The Lesbian Lolita

(BMWFwf bd bi interr reluc voy span nc 1st? <*>)

Father Ignatius

©August 2000

I left the nursery early to sick-visit my old mum. The supervisor tried giving me shit about it but I gave him the eye. White bastard, I thought as I left Mullumbimby behind me and drove to my mum’s house at Burringbar. Black men don’t get family problems too? Bastard. I was a bit worried when the nurse’s car wasn’t in the driveway of her house. So as not to get parked in when she returned, I parked around the back. I was more worried when no-one answered my knock. I let myself in, and went to my mother’s tiny bedroom. She seemed to be fine, but very deep asleep.

I went into the dining-room to look for the nurse—since she fell ill, my mother’s dining-room table was a nurse’s station. The nurse’s purse, my mother’s medications, fresh bandages, and so forth were all stored there. My mother’s Zimmer frame was also there—her bedroom was too small for it. She’d been bed-ridden for months, anyway. I wandered around the house calling, “Hallo? Anyone home?” but the place was empty. My calling out showed no sign of disturbing mum. She was really out.

Wondering what had become of the nurse, I looked around. Everything seemed neat and tidy enough. There was even a nice arrangement of the nasturtiums I’d brought from the nursery. Mum couldn’t have done that for herself. I sat down by her bed, and leafed through a magazine to pass the time.

I was getting worried enough to wonder how to discover the nursing service’s telephone number when I heard a car draw into the driveway. Two car doors clunked closed. I heard footsteps crunch on the drive. and happy, feminine laughter. Looking out of the bedroom window, through the crack in the curtain, I saw the nurse approaching with her arm around the waist of a young girl somewhere between childhood and adolescence.

The nurse—her name was Jackie, I remembered—was wearing uniform. It was an epauletted white one-piece that zipped all the way up, from hem to neckline, snugly accentuating her fit, young, narrow-hipped figure. Her tanned, bare, tennis-player legs were shod in sensible, flat-heeled, brown-leather nurse shoes. The all-the-way zip was currently pulled far down, exposing her hemispherical little breasts. There was no sign of a bra or a tan line. Or, my eyes roamed to check, a pantie-line either. Tsk, tsk—what would Florence Nightingale have said?

The stocky, broad-shouldered young unknown was wearing a yellow tank-top that outlined small, budding breasts. She was wearing khaki shorts with a brown leather belt, thick socks and light-weight hiking boots. She was a little sweaty and grimy. Maybe she’d just hiked down the mountain.

As I watched them come up the garden path, they stopped and embraced and kissed deeply. Jackie’s straight brown hair fell forward to either side of the younger girl’s face, obscuring her mischievous grin. I could see her throat working, though, as if her tongue was busy. I belatedly realized that the young girl was more than a friendly young companion. She seemed very young, though. A regular little lesbian Lolita.

Giggling, the two of them broke apart, shooting looks under their eyelashes at the neighbours’ gardens, but there was no-one to catch them out in their public daring. Slightly embarrassed, the younger girl rubbed a hand through her short, straight, blonde hair, and hastened forward.

I heard the door open and close, quickly and quietly. There was some giggling and whispering and then Jackie’s voice came clearly:

“Don’t worry, I sedated the old bitch. She’ll be out for hours yet.”

“Cool. Hey, look at all this doctor stuff. Do you really use all this?”

“Yeah. I have to change her dressings every day. It’s a mission.”

“What’s this gross item?”

“That’s a Zimmer frame. The old lady uses it for walking.”

“Ah, shame,” said the young girl perfunctorily. She was far too young to begin comprehending the trials of the aged.

I didn’t know what to do. If she’d been alone, I think I would have met Jackie at the door and given her a dressing down for neglecting her patient. As it was, I was disconcerted by the extra visitor. I didn’t know what to make of her. I didn’t know the protocol for ticking off neglectful nurses in front of young women whom they kissed in public and who then called my mother an old bitch. While I dithered, the moment passed and I found I was trapped. Whereas they had started out in the wrong, by not revealing myself I had intruded on their privacy, the tables were turned and I was feeling hotly embarrassed.

And such privacy—matters rapidly became worse. There was some rustling and giggling and someone said, “Ow! Too much, you slag.” Despite myself, I felt drawn towards the bedroom door. Looking down and across the passage, I could see a small slice of the dining room, but there was no-one to see.

“No, not now. We’re in a strange house. I don’t feel relaxed enough. Make me a cup of tea—I’m your guest, after all, you know.”

“Stuff tea, Kim. We’re alone in a strange house. I’ve been short-changing the old bag on her sedatives all week to save up for knocking her out for the afternoon today. It’s ‘Come into my parlour said the spider to the fly’ time.” There was more rustling and giggling.

“No,” said the young girl, half-joking and half-serious. “I want to be properly entertained.” She was playing hard-to-get, and enjoying every moment.

There was a clank and a dragging noise, and the Zimmer frame appeared in my narrow field of vision. Kim stood inside the curved of it to perch herself on the upper bar. She hooked the stout, flat heels of her hiking-boots over the lower bar. She kept her precarious balance by leaning forward and gripping onto the handles from the wrong side.

“No,” she said firmly. “I’m going to sit here until you get me a nice cup of tea.” Her chin lifted in defiance, and I saw the mischievous smile come out again.

“Then you’re going to be sitting there a very long time,” Jackie’s voice replied, slightly muffled. I heard a rustling from the direction of the medical stores and then the sound of a length of heavy, medical tape being pulled off the roll and the snipping of scissors.

“Whatcha doing? You’re not going to change the old bag’s dressings now, are you? Ewwww! Gross!”

“No, I’m going to change your dressings, young lady.”

Jackie appeared with a length of the heavy-duty medical adhesive tape. Before Kim realized what was going on, Jackie’s hands flashed out and taped Kim’s wrist to the bar of the Zimmer frame.

“Hey!” cried Kim, and fought back with her free hand. She tried to dismount but her hooked boot heels delayed her long enough for the heavier Jackie to force the free hand down to the bar and tape it too. Kim teetered precariously. She wanted to get down but could get her balance to do so. She couldn’t lean back, or she’d fall. She couldn’t lean forward because Jackie was in the way. And her hands were bound tight to the frame with the heavy-duty plaster.

Oh, my God, I was thinking, how am I going to get out of this? Part of me, the civilized part, was terminally embarrassed. The other part was fascinated. I couldn’t drag my eyes away from what was going on.

Jackie dipped into her pocket and brought out a roll of bandage. She stooped and, with a nurse’s quick fingers, she tethered Kim’s ankles together, and to the lower bar of the frame. Kim squeaked indignantly. “Jackie! Jackie! Let me off this thing. I’m going to fall and break my back.”

“You aren’t going to fall if you keep still.”

“Jackie! No!”

“Hush, my dear,” said Jackie, “or I’ll hush you. We can’t afford to wake the patient, can we?”

“Jackie, I mean it! Let me go! I’m going to fall!”

“Tut, tut,” said Jackie, “I despise disobedience.” She disappeared, and came back with a good length of the broad sticking-plaster. She pressed it firmly over Kim’s protesting mouth and stretched it into place with strong rubbing pressure from her thumbs.

“There you go,” she said, “I had to study logorrhea for my psychology practical when I was in training. I never found any use for it before. Goes to show—nothing is wasted.”

Kim’s cries became squeaks and her eyes roundened imploringly.

“’ease, ’a’ie” she squeaked, “’ease. ’Em ’e ’o!”

“My, how persistently disobedient you are,” said Jackie. “If you’re going to be like that, I’m going to have to spank you.”

“’ease, ’a’ie...”

“Okay, then,” said Jackie, “you asked for it.” And she reached for Kim’s belt buckle. Kim started back. The frame rocked alarmingly on its back legs. Kim hastily shifted her weight forward again.

“And thank you,” said Jackie as the belt buckle swung back towards her fingers. She undid it, pulled the belt out through the straps of the khaki shorts. She doubled it over and held both ends in her hands to form a loop. Kim finally went quiet. Very, very quiet. Oh shit, I thought. What am I going to do? What am I going to do? What am I going to do?

What Jackie was going to do was to start slapping the outside of Kim’s thighs gently with the belt. Left, right, left, right, forehand, backhand, forehand, backhand, slap, slap. Gently, remorselessly, slowly working her way from knees to waist and slowly back again. Kim’s legs got redder and redder and redder, and she threw her head back. The movement threatened to topple her backwards, and she reflexively snapped forward again.

Next time, Jackie went up the outside of one thigh only—left, left, left, left—and went round behind to slap at Kim’s twitching little butt. The khaki shorts were offering ’way too much protection, I could see that. She went round the front with the belt and stepped between Kim’s legs. Kim snapped her knees shut defensively.

“No, no, no,” said Jackie. “We aren’t having any of that. Open!” she commanded.

“Mm-mm!” refused Kim. “’ease, ’a’ie!”

“Open!” said Jackie, and whacked her across the lap with the belt. Kim started to cry. “Open!” said Jackie and lifted the belt for a really hard shot. Kim surrendered, and opened her legs. Jackie stepped forward and unbuttoned the shorts.

“Lift up your butt,” she said.

“Mm-mm!” said Kim again, shaking her head.

Jackie went round behind her. “When your butt is ready to get up off that bar,” she said, “just do it.” And she started the gentle slapping again. Kim’s buttocks and thighs got redder and redder and redder and so did her face. She started moaning and shaking her head about. Eventually, inexorably, the butt lifted from the bar, and the tears streamed down her face.

“Good girl,” said Jackie, approvingly. She dropped the belt and took two hands to drag the shorts and some skimpy little yellow panties down Kim’s legs until they were festooned round her ankles. Kim’s revealed bush was a smass of thick, blonde curls.

Jackie went and got more of the sticking plaster.

“Open!” she said. With professional efficiency, she taped Kim’s knees back to the frame so she couldn’t close her legs, no matter what. Her ankles were bound close together on the lower bar, her knees were bound back to the frame and her bare butt was hanging over behind the frame. She had to lean forward to stop from falling over backwards. Jackie picked up the belt, and went back to the gentle slapping, this time between Kim’s thighs. Forehand, backhand, left, right, on and on and on. Kim kept wanting to lean back, but hunched forward again every time the frame rocked.

When the slapping got so far up Kim’s inner thighs that there wasn’t room to swing the belt any more, Jackie sank to her knees and walked on them forward into Kim’s crotch. Her head sank in to the shadows under Kim’s crouching torso. There was a long moment of tension and then Kim gasped and started. Jackie’s dark head moved up and down gently, unhurriedly, and Kim gasped and whimpered and writhed and strained against her strange harness.

One of my dark heads was buzzing with the effort of figuring out what to do whereas my other dark head had absolutely no doubts on the matter—it was making valiant efforts to get out of my pants. It wanted me to carry it into the dining-room and bury it, up to the hilt, between those reddened, bound legs. Now. Now, now, now.

Not daring to breath I moved as silently as I knew back into mum’s bedroom and rearranged the rampant family jewels as comfortably as I could, which wasn’t much. I glanced furtively over my shoulder but mum, thank God, was deep under. I felt ashamed that I could have a boner in front of my own mother, in her own bedroom. Well, I could—and a monster one. I was going to have to do something about it, and soon.

The crescendo of ecstatic sounds from Kim drew me back to the door. I watched while Jackie’s eager tongue drew Kim slowly, slowly, slowly up to a shuddering, tape-tugging, head-shaking, frame-teetering climax. At each lick, she gasped and her head went back and rocked the frame and at each rock she clenched her abdomen and swung herself back from overbalancing. Gasp, clench, gasp, clench, she was doing the actions of a belly-dancer while strapped to a Zimmer frame and getting licked off.

I could see sweat on her fit, strong back, trickling into the cleft between her young, round buttocks.

Oh, God.

“I seem to have made a tactical error here,” said Jackie, after a pause for reflection. “Here I am, horny as a three-balled tomcat, and here you are, all trussed up like a Christmas turkey and not in a position to help at all. Oh, well, I’m just going to do the best I can.” She unzipped her white uniform and shrugged it off. The epaulettes made a small sound as they hit the floor.

She straddled one of Kim’s knees, and slowly started humping her leg. She held on to her shoulder and stared at her unblinkingly while she was doing it. She licked her forefinger and burrowed it into her own crotch. Breaking her gaze, she threw her head back, and gave a luxuriant, full-throated, open-mouthed groan. The humping rhythm picked up. She moved her hand up to grip Kim’s neck, giving herself extra leverage as her movements became more vigorous. She yanked on Kim’s neck, and mashed Kim’ taped mouth to her own. She started making little squeaking noises in her throat. She was close.

Oh, dear God. Was I going to have to masturbate in my sleeping mother’s bedroom, where a belt-wielding nurse could hear at any moment? No.

“Good afternoon, ladies,” I said as I stepped through the door. “Nice day for it.”

Jackie spun round with an agonized intake of breath. Her hands flew to her heart. Kim jerked back and shrieked nasally through her tape gag as she crashed backwards onto the floor. Wide-eyed, she goggled at me over the flesh-colored tape across her mouth, over her half-formed, little-girl breasts, over her curly blonde bush, between her taped-open legs, over her pantie-hobbled ankles.

“Oooooo, ’od,” she moaned from behind the tape.

“Shit!” shrieked Jackie, “Who are you? How long have you been there?”

“This long,” I said, opening my fly. My cock—free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, free at last—sprang out at her. “I’m Kenny, remember? Your patient’s son? I work up at the nursery in Mullumbimby?”

“Ooooooh, no,” she said, backing away as she eyed my raging hard-on. But she was still breathing hard, and raggedly. I had interrupted her on the very cusp of her orgasm and, though her heart might have been pounding from fright, her cunt was past the point of no return and desperate for release.

“Ooooooh, yes,” I said, “What’s the matter? Have you never seen black wood before?”

“You keep that thing away from me,” she said, but she didn’t sound convinced.

“This is not a thing, sheila. This is a dong.” I chuckled. “It’s a hairy quandong, a quandong bush, with two big, ripe, hairy black fruits hanging off it. See? We grow them up the nursery, and this nurseryman is here to plant a quandong in your bush.”

“No!” she said sharply, backing away more. She came up against the dining-room table.

“Now, you listen to me, sheila. I wonder what the Nursing Commission would have to say about withholding medication to sedate your patient senseless for your afternoon fuck. My mother. The old bitch. The old bag. Remember? Not to mention what the police would have to say about you bringing a legal minor trespassing into her house for immoral purposes.”

I caught up to her, and backed her butt hard up against the table. She put up her hands to defend herself. I caught her wrists and twisted them back. Despite herself, her torso swung back over the table. Despite herself, her legs rose up. I roared as I sank in to her warm, wet cunt that, despite her, welcomed me gratefully. I drew back slowly, and plunged forward.

“Oh!” she cried. Again slowly back, and again the plunge. “Oh!” she cried, louder. Her interrupted orgasm was sweeping back on her and—as I plunged a third, a fourth, a fifth time—she cried out in humiliation, in rage at her betraying body, and was swept away in the flash-flood of her treacherous orgasm.

She rocked and sobbed and spasmed and I felt her clench and clench and clench and clench and, when it was finally over, the fight went out of hern and she turned aside and wept.

I wasn’t nearly done, but I didn’t like fucking a weeping woman. I pulled out and let her go, let her roll off the table, and flop onto her hands and knees. She was finished, out of it.

I turned to the Zimmer frame where the blonde nymphet was lying helpless. Her open cunt stared at me above the socks, the shorts, the panties. She was pulling frantically at the tape and straining at the bandages but she couldn’t do anything but rock a little bit. I knelt between her legs, reached forward and cupped her tiny, half-girl, half-woman breasts in my hands. I circled my thumbs around her still-hard nipples, and let her take my weight as I lowered myself to my elbows.

I took hold of a corner of the broad sticking-plaster and ripped it off in one jerk. She gasped with the pain, and I plunged my mouth onto hers and I thrust my tongue down her throat and I swayed my hips forward and penetrated her. I put one hand behind her head and the other at her waist and ploughed into her. Was it my imagination or was there some resistance to start with? No matter; it went away, and I fucked her and fucked her and fucked her until I was done. When I finished, she was crying too. There was blood on my cock, I noticed as I buttoned up.

“Now,” I said, “if you don’t want the Surveyor of Complaints at the Nursing Commission to hear how you look after your patients, you’ll start making a proper job of looking after my mum, starting now. And I’ll see you ladies again, same time, next week. If you know what’s good for you.” And I left. All things considered, I didn’t want to be around when my mum woke up.