking her gently back and forth like I’d done when she was a baby, breathing in her scent and humming tunes while I slipped a hand into her pyjama bottoms.

It felt like this was what I’d been looking for all along – a quiet intimacy with my child, skin on skin, gentle, natural, disconnected from frenzied internet porn and social media and 21st century ideas about what sex should or shouldn’t be.

When I made my way downstairs to the lounge, Frankie would usually be waiting with a smutty grin, a finger poised over those fucking video thumbnails of hers. Round and round it goes, where it stops nobody knows. Fisting, pissing, rimming, kiddy porn. Roll up, roll up! Frankie’s got it all, folks!

Sometimes I would hate her in those moments. And that was the most devastating part of it all. I’d end up scolding myself. Don’t you dare blame Frankie. Don’t you fucking dare. Take responsibility for your own psychology. Frankie doesn’t understand what she’s doing. Frankie doesn’t understand a thing.

Still. Maybe everything would be easier without Frankie around.

4

One weekday morning, Kerry and I set out to school earlier than usual. I work from home, but they still expect me to check into the office for the occasional meeting every now and then. Probably to confirm I’m still alive or something. Marco offers to take Kerry to school on these rare occasions, so I was dropping her off at their place.

Marco was upstairs having a shave, so there was time for a quick coffee and a catch-up with Judy in the kitchen. Kerry was trying to lift Izzy off the ground by her arms, much to Izzy’s delight.

“Mum’s complaining we don’t visit her and Dad enough,” Judy was saying.

I rolled my eyes. “I Zoom them all the time.”

“So do I, but she says it doesn’t count.”

“I mean, it probably doesn’t, but it’s not exactly easy just to drop everything and travel up to Wales.”

Izzy pressed herself up against me, and I pulled her up onto my knee.

Judy gave me a sheepish smirk. “I wonder what Mum would think if she knew what we’ve been getting up to with her granddaughters.”

“Horrified? Duh.”

My sister looked at me, coolly. “Aren’t you a bit old for ‘duh’?”

“Aren’t you a bit old for… um…”

“You’ve got nothing, have you?”

“No.”

Judy sucked on her lower lip. “Put a hand down Izzy’s knickers.”

“Don’t be stupid. Marco could walk in on us.”

“Hear that shaver buzzing?” I could, barely. “When that stops, we stop.”

“We?”

Judy held her arms out to Kerry. Kerry sidled into my sister’s embrace with a grin.

“Is this okay, Sarah?” my sister asked, teasing her fingers beneath Kerry’s plaid school skirt.

“I guess.”

I didn’t know if it was okay. I didn’t much care. My fingers slipped into Izzy’s soft cotton panties and found her slit. I brought myself to the edge of my chair and quickly hiked my skirt up along with Izzy’s, then peeled my knickers to one side. I began rubbing my crotch against her tender bottom while I toyed with her pussy.

“I’ve an idea,” Judy said as she slipped a hand up my daughter’s skirt. “Let’s do a swap.”

“I’m not done,” I told her. “And besides, I don’t think we have time for swapsies.”

“Not now, you plonker. At the weekend. A proper swap. You and Frankie can have Izzy for the night and I’ll have Kerry.” She smiled down at my daughter. “How does that sound, sweetie?”

Kerry was moving her hips back and forth against Judy’s fingers. “S-sounds cool. Can I, Mummy?”

I was making Izzy’s knickers damp, my juices seeping into the thin fabric as I rubbed my cunt against her. I won’t lie, the thought of the five-year-old attending that expensive Catholic school wearing undies sullied by her Aunt Sarah was as thrilling as it was blasphemous, spurring my lust to even greater heights. “I don’t mind,” I told Kerry. “But if you two are planning naughty things, Uncle Marco might be a problem.”

“Leave Marco to me,” Judy said with an uncharacteristic hint of slyness. “I’ll tell him it’s a girls-only sleepover, then banish him to the spare room.”

“I – I can see who wears the trousers in your house. Oh shit, I’m gonna come. F-fucking hell!” I rubbed out a hasty orgasm on my niece’s bum, determined to finish before Marco could interrupt us. Straightening out Izzy’s school skirt, I bent to kiss her on the cheek. “That was a sneaky one, wasn’t it, Izzy? Naughty Aunty Sarah.”

“Did you just come on my little girl’s knickers?” Judy said with mock disapproval.

“Guilty.”

The sound of Marco’s electric shaver came to a stop. Judy took her hand from between Kerry’s legs and kissed her on the nape of the neck. “Well, we don’t have time to change them now. You’ll have to wear them to school, Izzy. Keep it a secret, okay?” She emphasised the point with a finger to her lips.

“I won’t tell,” Izzy piped, peering back at me with an angelic smile.

“Auntie Frankie’s going to be so excited when she finds out you’re coming to stay the night,” I told the five-year-old.

“I’ll bet she is,” Judy said with a smirk. “Oh, and Sarah?”

“Hmm?”

“Make sure you take pictures.”

On to Chapter Nine!