Archive for May, 2012

There Are Many Shades of Grey


Our parents vanished one sunny and warm day in November. My sister Felicity and me were at school. My memories of that last morning are fuzzy at best. I had known about masturbation and pornography for a couple years already, but I had only recently discovered the twin joys of the electric toothbrush and the webcam, and I had just spent three quarters of the previous night sitting naked in front of the computer, fresh AAs buzzing away between my thighs, watching boys — and men — from at least three different continents jerk off for my personal viewing pleasure. My pussy was tender and sore and slick, my clit was still tingly, and my brain was foggy and slow-moving as I got ready for school.

Dad was looking at the weather online. Mom handed me my brown bag lunch. I didn’t notice anything out of the ordinary, but then again I wasn’t looking. Felicity had already left; I was running late, just like usual. I headed out the door, riding my bike to school, taking advantage of the last gasp of the Indian summer. That was the last I ever saw of them.

When we got home, they were gone. That, in and of itself, was a little unusual, but nothing to be concerned about. Felicity got down to business with her homework; I had a hot date with my toothbrush and some really filthy internet porn.

And then it was dinner time, and still neither of our parents had come home, and that was when we started to get concerned. We called their cell phones, but got no answer. Felicity tried Dad’s office, but they said he hadn’t been in all day. The car was gone, they hadn’t left a note or anything. We ordered pizza.

I guess it was the next morning, when they still hadn’t shown up, that we really knew something was up. Somehow neither one of us was particularly worried. We both felt, deep down, that they were ok, wherever they were. I suppose at some point we should have called the police or something, reported them missing, but we never did. Really, what would have been the point?

Life went on. We made our own lunches, split the shopping and the chores between us, paid the bills. They had left an ATM card, and there seemed to be plenty of money in the bank. Felicity kept on getting straight ‘A’s and winning math prizes; and I kept on slacking my way through school. I had decided long ago that I was going to be a novelist, and as everyone knows, you don’t need good grades to be a writer.

A week or so after they disappeared, we finally worked up the nerve to break into their bedroom. I’m not sure why it took us so long – the door wasn’t even locked. It’s just that their room had always been verboten, strictly and completely off-limits.

The walls were painted a deep violet that was almost black. The bed had red silk sheets on it. The room had mostly been stripped bare. There were no pictures on the dresser, a scattering of cosmetics; only a few cast-off clothes that they had apparently decided weren’t worth taking with them. As to our parents’ whereabouts, the room contained no clues. What it did contain was a large metal cage, like a dog kennel with an upholstered black leather floor, sitting at the foot of the bed.

“What do you suppose that’s for?” Felicity asked. I said I didn’t know. But I had some ideas.

We were hanging out around the house the next day after school, gossiping a little, and idly contemplating what to order in for dinner while we read our books. Felicity was scribbling notes in the margins of a highbrow volume on the elementary properties of mathematics; I was reading Kerouac and wishing there were more dirty bits.

Felicity set down her book with an exaggerated exasperated sigh. “I can’t concentrate,” she said with an embarrassed cough, “Why don’t you lock me in the cage?”

She said it lightly, but I realized with a flash of insight that would have done a Zen master proud that there was absolutely nothing casual about that request.

We went upstairs together, and I put Felicity into the cage. It was exactly the right size: she could kneel on all fours, but she couldn’t stretch out or sit up; and it was designed so that she couldn’t open the latch from the inside. There was a small slot in the front of the cage, and a much larger hatch in the back. She stayed in there all evening, studying her math book. I fed her slices of pizza through a slot in the front of the cage.

Felicity had gotten all the good-looking genes in our family. She was tall and slender, like a shoot of bamboo, with petite boobs, gently curved hips, long ash-blonde hair, and the kind of glasses that just make a girl look sexier. I take after our dad; I was short and chunky and near-sited, honestly kind of dorky and schlubby-looking. Definitely not a dude-magnet. Which was sort of a shame, because ever since I had hit puberty, my libido had turned into a hot stolen car with the accelerator bolted to the floor. I was always raring to go; as far as I could tell, Felicity simply wasn’t interested.

She looked kind of sexy like that, in a kinky sort of way: on her hands and knees in the wire-mesh cage, her forehead wrinkled in concentration as she read her book, and a perverted little part of my brain wondered, just wondered…

And that sort of became our after-school routine. We moved the cage downstairs, into the living room next to the couch and the computer. Felicity usually got home after me: she had math club and Knowledge Bowl practice after school. She would shower, strip down to her underwear, and I would put her in the cage, where she would remain all evening, doing her homework, reading, studying for her SATs, and filling out college applications. I would feed her dinner through the slot, and let her out occasionally when she had to use the bathroom.

On impulse, I bought her a little black leather dog collar, with shiny metal studs on it. She loved it, and started wearing it all the time, to school and everything. If Felicity had been someone else, people would have whispered that she was kinky. As it was, she remained, just like me, socially invisible.

I suppose it was inevitable: the computer was right there in the living room, opposite the couch, and for better or worse, in front of the computer was where I got virtually all my action. The semester was wrapping up; I should have been studying for my finals, but instead I was dicking around on the internet. Felicity was in her cage, wearing nothing but her underwear and the dog collar, diligently calculating away at her calculus. I, being who I am, inevitably found a nice German boy to chat with, who turned out to have a very nice-looking dick and a proclivity for sticking things up his butt.

I didn’t turn around to see if Felicity was watching; I knew she was. I unbuttoned my jeans and shuffled them down around my ankles, my panties tangled up inside them. I reached for my trusty electric toothbrush and switched it on, the little motor droning its monotonous little song. On the computer screen, my German friend was getting charmingly busy with a lotion-drenched hand and a butt stuffed full of cucumber. I joined him, peeling off my t-shirt and unsnapping my bra to give him a little show, clasping the buzzing toothbrush between my thighs and squeezing my legs together rhythmically, in sync with the pink and slippery hand that was sliding up and down his shaft.

Knowing that Felicity was watching, that she could hear the buzzing and the little squishing noises my pussy was making and the way I was breathing faster and shallower, in little gasps; it only served to turn me on more, and when my German boy exploded, so did I, leaning back in the chair, throwing my feet up on the desk, and howling like a monkey. It was pretty intense, and I felt a little sheepish when I pulled myself together and got dressed.

If Felicity had any opinions about my online activities, she kept them to herself, and I started to make a habit of it, jerking off in front of her with boys from Argentina to Zambia, and perusing porn so filthy that sometime I was even ashamed of myself.

One evening Felicity asked me if she could sleep in the cage, and from then on that’s exactly what she did. As soon as she got home from school, I’d put her in the cage, and that’s where she stayed, generally leaving her kennel only to shower, use the bathroom, and go to school.


It was February and to everyone’s surprise, most of all my own, I acquired a boyfriend. I’d known Zack since middle school, and I’d never ever considered him in a sexual way at all. We used to play D&D together, and he’d never really grown out of that phase. He was a little chubby, which I thought was cute, and he stuttered a little when he was nervous or excited, and he was a really good kisser. It happened organically: one day we were hanging out, and the next thing either of us knew we were holding hands and cuddling and making out and feeling all warm and fuzzy about each other.

I also made a rather startling discovery: while in theory I loved sex and everything about it, in practice I could take it or leave it. Sex, I discovered to my chagrin, was awkward and sweaty and messy, occasionally irritating and uncomfortable, did not taste like clover honey, and was at its very best, erotically frustrating, like trying to masturbate with nearly-dead batteries. Zack was also a bit of a Quick-Draw-McGraw, which fine by me, but man, he could not get enough, which was endearing but mildly annoying.

One afternoon, we were at our house, putzing around with SimCity on the computer, and Zack started to get frisky on me. He’d just fucked me, we’d been getting busy upstairs in my bedroom not ten minutes before, and my pussy was sore. It had gotten to the point where I had to fake orgasms just to get him to stop fingering me. As we mucked around with our simulated metropolis, he kept sticking his hand down my pants, and I kept squirming away from him, and despite myself I was starting to get wet all over again. Felicity was in her cage, as usual, wearing a sensible white bra and prim panties and her dog collar and nothing else. I had more or less forgotten she was there.

Finally I relented, tugging his zipper down with an exasperated sigh. ‘Who would have guessed,’ I thought, ‘that I’d prefer watching sex to actually doing it?’ Sure enough, Zack’s eager dick was hard and straining upward, ready for another round.

“W-w-what about your sister?” Zack asked.

“Oh, don’t worry about her,” I told him blithely.

“N-no,” Zack blushed, “I m-m-m-meant, if you d-don’t feel like fooling around, c-could I d-do her?”

The idea had never occurred to me before, but it made perfect sense. “Sure,” I said, “Knock yourself out.”

He stepped out of his trousers, which he’d been itching to get rid of anyway, and stuck his erection through the feeding slot in Felicity’s cage. She hungrily devoured his dick, sucking and licking and slobbering all over it. I immediately realized two things:

1) That I gave a much better blowjob than Felicity. Maybe I just had more practice, or had seen more examples, but I was definitely better at it than her. For the first time in my life, I was tangibly better than Felicity at something!

2) That it was sexy as hell to watch her sucking my boyfriend’s dick. It was fucking hot, way better than any porn or webcam action I’d ever seen!

On impulse, I lifted up the hatch in the back of the cage, and reached in and touched Felicity’s panty-clad backside. It felt weird to be touching my own sister like that. Weird in a good way. I ran my finger up and down the crotch of her panties, feeling her heat, feeling the folds of her labia through the thin material. Just for the hell of it, I slipped a finger under the elastic. Her pussy was wet.

Now I was the one who had to get rid of my pants. I fired up my trusty toothbrush, and loitered up front where the action was, pressing it gingerly against my horny but tender clitoris. I had a front-row seat for the action, and the action was amazing! Felicity might not have given good head, but she was certainly enthusiastic, noisily devouring and slurping Zack’s cock through the slot in her cage.

She wasn’t quite able to bring him off with just her mouth, though she sure tried. Maybe that wasn’t surprising, seeing as he’d just come in my pussy not fifteen minutes earlier. It seemed like every time he was on the verge of coming, she’d change tactics, and he’d lose it. He was making a lot of noise by this time, whimpering, whining animal sounds, and his dick was as hard as I’d ever seen it. I was really wet myself, shockingly wet, my legs splayed wide apart and my pussy drooling, the vibrations of the toothbrush working their insidious magic on my urgently swollen clit.

Zack ended up jerking off into Felicity’s open mouth, which was pretty fun to watch.

“You can finger her off” I told Zack, “If you feel like it.”

He proceeded to do just that, tugging her proper white panties down and sliding a pudgy thumb up her furry twat. Zack was not one of those stereotypically clumsy teenage crotch-grabbers. I had to hand it to him: he had certainly done his anatomy/physiology homework. He fucked her pussy with his thumb, while two fingers caressed her clit. The results were spectacular. I jammed the buzzing toothbrush against my engorged clitoris, coming at the same time as my sister. Felicity gritted her teeth and clenched her fingers around the wire squares of her cage, arching her back and shaking her ass and hissing like a cat. Oh. My. God.

Both Zack and Felicity seemed a little sheepish when they were all done, but I was exuberant, prancing around the living room, naked from the waist down, giggling and dancing. I had finally found something even sexier than porn, even hotter than webcam boys. “You can do my sister any time you like!” I told Zack happily.

He took me at my word. I got to watch him fuck her the very next day, prying her panties aside and sliding his condom-sheathed dick up her pussy. Unless I was very much mistaken, she was a virgin. She took it stoically, and true to form, Zack got over excited and shot off inside her after only a few seconds. I took it upon myself to bring her off, lewdly tickling her asshole with one hand while my other hand drew whisper-soft circles around and around her clit. If Felicity was weirded out by having her own kid sister finger-banging her, she sure didn’t say anything. When she came, it was nearly silent, just a full-body tremor and a series of barely audible grunts. Then I had Zack lick my pussy right there in front of Felicity’s cage.

We bought dog clips, so we could attach Felicity’s collar to the mesh of her cage, making it easier for Zack to fuck her face. One time Zack brought one of his D&D friends over, an acne-ridden kid named Dwaine who had a rather small dick; and they double-teamed her, swapping sides front-to-back, then swapping again. I really wanted to watch the two of them make out after they were done with Felicity, but I don’t think the guys were into it.

Zack and I didn’t last very long as a couple. When it came right down to it, we didn’t have much in common with each other, aside from horniness and being social outcasts. I wasn’t very interested in D&D and comic books, and he wasn’t exactly what you’d call ‘literary’. We never actually officially broke up; we’re both too passive-aggressive for that, and having him banging my sister from time to time was too good of a situation for either of us to give up; but the actual boyfriend-girlfriend phase of our relationship was pretty short-lived.


What had originally seemed like more than plenty of money in our parents’ checking account was evaporating fast. The mortgage payments for the house were automatically deducted each month; at this rate by the end of the school year we’d be broke. One of us was going to have to get a job.

I found the place through craigslist, of course. The actual club was in a boiler room in the sub-basement of an old industrial building downtown. The place was a little larger than our own living room, full of exposed plumbing pipes and cheesy disco lights. The guy who ran the place was friendly, jovial, fat, and hairy, and dressed in red polyester, like an x-rated Santa Clause. He told us that Felicity could expect to make $200 a shift, which sounded like a lot of money to me. He asked to see her I.D. and I told him that she’d lost it. He nodded and asked her to strip. When she was naked, he nodded again and upgraded the number to $400. He asked when she could start. It was Friday, so we didn’t have to go to school in the morning. I said ‘Tonight’.

She didn’t even have to dance, not really. We handcuffed her hands behind her back, and chained her dog collar to an upright sprinkler pipe. She wore her non-sexy white panties, and kind of swayed to the music, and all night guys stuffed money into her underwear. I had set up a new email address, and I handed it out to anyone who asked. Around midnight, the club owner hosed her down with water from a fire extinguisher, to hoots and jeers from the old men who packed the room. There were probably eighty men in the club at any given time, and not one of them looked younger than forty. At the end of the night, which was close to the time we usually got up for school, Sal, the club owner took his cut: fifty percent. We went home with a little over $400 in small bills and twenties. I put Felicity in her cage, and then I crashed out in my bed. It had been a long night.

The other girls at the club were hard-edged and mean-eyed, and looked surgically enhanced whether they actually were or not. They all looked like they were old and were trying to look young, and they didn’t like us very much at all. Felicity didn’t last there very long, but that was ok. We didn’t need to, once the emails started coming in.

The negotiations with our first client were intricate and involved. Our man offered one number, and I responded with a much larger number. He hemmed and hawed. I told him she was a virgin, and doubled his original offer. He agreed. I stipulated that he had to wear a condom. He balked, but I didn’t budge. I told him that I’d be there in the room, watching, and he readily agreed to that, and we set a time and a date.

He showed up with a boner, and a big wad of cash. We were both wearing stupid little Catholic schoolgirl uniforms, just as he had requested. On her hands and knees in the cage, wearing the red plaid skirt and starchy white blouse, with her blonde hair done up in twin pig tails, Felicity looked disturbingly underage.

He was about our dad’s age; fiftyish, and almost skinny enough to be called emaciated, except for a big round pot belly that pried apart the lower buttons of his shirt. He didn’t have a lot of hair, and what was left was thin and grey. He handed over the money, a thick stack of twenty-dollar bills, and I told him to get undressed.

He’d expressed worry, in his emails, that his dick would be too big for Felicity’s ‘virgin’ pussy, that it would hurt her. To my (admittedly possibly jaded) eyes, he looked average, or maybe even on the small side of average. Felicity sucked his cock a little bit. She’d gotten better at it; between practicing on Zack, and watching me watch porn she had a much better idea what she was supposed to be doing, but she was still clumsy enough to maintain the ‘innocent young virgin’ illusion.

I hadn’t been sure what I’d make of it, watching some creepy old dude molesting my sister, but my pussy had no qualms whatsoever. I found myself reaching up inside my annoying skirt, pulling my panties aside and caressing my moist little kitty. Our guy looked over at me and leered. It wasn’t too late, he suggested, to make it a threesome. I told him he didn’t have enough money in the bank for that.

He asked me one last time if he really had to wear a condom. “Yes,” I said, my schoolgirl panties pulled to one side and my finger running up and down my juicy slit, “You really do.” He reluctantly tore a package open and, with a theatrical sigh, rolled the latex down over his dick. What a douche. Everything about this scene was so wrong. Why was it turning me on so much?

He was actually reasonably gentle about it. Felicity acted out her part pretty convincingly, wincing and whimpering and shying away from his invading dick, but trapped by the confines of her cage, she was, of course, helpless to stop him. She yelped in a pretty good imitation of pain and fear and surprise as he penetrated her, and then settled down to the business of getting fucked. I felt his eyes on me as I watched, legs splayed apart, finger up my twat, jamming my toothbrush against my clit in time with the squishing noises of his cock up her cunt. When I came, it seemed to throw a switch inside him, and he went crazy on her, humping like a randy monkey and finally shooting off into the condom with a raspy gargle. I think he got his money’s worth.

Word got around. Once, twice, three times a week, some guy would come to the house by appointment, hand over a wad of cash, and fuck my sister while I watched. The bank account stabilized, and I had plenty of voyeuristic orgasms. Felicity didn’t offer up an opinion about her new situation; but she wasn’t complaining, and she was still getting straight ‘A’s.

I did all the booking by email. Occasionally the client turned out to be someone we knew: the guy from the hardware store, our old UPS driver. At least three different teachers purchased Felicity’s services.

Mr. Tenenbaum, our old science teacher, neat and fastidious with a neatly trimmed white beard and a smallish dick just wanted to be sucked off, which took virtually no time at all; and then he wanted to hang out and chat incessantly, like a clingy old uncle who comes to visit and won’t go away.

There was Mr. Reed, perennial substitute, who every girl I knew (and probably half the guys), had had a crush on at some point. He was thirty-something, a little chubby, with Buddy Holly glasses and a cowlick, and he fingered Felicity and ate out her pussy and ass for almost an hour, kneeling behind the cage and feasting hungrily on her until she was literally mewing like a cat in heat. At long last, he came up for air, his face pink with effort and shiny wet with her juices. He pulled his dick out of his trousers, donned a condom, and slowly and methodically fucked her cunt, his thumb buried firmly in her asshole. It was fucking hot to watch!

And then there was Mrs. Donohue, our sixth grade health teacher who we all thought was a witch. She had referred to herself as ‘Danny’ in the emails; I had no idea it was going to be a ‘her’; I certainly had no idea that our latest client was ‘Old Ironsides’. Danny was a big woman. Not particularly fat; big, like a linebacker. She was an even six feet tall, thick and solid, with big, businesslike breasts. We all used to be afraid of her at school. All the girls in class used to giggle: how could she possibly teach sex-ed? It was impossible to imagine Mrs. Donohue fornicating in any manner whatsoever.

Her money was as green as anyone else’s though, and there was plenty of it. She undressed, which was alarming in and of itself. She had huge, crinkly pink areolae, and a tough and businesslike cunt, with a kinky matt of salt-and-pepper hair and fat, pursed lips. Her butt was rippled like cottage cheese. She produced, from her handbag, a large black strap-on dildo, which she proceeded to put on. When all the buckles were adjusted to her satisfaction, she lifted up the hatch at the back of Felicity’s cage, took a big handful of hair, and without preamble, vigorously fucked Felicity’s cunt. She fucked hard and ruthlessly, as if it were an athletic event she was intent on winning. She did that for a long while, and watching it was slightly surreal and oddly erotic: it made me wet, though I couldn’t tell you why. Finally, she disengaged from Felicity, leaving her flushed and panting, and still wearing her slick black dildo, she fished a little tin box out of her handbag, rolled up a big fat joint, and we both got high together, which struck me as odd because marijuana had been specifically addressed in the health class curriculum as a dangerous gateway drug. It was pretty good marijuana too, and we smoked the joint down to a stub.

I had never gotten stoned with a teacher before, and somehow that seemed weirder than watching a teacher bone my caged sister. It was more intimate, more human somehow. I watched, pleasantly dazed, as Mrs. Donohue produced some lube and what looked like an expensive vibrator from her voluminous handbag. She gave me some more money.

Then she sidled back up to the rear of Felicity’s cage, her black plastic phallus bobbing and weaving in front of her, like an obscene marionette in a puppet show run by perverts.

Mrs. Donohue positioned herself carefully, and poured lube all over her dildo. She rested the sleek black-and-chrome vibrator against the small of Felicity’s back, leered lasciviously over at me, poured on some more lube, and then proceeded to cram that dildo straight up my sister’s butt.

Felicity wasn’t exactly a virgin in that department. Since this all began, she’d had a couple of penises in there (Zack’s was first of all), and a few dildos, lubed-up hairbrushes, assorted vegetables, as well as any number of fingers. As far as I could tell, she enjoyed anal sex (I knew I enjoyed watching her take it in the butt!); but we never ever talked about sexual things, just like we never ever talked about our parents’ disappearance.

(Once, we found an old shoebox marked XXX hidden on the shelf behind the regular movies. It was full of unmarked VHS tapes. By mutual unspoken agreement, they went straight into the garbage. There is something inherently stomach-turning about your own parents’ porn; even worse, what if they had turned out to be home movies?! The list of subjects that Felicity and I refused to talk about could have filled a book.)

I usually told clients that if they wanted anal, they would have to pay extra. But the fact was, in the heat of the moment, as long as there were condoms and lube involved, it didn’t really matter.

When a guy fucked Felicity in the ass, she would usually howl and cry like she was being skewered alive: it gave the guy a big charge to think he was hurting her and there was nothing she could do about it; and it reminded him to be at least a little bit gentle about what he was doing. There was nothing gentle about the way Mrs. Donohue inflicted that dildo on Felicity; she tried to flinch away as Mrs. Donohue shoved that thing home, wrapping her fingers around the wire mesh of her cage and whimpering like a hurt animal. Nothing about that whining noise sounded fake to me. Mrs. Donohue grinned wolfishly over at me and started pounding her ass with vigor. She had a bit of a stomach, which jiggled unattractively with every thrust. She would pull the silicon cock almost all the way out, and then shove it deep inside, hard and fast, like she was driving railroad spikes, John Henry with a 10” dildo for a hammer. Each time the dildo plunged into her backside, Felicity inhaled sharply through clenched teeth, and grasped the bars of her cage until her knuckles turned white and her fingers bled.

Mrs. Donohue’s oversized tits swung like wrecking balls as she fucked Felicity’s ass. It was bizarre to watch, and a little scary, but it was fucking hot. I had abandoned my skirt; my legs were spread wide, and I was running my buzzing toothbrush up and down my juicy, wide-open cunt. My clit felt like the flashing light on top of a fire engine. Mrs. Donohue watched me masturbate, and deliberately licked her lips, slowly and obscenely. She obviously liked what she was seeing, and that gave me another little bizarre erotic charge. I remembered in health class Mrs. Donohue telling us solemnly and disapprovingly that masturbation was perfectly normal and nothing to be ashamed of. My juices were running down my crack and soaking the seat of my chair.

Before I realized what was happening, there was a crack and a sizzle like a moth flying into a bug zapper, and a smell of ozone, and Felicity screamed. There was nothing at all fake about that scream; it was painful to hear. I realized that the ‘vibrator’ in Mrs. Donohue’s hand was in fact a taser, and that she was pressing the electrodes against the soft white flesh of Felicity’s back and holding down the button. The result was devastating. Felicity jumped and flailed, as much as she could with her neck collared and dog-clipped to the front of the cage; the fingers that were wrapped around the metal squares sparked and smoked; her eyes were wide and panicked, and her screams were ragged and raw and constant.

Again and again, Mrs. Donohue pushed the button, fucking Felicity hard and deep all the while. I guess the dildo didn’t conduct electricity. Sweat was running down Mrs. Donohue’s copious chest, and she was breathing hard with the effort, but that scary grin never left her face. I thought about shutting it all down, telling Mrs. Donohue to get off and go away or I’d call the cops, and meaning it too, but my cunt was enjoying the show way too much. I came and came again to the sound of Felicity’s piteous screams, the sound of my sister being brutally sodomized and tortured.

By the time the batteries in the taser ran out, all three of us were exhausted. Felicity vomited a little as Mrs. Donohue slowly, regretfully withdrew the dildo from her asshole. I hadn’t seen Mrs. Donohue orgasm, or even do anything that looked particularly sexual to herself, but she was smiling a self-satisfied smile that told me she’d gotten her rocks off. She smiled nastily at me as she got dressed, winked at Felicity, and left.

Felicity slept with me that night. It had been months and months since she had slept outside of her cage. I held her for a long time while she sobbed silently, shaking in my arms. I told her I was sorry, and she whispered that it was ok. I told her I’d never let Mrs. Donohue touch her again, and she whispered back that ‘never’ is a four letter word. She finally fell asleep, clutching me tight, as if I were an oversized teddy bear. It made me feel really grown-up to be held like that, which was strange and a little dizzying.

Sometime later in the night we both woke up. She was still holding on to me. I became immediately hyper-aware of her proximity to my body. I could feel her breath on my face. I’m not sure how I knew she was awake, but I knew it. We both felt the tension of the moment. We breathed each other’s air. Then her lips found mine, shyly and tentatively, she kissed me. It was a lover’s kiss. I kissed her again, and she kissed me back, hard, more insistent this time. I felt myself melting. I suddenly needed to feel her breasts against my own. I squirmed out of my pajama top, not easy as her fingers were curled in my hair, pulling me to her and kissing me ravenously, but I did it. I pulled her top open, and our flesh was pressed together, my own gauche boobs mashed against her firm, petite breasts. She gasped into my mouth, and I could feel the moist heat of her cunt rubbing against my thigh.

I slid my hand down inside her pajama bottoms, and found her cunt sopping wet. She made a gurgling noise and arched her back, her lips still glued to my own. My other hand slid down the back of her pajamas, cupping her fine ass. I finger-fucked her with both hands, a finger up her ass, and a finger up her cunt. It was the first time I’d touched another girl, and it was my own sister. I felt wild, out of control, and when she came, squeezing my probing digits tight, her whole body quivering, kissing my lips urgently, her breath coming in little gasps, I felt like I was Queen of the Universe.

She played with my pussy for a while. We lay like spoons for a little, her damp pussy pressed against my butt, her clever fingers tracing intricate spirals up and down my slit and around my clit. She pinched and tugged at my nipples, and fingered my cunt, sliding her long fingers deep inside me. I was plenty wet, and it sure felt nice, but I couldn’t come. She even went down on me a little, but it just wasn’t happening. We kissed some more. Felicity finally drifted back off to sleep, naked and wet and sticky, my arm flung protectively across her shoulders.

I got up and whacked off to some grainy old porn from the ‘70s or ‘80s, a stoned-looking girl with bad hair and hungry eyes taking on all comers. I’d recently tried using various dildos and vibrators, but nothing hit the spot like my good old electric toothbrush. Finally I turned on the webcam, and watched random boys jerking off. That did the trick. I came at 4:45 in the morning, legs on the table, clit raw and tender and swollen, bathed in the blue light of my computer monitor. Then I went back to bed, and finally slept soundly, next to my gently snoring sister.


Felicity went back to her cage. She wrote a paper in there, something about dynamic systems and differential equations that I didn’t understand at all, but it was kind of a big deal and won a couple of awards. For her birthday, I had her nipples pierced.  I wondered what the review committee would think if they saw her tapping away on her laptop inside her dog cage, collar around her throat, small silver bells hanging from her breasts, oversized butt-plug inserted in her ass. I imagined it would probably blow a few fuses.

I always expected to hear from our parents, to get a postcard from some sunny beach in the South Atlantic telling us they we doing fine and they loved us, but the postcard never came. I don’t know why, but I was always quite certain, deep inside, that wherever they were, they were doing fine, just living out their lives. I wondered, sometimes, if they missed us.

Felicity got accepted everywhere she applied. Yale and Stanford were in kind of a bidding war for her, offering competing scholarships with stipends and goodies, but Felicity really wanted to go to MIT. The money was going to be problematic, but we’d manage it somehow. She deferred enrolment for a year. Until then we figured we’d just play it by ear.


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Feast Here Tonight

I met her at a self-help seminar, one of those awful twelve-step things. I’d had it about up to here with human misery, and I had filled out the Saturday Times crossword puzzle until I got stuck, and I was just about to bag it all and go back home to the ranch, when something passed between us and ignited a spark.

The motivational speaker droned on and on. The girl next to me sneezed –I don’t know why I hadn’t even taken her in before, but she was that kind of girl – and I said ‘Bless you’ and put my hand comfortingly on her thigh. Her leg was pleasantly thick and warm through the denim, and I let my palm rest there longer than was strictly necessary. When I did move my hand away, she adjusted the way she was sitting so that her jean-clad leg pressed lightly against my own. Gotcha.

She was fat, or maybe ‘thick’ is a better adjective; but not in a happy, healthy, lounging-around-and-eating-too-much-French Provencal-sort-of-way. She was the kind of overweight one gets from too much stress, unhappiness and bad food. Underneath all that though, I could see that she was beautiful. I whispered in her ear that we should get out of here, go get a cup of coffee or something, and she immediately agreed.

We sat together at an outdoor café. When I offered to make it my treat, she looked insanely grateful. Her hands had a slight tremble. She spilled her guts to me over iced lattes, telling me all about her money troubles, her ex-husband, her on-again/off-again struggle with alcoholism. I listened sympathetically, and then steered the conversation toward sex, which certainly wasn’t difficult.

It turns out she had only ever been with one man, her ex, and she was eager to try new and different things. I asked her about her fantasies, and she blushingly confided in me that she would like to have two men at once. She was perfect.

Then she told me that she’d like to try being with a girl too, and I got all hot and gooey between my legs.

I explained to her what we were all about. She asked if I was serious, and I said yes. She said she’d have to think about it, which was fair enough. And then I seduced her, which was totally against the rules.

I fucked her in the back of our pickup, in a far-flung corner of a mostly-empty shopping mall parking lot, under a clear blue sky and the watchful eyes of a couple dozen reeling, crying seagulls.

She had a pretty, petite little pussy, hidden under a tangle of soft mousey grey-brown hair and nestled beneath protective pillows of pale flesh. It blossomed under my touch, parting eagerly like a blooming rose, and we kissed like that, naked under the glare of the morning sun, my fingers playing up and down, up and down the slit between her thick thighs for a long time. She was worried at first that we’d get caught, but I assured her that we wouldn’t, and as it turned out I was right. Finally, she relaxed, laying back and spreading her legs wide, exposing her secret parts to me, and I dived in, a little shocked myself at just how horny I was to lick her pussy. My own clit was screaming to be touched, and I took perverse pleasure in not touching it, making it wait.

It was amazing how wet she was. Her little pussy was drooling under my tongue, copious amounts of slippery, tangy wetness, soaking both of us. She was tight, as if she hadn’t been touched in a very long time, and with one finger up inside her pussy, my tongue danced tiny circles on her clit, she started to come, sprawled across the bed of our pickup truck, shaking and twisting and writhing, her pussy clenching down on my finger, her hands opening and closing, her head lolling back and forth as she called out my name to the sky, imploring me not to stop, not ever, begging me for more, more, more.

Like I said before, she was fat; maybe not clinically obese, but definitely overweight; which made it hard to see, but there was something just below the surface, trying hard to get out. When she came, she positively glowed. Her skin was pale and flaccid, her hair was dirty blonde and frazzled, her boobs sagged; but her eyes were bright and full of life. I was in love.

She wasn’t lying when she told me she’d never been with a girl. Her attempts at cunnilingus were eager but awkward; earnest and sweet, but incredibly frustrating. She’d lick at me once or twice, then come up to look for approval before diving back in. It was hit-or-miss on my poor, aching, frustrated clit. Finally, she lay down on top of me. She was heavy but I didn’t mind, and she kissed my mouth hard and deep while I guided her fingers. When I came underneath her, it was the most intense orgasm I’d had in months, and I kissed her back with ferocious hunger.

We got dressed, shyly and sheepishly, like a pair of teenage lovers on a hot-and-heavy first date, and I dropped her off at the downtown bus station with my cell phone number and a promise to call whatever she decided to do. She kissed me one last time, and I sat there behind the wheel of the truck after she had gone, sticky and wet between my legs, wondering what I had just set in motion.

She didn’t call for over a week. At first I obsessed over her, and then I just sort of wrote her off. When she did call, it was late, I was sitting on the back porch reading by moonlight and contemplating going to bed, when my cell phone rang. She kept it simple: “I’m in” was all she said.

I picked her up at the same bus station I’d dropped her off. All her belongings fit inside one lumpy black duffel bag, which seemed tragic and sad. We didn’t talk much on the long, bumpy, dusty ride out to the ranch. She was in an introspective mood, and I was hesitant to break into her thoughts.

The next four weeks was paradise squared. She spent her days lounging by the pool, reading books and sipping cocktails, or strolling through the woods, getting massages, and eating Jack’s fabulous, over-the-top meals. He outdid himself, cooking omelets and crepes for breakfast; fabulous lunches of fresh picked salad greens and ham and cheese croissant sandwiches or quiches; and intricate, seriously epic dinners of duck a l’orange, braised lamb, Normandy chicken, roasted Cornish hens, or ratatouille. There were mouth watering puddings too, his specialty — tarte tatin, almond and pear clafouti, mille-feuilles, chocolate and fig flan.

Her body subtly changed shape: a doctor would still have tut-tutted and made noises about losing weight and exercising, but she started to look more like one of those beauties from a French Renaissance painting, and less like a refugee from the Jerry Springer show. She liked to sunbathe nude in the vegetable garden, and I liked to just sit and watch her.

There was sex play too, though orgasms were strictly forbidden. We instructed her in the art of fellatio, and she was an eager student. She ravenously devoured Jack and Martin’s cocks (sometimes both at the same time) like a woman half-starved, while Melissa watched approvingly. She would drink their come as if it was some exotic delicacy, slurping up any stray droplets, and squeezing their penises like a spent tube of toothpaste to wring every last bit out. She got good quickly, and it was beautiful to watch. She learned to swallow their (sizeable!) cocks whole, taking virtually the whole shaft down her throat without gagging. She would carefully and tenderly suck their testicles, eventually opening her mouth wide and engulfing their entire ball sacs in her mouth; she would wet a finger and slide it up Jack or Martin’s tight asshole while she sucked, exciting delighted moans of pleasure and earning a quick mouthful of hot semen. She also learned how to slow it down, how to not gobble like a hungry dog; how to draw it out and torment the guys until they were literally begging for release. Now that was hot to watch!

Martin would give her backrubs. She would lie naked on her stomach on a folded-out deck chair, and he would knead the tension out of her shoulders, his fat dick nudging at the cleft of her buttocks. He would work his way down her back, working her lumbar region with the heels of his hand, and then he would play with her pussy, tracing his finger up and down her slit, teasing her clit and her asshole, and even penetrating her vagina, but never bringing her anywhere close to coming. This inevitably resulted in a big fat blowjob for him.

She may not have been allowed to have orgasms, but she had orgasms all right. Late at night, when everyone else was asleep, I would sneak into her room, and we would get it on, like a pair of horny tigresses. If Melissa had found out, she would have slit my throat. I gave her multiple, muffled-screaming-into-her-pillow orgasms in her bedroom, and she learned to give as good as she got. I enjoyed pushing her limits, straddling the knife edge between pleasure and pain. She would clasp the pillow to her mouth in anticipation, as I pinched her clit, and fucked her pussy with two and even three or four fingers, until she came, her whole body shaking and clenching, howling uncontrollably into the goose down. I gazed with lust at her tiny, sensitive asshole; but aside from a few tentative brushes across her anus with my tongue, which made her shiver and inhale sharply, I left that part of her anatomy alone. She got really good at licking my pussy; any remaining shyness or hesitation disappeared as she buried her face in my crotch, flicking her tongue at my engorged clit, and sliding her soft, plump fingers up my pussy and asshole, playing me like an erotic finger puppet. Sometimes she would lie on her stomach on the bed, and I would lie down on her back, taking one large soft breast in each hand, and grinding myself to orgasm against her ample buttocks. Other times, we would lie face-to-face, her big breasts squished against mine, her warm tummy pressed against me, and we would kiss and finger each other’s pussy until we shuddered and came, lips mashed together, bodies trembling with desire. Then I would tiptoe back to my own bed.

She feasted well, on Jack’s exquisite French cooking, and occasional forays by the rest of us into Tex-Mex, American Southern Home Cooking, and Thai; and she grew pink and fat and sleek. Her large breasts, which had been kind of sad, droopy things when we first met, seemed to fill out and perk up, like a neglected houseplant that has finally been watered. Her stomach was full and round, and her cheeks blushed red. Melissa announced that she was ready.

We told her after breakfast that morning. She looked around, at all our faces, and nodded. She was ready too.

She asked me if she could make one last phone call, and I gently told her ‘No’. She nodded, understanding.

She took a long hot bath, with honey-clover scented oils, and the boys scrubbed her all over. Then we shaved her, all of her. She cried a little when Martin drew the buzzing electric razor across her scalp, and her dishwater-blonde curls fell on the tiled bathroom floor. I could understand that: her hair might not have been best feature, but even so it was hers.

We took her down to the basement, and had her lay down on the block. The block was an elevated slab of concrete, stained black, with intricate channels carved into the surface. It had hot water pipes running throughout it that radiated heat, and made the surface warm as sun-baked asphalt. First Martin gave her a good long massage, notably non-sexual in nature, methodically kneading and rubbing every part of her body, from her freshly-shaved scalp and temples down to each individual toe. When he was done, she rolled over onto her back, and we each licked her pussy for a while: first Jack, then Melissa had a few licks, then Martin took a turn, and then me. I buried my face in her slippery wet folds and let my tongue dance all over and around her erect little clitoris, whispering ‘Don’t come yet, don’t come yet, don’t come yet…’ silently into her cunt.

Then we rolled her over, and she got up on her hands and knees, and I poured heated olive oil all over her backside, and down the valley between her ass cheeks. As the others watched, I spread her soft cheeks, and gently toyed with her little puckered anus, eventually working my oil-slick finger inside, slowly and carefully butt-fucking her with my index finger.

Martin took over. Of the two guys, her had the bigger dick, though neither of them was what I’d call ‘small’. I oiled him up. The bulbous red head of his cock seemed to swell eagerly from under the hood of his foreskin as he pressed up against her tiny, puckered anus. She whimpered softly as he slid up inside her delicate, virgin hole, grunting as he shoved it home. She didn’t seem distressed, though she took deep, measured breaths as he started sliding his cock slowly in and out. Her big tits hung down, swaying like the pendulum of some erotic clock.

They rolled over, so that Martin was on his back on the slab, and she lay atop him, his cock buried balls-deep in her asshole. Melissa and I spread her legs wide, wide apart, and Jack speared her pussy with his own erection. She made a muffled mewing sound as the two cocks competed for space inside her body, stretching and squeezing her. Slowly, haltingly, after a few false starts, they found their rhythm, and started really pummeling her. They were fucking competitively, each one implicitly daring the other to fuck her harder, daring the other guy to come first. Sandwiched between them, she was breathing raggedly, in sharp little gasps.

“I’m going to come!” she cried out, “Oh my God, I’m going to come! I’m going to come! I’m fucking coming!”

Melissa reached deftly into the fray, and with the skill and precision of a surgeon, slit her throat with a matte knife, opening up a gaping crescent-shaped wound from just under one ear to just under the other ear, severing tendons, trachea, veins and arteries along the way.

Bright red arterial blood sprayed everywhere, spattering me and Melissa, soaking Martin and Jack, and running in rivulets down onto the black slab, where it filled the intricately carved channels, tracing a macabre design in the concrete.

Jack cried out and came in her still-twitching pussy, which sent Martin off, growling like a bear and shooting off, filling her rectum to overflowing with his milky-white semen.

Quickly and efficiently, we cleaned and dressed her carcass, and transferred her to the oven, putting her in a big roasting pan on a bed of yams, potatoes, and garlic cloves. We sprinkled her with salt and rosemary and set her to broil, basting her occasionally with her own juices.

When she was done, when her skin was brown and crisp, when her flesh was tender and juicy, we took her out of the oven, and served her up along with an arugula salad.

Before we ate, we all raised our glasses in a toast to her. Then we dug in, eating our fill. She was delicious.


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