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Greetings All,

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M-195-123 From A Lesbian's Lips by Dallas Mayo

1

The great house had an unsavory reputation: there were mysterious rumors of sin, of dark sexual depravities to stun the mind and stagger the imagination. The good people of the town shunned its doors. True, they were never invited and the schism remained equally in vogue with both factions; but like good and pious people the world over, the townfolk preferred to think of their own collective prudence as the sole and ultimate arbiter in this moot matter of neighborly relationships. We don't want no truck with them ungodly Valentines up there on the hill!

It had not always been thus. There was an era sometime around the turn of the century - give or take a generation - when the home of the Valentine family had been a mecca of genteel gaiety. But that was before the big newspaper scandal. Before some dedicated journalist (or mealy-mouthed muckraker, depending on one's viewpoint) clipped old Isaac's wings.

It was said of Isaac Valentine that he could go on the rocks showing a profit; he wore a black derby and smoked a black cigar and had a heart to match. He piled up a mountain of money and dropped only a few molehills. And although his financial maneuvers may have been somewhat shady - indeed, immoral - the old pirate's peculiar system of bookkeeping stood the test of hair-splitting legality and he retired rich.

But the harm was done, and in the harsh-bright glare of publicity the prestige of the Valentine name was forever dimmed. No longer did pink parasols blossom on the lawn, no longer did the iced tea tinkle in tall glasses, no longer did the local nymphs and shepherds gambol behind the neat hedges of the broad, rolling estate. The house on the hill had lost its convivial charm.

The hedges were taller and shaggier now. Iniquitous old Isaac lay amold'ring in his grave. The ancient scandal was all but forgotten, and even the dedicated journalist and/or muckraker had passed on to his just reward and/or retribution. But alas, the convivial charm was still nowhere in evidence. Not to an outsider, at any rate - and the insiders weren't telling, although there was certainly plenty to tell. Enough to fill the pages of a plump and lusty book, were there someone clever enough - and callous enough - to conceive such a disruptive chronicle.

They, the insiders, knew better than to try. Why ruin a good thing? Why spill the Valentine secrets when it seemed infinitely more interesting to keep the fun in the family? Let the well-fleshed skeletons linger in the luxury of their cozy closets; let the privacy remain inviolate and the rumored mysteries unsolved ...

Ah, but no mystery is sacred to the young and inquisitive female mind, especially if the adolescent truth-seeker is herself part of the puzzling plot. And thereby hangs a tale. Or at least a convenient hook upon which to hang the tale. Let us say that dark-eyed, brown-haired Betsy Valentine, age fifteen - "fifteen going on twenty" was her own way of putting it - had reached the stage of growth wherein she refused to be treated as a child. Not that she had ever been treated like a child. Hardly. Except as an infant, maybe, and she wasn't sure about that either. Clarisse would know. For that matter, Clarisse would know the answers to a lot of odd questions that had arisen lately.

The questions weren't exactly new, Betsy realized, it was just that she had only begun to appreciate their significance and was old enough to demand some answers now. If she could just get Clarisse alone and in the right mood!

It took some doing, but Betsy waited for the propitious moment and made her move with calculated finesse. Clarisse could be so damn difficult at times, a sexy bitch in bed but entirely too conscious of her proper place in the daily routine of the household. Not that anyone knew what Clarisse's proper place was - except Mother Eve, maybe - but that too was one of the puzzles. Clarisse had been around for ages, staying on long after her services as a governess had become unnecessary, and now she was Eve's closest companion - something less than a Valentine but something more than a servant. Betsy was never quite sure how to handle her. Except when she knew Clarisse was in heat and panting for a bit of bitchery.

Like now. The signs were unmistakable. Clarisse had just come out of Mother Eve's suite, eyes glazed, face smeared and shiny; she had the jittery look of a slut who has been stirred up and left stranded. Eve must have given her a hard time - and Betsy was quick to make the most of the golden opportunity.

"Clarisse. Hi. I was just thinking about you. I'm dying for a little chat. Come tuck me into bed, huh?"

"No, dear, I really shouldn't. You've got school tomorrow, you should have been asleep hours ago. Besides, you're too grown up to need tucking in."

"Hmph! If I'm that grown up then I'll tuck you in. And you could use it, I'll bet." Betsy thrust her fingers between the folds of Clarisse's robe, foraging boldly in the moist furrow of sex-swollen flesh. "Yep. Just as I figured - oooh, your pussy is so hot and gooey! Mother Eve left you in a fix, right?" 

"Well..."

"Come on. I know how to take care of that. After all, you're the one who taught me."

"Little devil!" Then, obviously intrigued by the prospect of fulfillment, "Oh, all right, I'll tuck you in. Just let me wash my face first. You go ahead, honey. I'll be with you in - "

"No. Don't wash. This is a come-as-you-are party. Anyway, why so sanitary all of a sudden? You think I don't know what my own mother's cunt tastes like?" Betsy lifted her lips and nuzzled a smeared cheek audaciously, sniffing the familiar scent and dabbing at the passion-dewed skin with her tongue. "Mmm, nice . . .

That did it. She recognized the agitated response and swung around to lead her unprotesting ex-governess through the hall. In her own room Betsy offered another encouraging kiss and then broke out of the embrace to settle down to the business at hand. The important business. First things first.

"Take it easy, Clarisse. Don't worry, you'll get what you came for. But like I said, I'm dying for someone to talk to. There's something bothering me, and you're one of the few people I can trust for an honest answer."

"There's something bothering me, little one."

Betsy suppressed a smile. Clarisse was sure as hell steamed up. And she looked mighty appealing, too, with her blue-gray eyes all misty and her auburn hair tumbling around her slim shoulders. Clarisse was kind of wiry and didn't have big tits like Mother Eve or Joanne, but she did have a certain charm - and Betsy was sorely tempted to defer her quest for enlightenment in favor of the more immediate satisfaction of a romp in bed.

Curiosity won out, however. "Clarisse, listen, I'm serious about this. It's been on my mind for weeks."

"Oh? You do sound serious. What's wrong? You're not in some mess at school, I hope?"

"No. Never. But that fits right in with what I want to ask you. You know how I am in school - I behave myself and make good grades and mind my own business and don't get involved with anybody. Because I'm a Valentine. And because Mother Eve insists on it. But why do I have to be like that? Why are we Valentines so different from everyone else?"

"Different . . ." An odd expression flitted across Clarisse's features. "So that's it. That's what's bothering you?"

"Uh-huh. Can you tell me?"

"Hmm. I wonder. I wonder if I should. My dear, you really are growing up. It never interested you before."

"Well, it interests me now. I'm not a kid any more and it's time I knew the score."

"Must you, darling? You're still just a youngster, precocious as you might be. It won't hurt you to wait a little longer, will it? Don't be in such a hurry."

"That sounds like a brush-off. You won't tell me?" Betsy pouted. "Come on, I'm not asking for much - just some information about my own family, that's all. What am I, a stepchild or something? Don't I have the right to know?"

"You're no stepchild, I'll tell you that much. Far from it. You're truly a chip off the old block. If ever a girl was her mother's daughter . . ." Clarisse shook her head. "But it's because of your mother that I'd rather not talk about it. I doubt if she would approve. She might even get angry."

"Hah! You're just scared. You figure Mother Eve might get mad enough to whip your ass, huh?"

"Could be. But that's no hardship - as you well know. Mother Eve's whip is good for me. I like it. I'd be unhappy if my ass didn't get whipped. But she's still the boss and I'm not going to do anything behind her back. Betsy, it just wouldn't be right."

"Right or wrong, I'll find out anyway. If not from you then I'll ask someone else. Spencer, maybe. He's not as dopey as he looks. He'll help me."

"I doubt that. And you mustn't misjudge your brother, my dear. Spencer isn't stupid, he's just quiet and introverted and a bit timid. Too timid to tell any family secrets, though, so trying to pump him would be useless. And the same goes for his wife. Joanne is hardly a shrinking violet, but she's completely loyal to Mother Eve - so you'll get nowhere with either of them. And as for the servants, well, they wouldn't dare talk and really don't understand the situation anyway, so you'd be no better off than if you tried to discuss it with poor Poppet. You'd just draw a blank."

"You've covered everybody, huh? Thanks a lot."

"Don't be bitter; I'm only saving you the trouble. But I do wish you'd see it my way and forget the whole thing. Darling, can't we just relax and have fun? I feel so sexy."

"How can I relax? Believe me, Clarisse, even if I have to go straight to Mother Eve herself - "

"Betsy, no! It would only upset her."

"It would, eh? Fine. That'll make two of us then - 'cause it's sure upsetting me."

"Please. I'm begging you. Don't do it."

"Oh shit, who else can I turn to? You leave me no choice." Sensing triumph, Betsy applied the pressure. "I've got a good mind to go knock on her door right now and get it over with."

"No. You mustn't. Sweetheart, if you only knew ..." Clarisse chewed her lower lip nervously. Then, with an air of almost-sullen resignation, "I'll tell you this much. Your mother is the main reason why the Valentines are - well, whatever they've become. She's the one who caused it. Only the change came about so gradually that it just slipped past her - and she still doesn't realize how or why it all happened."

"Tell me more. You might as well. I'm bound to find out anyway. You don't expect me to quit now, do you?"

"But - but it's such a long story."

"So what? We've got time. Hey, how about spending the night with me? We'll talk and make love and have a ball, okay? Don't worry about school; 1 can get through the day without any sleep if I have to - I've done it before. Come on, Clarisse, let your hair down and never mind what's right or what's wrong. Just cuddle up and let nature take its course."

"Betsy, Betsy, you're such "a shrewd little rascal. I swear you get more like your mother - "

"Slip out of that robe. Uh-huh. I thought so. Your pussy hasn't cooled off yet. It's not as hot as I'd like it to be, though. Let me ... uh ..."

"Oh! Don't tickle. I'm liable to explode."

"You'll explode plenty before I get through with you. All night, maybe - every hour on the hour. If my fingers make you ticklish, just wait till you feel my tongue."

"I've felt that talented tongue of yours before, darling. It's what I came for, remember? Only I didn't think I'd have to give a lecture on the Valentine family history to earn it. Oh well, if that's the price I'm forced to pay ..."

"Then you'll stay, Clarisse? You'll do it? You'll spend the night here and tell me everything?"

"I'll stay. Not all night, perhaps, but - oooh! - how can I talk when you're doing that to me?"

"Don't talk. Not now. Later ..." 

"Darling!"

The urge to rush to a hasty conclusion was imbedded in Betsy's brain, but she recognized the error of such a procedure. Slow and easy, that was the way to get results. A little advance diddling always helped, yes indeed, and wasn't it nice to fingerfuck such a hot pussy? Well, not fingerfuck exactly, no, it was more like a tease job. Playing around with the cunt lips and just tormenting the clit. A touch. A tickle. A fingertip pressing the passion button and then suddenly releasing it - oh shit, poor Clarisse was half out of her mind already. So maybe the slow-and-easy approach wasn't such an absolute necessity after all, hmm? Betsy made only a pretense of caressing Clarisse's bosom with her free hand. It didn't matter much, she figured - and anyway, they weren't the world's best pair of tits. Not really bad, though, and she dallied long enough to munch on the nipples and suck them erect. Tits were tits and deserved to be treated as such; it wouldn't be fair to skip over these ice-cream scoops without giving the cherry toppings a tongue nibble. But it was the cunt hand that had Clarisse in a dither, oh shit yes, the horny old babe was too far gone and just lying there shaking and shivering - and Betsy saw no further reason to procrastinate. Swiftly, but with a certain smooth skill, she slid her open mouth down over the domed belly. For just an instant of sweet anticipation she lingered there at the fringe of the dark auburn tuft, tugging at the hairs with her teeth. Then, as the sharp moan of impatience sounded from above, she burrowed through the hair and down under to come up between the quivering thighs and inside the soft lips, wriggling a little to get in deeper, wriggling her face from side to side and following the thrust of her tongue into the soft slippery lips of Clarisse's cunt.

The peak moment drew near and Clarisse uttered a blissful sigh, enraptured by the flutter of the tiny tonguetip. Such an enthusiastic lover, the little one! A tongue like a hummingbird; how it darted and flitted! A pulsating miracle of perpetual motion, alive, vibrant, imbued with the boundless energy of youth - ah yes, truly a rara avis .. .

Writhing under the touch, Clarisse struggled to stave off her onrushing orgasm, savoring the unendurable delay, treasuring the smoldering fuse of tension now that the explosive release was so imminent. But the rush overwhelmed her; she succumbed to the inevitable, gasping for breath and giving vent to her terrible need for fulfillment.

"Suck, suck ... darling . .. now!"

It struck. And for a little while the earth turned upon her own personal axis, a core of clitoral excitation, the molten concentrate - until the crisis passed and the hot wave receded, leaving her limp and lifeless in the soothing embrace of its slowly cooling afterglow.

So soon? Too bad. She hadn't intended to let it happen that quickly. Now she would have to pay the price. It was time to deliver the lecture and appease her artful lover's adolescent curiosity. The sage of the clan Valentine. Such a muddle. Good grief, she didn't even know where to begin!

But was it time? Apparently not. The versatile tongue was still vibrating without letup. How nice. Wasn't it sweet of Betsy to be so solicitous of her welfare? Two for the price of one! She could feel it starting again, the cycle: the fluttering stimulus, the instantaneous response of her flesh - the renewed round of pleasure. Delicious. Ah yes, the ingenious little darling had learned her lessons only too well.

Such generosity could not go unrewarded though, and Clarisse saw no way of avoiding the issue. Sooner or later the story would have to be told - or at least an acceptable version of it. And this seemed as good a time as any to get her thoughts organized, this lull between fading satiation and renascent desire.

But first, just to make certain, "Uh ... Betsy?"

"Hmm?"

"You're not too tired?"

"Nope. You?"

"Silly..."

"Ummm?"

"I love it."

"So don't interrupt me. I'm going to suck your cunt until you cum again. Then it'll be your turn."

"My turn? Oh. But why wait? I'll be glad to - "

"No. Lie still, Clarisse. Let me do it. Then it will be your turn - your turn to be nice to me. You know what I'm talking about. What you promised."

"Oh."

"Hey, you're not going to pull a cop-out, are you? You said you'd tell me everything. If you don't I'll get mad. I mean it, Clarisse, if you cop out on me I'll never speak to you again."

"Such a threat. No, dear, I won't cop out."

"Okay. So be quiet and let me finish you off. Then you'll feel calm and comfortable and we can talk without getting excited for a while. Fair enough?"

More than fair, of course, and Clarisse went lax as the insistent mouth took possession again. But the requisite task still faced her, and in this relatively placid hiatus she set to work sorting out the fragments of memory, the bits and pieces of the past. The question was direct and to the point - why are the Valentines so different? - but the answers were involved and innumerable.

The mess originated with Isaac Valentine and his financial manipulations, but that was ancient history now. Except that it did serve as a partial motivation for Eve's capricious ways. After the hue-and-cry of the newspaper scandal, old Isaac had built a shell around himself and his family, an unhealthy environment to begin with, so was it any wonder that his granddaughter turned out somewhat strange? Although the strangeness - regardless of its nurturing atmosphere - must have been inherent in the girl herself; Eve's pleasures were too perverse to be rationalized away on the strength of environmental factors alone.

Still, the unfavorable conditions could hardly have been without effect. Then, too, there was the added burden of her sister, Poppet, the retarded one, a woman with the brain of a dull-witted child; poor dear Poppet couldn't function without the guidance of a firm hand - and Eve got used to giving orders early in life. Headstrong in youth, she grew more domineering as the years passed, and by the time she took the marriage vows the virtue of obedience was something she could subcribe to only when it applied to her underlings.

Naturally, she chose just such an underling for a mate, another Valentine, a distant cousin out of a comparatively impoverished branch of the family. The mild-mannered husband performed admirably, siring Spencer and Betsy and then dying conveniently just when Eve was becoming bored with him. Which left her the head of the house in every sense, and she accepted the responsibilities and prerequisites of the position gladly. Almost greedily. Hers was the zest of a wealthy widow, still quite young and beautiful, who at long last could do as she damn well. ..

"Betsy! What are you doing?"

"Ummm, can't you tell?"

"Oh. Don't hurt me."

"Just a finger?"

"Be gentle, sweetheart. Please?" 

"Loosen up, then. Don't be such a baby." 

"But you don't have to - "

"Complaints, complaints, I try to be nice to you and all I get is complaints. Loosen up, Clarisse."

"I - I'm doing it. But go slowly, will you? I'm a little bit tender there."

"Sure. Tender. So open up and let me in. I like a tender ass. Better make it soft for me or I'll - "

"Ouch! Oh, all right, go ahead if you must. But do be careful, please? That's a sharp fingernail."

"Uh-huh. There. Better?"

"Much."

"No more complaints?"

"Who's complaining? Imp! Your mouth now. Ah ..."

And with the added dividend of the squirming fingertip back there, Clarisse shut her eyes and tried to pick up the threads of her reverie. It wasn't easy. The twin-pronged assault of finger and tongue was more than she had bargained for. But that was the Valentine way, wasn't it? Always more. And more. Eve had been somewhat restrained these past few years, but little Betsy was making up for it. Moderation is the mother of excess. Not that Mother Eve could be considered moderate, exactly, but compared to those old days of her early widowhood . ..

After the death of her husband, Eve found herself with time and money on her hands - and a voracious sensual hunger in her body. And since she could now do as she damn well pleased, she went right ahead and did it. Just as she damn well pleased. But she managed to have her fun discreetly and within the confines of the estate, always conscious of publicity-shy old Isaac's heritage of privacy. Her domineering attitude sought its outlet in a kind of sex-oriented sadism and she pensioned off the antiquated servants and hired new ones more to her taste, eventually turning the place into a veritable hotbed of wantonness. A world of her own, as it were, a totally erotic world, all sin and sensuality.

Of the children, Spencer proved to be a disappointment, meek and scholarly, rather like his father; but he salvaged something by going off to college and bringing home a wife who fit right in with Eve's scenario. Joanne was beautiful and bisexual and just a tiny bit stupid, and it was only a matter of time before she fell under Mother Eve's magnetic spell. And the spell of the Valentine money, no doubt, always under Mother Eve's tight control. So in his own modest manner, Spencer too made a major contribution to Eve's paradise, a peculiar paradise that remained the Valentine mode of life to this very instant.

That was the family history, pretty much, except for Clarisse's own role in it. And she couldn't quite come to grips with that. It still haunted her. Because of the guilt, the festering guilt that refused to fade. She had never confessed her crime to anyone, so how could it be explained to Betsy?

As far back as she could recall, Clarisse had preferred women to men. Employed as the children's governess, she had fallen in love with their mother and was soon partaking of lesbian delights beyond any she had known in her young life. That was only a minor transgression, though, and had it gone no farther perhaps the Valentines wouldn't be quite so different today. But in a moment of weakness Clarisse made the fatal mistake of seducing innocent little Betsy.

She hadn't meant to. But Eve had been tired that night and Betsy was available and - well, enmeshed in that exciting aura of constant carnality, the frustrated governess found temptation irresistible and bedded down with her cherubic little charge. Eve never learned of the shameful liaison but soon noticed that her daughter was developing lesbian tendencies. And so, almost as a matter of course, the sex-obsessed mother broadened the scope of her perversion to include incest, blithely believing it to be a preordained trick of destiny.

That was bad enough in itself, but even worse was its effect on Eve's obsession. Breaking the incest taboo acted like a trigger and she became tyrannical in the operation of the household. Sex reigned supreme - and Mother Eve ruled the family and the servants through the force of her personality. And her money too, although that was seldom mentioned; anyway, no one dared flout her authority - and from that time on, the Valentines were definitely different.

Much of the blame was Clarisse's, though; it was her seduction of the child that had finally pushed the mother over the brink. And the hidden guilt had plagued her for years. It would probably go on plaguing her for a lifetime. Unless she could summon up sufficient courage to say it aloud. Tonight? Confession would ease her burden. Besides, she had to take at least some of the blame herself so that Eve wouldn't seem such a villain in the telling of the tale. Clarisse loved Eve. She loved Betsy too. Didn't she owe it to the Valentines to try to preserve the happy mother-and-daughter relationship?

Yes. She owed them that much, surely. And if so, then this was the night to speak her piece. The perfect moment for it, oh yes, there was even a kind of macabre irony in its similarity to that fateful night so long ago. Eve was tired and Betsy was available. Hmm, available? The understatement of the year. But any girl who could suck like that was surely old enough to understand; so why not shed that awful burden right now?

"Betsy.. ."

"Mmph?"

"Stop, darling. I don't think I can make it again. It's too soon after the last - "

"What's the matter, don't you like the way I'm sucking you? Am I doing something wrong?"

"Sweetheart, I love it. But there's that problem on my mind. You know what. I'm ready to talk about it now. Even a little bit anxious. So let me, please, before you wear yourself out."

"Okay. One more nibble, though."

"Oooh!"

"There. That's to remind you of what comes later. In case you forget how good a cuntlapper I can be. Now let's get nice and comfy and you can tell me everything. And I do mean everything, you hear me? Don't you dare skip the juicy parts."

"Little sexpot. Is that all you ever think about?"

"Well, sure. What else is there? Except schoolwork, maybe, and sometimes I think about it then too."

"In school? Betsy, you shouldn't."

"I know. Mother Eve would have a fit. But I just can't help it; sometimes my pussy gets hot and itchy and I can't wait to get home. But don't worry, I won't cause any trouble. The kids are too dumb to understand. Oh wow, if they could only see me now!"

Smiling wanly at the incongruous notion, Clarisse puffed up the pillows and settled down to relieve Betsy's curiosity and her own conscience. It took some time, but in the end she managed to do both, although she must have given emphasis to one more than the other, and it had its repercussions. Betsy got her answer, all right, but was immediately motivated to a fresh line of inquiry.

"You still feel guilty, Clarisse? About you and me?"

"Not now. At least not quite so much. I feel better now that it's off my chest. I'm glad I told you."

"You haven't told Mother Eve, though."

"No. I couldn't do that."

"I could."

"You? Betsy, whatever for?"

"Oh .. .just because."

"But - but you wouldn't. Would you?"

"Probably not. I just might, though. I guess it all kind of depends, huh?" With a mischievous giggle, "It really depends on you, Clarisse."

"On me? I don't see ..."

"On whether or not you're going to be nice to me."

"But I'm always nice to you." Then, abruptly, "You little bitch! Are you trying to blackmail me?"

"Natch. How'm I doing?"

"Blackmail . . . ugh ..." A frown creased Clarisse's brow. But she searched the young face and spotted a telltale twinkle in the dark eyes. "Oh. You're only teasing."

"Could be. Don't bet on it, though. Looks like I've got a good thing going, huh? Why shouldn't I take advantage of it?"

"Such a naughty baby. Such a lovable naughty - "

"Yep. Lovable - that's me. But don't change the subject. I'm not letting you talk your way out of it."

"So I perceive." Clarisse grinned. "All right, little one, you win. I'm in your power. What's your pleasure?"

"Don't get snotty. You're being blackmailed, remember? You're supposed to be scared. All shook up and scared shitless, you know what I mean?"

It was a game, of course, a delicious new game, and the sheer novelty of it was enough to turn Clarisse into an amused but eager participant. She scrambled to her knees on the floor, clasping her hands in mock imploration. "Oh please, little mistress, please don't be cruel to me. I'm so frightened. See how my body trembles? I'm completely in your power. See how I'm kneeling here like this, all humble and Cringing and - "

"Shut up, Clarisse. Shut up and kiss my ass."

With a startled intake of breath, Clarisse wondered if she had heard right. But there was no anger in the insolent tone, only impatient demand - more invitation than insult - and the heat swirled up inside her belly as she watched the lovely young form twist into a slow spiral that ended face-down on the bed. Oh, it was still just a game, nothing more, but the darling child was putting her heart and soul into it (along with that cute little ass!) and wouldn't the night be disappointing if the game fizzled out? This was no time to be a party-pooper.

Party-pooper? Was that the reason? Just to keep the game going? Oh come on, you phony cunt, who do you think you're fooling! Bend over there and kiss the kid's ass. Because you're all hot and excited. Because she told you to, that's why!

The expectantly taut buttocks twitched and then yielded triumphantly to the touch of Clarisse's lips. She lavished a myriad of kisses all over them, skilled and sophisticated sweeps of her tongue upon the delectably firm skin, ever-intensifying kisses that made her keenly conscious of her own compulsive need to please, a kind of weird humility; and anyway, game or no game, she still had that crazy blackmail threat hanging over her head and it was just possible that -

"That's fine, Clarisse. You're doing okay. But don't forget to get around to my asshole."

What a thing to say! - and in a voice so calm and casual that it sounded twice as ugly. Hearing it, Clarisse got the impression that Betsy was testing her newly won spurs. Scarcely a valid test, though - which accounted for the daring tone of impudence - after all, it was a foregone conclusion. Forget this? The precious rosebud? Not likely. But it didn't seem right to let the little rascal get away with such a bossy attitude, and Clarisse deliberately continued her surface kisses. Her mouth traveled over the rounded smoothness, finding the skin ever sweeter to the taste. She licked at the creases where thigh merged with buttock, the dainty creases that were so firm and yet so soft. But the postponement couldn't go on indefinitely, of course, and her tongue glided toward the center, doing a thousand exciting dances that kept leading her in a single direction. Into the dark valley. Toward the rosebud ...

"Oh shit, quit teasing!" Betsy jutted her bottom imperatively. "You know what I want. Fuck me with your tongue. Shove that hot tongue into my asshole and fuck me good!"

Now there could be no more delay, only compliance. Clarisse plunged deep into the crack and worked her face between the separating cheeks, exploring expertly until the tip of her tongue found the place. The little hole. It tightened momentarily, an involuntary reaction, but her pointed attack was stiffly resolute, poking and piercing the sphincter and at last squirming into the depths as the small muscle-spasm relented.

"Hey now, that's the way. Fuck, fuck, fuck. You've got a groovy tongue, Clarisse. My ass is on fire!"

The expertise of her tongue was indeed cause for pride, and Clarisse happily accepted the task of quenching the flames. But wasn't it thrilling to see the adorable little monster developing such a passion for power? Ah yes, truly a chip off the old block. At this rate, the darling child would soon be wielding a whip!

3

Staring vacantly at the keys of his typewriter, the young man behind the horn rims had the appearance of a seedy and somewhat undernourished owl. Hardly the Valentine look -as Spencer himself freely admitted. Too much alcohol in his blood, probably, and was it any wonder that he could only be a misfit in Mother Eve's brave new world? (A literary giant, that Huxley!) Maybe the genes had gotten mixed up with the chromosomes. Or something. Anyway, he didn't much care these days. A guy learns to adjust. Too bad the fools couldn't look into his soul and see the real Spencer Valentine. Then they would know. You mean the novelist? You mean the Spencer Valentine?

Fuck them. They'd know soon enough. Only they'd know a hell of a lot sooner if his wife would just quit prancing around and let him get back to work. How could he possibly concentrate on the typewriter with that strip tease going on? She was wearing a negligee and wasn't taking it off, but it was a strip tease just the same. Joanne could lie in bed stark naked and still be doing a strip act. It was one of the phenomena of nature. Like a snake shedding its skin.

"Spencer?"

He shrugged morosely and refocused his gaze. The pink peaks of her breasts were visible beneath the sheer fabric. Round and fresh. In its frame of copper-bright hair, her face was alive with a secret animation, the portrait of a woman who sleeps well and has no need of dreams. She was posturing in the incipient stages of a hands-over-head stretch, the stripless strip-tease again - or still? - but with a certain classic grace now, a buoyant elegance, like a nymph rising slowly from the sea. Levitating. Legs long and lithe; uplifted arms curved, red hair tousled. Beautiful. Divinely beautiful. Spencer hated her.

"Penny," she said.

"Huh?"

"A penny for your thoughts."

His scowl thickened to a glower. Joanne always said stupid things like that. The cliche kid. God, how he hated her!

"Must you interrupt me when I'm working?"

"Working? Is that what you call it?"

"You'll find the definition in any dictionary."

"Oh shit, you've been sitting there like a statue for the past twenty minutes. Like a bump on a log."

Spencer winced. Cliche-wise, his dear wife was outdoing herself tonight. And spoiling for a hassle, apparently. But he was in no mood to accommodate her. Or indulge her. He was in no mood for anything Joanne had to offer, a circumstance with which she was goddamn well acquainted; he just wanted her to go. Silence seemed the better part of valor.

"You and your stinking work. Nose buried in the typewriter all day long. What are you writing that keeps you so wrapped up? How come you never talk about it?"

"Talk about it - to you?" It happens to be a novel, not a comic book. I didn't think you'd be interested."

"You know something, Spencer?" Hands on hips now. Fists doubled. Like a fishwife. "You're absolutely right. I couldn't care less. And nobody else does, either, because it will never get published anyway. All you're doing is jerking yourself off."

"That's my privilege. The privilege of a solitary genius."

"Bullshit! Some genius. Sneak around like a Peeping Tom and jerk yourself off at the typewriter. Listen, you freak, you want to jerk off? Look at this and jerk off." She swished the negligee open. "This! Right here. Better yet, why don't you throw a fuck into it? That's what it's for. It's a cunt. A cunt is supposed to get fucked. Come on, genius, how'd you like to sink your meat into this?" Her graphic gesture was lewd enough to be almost ludicrous. "No, you rotten impotent bastard, it doesn't mean a damn thing to you. Okay. Go ahead and jerk yourself off some more. I've got other fish to fry. If I can't get fucked, at least I know where I can get sucked."

Trite but remarkably apt, the "frying fish" - indeed quite descriptive - and relevant in more ways than one: the fishwife was off to get her fish fried. Spencer could all but smell the fishy odor that wafted from the tail-end billow of the negligee vanishing out the door. But he was alone now and had no time to waste on useless rancor. Inspiration called. The keys of the kingdom were there on the typewriter. Inspiration clamored! So fuck them all. Fuck the Valentine look, too; he didn't need it, he had a more auspicious look of his own. Poised over the golden keys he had the "look of eagles" in his eyes and was about to take off and soar. ..

4

Dear Diary, Oh, that sounds so formal. I should have said Darling Diary, because that's how I feel about you. No shit! You've become very important in my young life. It's true I picked you up on an impulse, just a whim, I'll admit, but you're good for me, you're not just a book of blank pages, you're real. And I hereby promise to cherish you FOREVER. I'll have to keep you locked up so nobody will find out about us, of course, but you're very real to me and I do love you.

Darling Diary, please forgive me for the other day. I had just brought you home brand-new, and all the crazy stuff about the family was still on my mind. You know, the secret stuff I squeezed out of Clarisse. (And I sure had to squeeze her!) It must have been bugging me pretty badly, I guess, because I worked up a real urge to let off some steam. Not sexy steam, the other kind. So I took advantage of you, my poor defenseless Diary, I just used you to scribble my mixed-up thoughts in, and that wasn't very nice, was it? But you were nice, though, you were so good to me, you made me feel much better, and then afterward I realized what a friend I had discovered. More than a friend. Someone to confide in. Someone I could be honest with. Someone. So I'm just forgetting those dumb mixed-up front pages, if that's okay with you. Let's start all over again, shall we?

Thanks, dear Di, you won't regret it. Now permit me to introduce myself. My name is really Elizabeth but everybody calls me Betsy, even in school. I'm quite good in school, a model pupil, actually, always on the honor roll and never in trouble. I mean to say I behave. It's to please my mother, mostly, and that's reason enough - and besides, we Valentines do our misbehaving right here at home. But sometimes I do get tired of the other kids thinking I'm such a goody-goody; sometimes I get the feeling I'd rather be popular than a Valentine. Or at least popular enough to have a few friends. Or even one friend. And up till today I didn't have any.

Oh shit, Di, I can't lie to you. I'm not supposed to get involved outside the family circle and I feel guilty about breaking the rule, that's why I'm handing you this sad line. That's why I sound like a lonely little girl. I'm not, you know. It's just my guilt complex. I've never disobeyed Mother Eve before, not knowingly at least, so this thing that happened in school today has got me all shook up. I made friends with Winifred this afternoon. And maybe it wasn't just by accident, either, because I've noticed her for a long time. How could I help it? Winifred is so fair, a golden-haired princess out of a fairy tale, so pale and willowy; she stands tall but always seems to droop just a little, like a delicate flower, an exquisite long-stemmed flower. I can't give her up!

Incidentally, dear Diary of mine, you'll have to suffer once in a while when I get carried away and start slinging the syllables around. Like "exquisite long-stemmed flower" - oh wow, that's sure flowery enough, but be patient and just grin and bear it, will you? I'm a Valentine, one of the ar-tic-u-late Valentines, hoity toity, sesquipedalian and all that shit; Mother Eve used to be on a vocabulary kick and it rubbed off on the rest of us.

It rubbed off good too, because there was never any doubt about who's boss in our house. We do what Mother Eve tells us or else. But more on that subject later, dear Di, right now you simply must hear about Winifred. Winifred Olsen. And maybe rapping with you will help me figure myself out. I think I'm in love with her!

It happened in last-period study hall. Or that's where it began, anyway. Winifred must have just switched a class or something like that (I never did ask her about it, Di, I was just too excited) and she came in looking for a vacant seat. Floated in, practically. I noticed her right away. And more out of idle curiosity than anything else (at least I think it was idle curiosity) I kept an eye open to see where she would settle down.

There were plenty of seats for her to choose from. Late afternoon study period is compulsory the same as any other, but it's easy to get excused for club meetings or intramural games or cheer-practice rallies, etc. Or even to go to the restroom and just plain goof off. Everybody does it. The attendance proctor is pretty lenient at that hour of the day, so the only kids who stay regularly are the bookworms. The goody-goody bookworms - like me. Oh sure, just like me. What a laugh! Shit. I could pass those dopey exams without cracking a goddamn book if I felt like it. No, the only reason I hang around is because Mother Eve goes by the official schedule and sends Harold to pick me up at the same time every afternoon. I always get taken to and from school by private car. Always. So that I won't have to soil my aristocratic Valentine ass on their grimy old schoolbus. And if that sounds uppity for a kid my age, dear Diary, you'd better do some more grinning and bearing. I have a high I.Q. and am considered precocious. I have also been referred to as a brat. And that makes Betsy (nee Elizabeth) Valentine a precocious brat, so I guess you're stuck with me. Tough tittie. But it's when I become an exasperating precocious brat, now that's when the fun begins! Exasperating is one of Harold's words for me, not his favorite but really pretty accurate about the way he feels. Or the way I make him feel, rather. I tease him a lot on those back-and-forth school rides and I'm a very interesting teaser, a hot little cockteaser, expert but exasperating. So he says - with his tongue hanging out and his hardon caught inside those snug whipcord breeches he wears, all red faced and flustered, squirming and shifting under the steering wheel and watching me smile innocently at the bulge in his pants; oh Di honey, we'll have such fun with Harold! But he's only the chauffeur, so he'll have to wait - and besides, that's old familiar territory and this thing with Winifred is new.

Anyway, there were more empty seats than full ones in study hall today, and she took her time about making a choice. Then she saw me. I mean she saw me looking at her. So I guess it couldn't have been idle curiosity after all, because she got a funny expression on her face and I felt almost naked. Not sexy naked though, shit no, vulnerable naked, and yet I could have sworn I hadn't been staring. My cheeks got hot and I dropped my eyes and read three paragraphs of an English essay assignment before I realized that I had already been over the same stuff five minutes earlier.

Finally she sat down one desk away from mine. There was nobody between us, just the single unoccupied seat, and I got a bad case of the galloping butterflies. I figured she was sizing me up. Or else why would she have picked out precisely that place to park? Di darling, try to understand what I was going through. Winifred Olsen is a senior, two years older than me, and she's really somebody in our school. In some ways she's just as snooty as I am and has no close friends among the other kids, but that doesn't stop them from thinking she's the greatest thing since peanut butter. All the twittering little freshmen adore her. Only they do it from a distance, because there's something about Winifred that makes her appear aloof. Not quite aloof exactly, but somewhere near it. Unreachable, maybe. Like a statue on a pedestal a beautiful marble statue, warm to look at but cold to the touch. No one gets deep-down chummy with her. I've never heard anybody call her Winnie, for instance, not even in her own senior class; it's always a respectful "Winifred" - with a shade of admiration, usually. And maybe a little envy. She can be surrounded by a crowd (and she generally is) and still give the impression of being slightly above it. Up there on that invisible pedestal of hers. And yet she's sweet and sympathetic enough to make such criticism seem petty. And certainly beautiful enough! More beautiful than any small-town high-school girl has a right to be. All of which might very well seem a bit too much for the poor ordinary mortals of her earthbound congregation. The sum total is simply staggering! So it's just possible that nobody actually likes Winifred Olsen. Only the reason nobody likes her is because she's so popular.

Hey there, Di, I just went back and read what I wrote. You know something? It's pretty damn good. I think Winifred INSPIRES me! My brainy-ass brother raves about inspiration a lot, "inspiration" and "motivation" and "the creative process" (from those magazines he subscribes to, on how to become a famous author in seven easy lessons) and all that kind of intellectual bullshit. I guess maybe I'll pay more attention to him after this. Spencer is such a sarcastic nut that half the time I figure he's just putting me on, but this inspiration shit is something else. Could be it's maybe more of a turn-on than a put-on.

But you'll have to be the judge of that, dear Diary.

You're my only critic. Anyway, about this afternoon in study hall, I must have gotten inspired by a different kind of inspiration - and I do mean different. When my pussy started swimming. I was still a little embarrassed because Winifred had caught me taking particular notice of her. But there was something else bugging me too, only in a much nicer way, and I remembered that funny expression on her face and kept puzzling over its possibilities. The more I thought about it, the more 1 kept coming up with something GOOD. Something good for me. So what if I did notice her? Winifred could have smiled hello the same as she always does, all surface friendliness, her radiant but routine greeting to the world, toothy-bright and beautiful, scoring points in everybody's popularity contest; I've seen her do it hundreds of times. A smile like that and I wouldn't have been so upset. All part of the pattern I was used to. But she had skipped the phony smile and I hadn't cared much for the drab old pattern anyway, so I figured the embarrassing little incident was almost a welcome change. Any change could only be for the better. Or maybe not better, not in the long run, not with Mother Eve's code so dead set against it - oh Di, I feel so guilty about what happened! It was just too wonderful. I sat there and concentrated on Winifred, my eyes half-shut and misty behind the pretense of my propped-up book. The vision of an angry Mother Eve troubled me just once and then I deliberately pushed it out of my mind. After that there was nothing to interfere with my blissful concentration and I put all of myself into it - every nerve, every fiber, every ounce of flesh and blood right down to the last cell and corpuscle - all of me. Concentrating on Winifred. Just for the kinky thrill of it. And that was when my pussy started swimming!

Oh shit, I'd better quit while I'm ahead. Di, this next part is going to take more than just inspiration. I haven't got it straightened out in my mind yet, and there's something creepy about the way the hidden message keeps escaping me. I know what happened but I don't understand it. What's worse, I'm even a little bit afraid to try. And that's sure enough creepy, right? But maybe I'll feel up to it tomorrow after I see Winifred (she's supposed to meet me in study hall again!) and put the whole thing in its proper perspective. Meanwhile, though, I'm too confused to write any more so I'll just have to label the episode TO BE CONTINUED and hope for future enlightenment. I can't seem to get my brains unscrambled, my poor "precocious" brains, how about that?

Anyway, I heard a commotion a few minutes ago and it sounded pretty familiar, so I really ought to take a shower and prepare my delectable young body (scrambled brains and all) for a little hot loving tonight. Clarisse will probably be coming by to tuck me into bed. And to crawl in with me, no doubt - that's how it usually works out when Joanne has a fight with Spencer and goes running to Mother Eve for sympathy and then Clarisse gets lonesome and comes running to me. I think it's silly the way Joanne and Clarisse act like rivals for Mother Eve's affection so much of the time, but it's certainly no skin off my young ass. Quite the opposite, dear Diary, when the two of them are cool toward one another it's my ass that most often benefits from their childish jealousy. My young and kissable ass. Let it be kissed tonight, let it be kissed but good, my precocious ass, let it be kissed and nibbled and sucked all night!!!

Di, darling Di, guess what? Don't look now, but your little Betsy-girl is getting horny. I wish Clarisse would come. She's the grooviest cuntlapper in the house and that tireless tongue of hers is just what I need tonight. Only she isn't exactly a self-starter, so I might have to do some fancy coaxing to put her in the right groove. Or maybe I'll even try that crazy "blackmail" stunt again!

I must remember that. Blackmail. Why not? It was a pretty pale shade of black, of course, since we both knew damn well I'd never use Mother Eve as a threat, not really, but the idea sure led to some interesting developments. We were playing a game, that was all, just a fun-game for the sake of novelty, but Clarisse seemed awfully anxious to make a big thing out of it once she got going. Much bigger than I expected, actually, and I realized that she was practically begging me to take advantage of her. So I did just that, Di baby, I don't know what got into me (aside from that hot tongue, natch!) but something sure had my little ego on the rise. I've never treated Clarisse like that before - like some kind of whore, that was how I thought of her, I mean she was there just to please me sexually, to lick my ass or suck my cunt or do whatever was demanded of her. As if she had been bought and paid for. So when she showed such remarkable obedience, what else could I do but take advantage?

I've got a sensitive fanny. It's been nibbled before, sure, but always lovingly. I mean when two people are making love it's only right that they should pay some attention to each other's ass, isn't it? But with Clarisse it wasn't like that at all, shit no, it was strictly one-sided and little Betsy was the boss. Anyway, after a while I grabbed a pillow and stuck it under my belly to rest on; it opened me up wider and Clarisse went WILD. She got the hint right away and started sliding her face up and down my crack, the whole length of the crack, from the end of my spine all the way down and under the crotch until she was inside my cunt. Then back up again, right to that spinal chink-bone, and it was a long lapping sweep of her tongue except when she hit the important places - the two most important - my clit and my asshole. She didn't just swish over them, oh no, there was always a pause and a jab (and a loud squeal from me) at those strategic spots. And between the two of them she sure had me in a sweat. Imagine! A poke into my ass - a deep poke - and then tickle, tickle, tickle, down the ass-crack and up the cunt-slit, right to the clittie button, then a quick tightening of her lips - a hot suck - and with all that action it wasn't long before she had me creaming like crazy. Again and again too, because I couldn't see any reason to let up on her. It was a ball, Di, a real ball, and I've got the hots for more of the same tonight. So maybe the same kind of pressure will bring the same kind of cooperation. If fancy coaxing doesn't turn the trick then I'll just have to indulge in some fancier "blackmail" to get that wild tongue of hers where it will do me the most good.

But I'd better be sweet-smelling and clean for that wild tongue, I suppose, so that's it for now, dear Diary. I'm off to the shower. Nighty-night, sleep tight. I'll probably wind up without much sleep myself, but that's okay. I'm used to it. And even if Clarisse wasn't around I'd just lie awake thinking about tomorrow anyway, about tomorrow and you-know-who. WINIFRED. I'll sure as shit be thinking about her tonight while I'm lying there and grooving on Clarisse's tongue.

5

Black? Yes, black as pitch, and polished to a real glossy shine. It was kind of spooky, but Joanne refrained from comment. Mother Eve could paint her nails sky- blue-pink and no one would dare criticize. Anyway, there was something else to talk about. It wasn't very important - just a great big zero, really, no more important than the teeniest of those black toenails - except that it always stuck out like a sore thumb. Spencer was such a pain in the ass! A first class A-number-one shitheel.

"I hope you don't mind, Mother Eve. I just couldn't stand it a minute longer."

"Glad to have you, darling. My, you look charming - even in a tantrum. But I do wish you wouldn't get so upset. Every young couple has a few squabbles."

"Hah! A squabble wouldn't be so bad, but he won't even do that. When he gets mad he just takes it out on the typewriter. Clackety-clack-clack - I swear it's enough to drive a body crazy. Or sometimes he just sits there and stares at the keys, and that's even worse. Like he doesn't even know I'm alive."

"Oh, it's merely a stage, I'm sure. I know Spencer better than you do; after all, I'm his mother. The poor boy is suffering from a frustrated creative urge - all urge and no talent, I'm afraid. He'll get over it in time, don't worry. But you haven't said a word about my new nail lacquer, Joanne. You're the first to see it."

"Well... uh, it's pretty wild."

"Makes me look like a witch, wouldn't you say?"

"A witch? Like on a broomstick, you mean? But they're supposed to be wrinkled and ugly, Mother Eve. And you're gorgeous."

"Oh? Too bad. Not that I don't appreciate the compliment, but I was rather hoping for a witchlike effect. I've been reading up on astrology and sorcery lately - that sort of thing is all the rage, you know - and I find it fascinating. But the black nails are only an experiment, of course. I'll have Nora redo them if - "

"But - but it's kind of nice. Uh, not nice, exactly - more like, uh, kind of sexy, I guess. All dark and mysterious ..."

"Dark and mysterious. Why, that's charming! Joanne, you surprise me. You're developing a flair for words."

"Huh? You think so? Tell that to Spencer. He says I talk like a politician who never finished the seventh grade."

"Hmm. My son the phrasemaker . . ." Eve made a face. "But dark and mysterious is just the effect I want, you sweet child, so the black stays on."

"Sure. You can be a gorgeous witch. Hey, maybe I ought to do mine like that. Should I?"

"Don't you dare. It matches my brunette coloring, but it would never do for a redhead. Of course, if we could find a nail polish the same shade as those beautiful blue eyes..."

"Spencer used to say that. About my eyes, I mean. He fell in love with my beautiful blue eyes." Joanne snorted. "Some shit! Beautiful blue eyes. Those days are gone forever. He never looks at my eyes - or my body either. He just jerks himself off at the typewriter. It's been so long since he fucked me - "

"My dear,please!" Eve flashed a warning glance.

Joanne bit her tongue. She had all but forgotten that the maid was still there, putting away the manicure stuff and straightening up the mess over by the vanity table. Not that it mattered so much; Nora was practically one of the family, a cute little blonde (dyed, though, not natural) who knew plenty but minded her own business. Only it was a dumb thing to say, just the same.

"Sorry. Spencer just gets on my nerves, I guess."

"Must you keep harping on Spencer? Let him play with his typewriter; at least he's not harming anyone by it. And if getting yourself laid is so essential, I'm sure Harold will be only too glad to oblige. Shall I arrange it?"

"Well... uh ..."

Eve raised her voice. "Nora, what are you doing over there? Let it go for now. Come here."

"All done now, Madame. Can I get you something?"

"No. It's about Harold." Eve's hand gripped the maid's thigh to pull her in close. "By the way, how is Harold? The poor fellow gets so little call for his services. I do hope you're not letting him wither for lack of attention."

"Rest assured, Madame. Harold is fine."

It was funny to watch. Kind of exciting, too, and Joanne leaned forward in her chair. They were talking about Harold but they sure couldn't have been thinking about him. Mother Eve's shiny black fingernails were creeping up Nora's leg. High. All the way up. Under the short skirt, out of sight, and then making little wriggles up underneath the panties. Nora was just standing there next to the divan, standing very still, and Mother Eve was lounging back all limp and lazy against the tufted satin, and only that one hand was alive between them. Right then and there, nobody gave a shit about Harold. Everything got so quiet. Mother Eve's fingers didn't wiggle so much, and after a while she just sighed softly.

"Ummm ... so velvety smooth. Charming, charming. You do take excellent care of it, Nora. Just like a baby's."

"Thank you, Madame."

"I must be a sensualist, Joanne. The sensation of a hairless pussy does something for me. Especially this one. Sometimes I even forget the original reason for shaving it."

"I - I don't understand. What reason?"

"Oh, didn't you know? But no, you couldn't have - that was before you became Mother Eve's darling daughter. Do let me tell you, then; it's such an amusing story. You see, when I first interviewed Nora for this job we hit it off immediately, only she wasn't a blonde and that disappointed me. Nora's natural hair is quite dark, you know, and her skin has that tawny tinge. Very pretty - and I did like her - but I had my heart set on having at least one blonde in the house, so I simply had to turn her down. Only she just wouldn't take no for an answer - isn't that right, Nora?"

"You were so wonderful, Madame. I loved you so much. I had to come back and beg you to take me." Nora's voice was choked with emotion; she sounded sincere enough, but some of the feeling must have come from down below. Mother Eve's hand had her shaking now, shaking and swaying a little and bracing her knees against the edge of the divan to steady herself. "So I just took a chance, that was all, I dyed my hair in a hurry and applied for the job again. I knew it was bold of me, but what else was there to do?"

"Bold, eh? You were absolutely brazen! Hmm, and that goes for your hair too. Brazen. You should have seen it, Joanne. She came back that very same day late in the afternoon, and her hair looked like brass. Dirty brass. It was simply awful and I told her so and she burst into tears. Well, I let her cry awhile, but it got pretty tiresome and I told her I'd wallop her ass if she didn't shut up. So she just went on crying and draped herself across my lap. Only she shucked out of her panties on the way, and that was when I found out about the bald pussy. The little wretch had shaved the dark hair off just to be more like a blonde! My dear, I was touched. All that - just to please me. So I had a sentimental moment maudlin, as I recall it - and let her wheedle me some more. And here she is, years later, still wheedling. Only we've managed to do something about her hair, thank heaven. The blond hair on top, I mean, not the other. I've become rather fond of baby-smooth cunt."

"But - but you didn't finish the story, Mother Eve. Did you really spank her?"

"I'll say. And here she is, years later, still smarting. Oh yes, I blistered Nora's butt until she admitted to having conned me into keeping her - and she's been making up for it ever since. But it seems to have worked out fairly well. She likes it here." Eve's hand made a slithery noise and reappeared; the pointy black nails were wet and shinier than ever. "Isn't that so, Nora?"

"Oh . . . Madame . . ." With the hand gone, the maid wobbled and then collapsed. But she did it almost like a ballet dancer and ended up pressing her lips to Eve's bare feet. "I am so happy here with you." Kissing the toes now, kissing and licking the black paint to a fresh gloss, "I would just die if you sent me away."

"Send away my only blonde? Never fear. Her hair is quite attractive now, don't you agree, Joanne? That complexion is all wrong for it, of course, but the combination does have an exotic flavor. A grotesque charm, no?" Eve patted Nora's cheek with the sole of her foot. "I'd keep her around for laughs, if nothing else."

"It's lovely. The gold is so nice and even."

"It should be. Nora's hair gets the full treatment. Harold does it for her. Regularly and often."

"Harold? Harold is a hairdresser?"

"Hardly. Just the chauffeur and handyman and, uh, well, gigolo-in-residence, let's say. But he's learning - with a little persuasion. A dose of feminine persuasion can make a convert out of any strong and healthy male. How about that, Nora?"

The maid giggled and scrambled upright and then dropped a curtsy. "I am the hairdresser for you ladies, but Harold is the hairdresser for me." Bright eyed, giggling again, she rubbed between her thighs. "And the pussy shaver, too." Her hand kept making tight circles. "He's very careful with the razor. Like this. Slow and careful. Very slow. Much too slow sometimes. I think he enjoys it."

It was pretty impudent for a servant but she looked cute as a button doing it, and Joanne heard a chuckle from Mother Eve and knew it was okay. Nora was a born comedian and an expert at gauging Mother Eve's moods; she could get away with damn near anything. Like curtsying so respectfully and then going through that whole routine about Harold just for an excuse to use her hand to cool off her overheated cunt. A horny itch that had to be scratched. She was still doing it and Mother Eve was still smiling but watching her like a hawk, and then the smile kind of shriveled up.

"All right, you've made your point, Nora. You may go."

"Uh ... Madame?" "Now what?"

"Will you be needing Harold? He was to do my hair tonight, but if there is a possibility that Miss Joanne might care to ... uh ..."

"He's all yours," Joanne said hastily.

Nora whirled around, her face stiff. "Oh, but I would not presume to interfere with any plans that - "

"Go ahead, take Harold. You can have him. I'm sure you need him more than I do." It sounded tinny though, cheap and tinny somehow, and Joanne groped for the right words, the clever words, sorting them out in her mind; speaking her piece with a jaunty air, "Thanks for the kind thought, Mother Eve, but when a blonde has a date with her hairdresser, well, I'd just better wait my turn."

"Charming, my dear, a charming capitulation." Eve gestured her approval, shooing the anxious maid out. Then, as the door swung shut, "For a moment I had visions of poor Harold being torn apart between the two of you. Limb from limb. Like a wishbone."

"Wishbone? Oh. Make a wish . . ." Joanne's clenched fists mimicked the timeworn tradition. "Hey, you'd sure have no trouble judging the winner afterward, right? Not with Harold in the middle."

"True. He's such a big boy. Nora rather fancies Harold, you know, and that's probably the reason. He's certainly far from handsome, so it must be his virility that appeals to her - and the obvious fact that he's well hung. But these fits of jealousy are unbecoming, and Nora should understand that. I'll have to cure her of it if the affair gets any more serious, I suppose. But meanwhile it does keep them both out of mischief, so I've been biding my time."

"Oh, let the little monkey have her fun. Don't break it up on my account. I don't mind taking a rain check."

"Umm, well, we'll see. But I must congratulate you, darling, the way you averted a crisis was absolutely charming. A blonde and her hairdresser - hmm, quite diplomatic, isn't it? - and yet with such deliciously catty connotations. The perfect squelch. Yes, you're definitely developing a flair, you clever girl. You'll soon be as speech conscious as the rest of us Valentines.

Joanne swallowed a warm wave of gratitude. To be called Mother Eve's clever girl gave her a funny feeling. Clever girl. It made her become all melting and quivery inside, not so much sexy as just plain proud. She knew how dumb she was, especially about big words, and a little affectionate praise sure helped. But it wouldn't be sophisticated to get gushy about it; Mother Eve's compliments were yummy but had to be digested on the q.t. and not out loud, oh no, that was something that wouldn't be clever.

"Thanks, but I'm not in your league, Mother Eve. I'll never learn to talk like a Valentine. But thanks anyway. Only I sure wish Spencer could have heard you."

"Spencer again, eh? Joanne, tell me something. Why were you so quick to turn down a session with Harold?"

"Uh, like I said, I just took a rain check."

"Is that so? I wonder. You really could have gotten yourself laid tonight, you know."

"But - but poor Nora was all steamed up and - "

"Nora is my servant. She works here. The slightest indication from you, and I would have cut her short and backed you to the limit. And you could have been getting that rosy red cunt of yours fucked good and proper right this minute."

"Oh ..."

"Only you didn't want that, did you? I don't think you ever want it, frankly, I think you just enjoy baiting Spencer and then bitching about him afterward. Hah! My dear, I know what you want."

"You - you know - "

"See? Isn't this it?"

"Mother Eve! Yessss ... oh, I do, I do! You know it. You always know. You always know everything!"

"Wait. Not yet, you impatient hussy, first let's have some atmosphere. Light the candles, just those two over there. Let's have it dark and mysterious."

Dark and mysterious. Her own words, her very own words, and to hear them repeated like that - and in such a thrilling way! - gave Joanne that nice quivery feeling again, the clever feeling; only this time it was sexy too, fantastically sexy, and she had to shake loose of her negligee somewhere between the lighting of the candles and the darkening of the last lamp. Her bare skin prickled. But it came from inside, not from the cool air, it came from the excitement of being Mother Eve's sexy clever girl. And to a sexy clever girl it became suddenly important to make the room even more dark and mysterious, oh yes, all terribly dark and mysterious, and she sealed every chink in the draperies, shutting out even the faint window glow from the other wing of the house.

Somehow, though, it still didn't strike her as looking dark and mysterious enough. The matching candles were too cheery. Kind of decorative, standing side by side like that; like twin blossoms of light, small but friendly, entirely too cheerful, and she blew one out just to test. But it didn't change much, and the final effect disappointed her. Until she turned to ask Mother Eve's opinion and saw how the single flame faded to a shadowy flicker by the time it got that far away.

It was dark and mysterious, all right. Plenty dark and plenty mysterious. The dim candlelight seemed to catch the white satin of the divan, glancing off the bumpy tufts and doing something freaky to the whole surface, something spooky; it could have been the inside of a coffin. Joanny remembered her first impression of the black nail-polish, but now it was a hundred times spookier on the fingernails and toenails of a corpse. Mother Eve was still wearing just that gauzy black thing, kind of like a shortie nightgown; it clung close but gave away no sign of life, no breathing - nothing. She was beautiful. A beautiful corpse. Joanne was frightened but fascinated and she stared spellbound, shivering, until at last the inherent dread of death took over and brought a whimper to her lips. The tiny noise broke the spell and suddenly she wasn't scared any more. Just a little uneasy maybe.

"Mother Eve?"

No anwer. Not a flutter of an eyelash.

"Well, okay, play dead if you want to. But aren't you supposed to be a witch tonight?"

There was a soft laugh and then Mother Eve came alive again. "But of course, how forgetful of me! I was practicing my yoga while you lit the candles and I must have slipped to another astral plane. And then - oh, but I shan't bore you with the details, darling; yes, of course, this is my night for witchcraft. And you've created a fine atmosphere for it. Dark and mysterious. But only one candle?"

"Uh, two made it pretty bright. But if you want them both - "

"No. Just bring me the other."

"The other?"

"The other candle, Joanne. The unlit one. I'd like it here beside me where I can reach it. Just in case. I have no idea what spirit may move me tonight, but - well, you do know what I mean by that, don't you?"

"Y-yes. At least I think so. But - but with a candle? That's for kids in a dormitory, isn't it? Why not use a dildo? As long as we've got a whole set of - "

"Don't be ridiculous, my dear girl, who ever heard of a witch using a dildo? Now bring the candle before I get angry and have you fetch me a broomstick from downstairs." Then, just a bit less gruffly, "Hmm, it does make you look rather like a schoolgirl."

"I - I feel like a schoolgirl. A candle. Imagine."

"Do I detect a note of coyness, Joanne? If so, it's the wrong approach. Put the candle down. This isn't your night to be coy or to play the shy schoolgirl."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"I'm going to take you to hell tonight, do you hear me? This is your night to know fear!"

Joanne wasn't afraid. Except that she was always just a little afraid of Mother Eve, of course, the same as everyone else - but that only added to the sexy feeling, so tonight wasn't much different. Kind of scary though, she had to admit. Enough to make her nervous, anyway, and she kept wishing Mother Eve would hurry up and tell her what to do.

But for a long time nothing happened. Joanne just stood there waiting, her head bowed, getting more and more jittery every minute. In the dim light she could barely make out the dark place under the film of the shortie nightgown, the extra dark place, and it was kind of crazy the way she was thinking about it. All dark and mysterious. Like it was some unknown thing, even though she knew it was just the black hair on Mother Eve's cunt. Like it was some unknown thing calling out to her, daring her, something dangerous, scaring her, and Joanne couldn't look at it any more without shuddering. But it held her tight and finally she had to force herself to turn away - only to get stuck once again, grabbed by the power of Mother Eve's eyes.

Those eyes! Just narrow slits - that was all they were - but they blazed brighter than a thousand candles. Joanne was hooked. Her legs got weak and there was a draggy sensation in the pit of her stomach and she just let her knees bend and settle under her sagging weight. Then the burning eyes snapped shut and she looked back at the dark place and it was still calling her, but louder now, much louder; she was right on top of it - so close? - and she just had to answer the call and push her face down there, she had to stick her nose into the black shadow, the unknown mystery, the thing, the strange thing. Oh sure, she knew it was Mother Eve's hairy cunt, but it scared her just the same, it scared the shit out of her to start sucking it, to open her mouth and let her tongue slide in and taste the unseen blackness. It all seemed so absolutely weird and unnatural, so spooky!

"Ah. Yes. You clever creature ..."

Clever? Joanne didn't understand. Or maybe she did. Maybe she had received a silent message and was doing exactly what she "was supposed to do. Like it was witchcraft for real! So it was still spooky and unnatural, spookier than ever, in a way, but she had that nice special feeling now, all lovesick and quivery-hot, so sexy! She dove deeper into the dark pussy, deep, deep, and it was such a wild freaky thrill that she wondered what kind of excitement the rest of the night could possibly bring. She could hardly wait to find out! Because this was only the beginning. It had to be. She could tell. She could always tell when Mother Eve was building up to one of those wild freaky scenes that lasted till they both collapsed from exhaustion.

But exhaustion was hours away yet, hopefully, and Joanne knew she had a job to do. Only it wasn't just a job, of course, it was the thing she loved doing most. Well, one of the things. As much as she loved sucking Mother Eve's cunt, there were always new and different stunts that shocked her at first and then became just grand, simply grand, and each thrill surpassed the next until there were just no limits. And no understanding. Like the time Mother Eve sat on her back and swatted her ass and made her prance around like a pony, oh, it felt so silly! - and yet it got sexy all of a sudden and she did tricks like a clever pony and the cunt-juice was streaming down her thighs even though Mother Eve just kept swatting her bare ass and treating her like an animal. That was really something. But this was something, too, something wild. Joanne knew it was going to be more than just a cunt suck as the musky softness seemed to reach out and surround her, clogging her nostrils and lips with its scent and taste; the thick thighs lurched and gripped and jerked as the great hairy cunt-mouth all but swallowed her alive. Sometimes she couldn't breathe. But that didn't matter. The gasping agony even added to the total sensation and in her frenzy of lust even the painful clutch of the flesh-padded thigh- muscles became a kind of thrill. She was almost sick with an eagerness to please, and when Mother Eve's body began to writhe in that special familiar way, Joanne felt her own climax coming on. Deep inside the squishy cunt-hole she wondered if this peak of excitement could possibly be followed by anything even half as -

"I'm going to take you to hell tonight, Joanne." "Oh! Take me. Take me to hell!"

6

Dear Diary, I'm so disappointed. She was absent today. I hope she isn't sick or anything like that. It really bugged me, too, because I had my heart set on our meeting. Especially after last night. I had such fabulous fantasies about her while Clarisse was making love to me. (Oh shit, that sounds prissy. Clarisse didn't "make love" last night, she sucked my cunt and licked my ass.) I mean romantic fantasies, Di, there was something almost spiritual about it, even though my body got so hot and sexy that it kept slipping out of control. Clarisse was absolutely terrific. And I didn't have to do much to get that tongue of hers in the right groove, it was already halfway there when she came in. Practically hanging out for me. Her enthusiasm brought up some exciting possibilities, as a matter of fact - but that's a story in itself and I'd rather catch up on this other thing first. I mean about Winifred Olsen. I sure missed her today, but at least this gives me a chance to dig into what happened yesterday. The whole picture seems a little clearer now so maybe I can get that one fuzzy place into focus too, the rough spot, the hangup, the thing I couldn't come to grips with. The point where Cinderella's glass slippers turned to shit. Yesterday afternoon in study hall. When I sat and concentrated on Winifred and my pussy started swimming. And that awful feeling hit me!

It was pretty goddamn grim. The real meaning is still buried somewhere in my subconscious, so I can't do much except sift through the details. But it was grim, all right; there I was half hidden behind the propped-up book in my hands, safe and secure one minute and dying of chills and fever the next. I got an electric tingle in each cheekbone and wondered if my face was turning pink. It sure felt like it. And it must have been, of course, I realize that now, pink as a fresh sunburn and just as uncomfortable - only I didn't pay much attention to it then, and it's certainly worth more than just a passing mention. Because it's more than just a detail. Funny. Imagine me, blushing. I don't recall thinking about it at the time, Di, but that was sure a new twist. Blushing because of sex, I mean. I can sit in class with my cunt hot and sopping wet (often, too!) and slip into a sexy trance without ever showing the slightest sign. Never a giveaway. Maybe I'm lucky and it just comes natural to me, but it seems so easy and ordinary that sometimes I get the impression the other kids are all doing the same damn thing. Only it wasn't like that in study hall yesterday. And I'm not just talking about a little blush either, hell no, all of a sudden I really felt conspicuous! As if everybody for miles around was gawking at me and smirking and whispering - oh shit, I felt just awful. As if they all knew. Believe me, Di, I've never gotten that sensation in school before, not from such a simple thing as a damp pussy anyway, so the switch was pretty creepy. I mean creepy in a way that I can't explain. It's even a little creepy to sit here now and think about it. And I'm only just beginning to understand why. So I've just got to rap some more and try to figure the thing out. Help me get my head together, darling Diary, and I'll be eternally beholden to you.

I know it all ties in with Winifred, of course. I guess you'd have to call her the primary factor. But - as old lady Fringel says in geometry class (her room is very conducive to sex, by the way, I can actually climax!) - the primary factor is seldom without its corollary. (Oh, fuck it, I must be losing my marbles. I just stuck in that "corollary" shit to sound like a smart ass. It's all fucked up. Just like I'm all fucked up.)

Di, how about that? I can't even begin without taking a dumb detour. Talk about wheels within wheels! I'm a smart-ass kid because I love Mother Eve and do my best to please her. I'm my mother's daughter. And here I've been farting around with primaries and corollaries and smart-ass geometry propositions just to keep from saying what has to be said. Just delaying the issue. J-ust spouting a lot of smart-ass shit to get in the way of the truth. Oh, it makes me want to cry! Because the truth hurts. I was unfaithful yesterday, hiding behind my book, I was unfaithful to Mother Eve and everything she stands for - and that's the truth. My cunt got creamy without a single thought of home. It's never done that before, never in all my life, so I was probably distracted by the experience and didn't recognize my own indiscretion. (I just wasn't thinking along those lines, really. Until it was too late. And then I just wasn't thinking.) But that doesn't alter the painful truth: little Betsy was a bad girl yesterday afternoon. And she still is! Nothing has changed since then. Right this very minute I feel pretty sneaky about the entire affair, and I guess I really mean sneaky. So I sure can't consider myself a one-hundred-percent Valentine. I might even turn out to be the black sheep of the family!

End of confession, dear Diary. And I really don't want to cry. Now that I've got that ugly corollary off my chest, I just want to get back to the beautiful primary - the cause of my wet pussy - Winifred. The direct and immediate cause of my soaking wet pussy. Not someone on the other side of town, not Mother Eve, not Clarisse, not Joanne, not Poppet or Nora or Harold or Gertrude or Rosalie or anybody I can moon about and know that my daydreams are strictly private, shit no, the one and only cause of my wet pussy was right there next to me! Just an empty desk away, so close that I could have reached across and touched her. And that was what brought on the silly blushing spell, I suppose. The nearness. (There's a better word, I think - propinquity?) The nearness of my dream lover. Near enough to make the connection only too obvious. As if there was a rainbow shimmering in an arc from my seat to hers, a rainbow of love that the whole world could see. Oh shit, no wonder I felt conspicuous! So I guess maybe it wasn't so creepy after all. Except that it's still sort of creepy to realize just how strong my feelings must be if Winifred can turn me on like that. I must have a crush on her, an old-fashioned romantic schoolgirl "crush" - the kind that went out with high-button shoes. Only I hear high-button shoes are making a comeback these days, so who's to say what's in style and what isn't? Anyway, I practically idolize her! So I might as well let it all hang out: I've got a crush on Winifred Olsen. I love her!

There now. I said it and I'm glad. Thank you for being my witness, Di. And thanks for wandering around with me all this time. We almost got stuck in those screwy wheels, around and around, the fucked-up windmills of my mind. Good thing it's over. We left my poor pussy swimming in study hall, remember?

Oh shit, it was drowning! My panties were soaked and I figured any minute the drool would be leaking through and dribbling down my legs. Imagination, maybe, but I couldn't take that risk (sometimes my cunt drools nonstop for hours!) so I signaled the proctor for permission and got up to go to the restroom. I moved pretty slowly though, trying to appear casual but actually shuffling along in small steps to keep a tight zipper on the flood. I had to pass in front of Winifred's desk on the way and she raised her head and winked at me. I winked back and kept going. I really mean I kept going, Di, because that exchange of winks only added to my drainage problem. Clenched cunt and all, I made it out the door and breathed a little easier in the corridor. But I didn't stop there either, I just stretched those baby steps into giant steps until I was safely inside the girls' toilet. And then, finally, sitting on the John and mopping up the damage, I got relaxed enough to let the full impact hit me. Which it did. With a wallop.

It's a fact that Winifred Olsen just isn't the winking type. The very idea is incredible. Goddesses don't wink. And for me to wink back at her? Impossible. Nobody winks at a goddess. Only there's something contagious about a wink, a natural reflex, I guess, and if you wink at anybody, even strangers, they'll usually wink right back. And that was what happened to me. First the incredible, then the impossible. The goddess winked and I returned her wink. Di, right then and there (in the girls' John, I mean) my heart began thumping like mad and all of a sudden my pussy didn't seem so important. The wetness was only from a daydream. And those winks were real. Real enough to raise some mighty interesting prospects!

The thought jolted me up off my ass and into action. Looking back at it now, I doubt if I was certain that Winifred would come into the restroom. But I sure acted as if I expected her. I washed my hands and combed my hair and primped in front of the mirror, and it was all done with the definite feeling that I might see her at any minute. I had to look my best. Something big was going to happen. I just knew it. I guess it was like an ESP thing almost.

It happened, all right, but not quite so simply. One of the classes must have let out early and a bunch of noisy girls trooped in. I was annoyed, to say the least, and gave up in disgust and started to leave. But there's a small passageway between the double doors (so the boys can't get a free show from the corridor) and that was where it all came true. I practically bumped into her. She was with two other girls, seniors from the class that had just let out, but she lagged behind them and stayed there in the little entry-nook to talk to me.

Not that we had much to talk about. Besides, there wasn't time. I don't even remember what she said exactly, except that she would be seeing me in study hall tomorrow (meaning today, of course) and then she bent and kissed me on the cheek! It was only a peck, just a quick touch of her lips, and after that she swung right around and continued on through the inner door to join her friends. So we couldn't have been alone for more than a moment, that was all, only a tiny moment together. But she did kiss me!

That was yesterday, Di. One little kiss on the cheek, hardly enough to make a fuss over, and yet I'm still swooning. I've never had a romance before and I want this one. My first. I want it so much that nothing else seems important any more. Which is a very unhealthy attitude, I suppose, unhealthy for a Valentine anyway, but it just can't be helped. I'M IN LOVE.

I'll have to cool it here at home (except when I'm with you, dear Diary) so no one will detect any change in me. Isn't that a drag? I'd rather shout it from the rooftops! But I guess the idea of secrecy gives me a thrill too, in a way, so maybe it won't be so bad. I made out okay with Clarisse last night, of course, and she didn't have the slightest notion that I was off in another world most of the time. But that probably wasn't a fair test because Clarisse herself was in the middle of something strange.

The "blackmail" thing had her so excited that I can't take any credit for keeping up a front. And it was her own suggestion this time, not mine, so she really must have been carried away.

Some suggestion! I was just stepping out from under the shower when she came in, and my immediate thought was to play peekaboo with the towel draped around my bare body and kind of tease her into a nice warm mood. But I never got the chance, not to tease or coax or even bring up the blackmail threat. Clarisse was way ahead of me. She stood in the bathroom doorway and called me a "wicked little blackmailer" and then she smiled and said something about being completely in my power. Just like that. I mean it all came out in the same breath, almost as if she had rehearsed it. So what could I do but pick up the cue and get into the act? I tossed over the towel and told her to stop the shit and give me some service. She looked startled but not unhappy, and when she finally knelt down to dry my legs and feet a couple of minutes later I stuck my ass in her face and made a few pertinent remarks about that educated tongue of hers and what she could do with it. She didn't even hesitate - and with that first eager dab at my asshole (more like a lunge!) her tongue became mine for the night. My personal property.

I took her to bed and made good use of it, naturally, but I would have been far more demanding if Winifred hadn't lured me away so often. Clarisse kept sniveling about blackmail and such, griping and moaning and mumbling, calling me a "precocious little monster" (even with her mouth slurping the juice from my cunt, the sexy bitch!) but it all sounded pretty obvious. I knew damn well that my "victim" was relishing her role. And I do mean relishing. I'm sure I could have dominated her the way my mother does, I could have gone overboard and crushed her into submission. She was ripe for something wild. I could have beat her butt, I could have had her wailing out loud and begging for more, I could have made her crawl. (Hey, that's wild all right! Maybe I'll do it some dark night when the urge grabs me.) But even the novelty of a sex slave had to take second place to my beautiful romance, so I did only enough to keep my ass licked and my cunt sucked, slow and steady (with an in-between change-break now and then to let her know who was boss) while my mind spent the rest of the time with Winifred. My body got the royal treatment, better than it deserved, I must admit, but the memory of that kiss on the cheek was still a bigger thrill.

We were wide awake all night though, so Clarisse couldn't have had any complaints. Along toward dawn I noticed a little slowdown and figured she was getting bored with the same old grind, so I added an extra twist and told her to stay right with it during the change-break from one side to the other. She said, "Huh?" and then she laughed and said, "Oh, you mean the taint. It's an old joke, darling. Tain't cunt and tain't asshole." She was still chuckling when her mouth slid under me, and I really liked her for that, Di, a sense of humor after an all-night workout, laughing and joking like a frisky kid; I mean the old girl was showing plenty of joie de vivre, right? I felt almost ashamed of using her all those long hours, really using her, using her tongue while I grooved with Winifred. So I kissed my dream good-bye and kept my mind with my body for that one last session. Or at least I tried to. But the pink cloud closed in after Clarisse got settled down to lapping her bowl of pussy-milk, and she seemed so contented without me that I drifted away and found my love again. I HOPE I FIND MY LOVE AGAIN TOMORROW!!!

Anyway, I'll sure sleep tonight, romance or no romance. I'm that exhausted! I didn't have much more than a nap after Clarisse's grand Finale, and then another catnap in the car (which must have exasperated Harold no end because his hardon went unnoticed and it hurts even more when I don't tease him) on the way to school. So I guess I've got a right to be tired. It's early yet, but I'd better go to bed while the coast is still clear. Mother Eve is on the rampage and the natives are restless. I heard her scolding Poppet awhile ago and now she's got Rosalie in there and is probably tanning her ass. Not that it isn't already tan. But my artistic mother swings a whip like a powerful paintbrush, so poor Rosalie's ass will be a hell of a lot tanner before this night is over. She has my sympathy. Except that she worships Mother Eve and fucks up on purpose sometimes just to get attention. That kind of attention. She says she'd rather be whipped than ignored.

I know it sounds weird, Di, but that's what she told me, and the two of us are good buddies. I mean we're pretty cozy together. Maybe black is beautiful, but Rosalie's tan color (she calls it "high yaller") suits me just Fine. She's the youngest of the servants and I like her the best, even if she's only a housemaid and not really very pretty. Rosalie takes care of Poppet and helps Gertrude in the kitchen and works harder than anybody, but she's always got time for me. And we don't have many secrets from each other.

Although I do have a secret now, I suppose, and it's something I can't open up about even to Rosalie, as much as I trust her. But I've said enough on that subject, dear Diary, and I ought to turn the light out before my mother sees it and sends for me. Ordinarily I'd just take my chances - anything that goes on in Mother Eve's bedroom is usually fun. But not tonight. I don't feel much like getting involved. Even if there was a daisy chain I'd only drift off with Winifred again. Or fall asleep.

7

There is a kind of pain that becomes exquisite pleasure when prolonged. And then there is a kind of pleasure that can be exquisitely enhanced by pain. Rosalie was happily aware of both. Her ass was on fire. Happily.

At the moment, however, the happiness she felt was somewhat less than consummate. Her well-whipped bottom smarted for lack of salve and her aroused but unassuaged cunt cried out for solace; all in all, Rosalie considered herself a poor serving-wench in need of at least some sympathy. In dire need! And unless she got very lucky, neither her backside nor her front would receive any tonight. Sympathizers were in short supply apparently: little Betsy was busy with homework and Nora had a date with Harold. Short supply indeed. Heaven help the working girl on a night like this!

Rosalie pondered the issue with a touch of petulance. What to do? Take some aspirin and go to bed? Not much of a solution. No, dammit, between Betsy's homework and Nora's Harold it was enough to give an aspirin a headache. One or the other simply had to yield to the pressure of her urgent necessity. Even the lowliest of servants was entitled to her civil rights. Her aching ass and palpitating pussy were sure demanding theirs.

A session with dear little Betsy would have been preferable by far, but homework outranked Harold in the general order of the household. Despite the more immediate possibility of a rebuff, Rosalie gathered her courage and knocked on Nora's door. It opened a crack. And then widened to admit her.

"I - I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Well, I do expect Harold shortly. As you can see." Nora flaunted her nude body to emphasize the point. "But he will not be here for a while yet. Something on your mind?"

The seductive sight increased Rosalie's urgency. Then too, there was no indication of the anticipated rebuff, and she doffed her robe hastily to exhibit her plight. Or half her plight anyway, the more demonstrable part, and the evidence of Mother Eve's whip spoke for itself.

"Oh, you poor darling! Such a mess! She really gave it to you tonight, eh?"

"I'll say." Rosalie glanced back down over her shoulder, examining the damage wryly. "Anyone for tick-tack-toe?"

Nora giggled. "Mother Eve does have a certain technique. But come, my dear, lie down and let me take care of you. A bit of lotion will work wonders, yes?"

"Uh, about Harold. You're sure I'm not - "

"Pooh! Never mind that man, just get your derriere up on the bed. Oh shit, what a walloping!"

It was Rosalie's turn to giggle as her mood became gaily expectant. Nora could be so funny at times, getting that phony French accent of hers mixed up with her equally phony Irish brogue. Phony but delightful, "shanty Irish and boudoir French" - that was what Mr. Spencer called her; nevertheless the sympathy was indeed welcome and so was the soothing salve. Rosalie relaxed under the expert ministrations, shuddering as the cool creamy stuff added a fresh dimension to the pleasure-pain of her hot skin. She liked Nora. The small hands slathered and rubbed, remaining firmly businesslike even during the necessarily intimate darts and dips, but Rosalie wasn't fooled. Nor was she quite so despairing of finding an adequate solution to the other half of her problem, oh no, everything was coming up roses. Smooth sailing, it looked like, smooth as Nora's clean-shaven cunt. Now if that bastard Harold would just stay away a little longer ...

"Still hurt?"

"Only when you stop."

"Oh? In that case ..."

"Oooh!"

"You must not complain, my dear."

"Complain? Me? Silly girl. Do it again. Deeper. Don't worry, my ass is big enough to take it."

"I know. I could lose my finger."

"Put enough of that cream on it and you're liable to lose your whole hand. Arm too, right up to the elbow."

"Hah!"

"See? Don't be afraid. Dig right in."

"Hmm. That gives me an idea. Rosalie, why is it that you and Harold have never made love together?"

"You know why. I don't go much for men."

"A hot girl like you? Honey, you're sizzling tonight, no? Mother Eve left you high and dry?"

"I'm sizzling tonight, yes. But that's got nothing to do with Harold. Besides, he's your lover, not mine. What's the matter, are you getting tired of that big dick of his?"

"Never. But I might share the wealth if you were willing. For your sake and for Harold's. And for my own, to be quite frank about it." Nora sniffed ruefully. "Sometimes that big cock is just too big."

"Is that so? I don't get it. I thought you and Harold were having a wild romance together."

"We are, we are. But my own ass is, uh, well, I don't have your capacity, if you know what I mean. And lately the dear boy has been hinting in that direction."

"Oh. That explains it. The dirt road, huh? And you're the petite type. Nora baby, are you asking me to - "

The intrusive knock on the door ended the discussion. The soft hands left her and Rosalie could hear only the faint fringe of a core of whispering; she twisted slightly and craned her neck to see what was going on back there. As if she didn't know! Oh well, the lowest-ranking servant in the house couldn't kick up a fuss. Although she hadn't bargained for it happening in such a hurry, damnit, she hadn't actually agreed to cooperate yet and Harold was already naked.

It was big, sure enough, that cock of his was huge! Nora was smearing it with her palms, getting it ready for action, and her tiny hands looked even tinier now. Not that any other hands would have seemed much larger by comparison, shit no, that enormous baseball bat of a prick would have dwarfed even a pair of catcher's mitts. Rosalie stopped stewing about making up her mind. The novelty alone was enough. True, she didn't care much for the male sex and the idea of kissing Harold would have been repulsive to her, but as long as she wasn't on her back and didn't have to lay the guy face to face -

"Rosalie?"

"Yeah. Okay. Make damn sure he starts slow and easy, though, or I might scream."

"Of course. But if you do feel like it, scream away. I will give you something to scream into. Something nice."

Something nice, oh yes, and here in the Valentine house that could mean only one thing - cunt. Better yet, here in Nora's room it meant hairless cunt. Smooth. Rosalie licked her lips. She could hardly wait. Both ends were becoming impatient and she jutted her ass and drew her knees up as Nora's fingers aided in the probe for position. Such a gentle probe. Too gentle, damnit to hell.

How much patience was a poor girl supposed to have? "Nora, come on!" 

"Hmm?"

"Up here. Cunt. I want your cunt." 

"Gladly, darling. But first let me get him - " 

"Never mind that. Come on up here now!" Then, "Harold, what the hell are you waiting for? If you're going to do it, do it! Fuck me in the ass. Shove it in, you bastard, shove that bug hunk of meat - " The sudden lurch brought a shriek to her lips. The thrust was short, hardly more than a couple of inches, and she knew there was more to come. Plenty more. But the head of that big cock had squeezed through the tensed-up barrier back there, stretching the circlet to a mouth-sized opening, and the worst was over. From here on in it would be gravy. Uh-huh. Whoosh! Just like that. Whoosh . . . whoosh . . . whoosh - in and out now, all the way in and all the way out - and if she didn't control herself there would sure be some real gravy, oh shit, what gravy! Only she just couldn't worry about that now; Nora had finished her coaching chore and was at last coming around to offer more than friendly advice and assistance. About time!

Rosalie raised her head to let the long-awaited female flesh slip into place. Then she dropped her face into the sleek softness of the smooth-shaven cunt and sucked feverishly, frantically, and soon the slithery sounds of licking and lapping combined with the lotion-slick whoosh of the lunging cock - right on! - and no music ever had more soul. Her ass was on fire, sure enough, damn near blazing - but oh, so happily! Heaven was helping the working girl.

It hurt a little, naturally, but who cared? The sting of the whip hadn't quite vanished, but that too was all right. Rosalie felt fine. Great. As long as she had a sweet cunt to suck on. And as long as that thick piece of male meat held out. Both ends, just great. Absolutely super ...

Hmm. Best make certain it stayed that way, though. A little prompting, perhaps? Yes, indeed, a little prompting. "Fuck me, you sonofabitch, fuck my black ass!" It wasn't really black, of course, just a nice high yaller. With stripes. But aside from her intended purpose of keeping Harold stirred up, it did add some color to the occasion. "C'mon, whitey, get with it, you can do better than that. Fuck my black ass!"

8

Dear Diary, AT LAST! Di darling, I'm just dying to pour my heart out to you - and I've got a heart ful to pour, believe me - only now I'll have to hurry and maybe skimp a little because it's so late. I had such a godawful mess of homework to do. Shitty-ass homework, most of it, all plodding and no purpose, the kind of time-consuming crap that certain sanctimonious teachers dish out in "therapeutic" doses: Homework to Discipline the Young Mind. Anyway, it's finished now and I can turn my "disciplined" young mind to more important matters - A Day in the Life of Betsy Valentine. Or a fraction thereof. An hour, let's say?

Less than that. Call it twenty minutes. Twenty. Di, that's a score (pun intended). I MADE IT WITH WINIFRED TODAY!

Okay, so it's sacrilege to joke about a goddess. Skip the stupid pun. Only I'm not so carried away by that "goddess" feeling any more, at least not like before. I've come to the conclusion that Winifred Olsen is a real girl. A real girl-type girl. A real gorgeous girl-type girl - and I'd better derail this train of thought before I cream in my pants, dear Diary, so let's get on with it.

Winifred left study hall early today and gave me a sly wink on the way out. I got the proctor's nod after a decent interval (the shortest of decent intervals - which accounts for the heavy homework tonight) and found her waiting in the corridor. Waiting impatiently just outside the door, the most popular girl in school waiting for me, how about that? Oh, I was proud! And humble too, of course. She looked absolutely divine. Right then and there I was so much in love I could have thrown myself at her feet.

She didn't act like a divinity though, hell no, her hand touched my cheek and she said, "Betsy, you're a little doll. I wish I'd been born a boy so I could kiss you."

It knocked me for a loop. Oh wow, she really came on sexy! And that led us into the weirdest conversation, dear Di; I'm not at all sure how to go about writing this, I'll just have to set the words down the way I remember them kind of like the dialogue in a book, I guess. (My studious brother would know. Maybe I'll pick his literary brains one of these days if I can get him to open up without arousing his curiosity. We wouldn't want Spencer to find out about my darling Diary, right?)

Anyway, her fingers felt cool on my face and shivered a little and said, "You don't have to be a boy to kiss me. You've already done it once."

"That's true. But I don't mean just on the cheek."

"Neither do I."

"Betsy? Do you know what you're saying?"

"Nope. I'm too dizzy. My head has been spinning ever since you started talking about how you were going to kiss me."

"But I didn't - " She stopped and smiled. "Oh, your poor head. We must do something for it. Come to the restroom."

"No, thanks. Not there. Too many kids.

Not if we go downstairs next to the gym. Nobody uses that one unless there's a dance or a basketball game. Come on. We'll have the place to ourselves."

When she said that - oh shit, Di, how can I describe the crazy sensation? My heart collapsed, but my pussy took over as an emergency pump and kept the circulation racing. All the way down the long staircase I was thinking about being alone with her. Alone in that tiny room. Alone with my beautiful idol. It turned me limp and gooey inside and I moved without any sense of direction, slithering down the steps like a blob of pulsating protoplasm.

Once we got there I suffered a few minor qualms, I must admit. The small John was neat and clean enough, much more so than the upstairs one, but a toilet is still a toilet - hardly the place to worship an idol - and the idea of making love in it gave me a funny feeling. Dirty, almost. But I got over that in a hurry when Winifred leaned back against the closed door and put her hands on my shoulders. I looked up into her eyes (they're brown, Di, a soft velvety brown) and raised my mouth for her kiss. It came. Only it wasn't what I had expected, it wasn't hot and gasping and wild, it wasn't even sexy; her lips were pursed and tight and we kissed like a couple of innocent children who just didn't know how. Only I did know how and I couldn't help but wonder.

Then she made a noise in her throat and whispered, "Let's suck tongues," and I didn't have to wonder any more. Suck tongues. Imagine. I hadn't heard it called that since I was a little girl. All of a sudden I understood everything. Winifred Olsen was a high-school senior, sure, but she just didn't know. I mean she didn't know anything about sex.

Di baby, that was a tense moment for me. There we were - in a toilet, mind you - and I felt lewd and dirty and hot enough to chew the tits off a scarecrow. Too goddamn hot to play kid games. So do I have to draw you a diagram? It was easy. Easy for a precocious brat, anyway. I opened my mouth and caught her pursed lips between mine and clamped down on them until I heard her groan. Then my mouth popped open again and she never had a chance; the suction took her lips right along with mine and before she knew what was happening I stuffed my tongue in her mouth and was practically swabbing her tonsils. Oh wow! Sexy? I never tasted anything so sexy in my life. All perfume and honey, sexy as a pussy - and pretty soon she began sucking back and it felt like my tongue was fucking her, I mean actually fucking her, fucking her in the mouth, fucking her mouth just like a cunt! Oh shit, Di, I can't even write about it without getting horny, so you'll have to forgive me if it comes out kind of crazy and mixed up - you know how it is, don't you? I've got to jerk myself off. I'll try to make sense, but even now my left hand is sneaking down for a little pussy-rub - and I still haven't come to the hot part yet.

It was hot, all right. We "sucked tongues" for what seemed like hours and I didn't once let up on her, oh no, I stood on tiptoe (she's so tall!) and pinned her against the door with that wild fuck-kiss and then both my hands went to work on her tits. Her ass, too, after a while. I didn't dare undress her, but I was still able to grab a few handfuls of lovely breast and buttock meat and squeeze and squeeze. I must have lost my head for an instant because she started making noises in her throat and that scared me into a return to consciousness. I figured it was time to cool it a little so I pulled my lips away and let her breathe, half expecting that sweet mouth of hers to turn bitter and blast me with a million curses.

But nary a curse sounded, just a soft sigh that sent shivers up my spine - and then a murmur, "Betsy, you're wonderful. Nobody has ever made me feel like this before."

Carte blanche, I guess you'd call it. Green light. All that pawing and mauling and she was still laying out the red carpet for me. So I knelt down and rucked up her skirt and began showing her just how wonderful little Betsy could be. Excited as I was, though, it seemed safer (expedient?) to make the final approach with care. I kissed her thighs first, each one separately, and then went back and forth between them, tracing little spit- moist patterns on the smooth skin. Di darling, I love thighs. Tits are nice, I'll admit, but a shapely thigh really turns me on - and Winifred's are long and slender and absolutely ravishing! Especially the inner surfaces, high up, so soft and satiny; I painted a thousand-and-one curlicues with the tip of my tongue, little spiral designs that carried me closer and closer to her pussy. She moaned anxiously and I got a whiff of her passion through the already-drenched panties. That did it. I couldn't wait any more than she could, and I pushed the panty-crotch aside and nuzzled upward into the mossy tangle of hair, into the silky wetness, practically submerging myself in the liquid heat and losing all sense of time and place. I could taste only Winifred. I could breathe only Winifred. And in the darkness behind my closed eyelids I could see only Winifred. But somehow, even though I was so far gone that my head felt like a whirling top, I managed to do a good job on her. I really sucked her cunt, Di, I ate her good. Right there against the door in the tiny toilet by the gymnasium, I lapped Winifred Olsen's hot cunt and curled my hot tongue over her hot clitoris and sucked and sucked and got so hot myself that ..

9

Splashing cold water on her face didn't help much. Clarisse peered at her reflection in the medicine-cabinet mirror, auburn hair tousled, blue-gray eyes aglow, lips red and glistening, all quite pretty - but painful to see. Yes, painful. The face of a stranger, an evil stranger, the bright physical manifestation of the darkness rooted in her mind. Shiny with lust. The face of a seeker of depravity.

Midafternoon and she already felt sexy. In the dark night of the soul it's always three o'clock in the morning. Damn! She shouldn't have let herself get aroused like this, aroused with no relief in sight; wasn't it just another symptom of masochism? How big a burden could she bear?

Oh, it was such a pain in the ass! Pain in the ass. Pain in the ass? Ha-ha. Very funny. Funny as a wheelchair with a flat tire. Simply excruciating. Masochism is a pain in the ass. Especially with no relief in sight.

She wished Betsy would come home. But no, Harold hadn't even left to pick her up yet - and anyway, the kid had gotten interested in one of those after-school hobby clubs and was returning later these days. So that possibility was out. Mother Eve too, what with that new nail-polish kick of hers; Nora was in there with her now and any intrusion might have dire consequences. A scolding without a whipping just wasn't much fun. So no Betsy, no Mother Eve, no nothing. Certainly nothing good for what ailed an overwrought masochist. Even the less appealing prospects weren't exactly available. Rosalie and Poppet were playing ball on the lawn; Clarisse heard the distant merriment and had little desire to interrupt their game. Not that either one could have been considered a cure for her peculiar ailment, hell and damnation, she was in a bad way if she had to stoop to one of those two for her pleasure. Nor did she care to call upon Joanne as a last resort, no, she hadn't sunk that low yet. Joanne was just too stupid for words, let alone action.

Zero, then. Clarisse splashed more cool water on her face and stopped feeling sorry for herself. There was no wielder of whips to soothe her pain in the ass, not this early in the day, and she might as well forget it. A little work would take her mind off her troubles. Make the rounds, check the kitchen, see how the dinner menu was coming along. Housekeeper's work. Unnecessary in general but rewarding nevertheless: it gave her a certain spiritual lift to be useful in the Valentine house. Hmm. All play and no work makes Clarisse a giddy girl? Okay. Perhaps an official - if not officious - visit to the cook's domain would ease this sense of malaise. Hopefully.

Buoyed by the new enterprising attitude, Clarisse shed her torpor and headed for the kitchen. Gertrude was seated at the table shelling peas and sipping coffee, her round face pink and sweaty, steel-wool hair unkempt; as always, she looked like a permanent fixture in the place, as immutable as the stove or sink. Only the upper third of her fat body was visible, the rest remaining mercifully concealed by the overhang of the checkered tablecloth. She glanced up and flashed a good-natured smile, a contented dumpling of a woman.

"Oh, it's you, Clarisse. Come in, come in. Pour yourself a cup of coffee if you like." "Thanks, no."

"Well, park the fanny and relax. I'm glad to have a little company. How's it going?"

"All right, I guess. Everything is peaceful. Too peaceful to suit me, frankly." Clarisse slid onto a chair. "I can't stand the monotony."

"Oh?" The cook grinned knowingly. "Mother Eve busy?"

"Uh-huh. Or taking a nap."

"Yeah? Who's she napping with? Nora?"

Clarisse shrugged, fidgeting and lowering her eyes under the penetrating stare. It never ceased to amaze her that Gertrude should be so well informed about the goings-on in other parts of the house. The plump old biddy seldom stirred out of her own precinct and yet seemed almost psychic in her total awareness. Even more disconcerting was her air of smug self-confidence, and Clarisse had long since learned to be courteous and respectful in her calls upon the kitchen. Gertrude had mellowed in recent years and didn't participate in the sexual activities of the household as much as she used to, but her interest still hadn't waned to the point of -

"Hey, don't fall asleep on me."

"Oh. Sorry. I was just thinking."

"Well, do your thinking somewhere else then. Or wake up and keep me company - one or the other. I just asked you about Mother Eve. Is she with Nora?"

"Yes, if you must know. But I really didn't come here to gossip, so please don't ask - "

"What did you come for?"

"I . . . uh, I came to check the dinner menu. You know. Just to see if everything is running smoothly in the kitchen. After all, I'm the housekeeper; it's part of my job."

"Shit! Don't hand me that. You know goddamn well that dinner will be just fine. And I know goddamn well that you're here only because you've got nothing better to do. You feel sexy, huh? Sure, you do, I can read it on your face. You look hot enough to sizzle. You're a real sexy bitch, Clarisse, and you always will be. And that's the truth, right?"

"I - I . . ." It was difficult to speak. She couldn't understand the abrupt change in Gertrude's demeanor.

"S'matter? Cat got your tongue?" The cook uttered a crude chuckle. "Cat. That's just an old pussy. And I've got an old pussy that could sure use that hot tongue of yours. How about it, you sexy bitch, want to make yourself useful?"

Useful. Clarisse shuddered. To be useful in the Valentine house - wasn't that supposed to make her feel good? She felt just awful. But the sudden change must have had a reason; was the expression on her face really such a giveaway? "I - I wish you wouldn't talk like that. What if Rosalie were to - "

"Don't worry your head about Rosalie, I'd get rid of her in a hurry. And the tablecloth nearly reaches the floor, so she'd never even notice you."

"But - but I didn't mean - "

"Never mind what you meant. Yeah - I feel kind of sexy myself today. Get down there and eat me. You want to check the dinner menu? Okay, there it is. Eat my cunt."

Once again a shuddering tremor passed through Clarisse's body. Cunt. The word conjured up a vision of ugliness. Cunt. Gertrude's cunt. Coarse and hairy, unclean and sweaty - the ugly cunt of Gertrude the cook - loathsome. But scarcely more loathsome than that all-knowing leer on her pudgy face, and Clarisse was relieved when the unexpected haze of excitement surged up from some hidden inner source to blur both visions. Her resistance ebbed. She dampened her dry lips nervously and slipped from her chair to duck beneath the dangling tablecloth. While the obscene voice drummed in her ears.

"Come and get it, you sexy bitch. Under my skirt. I've got no pants on. Nothing to slow you down. Eat me!"

Clarisse whimpered in the fearful semidarkness, responding to the harsh command with automatic fervor. Her hand groped and made contact. She inched forward head first, locating a chubby knee, then a flabby thigh; it jiggled and nudged her with a peremptory motion - a silent but forceful exhortation - and her cheek glided up the thickly padded skin, up, up, up the length of the demanding limb. Into the lurid pit. Into the dread.

She heard a far-off sigh from above, an island of sound in the ocean of silence. The monstrous body seemed to sag in its seat and settle upon her face and she felt herself sucked into the appalling abyss. Instinctively she opened her mouth wide, spreading her jaws to build a broader platform of support, a buttress for the crushing bulk. And to allow freedom for her tongue, the springing tongue that was already shooting out of control as if it had a terrible need all its own.

"Go, girl, gobble that cunt! Yesss ..."

Gobble? In such a humiliating position, what else could a poor girl do? Clarisse held her breath in hopes of shutting out the sickening stench, and then at last lost all restraint and surrendered to the inevitable, suffocating in the fetid fleshy bog and feeling the humiliation all the more keenly because of the responsive turbulence in her own shaky body.

"Hey, that's it, you got it, baby, lick my cunt!"

Somehow, unaccountably, the brazen howl of urgency affected her more than the abhorrent act itself; the demand was like an oppressive encumbrance that tilted the scales of her mind and resigned her to an even lower level of abasement. Past the barrier now, she concentrated on the word rather than the thing. Cunt. Not this cunt of the sweaty cook in the steamy kitchen, not some special cunt that required special attention, not any one cunt at all. Just cunt. In the beginning was the word and the word was cunt. Ah yes, the word, but didn't the word require special attention? Clarisse increased the tempo of her caress, using her tongue as a tiny whip, flogging the fingertip-sized clitoris with a skill born of years of experience. An eerie sense of near fulfillment all but overwhelmed her as the ponderous torso responded to her action with an action of its own, heaving and jouncing upon her tongue, smearing its flowing juice against her face, grinding, grinding ...

"Oh, that fuckin' tongue! Suck!"

Strange. There was no stench, no fetid swamp, no nausea. No cause for disgust. Gross and hairy, yes, but hardly repulsive. Moist indeed - but not from sweat. Clean and sweet-smelling and quite pleasant, surprisingly - for which Clarisse was duly grateful. Except that the very cleanliness robbed the female flesh of its excitement somehow, and the anticipated thrill of horror just didn't materialize. She whimpered again as the heavy legs embraced her bowed head in a convulsive clasp, but it was a whimper of sad self-pity, not delicious fear - a whimper of frustration: the desperate whimper of a disappointed masochist...

Too bad. Too damn bad. And pretty damn disturbing in its own insidious way, worse luck, truly ominous! Was there no end to this compulsive search for degradation?

Dear Diary, Pardon, pardon, a zillion pardons! I promise never to leave you hung up like that again. Oh shit, Di, the pen was in one hand and I was frigging myself with the other and when I came to the part about going down on Winifred I just couldn't help it, I got so hot that both hands went into action - only I forgot to drop the pen and almost jabbed myself with it, how about that? Screwed by a ballpoint pen! Screwed and also tattooed.

I sure had a big climax though, and afterward there was only enough strength in me to drag my ass to bed and fall asleep - which was why I left you right in the middle of an unfinished sentence, darling Diary; sex got "out of hand," you might say, and I couldn't scribble another word. I guess I'll never be a dedicated writer like my brother. Although I really didn't do so bad with the blow-by-blow account of that weird conversation; it was almost professional, right? Maybe I'm the one who ought to be writing a book instead of Spencer. If he is writing a book. Joanne says he's only jerking himself off at the typewriter. In fact, she says it too goddamn often. Joanne can be very irritating at times. It would be okay if she would just admit she was stupid, then we'd accept her and love her for what she is. The way we feel about Poppet. Not that it's fair to compare the two of them, since Poppet's dullness is caused by something congenital. (Congenital. I looked that up and it made me wonder, Di.) All the same, Joanne just isn't very bright and would be a darling doll if she would only quit pretending to be something she isn't. Maybe it's Mother Eve's fault; she's always complimenting Joanne on her "cleverness" - and we all know that the sexy redhead with the milky white skin and the body of a high-priced courtesan is just an animal, a glorious animal, a thing of breasts and thighs and beauty - but no brains whatsoever (calling her a clever girl is Mother Eve's way of keeping her contented, I suppose). To me she's just a dumb cluck. Beautiful but dumb. And as for Spencer jerking himself off, so what? Doesn't everyone? He's really a nice guy even if he is a little fucked-up. 1 hope he writes the Great American Novel. At least.

But no, Di, I'll never be a writer myself, not if I keep getting sidetracked like this. It's been days since last time and I've got a lot to tell you about Winifred. About her family too, what there is of it, her mother and her brother. Oh, so much has happened! - it'll take me hours to get caught up. I only hope Clarisse doesn't come in and interrupt. She gave me a present the other night, a WHIP, would you believe it? I think she wants me to use it on her, I mean really use it, not just tickle her ass -but that's another story and I've just got to tell you about the Olsens now.

First of all, Winifred and I have a groovy thing going. No more of that "goddess" bullshit though, unless maybe the goddess is me. We've found a convenient nook under the stairway in school (we call it our "nookie nook") where we can sneak a quickie even between classes. And I do mean a QUICKIE. Winifred sucks my cunt and makes me come in just minutes. Don't ask me how it happened, Di, it just turned out that way; after that one time in the little toilet, she insisted on returning the favor and somehow it became a regular pattern. She didn't really know how to suck, so I kind of took over and told her. In no uncertain terms. I must have been influenced by Clarisse, and when I started bossing Winifred around she accepted it as a natural thing and almost became my slave. So now I just drop my panties and she goes down on her knees and gets all hot and shaky until I give her a mouthful. Then she's in paradise. It's just my pussy - but that's paradise to her. Sometimes I even make her beg a little before letting her kiss it. She's hot for me, Di, she's hot for my bod just like Clarisse is. If we pass each other in the corridor she sticks the tip of her tongue out and smiles at me, not a phony smile either, shit no, it's a HUNGRY smile. She hasn't stuck that pink tongue up my ass yet, but we'll get around to that before long. She'll do anything for me. Just like Clarisse. Anything and everything. Believe me, she's already done plenty.

AND SO HAS HER MOTHER!!!!

Are you shocked, Di? You should be. I'm still stunned myself and I've had twenty-four hours to think about it. And even longer than that to feel guilty. The wrath of Mother Eve! I guess that's why I've avoided you these past few nights, dear Diary, that ol' debbil conscience has been plaguing me and I just couldn't face up to it. But what's done is done - or to quote old Omar, "The moving finger writes; and having writ, moves on" (sure sounds better than a ballpoint pen!) - so it's confession time again. Will you shrive me?

The thing with Winifred's mother happened yesterday; I mean the big thing - but I had cause for guilt even before that. I'm not supposed to get involved outside our own family, remember? Well, I sure busted that rule. I visited the Olsens in their home, and I had to declare a truce with Harold in order to get away with it.

More than a truce, a real deal: "You scratch my back, I'll scratch yours." Only it wasn't his back that needed scratching, it was his BALLS. But that's another story too, Di, so let's just say I made a buddy out of Harold and got him to cooperate. Anyway, after quizzing Winifred about her brother and mother (divorced for years) I was anxious to meet them, anxious enough to make the deal with Harold, and I went there a couple of days ago. After school. Keith Olsen is twenty-one years old and kind of cute - he might even be a faggot - but I was more interested in the lady of the house. You'll understand why when I tell you about Winifred's attitude toward her. Winifred isn't positive, but she thinks her mother is a lesbian - and that was what intrigued me. I won't dwell on it, Di, since we already know the score, I'll just tell you that I spent a pleasant hour with Keith and Mrs. Olsen (I call her Muriel now) and came away with the same idea. I recognized the look in her eyes. Hungry. Hungry for little Betsy. Hungry for cunt. Just snap judgment on my part, admittedly, but I'm precocious about that sort of thing (among others) and I certainly don't lack the courage of my convictions.

Subsequent events bear me out. Yesterday was Parents' Day at school, an annual open-house affair. Mother Eve never attends, and until this year neither had Mrs. Olsen; I guess they're alike in their scorn of PTA-type shit. So why did Winifred's mother suddenly decide to show up? You guessed it, Di, she came because of me. I knew it right away - and she knew I knew it. What a delicious setup!

To "powder her nose" was the excuse, and I steered her toward the little restroom by the gym. All the way there I kept looking at her and getting hotter. Di, she's almost as gorgeous as her gorgeous daughter - darkish blonde with slanty hazel eyes, not as tall or slim but a lot more sexy in a mature way. Exotic. Sensual.

Voluptuous. Oh shit, I didn't care how hungry she might have been, I was starving! I figured maybe I had another goddess to worship. It must run in the family, though, the mother was no more goddess than the daughter. But she was a lot bolder. None of this business of playing it cautious and leaning against the door in case someone came in, hell no, Muriel just squeezed my hand and tugged a little and then marched into one of the two toilet cubicles and sat down. The metal half-door swung shut. I heard a rustling noise as her panties came off, and then the toe of her shoe pushed the door partly open and held it there and she said, "Betsy? You do want to, don't you?"

Di, did I ever! It felt like some kind of dream and yet everything was in sharp focus. Her long outstretched leg was absolutely fascinating; it kept the door open like a curtain in front of a peepshow, and I licked my lips and stared upward from the pointed toe to the cunt-hair shadow between her spread thighs. Then she said, "Betsy, honey?" in a questioning drawl, and before the echo faded I was inside the cubicle and on my knees and losing myself in that shadowy place. I sucked her cunt. Oh, I sucked like mad, kneeling in front of the toilet; it could have been a throne and I got that "goddess" flash again - but suddenly there was a noise behind me, a noise from the corridor, and I realized that someone was passing by. Or coming in? Oh wow, that was a panicky moment!

But I didn't panic. It was too late to duck out, I figured, so I did the next safest thing, I climbed up on the toilet seat and stood there so that no part of me could be seen under the half-door. Muriel understood. She lifted her thighs just enough to let me plant my feet firmly, then she sat and waited. Sure enough, somebody came in. Some woman - I still don't know who - I never did see her. Better yet, she couldn't see me. Muriel's legs were visible, but that was all, and that woman took a leak in the other cubicle unaware of what was going on next to her. And something was going on, all right; Di, I won't forget it till my dying day. Balancing like that, my pussy was right in front of Muriel's face. She raised my short skirt and leaned forward a little. My panties didn't obstruct her for long; she got one finger in the crotch and twisted until the material tore. It made a noise that sounded like a gunshot to me, but it couldn't have been more than a tiny snapping pop, of course, and the woman next door just went on doing her business, pissing and/or shitting. And then there was nothing in the path of Muriel's hot mouth, nothing but my hot cunt; oh Di, her tongue was so big and thick and strong and she knew exactly what to do with it. Flat sweeps first, then jabs and dabs and finally a thrust that crammed me full of wriggling tongue-flesh - and I started to cum and thought sure I'd topple over and be discovered and create the greatest scandal ever to hit our town, but those firm hands kept me stable and that sucking mouth held my teetering body in place until the other toilet flushed and the unseen woman left. And then Muriel got up and maneuvered me into a sitting position on the seat (the royal throne) and crouched down to finish what she had begun. Only now there was no balancing act, so she took her time. I mean she took her own sweet time, and that sure bugged me. I felt all shaky and hollow between my legs and needed to be filled; my sole thought was to get that whopper of a tongue back into my cunt. I even tried to bring my legs together and squeeze her face into place down there, but it was no go; she just gripped my ankles and held me still and had herself a ball teasing me. Oh shit, how that woman teased me! All I got was the tip- end of her tongue. Flicking. Grazing. More of a tickle than a lick. Just that maddening tonguetip, nothing else. Only the tip. And pretty soon my head was tossing and my ass was straining up from the toilet seat in a desperate attempt to gain at least one more inch of that huge tongue. I guess the message got through to her; she relented at last and sank her face into me.

But no, dear Di, even then it just stayed inside my cunt for an instant and she pulled back again and. did some more of that teasing. My ass was still up off the seat, shivering and shaking and trying to reach her, and I couldn't keep quiet any more, I didn't give a shit who might hear me, I just said, "Give it to me, gimme that fucking tongue, suck my cunt, suck meeee!"

That last wail must have done the trick;-anyway, she looked up at me with her face all smeared and grinning and then dove in deep in answer to my politely worded request. Some request. I still don't know whether I was commanding or begging. But it sure got results one way or the other.

Muriel's hands let go. I sobbed as her tongue plunged. My ass twitched and rotated a little and arched up even higher to meet that open mouth more than halfway. I grabbed her hair with both hands and jammed her face into the upward swing of my belly; it felt like a wedge splitting the cunt lips apart and I almost fainted from the spearing hot thrill of her tongue. And then she was rubbing up and down inside my pussy and lapping and sucking and munching and gulping and damn near driving me crazy, I mean right to the brink of insanity - and that woman sure knew how. She finished what she had started, all right; oh wow, what a cunt- lapper! Di, I'd better quit while I'm ahead or I'll be leaving you hung up again and I promised not to. I only wish I had that greedy, gulping mouth right here this minute. I'd sure give it something to gulp. Good night, dear Diary, I'm going to look for Clarisse. Or maybe Rosalie. Somebody. Anybody! No matter who, though, I'll be thinking of Mrs. Muriel Olsen and her daughter Winifred. And .worrying about Mother Eve, I suppose; oh shit, I always worry about Mother Eve - but not enough to make me forget my cunt-hungry new friends, the Olsens. The female Olsens, not the male; I haven't figured Keith out yet. I'm not even sure I want to. He's good looking, I'll admit, and the idea does appeal to me a little, but what the hell, Di baby, how many extracurricular activities can a precocious brat have?

11

Abstruse, perhaps, but a truism nonetheless: a writer may still be writing even when the clack of the keys has fallen silent. Not many can see the truth in the truism though, least of all the writer's wife. Spencer groaned and swung around, surrendering to the inevitable. This writer's wife wouldn't know a truism if it stood up on its hind legs and snarled at her.

"I do wish you'd come with me," Joanne was saying (for the umpteenth time). "It's a big decision. Must I always wear the pants in the family?"

"You look good in pants. Or out of them. But why strain yourself worrying about it? Mother Eve makes all the decisions. All the important ones, anyway."

"But - but it's about your sister. Spencer, aren't you even interested in what happens to her? Doesn't your own flesh-and-blood sister mean anything to you?"

"Don't be melodramatic, my dear. Nothing is going to happen to Betsy. She stepped out of line a little and has probably been punished for it by now. The kid is growing up, that's all. Why make a Greek tragedy out of such a minor incident?"

"Minor incident? How can you be so unconcerned? It gave your mother a migraine for hours." i "She's had migraines before. Often."

"Spencer, you're heartless. You just don't care. You just don't care about anything."

"Cynical is the word, I believe. Regardless, I don't care to attend the family conclave. You'll all sit around and conspire like a roomful of Lady Macbeths. I'd feel out of place. And in the end, Mother Eve will decide what should be done, Joanne, I have better things to occupy my time. I've got a novel to finish that may seem trivial to you - "

"Okay, okay. I get the message. You and that stinking book of yours. I'll go by myself. But in case anyone asks, don't think I'm going to make excuses for you."

"I hardly expect you to, my dear. Just go and look pretty and don't talk too much. You'll be a big hit." "Shit!"

End of colloquy. With a sense of gallantry, Spencer! allowed his wife the last word. As usual. But in this particular instance she deserved it, and he did feel a bit remorseful about avoiding the confab. Betsy had gotten herself involved with some people in town and there was bound to be a hassle over it. But what the hell, he simply had too much work to do.

He wished Joanne would hurry her primping and get out. Even for such a businesslike occasion Miss America had to put on her sexiest make-up. Not that she needed it to look sexy, oh no, Joanne could wear sackcloth and ashes and still be beautiful. A beautiful flower. A beautiful carnivorous flower, a Venus's-flytrap masquerading as a violet; ah, if she only had a semblance of brain to go with all that beauty, a jot, a tittle, a men scintilla of cerebral matter, what a woman she might have been!

"I'm on my way, Spencer. Sure you won't come?" "Take notes, my dear. Tell me all about it." "Go fuck yourself!"

The last word again; winner and still champion.

Spencer shrugged and faced the typewriter, girding his intellectual loins for the introspective fray, the moment of truth, the moment of truth in the truism. This moment is the fruit of forty thousand years. (Wolfe? Ah, beloved sage of Altamont!)

Concentration didn't come easily, though. Was the moment of truth a goddamn lie? Oh well, a little relaxation first. Dream dreams. Practice handwritten signature for flyleaf autographs - Spencer Valentine - in a fine Spencerian hand. Hmm. Unless he took a pseudonym. Nom de plume. Like that elderly maiden aunt in the family, the one who wrote juveniles, nom de plume de ma tante. But what of his public then? Would they peer into his soul and see the real Spencer Valentine just the same? An unlikely prospect. But no matter. They wouldn't recognize the reality anyway. Who could see beauty in a mutilated soul?

12

Dear Diary, THE SHIT HIT THE FAN! My sins have found me out. And I am now carrying my precocious ass in a sling. Remember what I said about becoming the black sheep of the family? Benedict Arnold Valentine, that's me. I swear, Di, you'd think I had leprosy or something. Syphilis, at the very least. And all I did was have a little girlish fun, I mean the kind of fun that girls are supposed to have with boys, that's all. Fun with Keith Olsen. No, we didn't fuck or anything like that. Well, something like it - but I've still got enough cherry left to make a Star rise in the East if I get pregnant. I know about the stork, but who ever heard of a baby being brought by a swallow?

Di, the funny thing about it is that Keith Olsen really doesn't appeal to me. Not much, anyway, although he's certainly nice looking - tall and slim and tallow-haired, almost as striking as his sister. I figured he might be a faggot, and that was one of the reasons I fooled around with him - just curiosity. One of the reasons. The other was more important. More important at the time, I mean, because it sure does sound silly now. I did it to make his mother jealous!

It worked, though, so maybe the idea wasn't so silly.

But that comes later in the story, dear Diary, and I'd better take it from the top. After that first time with Muriel Olsen, her attitude toward me got pretty possessive. Smug, almost, and I didn't like it, so I decided to teach her a lesson. And that was what started the whole stupid mess. I figured I'd make a play for the son just to see how the mother would react. And I did it right under her nose practically.

Di, there's something I haven't told you about Keith Olsen. He collects "girlie" magazines, the kind with pictures of sexy models in lingerie and nylons and high heels. I've seen his collection and it's a gasser. But I knew about it even before that; it was one of the things that Winifred filled me in on when I pumped her for information. So even though Keith had a faggoty look, I wasn't very doubtful of my ability to charm him.

It didn't take long, either. I began flirting in the Olsen living room and he got the drift the minute I dropped a hint about wanting to examine his collection. After that, there wasn't much Muriel could do to stop us, not without creating an embarrassing scene anyhow, so it all seemed quite natural and nonchalant when Keith found a pretext to maneuver me into his bedroom. But it was a maneuver, sure enough, and we were both aware of it.

He got the magazines out and we had a ball leafing through the pages. I could tell he was getting hot. So was I actually, but it was because of the sexy atmosphere rather than Keith himself. Because of the pictures, I mean, and the way the two of us talked about the different girls in their daring costumes. When I called one of them a "gorgeous hunk of cunt" he blushed and got excited and I thought he was going to try to lay me.

He didn't though; instead he said, "Betsy, you sure know a lot for a kid your age. If you were just a little older..."

I laughed and said I was precocious (ain't it the truth?) and put a hand on his knee. Right then and there I knew it was all up to me. Whatever we did, the choice was mine and I felt pretty safe being with him, safe enough so that I could relax and let my guard down and just experiment. There's a law about fucking a minor - and Keith Olsen wasn't about to get himself in that kind of jam. So I didn't waste any more time, I just ran my hand up his leg and grabbed hold of him. Oh wow, his cock was so stiff I thought it would bust through the zipper of his pants!

We smooched a little and I let him feel me up, but then the poor guy began trembling and at last I took pity on him. He needed it. And by that time I had made up my mind to do something nice for him; besides, it was a new experience for me and I wanted to make the most of it. His finger in my pussy didn't really turn me on much, at least not as much as his mother's tongue - or his sister's - so I cut that business short and went to work on his zipper. He tried to help but only got in the way, and finally I lost patience and just pushed him back on the bed and did it all myself. For a moment or two he made a pretense of acting manly and aggressive, but as soon as I got my hand on his bare prick he gave up struggling and just let me. And then it was all mine. To do with as I pleased. To work on or to play with - and to learn from, in a way: the laboratory method of experimentation, right? It even looked like a piece of laboratory equipment, like an upside-down test tube sticking out of his pants - a large-sized test tube too, although nothing like Harold's. (That one is more like a moon rocket on a launching pad!) Anyway, I found Keith Olsen's penis fascinating once I got it out in the open; I looked it over carefully, examining it from every possible angle before getting down to the business of making him happy. And even then I was in no hurry. I moistened it first, licking the skin with the flat of my tongue, making certain I covered every bit of the surface. Good thing I did, too, because I gained some valuable information out of it. I heard him moan but didn't pay much attention; then when he made the same noise later I realized that it was in response to the exact same touch of my tongue. He had a sensitive spot, a kind of special nerve-end, I figured - about a half inch back from the tip on the underside - and after that I geared my ears to my tongue and kept listening for that sexy groan again. Even when I wrapped my lips around his cock and sucked it into my mouth, that one special tiny place remained uppermost in my thoughts and I came back to it again and again. Only by that time I wasn't experimenting any more, oh shit no, just hearing that throaty sound turned me on.

Funny thing though, I was real hot and my cunt began to feel all oozy (doesn't it always?!) and yet the big thrill came from generosity rather than selfishness; I gave and gave and didn't think about my own needs at all, I just got a tremendous joy out of giving such tremendous joy - and it was enough for me. Enough for Keith, too, enough and then some! TOO MUCH! I had his body bucking up off the bed and fucking my mouth, and when he finally shot his load of cum I slurped it right down - like jets, it came out, one spurting jet after another - and then I polished off the entire affair by draining him dry. To the last drop. It was an interesting session, Di, and I could go on describing the blowjob in greater detail, but what the hell, I'm really not in the mood; I sucked him off and that's that - what happened afterward is much more important. I left him in the bedroom, drained dry and knocked out, and then I went back into the living room to check on Muriel. She was jealous, sure enough, I mean that old broad was jealous, so close to cracking up that I had to duck out of there before she got hysterical. So even though it was still a little early for me to be picked up, I sat on the front porch with Winifred until the car came.

I felt pretty good. Wicked. And proud of myself - which led to my eventual disaster. Pride goeth before a flop, and you'd better believe it! I sure pulled a Humpty Dumpty. With the conquest of the Olsens on my mind, I didn't feel like cooperating with Harold. He expected me to jerk him off in the car - Harold has a chronic case of cockus erectus constantus, dear Diary, and I'm supposed to take care of it as a part of the deal we made - but after nibbling Keith Olsen's cute prick I just wasn't ready for any more fun and games. And I told that to friend Harold.

Friend. Oh sure. Judas is more like it! With friends like that, who needs enemies? I guess it was my own fault in a way though, because I told him entirely too much. I shouldn't have mentioned Keith. I had hoped to make Muriel jealous, not Harold, but obviously that was how it affected him. It must have. Because Harold told Nora and Nora told Mother Eve and then the shit hit the fan and I got my ass whipped.

Bear with me, Di darling, I'm just too goddamn embarrassed to tell you about that whipping. This much is enough - I had to bend over the back of a chair with my bare butt stuck out, and then Mother Eve really laid it on. But good. Or bad rather, since it hurt like bloody blazes and damn near tore the skin off. What hurt even more though was the fact that it wasn't meant to be sexy. Just plain punishment. Punishment to Fit the crime. Toward the end I knew my mother was getting hot - the whip always affects her that way - and I thought sure she would take pity and forgive me and both of us would wind up in bed. I was dying for something like that. Only it didn't happen. She just yanked the chair out from under my trembling body and let me tumble to the floor, then she called in Clarisse and Nora and they all had a scrambling threesome together and Mother Eve got herself sucked to a hot climax while I just lay there in a huddled heap of misery and cried my eyes out. Atoning for my sins. Crime and punishment. And there they were, the three of them, all tits and cunts and asses, all fingers and lips and tongue - so exciting! - and poor little Betsy on the sidelines like an orphan or something, a woebegone waif left out in the cold. With a blistered bottom and no consolation in view. Alas!

Oh yes, Di, I got my ass whipped. In anger, not in fun. All pain and no pleasure, damn the luck! And then Mother Eve summoned everybody to a family conference and they sat around trying to decide what to do. What to do about the Olsens, I mean.

Funny about that. I figured I'd be forbidden to see them again and that would be the end of it. But my mother insisted on hearing all the gory details, and the more she heard the more her ears perked up. So I deliberately spread it on thick and got her all hot-'n'- bothered, and the clincher came when I told her about Keith and his girlie magazines. I don't know why, but that sure made an impression on her. And the fact that the Olsens are all blondes helped too; anyway, Mother Eve digested all the data and then kept quiet while everyone else ventured an opinion - and at last she summed it up in one major announcement. A proclamation, practically. "The harm has already been done," she said. "If the Olsens know that much about Betsy then they know too much about us. So we'll just have to invite them over and make certain of their friendship and discretion and loyalty. We'll indoctrinate them, all three of them, we'll indoctrinate them into the Valentine way of life."

Everybody was shocked - or surprised, at any rate - but nobody cared to voice an objection. Who could disagree with Mother Eve? So that's the way it stands now, dear Diary, my ass is in sad shape and I'm still in the doghouse, but all's well that ends well. Anyway, I don't feel so guilty now and indoctrinating the Olsens sounds wild, so I guess maybe the pain of a whipped ass is a small price to pay-considering.

13

The great house was impressive indeed, but somehow that too only added to Winifred's vague sense of apprehension. She felt limp and unstrung - all hollow inside - like a hand puppet left to function by itself, a hand puppet with no firm hand to mold its movement. Oh, it was mean of Betsy to go off and leave her here like this!

Being on her own did have a certain stimulating effect, though, and Winifred became increasingly aware that the scary sensation was generating a strange excitement in the tremulous depths of her body. A delicious excitement, she recognized with a touch of introspective awe, and she really wasn't alone and friendless, of t course, not with two such attractive guides doing their apparent best to put her at ease. Flanked by vivacious Nora on one side and amiable Clarisse on the other, what did she have to worry about? Both of them were spiritedly cordial, trying to outdo one another in their attentiveness.

"You mustn't be nervous," Clarisse was saying. "We're not leading you into anything you won't enjoy."

"Leadeth me not into temptation," Winifred murmured.

Nora giggled. "The hell you say. But a little temptation is nothing to get nervous about."

"Uh-huh. Only I didn't expect Betsy to run off like that. After all, this is my first time here - and everything happened so fast, too - I still can't believe it. I'm supposed to be at the movies tonight, you know. If my mother ever finds out . . ." That was something to be nervous about, but it seemed silly to stew over it now. Silly and childish, Winifred decided, and she wasn't a child any longer. Besides, hadn't she promised Betsy to go through with it? No, she couldn't renege now; the Friday night flick would just have to get along without her. "Oh, don't mind me, I'm the jittery type. Lead on. I'm ready to be tempted."

Countenances aglow, they led on. Winifred made a special effort to achieve at least a semblance of serenity, but it didn't come easily. Nor would it ever, she realized - the quiet calm of her former existence had vanished for all time, disrupted and dissipated by the influence of her adored little friend. It was a loss to be mourned, perhaps, and Winifred had too much intelligence to remain oblivious to that hard fact. These past few weeks had seen an irrevocable change in her life, a change that could be characterized by one word: Betsy. And yet, much as she missed the tranquility of the old days, she didn't feel mournful. Far from it. Oh, she felt so alive!

In a way, though, it was difficult to understand. She had always been beautiful, and even in early childhood she had learned to make the most of her natural endowments. Beautiful and "a born leader" - that was how she had heard herself described by her elders; and now, of her own free will, she had cast aside the mantle of leadership to don the yoke of slavery. Yes, slavery - what else could she call it? - right this minute she was actually defying parental authority just to please her sweetheart. Obedience was the measure of her love. I am Betsy's slave. I do what she tells me to. And I love it. . .

"In here," Clarisse whispered.

The door was slightly ajar and they were evidently expected, but Nora tapped lightly, deferentially, before pushing it all the way open. As if they were impinging upon the sacrosanct presence of royalty.

Some presence! Winifred caught her breath. The spacious boudoir was dimly lit and she had to strain her eyes a little, but the near-nude figure could only have been Betsy's mother. Eve Valentine. The august personage herself. Posed upon the thickly upholstered divan in indolent splendor, she looked like the living embodiment of some flesh-oriented painter's work of art, a veritable masterpiece; Winifred thought of Goya's naked duchess and was overwhelmed by that limp sensation again - all weak and hollow inside. Awkward, too. Clumsy and naive. The hand puppet without the hand. Would it be proper to curtsy? If only Betsy were here to tell her what to do ... ! "So you're Winifred. You look lovely."

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, Mrs. Valentine."

"Lovely. Positively charming. But now that you're one of us you must call me Mother Eve. I'd prefer it. You'll do that for me, won't you?"

"Yes'm. Mother Eve . .."

"And this is my dear sweet Joanne. Do say hello to her so that we can dispense with the formalities."

Winifred exchanged smiles with the stunning redhead seated alongside the divan. But their separate glances met for only a fleeting instant and then both focused on the lounging figure again. The main attraction. A vision of ivory and ebony with nails like points of silver, the stark contrast iridescent against the white satin background of the divan.

"Clarisse? Nora?" Mother Eve's legs moved languorously, allowing the folds of her filmy negligee to fall away in careless disarray. "Come and greet me. Our guest won't mind, I'm sure."

As if in response to a regal summons, Winifred's two guides detached themselves from her side and sank to their knees. With a synchronized motion that appeared almost theatrical, each pressed her lips to Mother Eve's silver-tipped bare feet. Once there, they remained in place. Kissing ...

A wave of dizziness washed over Winifred. Her skin prickled. The scene was staged, she knew, a dramatic scene staged for her benefit - Betsy had told her that much, at least. ("It'll be like a game they're playing, so just play along and enjoy it.") But now it all seemed so real. And so terribly thrilling! Anyway, real or not, there was something missing in the scene and Winifred came out of her stupor long enough to recognize her cue.

"Mother Eve, may I greet you, too?"

"You may, child. Kiss my cunt."

So offhand, so nonchalant! And yet the soft-spoken command was underscored with unimpeachable authority, and Winifred crouched between the pair of kneeling women and complied. The tendrils of dark hair tickled her nostrils; she inhaled the musk-tinged female odor and succumbed completely to the dizzy wave. A moan oozed from her parted lips and then was muffled as she followed the tip of her outstretched tongue into the moistly engulfing flesh. I'm doing it, she thought, I'm kissing her cunt and I love it - and for one poignant moment she felt a pang of remorse because it wasn't Betsy. But she was obeying Betsy, wasn't she? And it was such an enticing cunt! - ah yes, what joy to smear her face into the softness of this spice-scented delicacy and-

"Enough child. That's more than a kiss."

Winifred heard the words and let them pass unheeded! she nodded her head in a gesture of acquiescence, but the motion itself only served to deepen the sweet intimacy of the contact; oh shit, she couldn't quit now! Play the game. All the way. Suck it. Lap up the honey out of this passion-drenched honeypot. Thank you, Betsy, for showing me how!

A hand rapped the top of her skull sharply. Fingers gripped her hair and yanked. Dazed, her tongue still lolling out of her open mouth, Winifred looked up mutely into the blazing eyes and wondered what she had done wrong.

"You're hot, eh? You want more?"

"Yes ... oh please, Mother Eve ... I'm so hot..."

"What do you want? You want more cunt?"

"Cunt. Cunt. Please ..."

"You'll get plenty before the night is over. Three more besides this one. So don't be in such a rush. I only asked for a kiss, remember?"

"Oh. I - I'm sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry about. Such youthful enthusiasm is highly commendable. You're charming, my dear, a charming young cuntlapper - and I'm sure you'll be happy with us. But it's time to greet Joanne now."

"Yes. Whatever you say, Mother Eve."

"Hmm, let me think. Joanne is a charming cuntlapper, too, and I'm sure you'll agree. Suppose you do each other. You'll both be beautiful together. Quickly! There. On the floor, where I can see you."

The luxurious carpet must have been designed for love, just this very special kind of love; it enticed Winifred with its furry caress - and wasn't it nice to have so many hands helping her like this, helping her undress? She didn't have to do a thing herself, oh no, just the thing, the one thing that mattered, and as much as she might have missed Mother Eve's dazzling body there was revived intoxication in the tart-sweet succulence between Joanne's seductively supple thighs. And a brand-new delirium in the onslaught of Joanne's mouth, in the sudden thrust and sweep of that knowing tongue, oh, so wild, so wild and wonderful - and she had this fantastic feeling of making love to herself: it's like I'm sucking my own cunt!

"Charming," Mother Eve murmured. "Aren't they beautiful together? A study in red and gold. Ah, darlings, if you could only see yourselves ..."

Seeing became terribly important, and beautiful Winifred slackened the suction of her lips enough to lift her eyes and steal a rubbernecking glance at beautiful Joanne and beautiful Mother Eve and beautiful Clarisse and beautiful Nora, and she wasn't at all surprised to find that everybody else was naked, too, beautifully naked. Only she couldn't very well see and suck at the same time and now the insistent thighs were closing arond her head and demanding total absorption from the flawed oval of her mouth. She gave it, turning the oval into a flawless O and finding a hot current of communication in its center, hot and thick and deliciously interminable.

Then, somehow - she wasn't sure when - the current took a new twist. A reverse twist, it seemed, until she recognized the irrelevant intrusion and-made a rapid mathematical computation of all the hands and lips. It didn't add up right. The duet had become a trio.

Clarisse?

Yes. A hasty check got the details sorted out and the loose ends tucked in; Winifred sighed into Joanne's cunt and managed the readjustment smoothly, welcoming the intruder with a flourish of limb and haunch. Not that any such flourish appeared necessary though, oh shit no, Clarisse's lips were already busy back there and her hands were spreading the cheeks open - she's kissing my ass! - and now that tongue was licking inside the crack and the wet point kept probing and delving and searching for something that Winifred relinquished with a minimum of protest but an understandable maximum of effort: it's all puckered up tight and she can't get in...

But the difficult entry was accomplished in due time, the stiff tip first and then the moist and slippery length of the wily wiggleworm; such a squirmy little monster! Winifred's pucker turned greedy. She jutted her ass for more. In front, Joanne moaned and dug in feverishly to close the gap. Pinioned between the two tongues, Winifred set up an oscillating rhythm that took advantage of both, aware now that they were competing for her favor. Again she checked for loose ends, seeking fresh perspective even in her moment of glory, and soon came to the conclusion that Clarisse and Joanne were adversaries rather than allies; even in this triple-tiered imbroglio they were apparently avoiding direct contact with one another. Competition, not cooperation, was the order of the day. And with two such ardent admirers to pleasure her Winifred figured she might as well relax a bit and take an objective view of the situation. The strange sounds from over there on the divan certainly called for investigation.

The sound of a whip? Hmm. Interesting. A small one, and handled quite daintily, almost with tender loving care, but the pink streaks on Nora's bent back were plainly visible. Crouched in attendance to her mistress, the pretty maidservant looked like some sort of ancient slave performing a worshipful sexual ritual while in Mother Eve's patrician hand the whip seemed to be assuring a perfect performance. Fascinated by the weird erotic violence, Winifred craned her neck to watch the bizarre tableau, quite content now to play her sandwiched role in passive laziness, no longer actively concerned with the rivalry of the tongues stabbing into her own receptive flesh. Nor did she feel like a hollow puppet anymore, not with those two eager faces wedged into her cunt and her ass, two mouths paying tribute to her body, two lesbians hot for her, hot to give her pleasure, hot to make her happy; no, she didn't feel limp and empty now, oh shit no, dearGodinHeaven she felt just grand! No more qualms. No more fear of the unknown. She belonged...

And wouldn't Betsy be proud of her!

14

Dear Diary, I'd better get you up to date, but I'm not sure how much time we'll have together. Enough to tell you all about what happened Friday night, I hope. Clarisse should be coming in pretty soon, though; I promised her a whipping. And I'm going to do it this time, I mean really do it, I'm going to beat her bare butt until she begs for mercy. Until she screams.

Di baby, I know how now! I might even qualify as an expert. Let me put it this way: Miss Elizabeth Valentine has come of age. No, I'm not much older, just a hell of a lot wiser. And a lot more confident too, only it's not just the "precocious brat" kind of confidence, shit no, it's a feeling of power - so watch out world, straighten up and spin right or Betsy will tilt your goddman axis twenty- three degrees in the opposite direction! (Hey, that would sure fuck up the works, wouldn't it? Think of the poor astronauts!)

Friday night was a pisser, dear Diary, a gem of the first order. Everything went off just great. A long time ago I wondered about the Valentines being different; well, we sure are - and it doesn't bother me any more. Other families sit around playing Monopoly or Parcheesi, but with us it's "Indoctrinate the Olsens." A very beneficial game. The family that preys together stays together. Good fun for all. (Reg. U.S. Pat. Off.) Anyway, two-thirds of the Olsens got indoctrinated Friday night and most of it was my doing. Winifred was easy, of course, since I already had her eating out of my hand (among other things). It was just a matter of timing. And of convincing her that the town movie had nothing to offer in comparison with the * * * * production (rated X) at the Valentine house. It didn't take much effort to convince her, either, especially when she realized that she was going to be the STAR. The kid lapped it up. Literally, I found out afterward.

But her mother was a horse of another hue; our last outing hadn't exactly left us on the best of terms, remember? So I was a little shaky about calling her, even though Winifred had told me that Keith had a date and wouldn't be at home. I couldn't quite picture Muriel Olsen falling all over herself just to invite me to keep her company while the children were out. And she didn't, as a matter of fact, I mean she didn't sound very enthusiastic on the telephone. But she did come through with an invitation of sorts, although I got the impression that she was still upset about my romance (?) with her son. On the way over there I brooded about how to approach her, I sat huddled on the rear seat of the car and didn't say a word to Harold. (What with those to- and-fro trips for Winifred and me, Harold was a mighty busy boy Friday night - but strictly as a chauffeur, and rightly so, the rat! I'm out of the doghouse and my ass is back to normal, but I still haven't forgiven him. No more laying on of hands, Di, no more Jergens lotion under the steering wheel; let the dirty bastard suffer!) But all that brooding and advance planning wasn't really necessary, as it turned out: the first glimpse of Mrs. Muriel Olsen made me decide to play it by ear.

I spotted her weakness right off the bat. She had that look in her eye. Hungry. It didn't coincide with the dignified coolness of her greeting, but I wasn't fooled. She had on a slinky robe and her darkish blond hair was hanging loose; she looked sexy - and just not quite cool enough to hide the hot gleam in those slanty hazel eyes of hers. But for the sake of her face-saving dignity, I went along with the act and let her blow off a little steam.

It was pretty funny, actually, since she came on with a holier-than-thou attitude about my taffy-pull with Keith and all the while I knew damn well her real reason was just plain jealousy. But I put up with it. Although I did feel a little irritated when she started to get condescending. Condescending about sex, I mean, about her knowledge of it, her understanding of Keith's girlie magazines and what a smart and liberal mother she was. Bullshit, I figured, and it seemed like a good moment to break it up. I'd had it, Di, up to here - you know the feeling? So I just walked over and parked on the arm of her chair and stuck my hand into the neckline of her robe and grabbed her tit. Just like that, without any by-your- leave.

Oh wow, what a switch! Muriel was yacking away in the middle of some self-righteous phrase, but her teeth clicked together and bit it off. She sat motionless, almost frozen, and then her eyelids began to droop and her nipple started poking into my palm, and all that hypocritical condescension drained out of her like an aerosol can going poof. At which point I stood up again and said, "Oh, this is ridiculous. We're just not on the same wave-length tonight. I shouldn't have come."

"Betsy, what are you talking about?"

"Sex, of course - what else? But we're not in the same groove. I came over here in a nice lovey-dovey mood, but now you've talked me out of it. I might as well just say good-night and go on home."

"No. Don't leave."

"I'd better. You'll only lecture me some more."

"My dear, I wasn't lecturing you. I just wanted to be sure you understood my views on the subject of - "

"Shit! There you go again. Your views. How about my views? Don't you care about that?"

"Of course I care. I care very much."

"Yeah, you care. Big deal."

"All right, Betsy, what are your views?"

She had me there. What the hell, I'm no philosopher, I'm just an average fifteen-year-old American girl sex- maniac. Strictly run-of-the-mill (HAH!) Anyway, I had to cover up in a hurry, so I put on a little act of my own. After all, Muriel didn't hold the exclusive patent on righteous indignation.

"Never mind my views," I said. "I'm too angry to talk about that now. I've been listening to your lecture and getting madder and madder - and I'd better go before I get mad enough to take a swing at you."

"Take a swing at me? You mean you'd ..."

"I mean I'd probably slap you, that's what I mean. Or lay a belt across your ass. Or something."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I had no idea."

"Well, you've got the idea now. I'd better call home and have the chauffeur come and get me."

Di, that really shook her up. I took a couple of steps toward the phone, but she was out of her chair and on her knees and clutching me around the legs before I could reach it. Not that I was trying very hard, shit no, I had no intention of leaving, not with my "Indoctrinating the Olsens" mission to complete. But as long as we were both acting out the melodramatic farce, I struggled a little and made certain that my thighs bumped her face a few times. Hard, I mean, hard enough to hurt her, hard enough to find out that she wasn't acting. Then I said, "Muriel, do you really want me to stay?"

"Can't you see? You know I do. And if I made you angry, well, it was only because - "

I slapped her. Di, violence just isn't my bag (not then, anyway) and I didn't do it for a thrill, oh shit, I just saw red and slapped her. To shut her up, mostly, and I guess to release some of the tension inside myself. I've got to admit it felt pretty good though, until she looked up at me with her head twisted and said, "See? I'm turning the other cheek."

That did it. Even down there on her knees, the supercilious bitch was proving her superiority. Turn the other cheek. The meek shall inherit the earth. She stoops To Conquer. Di darling, let me confess it - I'm almost ashamed of my reaction. Right then and there I could have committed murder (okay, skip the hyperbole; let's just say I was somewhat disgruntled). I slapped her again, harder than before, and then I yelled, "Turn the other cheek, huh? Stay where you are. Don't you dare move till I get back. I'll show you how to turn the other cheek!" - and I marched into Keith's room and opened his closet and picked out a nice fat leather belt and marched back and flipped up Muriel's robe and began whacking her nice fat ass with it. IN ANGER!

And then I felt it, the new thing, the completely unexpected thrill that came with the anger, the thrill that came with the sight of those big bare buttocks sticking up as if they were coaxing me to punish them; believe me, dear Diary, those two quivering mounds of ass-flesh seemed to be craving violence, and the thrill of satisfying that craving was pure ecstasy. I got hot. Hot enough to cum. Only I couldn't quite make it that way, so we worked out another arrangement. I say we worked it out - the pair of us - I honestly don't remember how it happened, but I wound up sitting on a chair and swinging the belt while she went down on me. And I didn't miss a stroke during the time we got there!

Di, I sure let her have it then. I took a good grip on the buckle end of the belt and slashed away at that plump white ass of hers. Every time I hit it she yelped or groaned or made some kind of woeful noise, but that didn't slow her down any, oh no, it just made her suck all the harder. Pretty soon she was wiggling her face from side to side to get deeper into my cunt, so I just tossed my legs up over the arms of the chair and opened up my crotch for her. Oh wow, she went for that in a big way, diving right in between the cunt lips, getting her nose and mouth and practically her whole head, it felt like, everything inside me - and meanwhile her ass was turning red under the sting of the belt. I just loved it, I've got to admit, I went wild with that hunk of leather and creamed all over her face and refused to let up even after my climax. Fuck it, I figured, why not get two for the price of one? I held her hair with my left hand and kept walloping her butt with the right. The bitch could go on turning the other cheek all night long for all I cared: the meek shall inherit nothing but a sore ass.

I think she cried a little, Di. Real tears. My cunt couldn't have drooled all that juice. The very thought of it turned me on, I mean the thought of that tearful face in my cunt, so I beat her rosy red ass harder to make her cry more, and soon I found myself wishing I had something better than an ordinary belt, oh shit, how I wanted Clarisse's whip! Or rather my whip. Clarisse's gift to me. And speaking of that - nighty-night, dear Diary, it's time to tuck you in. Sorry to run like this, but I think I've made the gist of it clear: your Betsy-girl has tasted POWER!!! I must go prepare myself to give poor Clarisse a taste of it too, a taste of the power of my WHIP on her ASS - and like I said earlier, Di baby, I know how now!

15

As often as she had seen the changes in costume, each one seemed in a class by itself. Tonight's was absolutely spectacular. Joanne stared in awe - and with a touch of envy because the outfit wasn't meant just for her.

"Do you think he'll go for it?" Mother Eve said.

"I'll say. It's terrific. Real freaky."

"Freaky? Umm, well, I suppose you're right. The heels on these boots ..."

"I don't see how you can walk in them. Must be five inches high, at least."

"Oh, I'll manage. And in case I need help I'll have you to lean upon, won't I, my dear?"

"Sure. Anytime. They look great with that body stocking, Mother Eve. The kid's eyes will pop out."

"I do hope so. And I hope Betsy's opinion of the young fellow is accurate. It took me quite a while to decide what to wear; I've never entertained a high-heels fetishist before. The idea is exciting though, isn't it?"

Joanne was quick to concur, although her own excitement stemmed more from Eve herself rather than from the expected arrival of their guest. In shiny black boots and the sheer black body-stocking, sexy Mother Eve looked positively sinful lying there on the white divan. There was nothing under the one-piece garment, nothing but the big dark-nippled tits and that big black bush of cunt hair. Truly a glorious vision, and Joanne licked her lips and almost wished Keith Olsen wouldn't show up to be indoctrinated.

The knock on the door soon disposed of that notion, however, as Betsy entered with the blond young man in tow. He cut a Fine and handsome figure, and Betsy's round of introductions was accomplished with obvious pride. And with obvious flattery also - too obvious, Joanne realized sympathetically; all that sugar-coated softsoap had the poor guy blushing like a girl. Poor innocent lamb. He just didn't know what he was in for. But neither did anyone else, for that matter, except maybe Mother Eve. Joanne just smiled and nodded her head and wondered how soon the action would begin. She could practically smell the hot sex rising from underneath the body stocking. The hot crotch smell, all hot and perfumed. Cunt. Oh, if only she didn't have to share it!

Keith Olsen's blush didn't faze Betsy in the slightest; the little rascal reached out and cupped her hand over his cock and balls with a grin on her face. "We stopped for a smooch on the way, Mother Eve. He's ripe and ready." Retaining her grip, she tugged him toward the divan. "See how ready he is?"

Eve raised one long leg, pointing her toe. The tip of the boot brushed Betsy's hand aside and then prodded the bulge in the boy's trousers. "Hmm, very interesting. All that from just a little - "

"Please, ma'am ..."

"Don't interrupt me, young man. Yes, he's certainly ripe and ready, Betsy dear. You did well."

"Thanks. Uh, should I call in Clarisse and Nora?"

"Umm, no, I think we can get by without them tonight. I won't need you either, sweetheart, and I'm sure you must have some homework to do. Joanne here has already volunteered to provide whatever assistance may be necessary."

"You don't want me?" Betsy's pout was only fleeting; she shrugged and started out blithely. "Have fun, everybody. And like I told you, Keith, don't be nervous. A big strong man like you . .." Vanishing on the crest of a mischievous giggle, she pulled the door shut behind her.

"Imp!" Eve's twinkling eye belied her disapproval. "My daughter is an irrepressible imp, don't you agree, Keith? Such a precocious brat." 

"Yes'm. I - I know."

"I'm sure she must have filled your ears with all kinds of wild tales about what might happen tonight."

"Well . . . uh, no, not really, ma'am. Betsy just said there'd be some kind of sex party." Then, frowning, "Only I thought she'd be in on it herself."

"Oh? Well, perhaps you won't be too disappointed when you see what I've got for you." The shiny boot prodded the bulge again, a little farewell pat this time as Eve swung her legs over the side of the divan. "By the way, how do you like my high heels? I wore them in your honor, you should know."

"They're really something. I - I've never seen anything like that before. Except in pictures."

"Pictures. How dull. The real thing is more fun." She stood up, swaying a bit and then stiffening imperiously. "Come, both of you. Over there, the big closet - slide the door open."

All of a sudden it was as though she had become a royal empress or something, and Joanne raced ahead to obey, abruptly excited by this new crackling atmosphere. The floor of the closet was piled with high-heeled shoes, helter-skelter, all mixed up; there must have been some thirty pairs in the mess. And instead of the usual dresses and coats on the rack, the hangers were loaded with all kinds of lacy things - lingerie and nighties and whatnot - all lacy and sexy; the scent of the stuff emerged like a cloud and Joanne could have sworn she saw the boy's nose twitch.

"Get undressed, Keith."

"Huh?"

"Do it. Just do as I tell you. How can you go to a sex party with all those clothes on? Undress!"

It didn't sound very logical and Joanne thought sure the kid would put up some opposition, but then his nose twitched again and his nostrils actually quivered and the look on his face got pretty weird; anyway, he undid a couple of shirt buttons and right away Mother Eve motioned Joanne to get into the act, and then between the two of them they had young Keith Olsen naked in no time.

"Charming, charming," Eve said. "Blond and beautiful and just a bit girlish. Except for - "

"Aw. Don't call me that. I'm no faggot."

"You're interrupting again. And stop covering yourself, for heaven's sake; why be so modest? You've got a fine healthy male organ there and it's nothing to be ashamed of. Of course you're not a faggot, we both know that. But you do possess a certain graceful beauty - almost feline, I'd call it - hmm, pantherish, let's say. All right, my fine young panther, put your hands behind your back and we'll tie them there just to be on the safe side. Joanne dear, use the sash of that robe and tie our powerful panther up so he won't claw us to death."

It was beyond Joanne's comprehension; she just couldn't figure out how Mother Eve managed to get her way so easily. The guy was obeying her almost without hesitation now, as if he just couldn't help himself, and she seemed to know exactly what to say and do to keep him aroused and eager for more. He stood there with his hands behind him, kind of meek and docile, and tying him up took only a moment.

Mother Eve touched his hardon with her fingertip.

"Hmm, this thing looks as though it's about to spout, would you care to make use of it, Joanne?"

"M-me? No, thanks."

"I thought not. Oh well . . ." She pushed the boy into the open closet. "Keith, you'll have to get along all by yourself for a while. But I'm sure you won't mind."

He stumbled and almost fell. "Hey, what - "

"Hush. Just relax and enjoy it." Laughing, she slid the door shut on him. "You too, Joanne. Enjoy this."

Joanne didn't have to hear it twice. She dropped to her knees and stuck her face into the hairy bush that Mother Eve was jutting out toward her. The smell made her head spin, but she uttered a little groan of frustration because of the cover of the body stocking; there was no way of getting inside the fabric to kiss the scented flesh, no opening, no slit in the material, not even a hole to squeeze her tongue through. How was she supposed to suck a cunt that couldn't be reached?

Another groan sounded, this time from inside the closet, and she realized that Mother Eve was getting her jollies from both of them. That was okay. Anything Mother Eve wanted was okay with Joanne, and she parted her lips and stretched her jaws wide and breathed warm and wet into the fabric and got as much as she could into her mouth. It was better than nothing. In fact it was pretty damn good. The nylon body-stocking tasted like cunt. She mouthed it frantically, hoping for more but not terribly unhappy with what she had.

"Clever girl. .."

After that, Joanne didn't care about what else was going on, she just nuzzled upward between those voluptuous thighs and into the soft underbelly, and it wasn't until her ears picked up the noise of the closet door sliding open that she came out of her sexy trance. Mother Eve was moving now, inching forward and turning sideways to put one leg over the threshhold, and Joanne took a hasty peek before burying her face in the hot crotch again. The boy was lying crumpled on the closet floor, on the pile of shoes; he was thrashing around every which way and rubbing himself against them, more in the middle of the heap than on top of it.

"So you like my shoes, eh, Keith?"

"Yes... oh ..."

"Look at our pretty panther, Joanne. Now isn't that what you'd call freaky?"

It was freaky, sure enough. Joanne angled around a bit but kept her cheek in the cunt warmth. The kid was jerking himself off on the shoes - no hands - humping up and down and slapping his cock against the leather. Like fucking, almost. The expression on his face was weird, kind of half in pain and half in paradise; it made Joanne think of Spencer sitting at his typewriter - only this guy was doing it for real! Jerking off. Sticking his prick into that pile of high-heeled shoes. Absolutely the freakiest.

Mother Eve lifted her foot and set it down on his shaking back. The sole of her boot ran along the spine and then started playing around with his bare ass. Patting it. Prodding it. Prying the cheeks apart. Pretty soon she began using the heel too, and when the tip of it disappeared between the two ass-cheeks Joanne got excited and rubbed hard against the body-stocking stuff, getting the whole side of her face wet, even her ear, all wet and tingly, practically soaked with spit and cunt juice. She was dying for another taste but couldn't take her eyes away from that long slender shiny boot heel sinking slowly into -

"Suck me now, Joanne. Bite the material. Tear a hole in it with your teeth and suck my cunt. You can do it, you clever girl.. .ah, you darling child, that's the way..."

Cunt. Sweet cunt at last! Joanne's tongue poked through the shredded fibers; she licked eagerly and then damn near had a shit-hemorrhage when that raised leg stiffened and shoved and the boy screamed and she knew Mother Eve was fucking him in the ass with the heel of her boot. He howled awhile but soon calmed down and kind of just went on whimpering a little. Joanne went on sucking. Loving that hot cunt. Lapping it good, the real thing at last, and she was even doing it in a clever way too, timing her tongue strokes to the rhythmic noises of Mother Eve's boot heel squishing in and out of Keith Olsen's asshole ...

16

It took a little strategic maneuvering, but Clarisse managed the switch quite nicely. It had been Eve's idea, of course, but hardly altruistic on Clarisse's part - far from it, in fact, and she viewed the situation with definite optimism. Regardless of the reason, it was certainly no sacrifice to wind up here in her own room with this lovely creature.

"You were right about our leaving," Winifred said. "I did feel out of place back there. My own mother, after all."

"That's only natural. There's bound to be some stiffness at first. I'm sure you'll get used to it in time, though."

"I - I don't - know. A sex party with my own mother . . ."

"Let's just forget it, shall we? Your mother is in good hands; she'll get along fine without us. Anyway, you're here now, you're here with me."

"Uh-huh. Muriel is in good hands, that's for sure. She's got Mother Eve and Nora and Joanne and - "

"Please. No need to read the roster. Come now, put it out of your mind. You're my guest. Just relax and let me entertain you. Isn't it lots cozier this way?"

"I - I suppose so. It's nice here, Clarisse."

"Hmm. You don't seem very enthused."

"Well, uh . . . oh, I'd better just say it right out. This sounds kind of funny maybe, but I don't feel exactly comfortable with you. I keep thinking you're Betsy's governess, you know what I mean? How can I relax with a governess?"

"Good grief, child, it's been years since . . ." Clarisse shrugged. "You relaxed with me last week. Remember?"

"Sure. How could I forget? Hey, that was really something! Nobody ever kissed my ass like that before. But Joanne was there with us and we were all together in a - "

"Never mind Joanne." Clarisse's eyes narrowed, searching for a clue; was there a hint of coyness in that deliciously ingenuous compliment? "So you liked my brand of kisses. Glad to hear it. But never mind about last week, my dear, let's just clear up this foolish 'governess' taboo. It's been ages since anyone called me that - ancient history, practically. And as long as I didn't happen to be your governess .. ."

"You know what? I wish you had been. That way I'd be used to you now and I wouldn't feel so uncomfortable."

"Oh? That's a quaint notion. Quaint but rather intriguing, I must admit. I'd have enjoyed being your governess. Good thing I wasn't though, I'm sure I would have spoiled you rotten."

"Did you spoil Betsy?"

"Umm, no, not like I'd have spoiled you. Betsy was cute and mischievous as a child; she needed a firm hand. And you're more the beautiful angel type, Winifred, you're sugar and spice and everything nice. So there's quite a difference. Oh yes, I'm sure I would have spoiled you. I'd spoil you right now if - " She broke off abruptly, rerouting her train of thought. Then, with a strained chuckle, "Shall I, darling? Would my beautiful angel like to be pampered a little?" "Silly..."

"No sillier than your feeling uncomfortable with me."

"But - but I'm not a child anymore."

"Nor am I a governess."

"Oh. Let's pretend, you mean - is that it?"

"Who's pretending?" Clarisse caught the girl's hand and brought it to her lips. "Mmm, sugar and spice . . ." She kissed the palm, mumbling into its soft warmth. "Sugar and spice and everything nice, that's what my angel is made of."

"Your spoiled angel, huh?"

"But of course. My beautiful spoiled angel. And isn't it awful the way I spoil you?" Still kissing, brushing her tongue against the skin but managing an audible murmur, "It's because I love you so much, that's why. I'm a very indulgent governess, you see. But very selfish too, so I might just eat you up." Her lips slid to seize upon a fingertip and she sucked it into her mouth liquidly.

Winifred giggled. "Ooh, that feels funny." The slim finger wriggled. "If you really did try to eat me up, what could I do? I'd just have to let you."

"Yessss ... let me, let me ..."

"No. Wait."

"Umm?"

"Not yet, Clarisse. Please?"

"Hmm? Not yet?"

"Well, uh, there's something else first. And if you honest-and-truly want to pamper me ..."

"I do, I do. Anything."

"In that case, I ought to take a bath." The delectable hand dropped away, leaving a sudden void in Clarisse's mouth. Momentarily befuddled, she struggled to keep the stammer out of her voice. "A bath now, my dear? But whatever for? You smell so sweet and clean."

"I - I'm not, though."

"You are to me." Then, impulsively, "Winifred? Is it because of the way I'm going to kiss you? You know. Like the other time?"

The girl smiled shyly and Clarisse's doubts vanished like snowflakes in the sun. Still propelled by impulse, she sank to the floor in a slow spiral motion that carried her close to the point of contention. A knee shuffle took her the rest of the way. She rucked up the short skirt and pressed her nose into the seat of the dainty panties.

"Hey, what are you doing back there?"

With an audible sniff, "Mmm, sugar and spice ..."

"Oh sure. Flowers too, I suppose. Well, you're safe as long as I've got pants on..."

Hmm, a challenge? Was the beautiful angel also a bit of a coquette? Clarisse suffered in the throes of a throbbing elation as she rolled the garment downward and trailed the middle of the descending waistband with her tongue. Down. Into the sweet dip and down. She felt a desire to linger and love, to linger in leisurely lubricity - but there was a fundamental issue to be resolved and she released the panties and moved her hands swiftly to spread the domed buttocks and let her tongue shoot off on a tangent of its own. Deep. Deep into the crack ...

"Oooh!"

It sounded like the squeal of a thrilled piglet, and for a prolonged instant of erotically induced amnesia Clarisse lost track and wallowed in her thrilling pigsty.

"Hey, you're really doing it, you're kissing my ass!"

Panting feverishly, Clarisse nodded her head: oh yes, I'm doing it, I'm kissing your ass. I've got my tongue up your tight little asshole and I can taste . . . Then, blindingly, she recalled the other thing, the challenge, the issue, the need to prove her point - and wouldn't that be the ultimate proof?

"Winifred .. . ummm . .. angel?"

"Yeah. Huh? Kiss it, kiss it, kiss my ass!" The angel performed a small impatient contortion to free herself of the fallen panties. "Don't quit now. Do it some more. Oh wow, that really turns me on!"

How like Betsy! So brash and bossy. But no, it was little more than wishful thinking to attempt such a comparison, and Clarisse swallowed her illusions with a chaser of common sense. This limp and drooping doll was no sex-driven Valentine, not by any stretch of the imagination. Still, that in itself had certain refreshing possibilities; wouldn't the kid's relative inexperience make her a suitably tractable subject for some exotic experimentation? With a little persuasion, naturally. A little pressure ...

"I'll turn you on, you naughty girl, I'll kiss your ass all night. And you don't have to take any bath either, not for me you don't. I love it, I love your beautiful ass, I love your little brown asshole - oh yes, darling, it tastes like sugar and spice to me. Even your shit . . . mmmm . . ."

"Huh?"

"Your sweet shit. Mmm ... sugar and - " 

"Ugh! My sweet what?"

The ominous tone penetrated Clarisse's pink cloud. She glanced up to see the youngster's face in an over-the- shoulder glare, an expression of disgust frozen on the pretty features. Such a contemptuous look! - it made Clarisse want to shrivel up and die. The hot nausea of shame billowed over her in a great wave; she was sickened by the revelation of her own ugliness. This need of hers, this masochistic warp in her nature, did it have to dominate her every desire? Couldn't she even kiss an angel's ass without desecrating its beauty? Was this a time to talk of shit?

But the harm had already been done, and Clarisse wisely bemoaned her spilt milk with tactics rather than tears. Reverting to a safer role, she kissed each smooth round buttock with apologetic affection and then raised her eyes imploringly, the indulgent governess once again. "Darling? Did I offend you? I'm sorry." She scurried around to the front, still on her knees. "Shall I show you how sorry I am?" Bending low, she placed a kiss on the tip of each shoe. "There. Does that help? Not even a little bit? Oh dear, what can I do to make my angel-child smile again?"

"You don't have to make me smile, Clarisse, just make me cum. You want to suck my cunt?"

"Sweetheart, your wish is my command."

"Yeah? Okay then, let's take our clothes off and go to bed and do it right. Now that you've kissed my ass like that, I guess I can feel comfortable with you."

"Yes, darling. But let me undress you. After all, I'm supposed to be spoiling you, remember?"

"Don't worry, you'll get your chance. First I want my cunt sucked till I cum - and then you can spoil me all night. You know how, Clarisse? I'll tell you. I'll tell you what to do and you'll do it, how about that?"

"Yes. I'll do it. Tell me, tell me."

"Hey, that's what turns you on, huh?"

"Oh. So you finally figured it out. Tell me what to do, Winifred. Tell me how to please you."

"That's easy. Suck me off first. And then you can stick your tongue back up my beautiful little brown hole and eat my sugar and spice all night. Okay?"

"Angel! I'll love it."

"Sure you will. You'll love my shitty asshole. You're worse than a dirty old man, Clarisse, but what the hell, I guess it takes all kinds. Come on. Spoil me. Let's see just how good a governess you are."

17

A garrulous wife can be a curse indeed, but there were moments when Spencer didn't mind so much. In her own platitudinous way, dear dull Joanne was a font of interesting gossip: she always seemed to know who was doing what and with which and to whom. Or at least she had no qualms about venturing an opinion, and ofttimes even her less-than-educated guess was tantamount to an expose'.

True, her cliche-ridden clucking usually got on his nerves after a while, but from a literary viewpoint (tempering justice with mercy!) Spencer saw it as a sacrifice of style for content. What need did Joanne have of style and form and suchlike? To each his own. Could Shakespeare compose a haiku?

Anyway, regardless of how the tale was told, the "indoctrination of the Olsens" seethed with underlying excitement. The strange sequence of events had the flavor of pure fantasy. But it was real enough, of course, quite as real as the bitterness that surfaced whenever Joanne mentioned Clarisse's part in the affair. That long-term smoldering rivalry had evidently reached the detonation stage, he realized with a suppressed grin; now the two were even at odds over the affections of the teen- aged Winifred. And of all the surprising developments, his beautiful and supposedly irresistible spouse appeared to be coming off second best. A loser. A victim of frustration. Low girl on the totem pole. Which aggravated her to no end, the conceited bitch - bitch in perpetual heat! - and she waxed exceedingly wroth over the controversy.

"Simmer down," he cautioned amiably. "Poor old Clarisse rates a little fun, too. Why let it upset you? It's not all that important, is it?"

"Fuck her! It's important to me. Fuck poor old Clarisse. And you don't have to act so goddamn sympathetic just because she used to be your governess."

"Oh come now, Clarisse is like one of the family."

"Shit!"

Spencer recognized the storm signals but couldn't resist a small dig. "You sound jealous, my dear. Jealous of an old worn-out governess? Darling, that's unheard of!"

"Shit. It's the way you all kowtow to her, that's what's unheard of. One of the family. Shit! It's the most unheard-of thing I ever heard of. Clarisse can go fuck herself; she's got no monopoly on that sweet kid and it's about time somebody told her so. High time. In fact, I've got a good mind to go and have it out with her right now."

"Don't do anything rash, Joanne. Not tonight, certainly - you know Mother Eve has one of her sick headaches. Without a referee Clarisse will make you look foolish."

"So I'll look foolish. A fat lot you care!"

"But I do care, my dear."

"Yeah? Show me."

"How can I show you? I'm merely suggesting that you avoid any confrontation with Clarisse until Mother Eve is up and around and able to take part. What more can I say?"

"Thanks for nothing. You might say you love me. You might even say you want to lay me. But oh, no, if I expected anything like that I really would look foolish. Shit! You think more of your typewriter than you do of me."

"Hmm, that again?"

"Sure. That again. And why not? It's the God's honest truth, you lousy impotent bastard, that typewriter means everything to you. Sometimes I think you're in love with the stupid thing. I mean really in love, you know? So you can just stay here and jerk yourself off - who gives a shit? - but don't try to talk me out of doing what I have to do. You and your fucking shit-ass typewriter ..."

Spencer shrugged and surrendered, smiling faintly at the crude reproach - an indictment, practically, an accusation of infidelity. As though her charge of "jerking off at the typewriter" put him in the category of a faithless husband. Oh well, things could always be worse - at least he wasn't being unfaithful in a gym sock. (A gym sock, imagine, unfaithful in a little girl's gym sock; Humbert Nabokov, how could you!)

18

Dear Diary, Everything is peace and quiet now, but we sure had a war on our hands for a while. And I do mean war. A real cat-fight. But it was a long and mixed-up evening, enlightening in a somewhat sensational way, so maybe I'd better start from scratch. First of all let me apologize, Di darling, I've been so busy lately I just haven't been able to find time for you. The Olsens come over often. Seems like every night at least one of them is here, so the whole house stays pretty busy. Busy, busy, busy. And then there's school too, the end of the term, and that always gets a bit hectic. No sweat though; as expected, I breezed through my final exams (that's the trouble with being precocious: everybody expects the best). Anyway, that about gets us up to date - except for what happened tonight. I've skipped some fairly juicy items along the route, I suppose, but there was nothing really spectacular, nothing that stands out in my mind. (Could be I'm getting jaded; how about that, Di baby, jaded at my tender age!)

Winifred graduates this week and she came over to model her cap and gown for me. It sure made her look scholarly. Veddy, veddy dignified. Only we both knew she was naked underneath. Not a stitch. Actually I wasn't very impressed by the outfit; the robe hung way down and covered too much leg. Winifred has great legs, and I got a little aroused just knowing those long lovely stems were lurking behind that nunlike facade. I even felt an urge to get under there myself for a first-hand inspection. And perhaps a small nibble. But then she smiled and licked her lips and the picture changed; just seeing the tip of her tongue made my cunt start acting up - my ever-ready cunt! - it kind of pulsated and got all wet inside and I felt as if a lewd hand was clenching and unclenching deep in my gut. I guess Winifred recognized the symptoms, too, because her tongue kept sliding back and forth across her lower lip and then she stuck it out in a rising curve and touched the glistening pink tip to her upper lip; oh shit, I saw that and nearly creamed! I stopped thinking of her beautiful legs and just looked at her sexy mouth.

"Cuntlapper," I called her.

"Of course. Your cuntlapper, Betsy."

"My favorite cuntlapper. I'm going to miss you in school next fall, you know that? I'll miss those little rest stops under the stairs."

"Rest stops? I don't remember getting much rest. You always gave me a workout. Real strenuous, too."

"I did, eh? Are you complaining?"

"Nope." She had a broad grin on her face, a shit- eating grin if ever there was one. "Just reminiscing. Reminiscing about my old high-school days."

"Hah! You haven't even graduated yet."

"Sure, I did. Ages ago. Under the staircase. I became a graduate cuntlapper, didn't I?"

"Oh. I'll say. Magna cum laude."

"Hmm. Not summa?"

"Nobody's perfect."

She put on a sulky pout, but it was only a phony comic expression and those anxious lips of hers soon switched from sulking to sucking. She still had the graduation stuff on, and the flat cap was tilted on her head at just the right angle to let the tassel hang down and graze my bare belly. It tickled and set me giggling but then Hot Mouth Winifred went to work with studious concentration and we both got serious. I began panting. Her tongue performed all its old tricks and added a few ingenious new ones; oh shit, it was all I could do to keep from shrieking aloud! I came. Again and again - I'm not sure how many times. She really staggered me! Up till then I must have been taking her for granted, Di, because she sure demonstrated what a perfect cuntlapper my under-the-staircase course of instruction had turned out. A graduate cuntlapper with all the honors. I had myself a multiple-orgasm orgy that will go down in history. (I hereby record this for future generations, dear Diary, and it's too bad I can't let her in on the secret: when Winifred Olsen goes down, she goes down in history!)

Afterwards, after a little face-washing, we paraded through the house so that she could show off her costume. Mother Eve was in bed with a headache, but we ran into Clarisse and Joanne in the living room. It surprised me to see them together, but on second glance I realized that we had interrupted an argument, not an embrace. The two looked as if they were about to split a nervous breakdown. Anyway, they were smart enough to quit and make a flattering fuss over Winifred, copping a few feels under the gown for good measure, and she started getting horny again. Eager for a party, I figured, a graduation party without the usual cake and ice cream, a hot party: all cunt and no calories.

That was okay. But first Joanne and I went in to check on Mother Eve and see if we could do anything for her (we're all worried about those migraine headaches; they're more and more frequent these days). She seemed pretty restless, and Joanne ended up staying there to rub her head and massage her neck and shoulders. That often helps. And to soothe her to sleep with a less orthodox type of therapy, no doubt. That would help, too. So there wasn't much for me to do and I said goodnight and returned to the living room, wondering if the sexy graduation party was already in progress.

It was - but elsewhere. In my own room, of all the unexpected places. I thought Winifred had sneaked off just to be alone with Clarisse, and there was some truth in it considering how far the party had progressed without me. But I didn't feel left out. Oh shit no, I just pulled up a chair and sat there like a precocious little princess witnessing a command performance.

They were exciting together, Di. Quite beautiful too, in a rumpled sort of way. Winifred was lying across my bed, limp, supine; the flat cap had fallen off and her tossed hair splayed fanlike from her scalp in a gorgeous golden filigree. But she still had the robe on, the somber all-concealing graduation gown, and Clarisse's head bobbed up and down inside it. I could hear the slithery noises, the lapping, the sucking, the peculiar pulpy-wet sound of mouth mashing cunt. (Sweetest sound in the world!) Clarisse was on her knees, half naked, one stocking gone and the other twisted and baggy down around her ankle; she must have been in an awful rush to dive under that robe and into the muff. But her skirt and panties were gone too, and I knew her tempting bottom was posed there just for me. Just in case. Oh no, I didn't feel left out. I watched the pretty pantomime awhile longer and then succumbed to the lure of that bare ass and got the whip.

I wasn't mad. Only provoked. Provoked in a sexy way, I mean, and I stung Clarisse's hide just enough to fire her to greater glories - to keep the bucket boiling, you might say; in fact I swung the whip with accurate aim and delicate artistry (as artistic as Mother Eve herself maybe!) and was content to bring no more than a blush to those shameless cheeks. Oh sure, I did add a few scarlet slash-streak decorations now and then, but bless her whip-and-weatherbeaten soul, Clarisse's carcass is tough. Besides, I had my eye on Winifred part of the time. I could tell exactly when her climax struck. The golden filigree of her hair changed shape and became almost whiplike itself, snapping from side to side as her head jerked in sudden violence. Then the cords of her throat distended and locked; she uttered a breathless gasp and slipped into a rigid near-cataleptic trance, staring up out of sightless eyes and shooting her all into the vacuum-mouth cling to her cunt.

She climaxed, Di, she really came big - but Clarisse went right on sucking. Pretty soon Winifred raised her legs and put her hands behind her knees and kind of rolled herself backward into a ball - and still Clarisse went right on sucking. Only that industrious vacuum- mouth was sucking asshole this time, sucking and tonguing and slobbering and making a whole new slew of noises. (The second-sweetest sound? I guess it's all a matter of priorities!) I kept swinging the leather lash, naturally, and from the way Clarisse's bent body bucked and reared I knew she was on the verge of exploding. But believe it or not, so was Winifred! Di darling, I swear it's the truth: Winifred Olsen reached another climax just from having her ass sucked! I asked her about it later and she got a little embarrassed. She said it was a big thing between the two of them, she could actually cum that way, with Clarisse's tongue in her asshole, nothing else. They do it often. Whenever they can. Whenever they're alone together - and I'm the only other person who knows. Winifred even has dreams about it, nightmarish fantasies that must be pretty weird because she just shuddered and clammed up when pressed for details.

She confessed something else too, Di - and with a certain self-conscious diffidence that I found refreshing if somewhat less than rational - lately Winifred has been looking at Muriel with sex on her mind. There's still that silly "lesbian incest" block between them, but I've got a hunch it's about to be broken. Seems as though our girl Winifred is branching out in search of new horizons. Except that she's so beautiful, so completely desirable (remember how I used to see her as a goddess?) that she can stand still and the horizons will probably come to meet her.

I guess you might say they closed in on her a little bit tonight, those horizons, and she wasn't even there when the phenomenon occurred. Clarisse and Joanne had a fight over her. War! That's really something, isn't it? - a war over my friend. And even though Winifred may now be Clarisse's friend almost as much as mine (asshole buddies?) it's no wonder I got involved. For a while there I thought the entire house would be in on it. Anyway, shortly after Winifred went home I heard the raucous ruckus and tracked it down to the living room. Clarisse and Joanne were at it again, picking up where they had left off earlier. Only it was worse now because Joanne had missed the graduation party and was trying to blame Clarisse for it. (She's so dumb, that Joanne - they ought to hang a wreath on her nose. Dead from the neck up!) But it was more than just the party, of course; they've always been hostile toward one another (and Clarisse's condescending attitude doesn't make the relationship any smoother, either). They compete for Mother Eve's attention all the time. So this thing about Winifred merely brought matters to a head. Merely. Oh shit, what an uproar! I Figured we were in for a blood bath. They had already passed the name-calling stage and were about to unsheathe their claws like a couple of murderous wildcats. War with a vitriolic vengeance! And for obvious reasons - my mother's sick headache, mostly - I just couldn't let the hassle go on.

Di baby, you know that power feeling I told you about? I sure put it to use tonight. Mother Eve was asleep and I refused to let her be disturbed. So I jumped in between the snarling cats and clipped their claws, I mean I spoke up loud and clear and threatened them with my own personal brand of mayhem if they didn't quit making such a racket. I told them both off, Joanne especially, since wise old Clarisse caught on immediately and just faded away (and because I knew what Winifred's ass truly craved). I really got fierce, too, and expected Joanne to call me a snot-nosed kid (she's says stupid things like that) and tell me not to order her around. After all, she is Spencer's wife (a Valentine by injection?) and I guess that makes her outrank me in the local pecking-order.

Funny how she took it, though. The minute Clarisse was out of earshot Joanne seemed to shrink and soften; small and fragile, meek and mild, damn near humble, that was how she impressed me. Tame as a tabbycat. And that was when I realized the extent of my power. I felt as. if I could do no wrong. My word was law. Oh, it was a marvelous sensation, an iron fist in a velvet glove, a thing of turbulence and tranquility all at the same time, and I reveled in the emotion. After so much partying I was too weary to make the effort, but right then and there if I had petted her a little and offered her my cunt to suck - or better yet told her to suck it - she would have obeyed me like a kitten lapping up a bowl of milk. Only I had no milk left to give at the moment, so we parted on an "unfinished business" note. To be continued. I've got to admit that I was looking at my sister- in-law with new eyes. And nice versa, of course. She was seeing all that power.

Some power, dear Diary! I'm almost afraid of it myself. How did I ever get so bossy? What's happening to me? Oh shit, I'm glad I've got you to pour my heart out to; it sure helps. Good night, darling Di. I cherish you. The two of us - we're really asshole buddies, right?

19

The heady incense had settled like a sultry wall-to- wall cloud, oppressive in its intangible density and yet persuasively exhilarating in its final effect. Peeping from the squat solitary candle, a feeble but flirtatious flame guttered in the crater of its own melted wax. On the bed, faintly limned by the flickering illumination, the contrasting skin-tones of the two interlaced nude bodies seemed to blend and merge into total unity, voiding all vestige of ethnic disparity. In such an atmosphere there was room only for romance.

Or something like that. Deep in the tongue-entwined kiss, dark Rosalie knew better; despite the circumstances, she was still conscious of the color line. And the social line. And of course, the all-important money line. The day of liberation might be at hand - indeed, long overdue! - but until then Rosalie was smart enough to call a spade a spade. Even here with her good friend Betsy she remained aware of the need for a little Afro guile. All the more so, considering this recent upheaval in the Valentine household. If you want your bread to fall buttered side up every time, butter both sides!

"Mmm, that's sweet. Rosalie, I love the way you kiss. So soft and wet and warm ..."

"That's cause I've got thick lips."

"Silly. But okay then, I love your thick lips."

"And my lips love kissing you, honey. All over."

"You mean it? You're not just saying that?"

"I'll show you. I'll kiss your pretty pussy."

"Hey, no, slow down, you just got here. What's the hurry? Do you have somewhere else to go tonight?"

"Nowhere. There's no one but you, Betsy."

"That's a comfort. It's been so long since we made it. You know I set all this up just so we could spend a few happy hours together. Candlelight and incense ..."

"It's nice, honey. Real sexy. But are you sure somebody won't come barging in?"

"Positive. I spread the word - and they all listen to me now. We won't be disturbed."

"Oh. They do listen; I've noticed that. I guess it's true then, huh? About what your mother said?"

"Hmm? The news sure gets around. Rosalie, what have you heard? We might as well get it straight."

"Well, uh, it's no secret, is it? You're the real boss of the house. Or at least you're going to be. I mean the money too - all the money will be yours some day, right?"

"Uh-huh. Some day. Oooh, do that! Your finger ..." "Like this?"

"Yeah. Just like that. No, don't go any deeper, just play around a little, you know?" "Turns you on, huh?"

"Oh shit, I'm already turned on, I'm horny as hell. But let's just stay like this for a long time. Don't make me cum yet. Just tease it."

"So sexy. Such a sexy little doll."

"Ain't it the truth? But wait, let me . . . uh, move your leg, Rosalie. Let me do it to you."

"I've got thick lips there too."

"Love 'em. Love your thick lips. Hairy lips. Ooh, your cunt is so hot and juicy ..."

"It's hot and juicy for you, doll baby. All for you. But if you fingerfuck me any more I'll have to do the same to -"

"Okay, okay, no more. We'll just tease. Hey, isn't this nice? We ought to do it more often."

"Often as you like. You're the boss, Betsy. I only work here, you know. I take orders."

"Don't give me that shit, I'm not the boss yet. And anyway, you're my friend, not just hired help around the place. You'll always be my friend."

"I - I certainly hope so. But I'll still be glad to take orders from you, honey. Especially from you."

"Rosalie, there you go again. Forget it, will you? When we're alone like this ..."

"All right. But you haven't told me how it happened - about your mother, I mean. What did she say?"

"Oh. It wasn't much. Kind of funny, really, the way it got to be such a big deal. She had one of her bad headaches the other night, and Clarisse and Joanne were fighting and making a racket. Sounded like feeding time at the zoo. So I just put my foot down and told them both to shut up. Then later Mother Eve heard about it and was pleased with me; she says I'm the only one strong enough to run the house when she's out of commission like that. So now all of a sudden I'm second- in-command - and I'll probably inherit most of the estate, too, because she's putting it in her will. Isn't that a crock of shit? Some responsibility. Who the fuck needs it?"

"Your mother made the right choice, Betsy. I think it's just fine. You'll be perfect."

"Oh sure. I'm still in high school; why should I have to worry about stuff like that?"

"Don't knock it, honey, trust your mama's judgment - she knows what's what. Besides, that makes you a real heiress. All that money, the house and the land. Believe me, I've got nothing but respect for you. The greatest respect. Maybe I'd better start calling you Miss Betsy, huh?"

"Bullshit. Don't you dare! Never mind the respect, I get too much of that already. Everybody is just too goddamn respectful; they all act as if they're scared I'll bite them or something. You should see the way Nora and Harold are falling all over themselves just to be nice to me."

"Nora and Harold, eh? Hmm. I sure wish those two would show a little respect for me."

"Oh? How come? They giving you a hard time?"

"Something like that. I do a threesome with them once in a while and they're pretty selfish about it. They just use me, and I'm getting kind of fed up, you know?"

"Fuck 'em. You're my friend, Rosalie, maybe the only real friend I've got in this house. You want some respect from Nora and Harold? Say the word and I'll fix it for you."

"You mean it? Can you?"

"Sure. They're too thick together anyway. Thick as shit and twice as nasty. The hell with them - I'll do something about it, I promise. But let's not waste the candlelight and incense, huh? I feel so hot and horny . . ."

"Me too. Let me suck you, honey. Please?"

"Yeah. Do it. But don't you want me to - "

"No. Like this." Rosalie slid low. "Just let me love my doll baby. I want to." Then, impulsively - feeling an urge to demonstrate her devotion - she embraced Betsy's legs and sank to the floor.

"Hey, what - "

"Let me, let me. Please?"

"Oh wow, go ahead then. Suck my cunt."

Deftly, efficiently, Rosalie positioned the soft young thighs at the edge of the bed. She plunged her face between them in a purposeful caress, sweeping the flat of her tongue upward to make certain of scraping across the tiny hooded clit. It greeted her kiss like a sweetly flowering bud.

"Oooh!"

"Mmm?"

"That's just great. But... uh ..." "Hmm?"

"I want to do something for you, too."

It hardly seemed necessary - but Rosalie was much too busy to protest. She went on licking eagerly and expertly, bestowing the best of blandishments in the best of all possible ways, sensing only vaguely that the dainty little body was stirring and sitting up. Then, quite astonishingly, she felt a touch on her own leg. For an intrusive instant of curiosity, she tried to figure it out. But it was simple, of course, and she understood what was happening when the sole of one bare foot began gliding up her thigh.

"Rosalie?"

"Ummm . .."

"Do you like that?"

Like it? Rosalie's joyous moan gave her answer. She loved it! But she just couldn't slow down and say so now, oh shit no, her mouth was too full of the silky cunt-flesh and all she could do was nod her head and increase the intensity of her lapping tongue. The inquisitive foot had arrived at her crotch now; she could feel one toe wriggling into the hair and probing for the opening.

"Spread for me. Put it in."

"Ummm?"

"Lift up a little. Fuck yourself on my foot."

Raising her body just enough, Rosalie got the prying toe under her and into the slit. She shuddered in delicious excitement and let her weight sag down again as half the little foot slipped between the passion- lubricated lips. Now she had all five toes and they were wiggling and fluttering inside her cunt; oh, they felt so -

"Fuck!"

"Mmm ... yesss ..."

"On my foot. Up and down. Move!"

Rosalie moved. Fucking. And sucking. And then the hot shock-wave struck and her imperative need became intolerable and the words burst free even as her lips still clung to the flesh frantically: "You too! Fuck me with your foot, honey. Shove it into my cunt. Give it to me hard. Oh, fuck me, fuck me!"

A single thrusting lunge brought on the orgasm. It hit with propelling power and Rosalie jerked and writhed and jounced up and down in an acrobatic frenzy and at last peaked to an ecstatic collapse. But when the fulfilling foot began its slippery withdrawal she clutched it covetously and pulled its precious solacing thickness back into the still-quivering pussy. Then, tightening her limbs possessively to guard the treasure, she took up her task with renewed concentration and gave Betsy's expectant cunt all it deserved.

It deserved the best. For so many reasons! Betsy was her friend. Betsy had been good to her. Betsy would always be someone to cling to. And anyway, wasn't it only fitting and proper to pay homage to an heiress? Rosalie was buttering her bread on both sides and in the middle too ...

20

Dear Diary, Just call me "Mother Betsy." Shit! I don't mind being a chip off the old block. I'm my mother's daughter. But do they all have to bow down as if I were Mother Eve herself? The responsibility is too much, it's taking years off my life - I feel so old. I'm old and wrinkled inside already. And I'm getting bruises on my illusions, my youthful illusions; oh shit, Di, what's happening to me? Childhood's end, I suppose, but did it have to come so soon?

For that matter, what's happening to everybody? We're all a little bit weird, I know, but this is ridiculous: I mean the whole goddamn house is flipping its wig!

Take Clarisse, for instance. There was a time when she gave me orders, now she asks my permission. Seems like she can't even breathe without an O.K. from her Betsy girl. I had to put my stamp of approval on her relationship with Winifred. The pair of them have a good thing going; why should it concern we? But it does, no doubt, since the Olsens were mine in the first place. And because Clarisse insists on it.

Anyway, I told her to go ahead, shoot the works, kick the gong around and let it reverberate throughout the house. Throughout the town maybe, considering the implications. In her own offbeat insidious manner, she turning Winifred into some kind of sadist - and as if that isn't enough, she's got the kid all fired up over the idea of dominating Muriel! Which is bound to have repercussions, I guess; who knows what that daughter- over-mother deal might lead to in their own home?

But what the hell, it's no skin off my young and kissable ass. (Incidentally, dear Di, she was kissing it while asking permission to stage the Winifred/Muriel scenario. Kiss, kiss, kiss. Clarisse is getting more slavish every day; now I can't even go to the bathroom without her offering to help. She wipes my cunt after I take a leak. Today she didn't use paper though, she just got down on her knees and licked me clean. Right there on the crapper; I mean she leaned over the toilet between my legs and slurped! It made me feel dirty. But it made me think of Muriel in school that first time, too - on Parent's Day, remember? - and I kept Clarisse licking long after my needs became more sexual than sanitary. I think maybe she wants me to pee on her - in the bathtub probably, I've heard of such a stunt. Sound pretty embarrassing. / wonder if I can do it.) Oh wow, a lot went on between those parentheses! I guess I'm not what you'd call a "disciplined" writer. Neither disciplined nor dedicated, dear Diary, as you have doubtless already surmised. But that's okay, one genius in the family is plenty; let my brother garner the literary laurels.

Although that situation has become somewhat confused of late, from what I gather. Spencer's book is going badly. I don't know what it's all about - and he won't tell anybody - but he's struck a snag and just mopes around the house and is forever bickering with Joanne. I tried to find out the score, but he damn near snapped my head off; could be he resents my inheriting the estate, even though I'm sure Mother Eve won't leave him penniless. Whatever it is, I wish he'd get back to the typewriter and finish. I wish he'd stop picking on poor Joanne, too, it gets her all upset and she comes running to me for sympathy now. Oh yes, I've got my beautiful but dumb sister-in-law on my hands these days. Ever since I stopped that hassle when Mother Eve was sick (the headaches aren't getting any better, either) Joanne has been after me with her tongue hanging out. Respect and adulation and all that shit. She still gripes about not getting laid by her husband, of course, but it's just a phony whine and I've learned to ignore it. Besides, the inheritance thing has turned her into a sycophant, practically; she's become a brown noser the same as Nora and Harold. They're all around me - dancing attendance, you might say. Like I told you, Di, everybody on the premises is flipping in one way or another. Including me, naturally, now that I've been appointed maypole.

Last night was a real dilly. Fun, really, but more weird than funny, and it's been gnawing on my conscience a little. Joanne set it up just to make an impression; she brought Keith Olsen to my room and decked him out like a seductive girl, make-up and all, then she put on a dildo and screwed him. Raped him, damn near, only he didn't struggle very hard once she got into his asshole. Both of them were wearing high heels and it seemed silly and sexy at the same time. Lurid! Keith was on his back with his legs high and wide - except for his own incongruous penis he did look like a girl, a woman, a ravished woman, & fucked woman - while Joanne lay on top in the normal coital position. (Man is the only animal that copulates face-to-face; did you know that, Di?) She had on a waist-clinching corselet and panties, thick and frilly with ruffles to keep the dildo straps hidden, and the sight of that big ugly imitation male- meat sticking out through a hole in the feminine finery and ramming into a sissy-boy's effeminate ass was enough to make my hormones palpitate. I got undressed in a hurry, but Keith paid no attention to me; he just glanced my way and then went back to admiring his own graceful legs waving in the air. Just like a woman! I mean a real bitchy cunt, that kind of woman, and I sure didn't like the brush-off. I knew the reason for it, of course - a naked girl just didn't fit in with his fetish- oriented ideas - but I couldn't see myself getting all dolled up for his benefit. Or to bolster my own ego by enticing and conquering him. If an ego trip was all I wanted, Joanne would provide it.

I caught her eye. She smiled and said, "Freaky, huh?" and I realized that she wasn't very excited herself, shit no, putting on a show was all she cared about, putting on a show for me. Fuck it, I figured, and I moved in and grabbed at the back of her corselet to break up the act. It was laced too tight though, my fingers slipped and I got the panties instead, a fistful of the frills and waistband - everything stretched and have a few inches but didn't tear. Joanne's body finished its downward stroke and returned to my hand; she froze in midair, half hanging and half holding herself up there in obedience to my demanding grasp. I saw her peering back over her shoulder, her big blue eyes begging me to tell her what to do. And then zap! came the inspiration that really made me feel like my mother's daughter: "Clever girl," I said softly, and right then and there my sister-in-law became my slave. My enraptured slave. She had been willing before, sure, but now she was like a pet on a leash, my own personal pet to do with as I pleased.

Only I had no intentions of treating her as a pet; oh shit, that gorgeous red-haired creature was a woman, a real woman, all woman, and at that moment my sole desire was to fuck her. So I made her get up and unhitch the dildo and fasten it onto my body. Meanwhile I removed one of her shoes and jammed the heel up Keith's ass to fill the gap, just so he wouldn't mind so much when I rolled him off the bed. He hit the floor with a thump, groaning but reaching back to keep the shoe in place. And at last, with a firm two-handed grip on those glorious tits, I pushed Joanne down on the bed and sank my cock into her cunt. It was ersatz, sure, but I fucked that tender female flesh for real! Joanne must have thought so too; she sobbed ecstatically and kicked her feet and sent the other shoe flying, then she arched up off the mattress and gave me one hot and wild ride, hotter and wilder than anything I'd ever dreamed of, and it made me wonder if Spencer knew what he was missing. (I'm no expert on sexual intercourse - for obvious reasons - but I just might develop a taste for it. Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife, but what the hell, it's all in the family, right, Di?) After a while Joanne's body came out of its arch and she wrapped her legs around me instead, pounding my back with her heels now, nice soft heels, and I was damn glad the shoes were gone. That reminded me of Keith and I twisted a little and took a peek at him. Oh wow, what a weirdo! He still had the high heel up his ass - and I do mean UP - he was squatting and bouncing up and down on his haunches, jouncing up and down on the shoe just like Rosalie did on my bare foot that time. (By the way, about Rosalie, I've fixed it so she'll get some respect from Nora and Harold hereafter. And I hope she takes advantage of my sponsorship, good advantage!)

Joanne wailed and came. I gave her a couple of farewell pokes and let it soak for a moment; then, giggling at the crazy notion, I pulled out and scrambled from the bed and swung the dildo in front of Keith's face. Right up to his lips. It was all shiny and mucky with cunt slime, hardly appetizing - and I was still naked too, which couldn't have been very appealing to him - but none of that mattered, he was too close to coming himself, he just shuddered and succumbed to the pressure and let me fuck him in the mouth. His make-up was smeared and smudged, especially the drippy mascara, but he sure looked sexy like that, a sexy cocksucker with that big cunt-stained dong between his lipsticked lips; and pretty soon I didn't have to move at all, I just stood there and watched him return the blowjob I figured he owed me. His ass kept bobbing and churning around, loving the heel of the shoe. I raised one leg and nudged his throbbing prick with my toes, a little kick actually, gentle but authoritative, and that did it. He shot his load. We both forgot about the fake penis and concentrated on the live one. It spurted and dribbled and then spurted some more, a regular "fountain of youth" - all over my foot and ankle - real messy.

I felt a touch behind me. Joanne? None other - off the bed and on her knees, kiss, kiss, kiss, just like Clarisse - and I called her a "clever girl" again and kind of parked my ass upon her upturned face (I did say Joanne was a brown noser, Di, remember?) while she held me steady and sent her hot tongue squirming into my asshole. But I hadn't finished with Keith yet, oh no, I made him bend down and lick my foot clean of all that gooey stuff. His own cum. He didn't seem very keen about it, but I figured any guy who dresses like a girl and sucks a counterfeit cock shouldn't object to a little genuine sperm.

Well, that's about it, dear Diary, I could rant on ad infinitum, but you've got the picture: the Valentine household has definitely flipped! And I'm not disqualifying myself either, oh shit no, who but Mother

Betsy would call stupid Joanne a "clever girl" like that? Last night was just too fucking much; a few more nights like that and they'll be coming around for me with a wet sheet. So pray for your baby, Di darling, pray for the poor baby that's growing up too fast!

21

R.H.I.P. It was an expression that Rosalie had heard often enough but never used herself, at least not till now. Rank Has Its Privileges. How sweet it is!

Feigning indifference but secretly astir with triumphant delight, Rosalie leaned back in the easy chair and puffed on a lazy cigarette. The chair was the best and most comfortable in Nora's cozy room. The scented cigarette was imported and expensive, one of Nora's exotic affectations. And the feeling of delighted triumph could only have come as a result of Nora's newly acquired ingratiating attitude.

On the bed, both already naked, Nora and Harold were caressing each other lightly, a preliminary to heavy lovemaking. Rosalie still had her robe on; she had been invited to participate but preferred to remain aloof for the moment. Well, not quite aloof perhaps. Half aloof? Rosalie grinned. Half aloof is better than none. Ha-ha. It didn't exactly fit, but it sure sounded sharp. And she sure felt sharp.

"Rosalie, dear? Join us?"

"In a minute. Soon as I finish this cigarette. Hey, Nora, you smoke a funky brand of weed."

"You like them? I have plenty. Help yourself if you want more. But if you do not hurry up . . . uh . . ."

"Take it easy. It'll keep. Besides, I enjoy watching you two fool around like that."

"Who's fooling?" Harold muttered.

"Hush!" Nora slapped his pawing hand. "And stay away from my pussy. None of that until Rosalie comes to bed with us. We promised her a good time and she shall have it."

"Chew on those cute titties, Harold, that'll give you something to do." Rosalie flicked the butt-ash nonchalantly. "Can't say I blame you for going after her cunt, though. So smooth and slick. I'll bet she could do TV razor commercials."

Nora smirked and patted the hairless mound proudly but spoke with a critical sniff. "It needs a shave, no? Five o'clock shadow . . ." Then, squealing in mock anguish, "Must you bite them off, you greedy glutton? Rosalie said chew, not swallow."

Grumbling at the reprimand, Harold traced little squiggles of spit over Nora's pert-nippled breasts. The sight of his enormous erection made Rosalie wince; thank heaven she wouldn't have to take that monster up her ass again! Or rather, thank Betsy. Dear little warmhearted Betsy. Oh yes, she would be eternally grateful to her affectionate and obliging little friend for this boost up the social ladder. Not that Harold's big stiff prick was so terrible really, no, all things considered, it could even be a blessing at times. But wasn't it nice to be able to pick those times herself?

"Do come, Rosalie. Please?"

With due deliberation, Rosalie took a final drag on her cigarette and stubbed it out indolently, all but ignoring the urgency in Nora's summons. Hardly a summons, though, more of a plea, and Rosalie was momentarily overwhelmed by. the familiar wheedling ring of it. The same servile tone that she herself had used with Betsy so often in the past. Often but never again! - and of all the strange deals coming her way lately, that was sure the strangest. Even now she found it difficult to grasp; after all, she was still a servant, wasn't she? Not so lowly now but still just a servant in the house. Then how could she be expected to act bossy toward her bossy little mistress? What a twist! Or even as an equal; how could she do it without being phony? The whole concept seemed pretty dubious. But if that was the way Betsy wanted it...

"Yeah, kid, come on." Harold's half-surly growl emphasized only the urgency. "C'mon in and get your feet wet."

Rosalie bristled. "Don't pressure me, big boy. Just don't get so goddamn - "

"Pay no attention to him," Nora said hastily. "The poor lamb has had a rough day." Then, giggling, "Would you believe it? - our Harold has a new sweetie, a lovesick new admirer. Guess who? But no, never, who could even guess such a romance? I must tell you. Keith Olsen!"

"Romance, shit! If that faggoty little creep so much as lays a hand on me . . ." Harold's scowl darkened the room like a blown lamp-bulb. "Aw, the hell with it. Any more talk and I'm liable to lose this thing. Come on, . Rosalie girl, let's have some action, huh? Please?"

"You want action? Okay, you rape artist, don't lose it, use it. Use it on Nora. Look at her - the little cunt is just dying to be fucked. Sock it to her! Don't worry about me, I'll get in when the time comes."

Nora pouted. "No. You too, Rosalie. Now!" Another pout, less petulant, more seductive. A smile. A coy fluttering of lashes. "Menage a trois. Three heads are better than two, hmm?"

"Don't sling that bedroom French at me, baby. Jump her, Harold. Right on! Go, you cunthound - quick before it melts!"

On cue, the impatient penis surged and shed its restraint. Rosalie skinned out of her robe and moved in to assist. Lithe limbs awhirl, Nora protested archly, vivaciously, and then collapsed under the onslaught, languishing in soft sufferance as a multifingered flurry of caresses dissolved her reluctance. Sham reluctance, naturally, and Rosalie found easy access as she guided the colossal cockhead between the well-primed cunt lips. The fit seemed quite perfect. Good and tight. Compatible, at any rate; and mildly intrigued but still somewhat averse to total involvement, Rosalie hoped the two would be very happy together.

But even as the union was accomplished she felt a leathery hand palming her bare behind tentatively, fondling, foraging, edging into the crack with anxious uncertainty, almost petitioning - and she knew why, of course, oh yes, all compulsive cocksmen have their share of hangups and desperate but cautious Harold apparently had his, or at least this one quaintly esoteric hangup: the poor slob was hooked on her asshole! She wondered if it could be a question of size. Tightness. Relative tension of the anal/vaginal tissue. Hmm. Anal/vaginal. Esoteric. Hot damn! For a high yaller working gal she was sure as shit sharp tonight! Sharp as a Valentine. Sharp enough to make lover-boy sweat for his piece of ass, anyway. Genuine ass, the real thing, tight. But the size-and-tightness theory appeared doubtful, considering how much that overgrown bludgeon of his was stretching Nora's delicate slit. Stretching it all out of shape. Ruining it maybe, turning the tongue-tight little baby-cunt into a manhole. Too bad. But why waste sympathy? - it was Nora's choice and she was having herself a ball, sobbing and moaning and carrying on like a screwed virgin but loving every inch of it. She really went for the guy; like Betsy said, they had a real "thick as shit" romance going. Only what Nora didn't know was that her kinky boyfriend was fucking cockwise and wooing otherwise. Wooing with his hand. And doing it with a definite knack, Rosalie was forced to admit, the curved palm had dug in for a strategic stakeout and now his big fingers were getting pretty damn confident, making themselves at home practically. Oh yes, Harold was definitely an ass man. Any ass might do, she realized, but hers was the only one available - and then again maybe hers was something special, maybe he liked the color; anyway, she wasn't mad at him anymore and this just might be one of those nights when the monster could be considered a blessing. Later, perhaps. R.H.I.P. Depending on her mood...

But meanwhile, end of field day, she wasn't anybody's pushover, nor was her ass an open playground. The key finger was about to unlock the gate back there. Too soon for that sort of thing, much too soon, and Rosalie took a few shuffling steps, tiny and imperceptible, and not too many either, no, just enough to sidle out of reach. Almost. Almost but not quite. The long arm seemed to be getting longer. But that was okay, great fun actually, and she moved again, teasing, rather like a saucy swagger now, putting uppity whitey in his place. Not the place, however, and the abrupt arm-and-hand-and-finger extension shocked her with its pointed swiftness. Close! Close but no cigar.

"Slinky bitch," he panted, just barely audible between Nora's gurgling gasps for breath.

Rosalie mulled that over and decided she wasn't offended. Hollywood was full of slinky bitches, all very popular, very much in demand, very rich. Slinky meant sexy - and wasn't every woman a bitch anyway?

She waggled her butt provocatively and shuffled a few more steps, a real "slinky bitch" shuffle this time, but extra bitchy in a way because of the impossible stretch it demanded. Harold was trying though, she had to give him credit, every muscle in his elastic body was stretched to the limit just to make fingertip contact, stretching, clutching, yearning - how that ass-loving man could stretch! - as if her asshole was some barbaric jewel to be plucked and plundered, she thought proudly; and yet he went right on fucking smoothly and his cock never once stopped its rhythmic stretching of Nora's cunt. The guy had class. And that monstrous meat was looking more and more like a blessing by the minute.

Then, slowly, a drawling wheeze, "Slinky . . . black . . . bitch . . ."

It took no more than a fleeting century for Rosalie to get herself together. A lifelong expert at coping with pain, she coped now. No tears, no fuss, no blaze of anger, just a cold rage, vengeful, a cold delicious rage, cold and calculating and deliciously conscious of the privileges of rank. Whitey could go fuck himself. And kiss her black ass in the bargain!

The ass-kiss notion turned tangible. It itched. Hopefully, though, there was a place to get the itch scratched, a safer and surer place, scratched good and proper, and she wasted little effort getting there to try her luck. Harold hindered her only momentarily; by the time she clambered up and got her feet planted on the bed he knew enough to hunch his back and pull his stupid honky head out of her way. Almost brusquely - with one short pause for the sake of aim and accuracy - she sat herself down on Nora's face.

The prudent pause paid dividends: the wedged softness bisected Rosalie's bottom perfectly, nuzzling up into the cleavage even as gravity enforced the intimate junction. Her broadening buttocks opened to the utmost, yielding to the wedge in a slippery glide that encompassed nose and mouth and cheeks. Then, quite miraculously, there came a singular touch, a poke, a wriggle, and she sighed and shivered in the ecstasy of appeasement as a tendril of moist warmth plugged her asshole. The itch was being scratched. Good and proper! She reveled in the solace, the sweet solace of Nora's tongue, sweet and servile, ah yes, how sweet it is!

But her bliss was far from unalloyed, and despite the immediate thrill of Nora's capitulation and now highly compliant performance, Rosalie still had Harold to contend with. The slob's goggling eyes were fixed on the ass-face interlock wistfully - hot for the forbidden jewel, no doubt! - his elastic body humped up and contorted in a struggle to see everything and still go on screwing; and yet somehow he managed to keep pumping away down there. Like a machine, an oil-slick fucking machine, and Nora's cunt was as busily occupied as her tongue; nevertheless the frustrated ass-freak's emotion was all in his eyes. Let him look, Rosalie figured, let the envious bastard look until his envious eyeballs popped out, let him take note of just how worthy a prize her high-yaller black ass really was. And let the cock-proud creep get used to the idea of how it should be wooed - with kisses! - if he ever hoped to enjoy the favor of her asshole again.

Only she couldn't very well make this stupid hidebound honky bigot kiss her ass without some advance groundwork, obviously, and wasn't this a golden opportunity to begin breaking him in? That gaping moron-face was just inches away. Too good a chance to forgo, Rosalie decided, and she started stroking Harold's head in a motion that was both patient and peremptory at once, rumpling his hair and drawing him closer in the same slyly suggestive caress. Until he was near enough to understand exactly what she wanted of him - right there! - and then she dispensed with needless subtlety and yanked fiercely, flaunting her authority in a sarcastically calculated hiss of command.

"Suck it, whitey, suck my slinky black cunt!"

And that was that. His plunging tongue surprised her with its lusty masculine aggressiveness and she swayed backward to give him plenty of lap room, balancing fluidly and then settling her supple shoulders against the headboard with gingerly elegance, ever wary of dislodging the precious pivot of her pretty perch down below, careful, oh-so-careful to retain possession of property already annexed. They were both hers now - such luxury, such riches: ass-tongue, cunt-tongue, man, woman, Harold, Nora, a thick-as-shit couple, but mine, mine! - and the thought of the two romantic and sentimental sweethearts kissing one another (damn near!) in the dank mucous jungle of her crotch and rubbing their lily-white noses in the mucky darkest- Africa depths of her haughtily enthroned jungle-goddess' body was enough to push Rosalie into a delirious spasm of pride. Pride and a sense of unprecedented power. A thousand abstract images shimmered to life in the suddenly fertile pleasure-garden of her mind, misted over and vague and yet lewdly luminescent somehow, flowers of evil in a fantastic nocturnal flowerbed - bigoted Harold and faggoty Keith, for instance, just for kicks? - all bits and pieces of the same shimmering hallucination, portentous, even foreboding in a personally gratifying way, pearly-white bits and pieces of a beautiful black-dominated nightmare. Fascinating. Pure magic. A magical projection of a house ruled by its onetime housemaid!

But even in the midst of her somewhat vainglorious delirium, Rosalie's native cunning prevailed and she remained lucid enough to recall realistically and note indelibly that the seeds of such ambitious magic could only blossom and flourish with cultivation, the studied cultivation of her new and slowly ripening relationship with Betsy. Dear little capricious Betsy who needed a strong-minded friend to steer her right. Dear little generous Betsy who needed only to be taken in hand

22

The whip felt utterly foreign to her fingers: it gave her a sense of unreality, a dream perhaps? - but even then she seemed to be dreaming someone else's dream. Clarisse just wasn't cut out for it. Not this end of the whip, anyway.

But the scene was of her own staging and she couldn't very well step out of character now, at least not without certain dire disruption of the plot she had so neatly and providently contrived. The promising prospectus already showed more than mere promise, it had achieved the status of a viable production. Flesh-and-blood reality! Muriel's denuded rump was ready and waiting, skirt up, panties down, plump cheeks pink-pale and embellished with rosy dimples, whip winsome, shyly forbearant. Expectant but not unabashed. Winifred sat tense and watchful on the sidelines, acutely absorbed; her lovely brown eyes, usually so soft and wide and serene, had narrowed to steadfast slits, intent, glittery, unswerving - the challenge of a critical multitude brought to focus in an audience of one, an awesomely imposing audience, and doubtless impatient. Two anxious Olsens, mother and daughter; vivid! Hardly a dream, then, and such bemused detachment could only have been procrastination, pure and simple. Get with it, Clarisse!

For that matter, she was neither bemused nor detached, just plain chicken. Which came as no great surprise, except that her tactical advances had been boldly resolute thus far, inspired and sustained by a well- founded faith in her own sophisticated erotic guile - and now, piteously, poof! she was all conviction and no courage. Because of this beastly thing she had to do, this one physical act so indispensible to the script and so ridiculously foreign to her nature. Utterly, awkwardly foreign. As the whip handle was foreign to her fingers; downright repugnant, in fact, and her twinge of nausea wasn't just a delusion.

But faint heart never won fair "spoiled angel," and Clarisse began the task of chastizing Muriel Olsen under her daughter's eyes, a distasteful business but essential to their total indoctrination. Respect for a parent, especially an affectionate but overbearing mother, is ingrained in early childhood, and Winifred had more than her share; now she was about to lose some of it. All of it, hopefully! Clarisse laid on with the whip in a spirit of speculative restraint, lightly, gently, sending only the tiniest of visible ripples across the receptive skin. Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. At least she wasn't going to get sick all over the rug. Although she did wish Muriel's upended buttocks weren't quite so feminine and appealing; they deserved tenderness, not punishment - but they weren't being "punished," of course, oh no, just whipped for a beneficial purpose, the fostering of a better and more intimate family relationship. Both mother and daughter understood that. Both were quite eager for it, too, even though the atmosphere was understandably stiff with embarrassment.

Muriel's crouching body displayed taut anticipation, her weight shifting back and forth from knee to knee. Slowly, almost imperceptibly, her legs spread farther apart - as if the needy flesh was imploring of its own volition, imploring for more luridly sensuous treatment than it was getting. But try as she might, Clarisse just couldn't comply. The cuts of the whip were little more than stroking caresses. She cast a surreptitious glance at Winifred; the slitted brown eyes were still focused, but now there seemed to be a hint of irritation in them, perhaps even ire - displeasure certainly, and Clarisse shuddered in a torment of self-reproach.

Then, abruptly, without ceremony, the weapon was torn from her hand and she felt herself elbowed aside. The crackling whiplash made a fearful racket; it hissed and whirred and snapped savagely and brought a howl of anguish from Muriel's lips. Ecstatic anguish, apparently, and the mother's crouched form twitched voluptuously as she welcomed the attentions of her newly conceived domineering daughter. Clarisse witnessed the change in stunned adoration. The golden-haired child was marvelous, absolutely magnificent, an avenging angel now, divine! Clarisse could scarcely wait for some of that delicious angelic vengeance to be turned in her own direction.

For the moment, though, it was enough just to look. To look at wonderful Winifred. Muriel's soon scarlet- streaked skin presented an exciting picture, but Clarisse's heart-smitten regard was all for her darling angel-child; even fully clothed, those alluring haunches held her gaze like a moving magnet, shapely hips shifting delectably with each swing of the whip. She visualized it underneath the fabric, the firm-fleshed dazzling delight, that beautiful bottom, that ass, lovable, kissable, so appetizing, soft and sweet and succulent as a ripe- blushing mouth-watering peach, oh, that beautiful edible ass! She tapped the tip of her tongue against the inside of her pursed lips, prying, pushing, opening it up, opening the tight little asshole and squirming in licentiously, feverishly, ravenous for a taste of the precious sweetmeat! - and only then, only when her tonguetip turned dry and cool did she realize that it had forced its way through the imaginary anal sphincter of her lips and out into empty air. Dolt! Sticking her tongue out like that! Was there ever anything so idiotic? And she couldn't even see Winifred's ass, really.

But she was beyond caring, beyond all semblance of true rationality, and the swaying hips drew her down and forward and up - up under the skirt, up in search of the real thing and not just empty air. Only she didn't find it. Instead, clumsily, her burrowing head obstructed Winifred's freedom of action, and there was a sudden shaking, a small shove, then a dictatorial request, petulant, annoyed, almost waspish in tone.

"Clarisse, puh-leeze! Stay away from my ass, will you? One thing at a time. You'll get your chance later. Let me concentrate on the whip now."

The message was clear enough, but its very clarity aroused Clarisse all the more and she plunged her nose into the fragile perspiration-dewed panties and thought giddily of how she would be getting the concentrated benefit of that whip shortly. All that glorious concentration!

"Oh shit, Clarisse, don't be so stupid. Let me be. Don't you understand how important this is? I'm whipping my own mother! I'm whipping my mother's ass and I love it - and she loves it, too, isn't that right, Muriel? Speak up, mother dear, tell me you love my whip on your ass, tell me!"

"I - I . . ." Muriel kissed her daughter's shoe. "Oh, I do love it, I love it, yes darling, you know I love it..."

"You love me, isn't that so? You love my body. You'd love to lick my cunt, my hot juicy cunt!"

"Yes. Your cunt. I'll suck it. I'll - "

"Here then, suck! Suck your baby's cunt!"

Clarisse slunk away. Her staged scene had gone awry somehow and she was no longer even part of it. Mother was loving daughter, and the daughter was loving her mother's love. Winifred's discarded panties had fluttered to the floor and she stood straddling Muriel's upturned face, clasping it close in a cunt-mouth contact that was both amorous and authoritative. Clarisse tried to catch her eye, hoping for an invitation, but the two were all wrapped up in each other, engrossed in the sheer incestuous novelty of their torrid embrace. Clarisse felt forlorn to the point of misery. Was she losing her beautiful angel? Losing out to someone with whom competition might prove impossible? Muriel's motherly palms were cupping Winifred's round buttocks under the skirt, cupping and perhaps even spreading them a little, and Clarisse was sorely tempted to sneak over and center her face between those hands and shoot her hot tongue into that enticingly vulnerable little asshole. But no, she had been banished, banished by the imperious angel, relegated to - oh, fuck it! fuck all this foolish self-pity! She had her own way of competing, her own special way; and when Winifred finished rocking in climactic convulsion on the fulcrum of her mother's mouth, Clarisse was right there to assist her, seizing the slender arm possessively, guiding the now weak and trembling body with firm but gentle care.

"Huh? What? Clarisse, where are you taking me?"

"Hush, dear. Come. To the bathroom. I'll help you."

"But - but that was supposed to be a secret. Our secret, you said .. ." Winifred seemed to regain strength; then, in an eruption of wrath, "Clarisse, you bitch, get your paws off me! I can go to the bathroom alone, I don't need your dirty help in there - it's dirty, that's what I think it is, dirty, dirty, dirty, and I don't want any more of it." She whirled, glaring down at her exhausted mother. "Muriel, get up off your ass, we're going home.

Come on!"

"Yes, dear. Right away ..."

Within minutes, Clarisse was left alone. Alone with her terrible guilt. She cried a little and sat and worried for a long time. About what was happening to her, about poor sick Mother Eve, about the dark future of the Valentines, about the doom that seemed to be hanging over all their heads - but mostly about her own guilt for having started the entire mess. Then, almost blithely, she prettied herself up and went down to the kitchen for a chat-and-coffee social call. A visit with Gertrude always made her feel better. And maybe they would just skip the coffee this time. That fat lump of a cook was so understanding...

23

Dear Diary, Let me run over what's been happening, darling, it always does me good to unburden my overburdened little heart to you. Another quickie, though - sorry. (Unless I get carried away by my own rhetoric!) I've got to get myself organized for the weekend; the Olsens have a summer cottage at the lake and I'm going out there with Winifred. The two of us will have the place to ourselves, isn't that simply grand? We're in the middle of something quite nice now, still sexy but really quite nice.

Winifred and Clarisse aren't bosom buddies any more, not like they used to be. I think something went wrong when Muriel got into the act. Although it couldn't have been Muriel's fault, I'm sure, since she's become very meek and little girlish and lets her daughter boss her around something awful now. Winifred spends a lot of time with her mother these days and I've got a hunch that their home life is very interesting! (Everybody ought to have a hobby, right?) Clarisse is desolate, of course, but then she usually is for one reason or another (Maybe that's her hobby!)

Anyway, Winifred is sure my buddy - bosom and everything else - I mean we're buddies in sex now, both equal, fifty-fifty, no more of that "slave" stuff. Just lovers. I like it. It's actually new to me, Di; as far back as I can remember, sex has always been a bit on the wild side, wild and weird, almost grotesque, I'm beginning to realize, domination and submission, sadism and masochism, whips, costumes, oh shit, all that crazy kind of love, This isn't a gripe, mind you, the wild stunts are fun and I'm still right in there swinging - but I really go for this new thing with Winifred, it's so tender, all tenderness and no violence. Oh sure, we make the bedsprings whistle Dixie when we suck cunts and play our passionate games like the hot sexy sluts we really are. We know we're sensual, and who's afraid of a little honest sensuality? But our entire relationship is still very sweet and tender and I love it. I guess maybe I'm pretty normal way down deep, maybe even more than anybody could possibly imagine - including me! - maybe I'm just a normal little girl in a grown-up world of hot sexy sluts. Maybe. Anyhow, I wish something would happen to give me the chance to find out. But that's a rather childish

Excuse the interruption, dear Diary, I had to tuck you away for a few minutes. Spencer was snooping around again. Or socializing, at least. I don't know what's gotten into him lately; could be he's losing some of his prudishness and wants to sit in on the jolly debauchery. He talks about sex a lot, that's for sure - the real freaky stuff, I mean - and he comes on more curious than jealous about the way his wife practically grovels at my feet. (Did I say practically?) Frankly, I think they'd both be better off if Spencer would just get mad enough to turn caveman and wallop Joanne's ass and make a respectful and dutiful squaw out of her. But he never will, I suppose, he's too damn wishy-washy. (Or is it namby-pamby? Whichever sounds more Spencerish. "Vegetarian bloodhound" - how's that? Phrasemaker!

Pay no mind, poor suffering Di, it's only the articulate Valentine in me straining for release.) Only he isn't wishy-washy about his book, I'm glad to state, oh shit no, it's very serious to him, painfully serious is more the fact; he's been doing the "stiff upper lip" bit lately, but the gloom still shows. I can't offer any sympathy, either, nor advice certainly. Spencer hasn't said it in so many words but I know he feels it's none of my business. Which it isn't. Am I my brother's bookeeper?

Besides, he's not the only gloomy one around this place, it's like an epidemic. Rosalie is really silly about it, she's uneasy for no reason at all; things are going well for her, too well, she says, so there must be trouble on the way. I guess she's been cheated by life so much it's just natural for her to look for the butcher's thumb. But the bad vibrations are all over the house, actually. Gertrude read the tea leaves and got frightened and now everybody believes disaster is coming to us. It makes them all pretty touchy, too, and the squabbling gets so fierce sometimes you'd think there was a full Mars out!

That doesn't include Poppet, of course, and between headaches Mother Eve is composed as ever and full of whimsy; she's gone back to black nails and vampire make-up and now fancies herself a "high priestess of depravity."

But the infectious gloom has gotten around to me, Di, although it's still just a vague feeling and probably means nothing. At first I figured it was just Clarisse's influence; she's always that way, born that way, no doubt. (Di, darling, I never did discuss "congenital" with you. I really meant to. Could it be some kind of subconscious block?) Clarisse is extra sad because of losing Winifred and that seems to make her extra horny, so she's after me all the time. Especially in the bathroom now, more than ever, and much more daring. She licks my cunt clean on the toilet and actually sulks if I happen to take a leak without her. She likes me to wipe my ass on her face, too, I mean wipe it, you know? I've never seen anyone so freaky (that's Joanne's pet word, freaky, and it sure fits). Di, you sweet thing, don't be shocked, but I think Clarisse wants me to pee in her mouth! She's always sounding off about how good I taste; she says it so often that I'm getting used to the idea. I'll bet I can do it! I may not get used to doing it, but the idea itself isn't so shocking any more; it just doesn't upset me to hear her talk like that. I expect her to. Di baby, let's face it, the idea even turns me on a little! So it's bound to happen sooner or later, true? (She might even want to get right down to the nitty-gritty; oh wow!)

But about those "ominous" vibrations - the atmosphere is depressing and I'll be happy to get away for the weekend with Winifred. I might take Rosalie along, too. Anyway, I'm considering it, just to see how she behaves outside the house. She's become so bossy lately! - almost like a stern older sister to me - and all I did was drop a hint that I felt like being a child sometimes, a little girl without any real responsibilities. Rosalie really took me up on it! It's kind of fun, though, so I'm not slowing her down any, I'll just wait and find out how far she intends to push me. Right now she's got some crazy notion about making Harold and Keith put on a sex show for us - ass fucking and cocksucking, strictly a fag act - and she's coaxing me to help her. Coaxing in that exciting bossy way of hers, though, and I just might give in. But she's at her very bossiest in bed, Di, and things get pretty wild at times, wilder than they should, I guess, but who wants to be a spoilsport? Rosalie can be very inventive and has a genuine talent for creating a mood and sustaining it at a hot pace. The other night she had me lapping her cunt while she fucked me with her bare foot - just like before, only in reverse - but she added her own variation: right afterward she made me suck and swallow all the slime off her toes, my own cunt juice, imagine! I remembered the frenzied way Keith Olsen did it and - oh shit, Di, no more of this, I've already decided to take Rosalie out to the lake with us. (Let it all hang out, okay?) Only she'd better watch her step around Winifred; my old under- the-stairs sex partner has learned plenty; she gets hours of practice at home and doesn't take orders from anybody. She can tame tigers with that whip of hers. Or panthers of any color. It wouldn't surprise me to see Winifred wind up with Rosalie's high yaller pelt as a trophy of the weekend safari.

But, dear Diary, this entry is more than just a quickie and I've run on much too long. I'm officially unburdened, thanks. I feel so safe with you, just we two alone, it's like you're my security blanket. Forever and ever. Good night, darling. I'll miss you over the weekend, but don't worry, I'm sure to come back with some hot stories to tell you. How can I miss? Hot adventures just naturally happen to your precocious little Betsy. Oh, Di, sometimes I feel as if the world is just one great big CUNT!

24

Well? Should he or shouldn't he? After aiming at the stars does one settle for a cinder? Now, intolerably - so hard upon journey's end - his cherished brainchild appeared to be fizzling out: the manuscript lacked realism, it lacked substance, it lacked the facts, and Spencer found himself on the horns of a dilemma. Plagiarism or perdition. Larceny or love's labor lost. Just a little larceny?

A little larceny, then. Anyway, the hypothetical horns weren't that obtrusive and he had already pretty much made up his mind. Fuck them. He couldn't call it quits now, he had to go through with the project. All the way. To the bittersweet end! He'd show 'em, the sneering smart-asses who said it would never be published, the snarling redheaded fishwife who said he was only jerking himself off at the typewriter; fuck them all, big and small, fuck them! (Hmm, maybe he didn't have the Valentine look but he sure spoke the Valentine language!)

Okay, so call him a hypocrite, so it wasn't quite cricket to crib someone else's notes, but what the hell, in this case the end more than justified the means - and who cared about moral or immoral in this thoroughly unmoral household? It simply had to be done, the tale had to be told, the bizarre saga of the Valentine brood couldn't be left unsung and unheard (and certainly not unpublished). Evil will out! - as it must, always - and doesn't a chronicler of such matters have the right to gather material where he may? Nay, not the right, the duty! (Gather ye rosebuds, muckraker, iniquitous old Isaac is gone to seek salvation but his heritage abideth unhallowed.) Oh shit, what a blast! Think of the scandal! Even with the names changed, everybody would know. Everybody in town, certainly. Good. Let them all know, let the inquisitive but grimly overawed populace confirm its unspeakable suspicions. Good, good, good - tell them! Let the whole goddamn world crack the long- inviolate sex-charade and shatter the cloistered isolation of this enclave of warped eroticism, this obscene hellhole, this madhouse! Expose it, brand it, flaunt its hideous stigma in infamy - ah yes, but take care nonetheless, think twice and take all due conscientious care to depict the earthy but paradoxically elusive bizarre brood with complete candor, unbiased, unbridled, uncensored, the truth, the naked truth: This is a work of fiction, and you'd better believe it!

Funny thing, though, about those "cribbed" notes (not yet, of course, but soon maybe?), he wouldn't have believed it himself if he hadn't scanned a few pages with his own wise-owl eyes. Just a gander, that was all, casual and discreet and expedient, scarcely more than an unhurried random glimpse really, but prodigiously edifying. A fucking revelation! Enough to make a little half-ass venal chicanery seem less callous, at any rate, indeed a one-in-a-lifetime deal - the big score? - and it would be irrationally and inconveniently squeamish to let "principle" interfere with progress at this crucial phase of his career. vVhat luck, what sheer dumb luck, to stumble upon such a windfall: Betsy, of all people, little Betsy was keeping a diary! Hottest little diary any hot- pants little cunt ever kept. With all the facts, yet, and positively precocious! At least it looked that way from the sneaky peek he had managed. How could anyone resist such an exuberantly sensuous memoir? How could any writer resist it?

So now it was mainly a matter of timing, of awaiting the opportune moment. Then it would require some work, no doubt - punctuation, style, that sort of thing; and more work piecing it into the manuscript - but if he could just get hold of that diary long enough to run it through his typewriter ...



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