The James Sisters

First Chapter: Jessie

The girl showed up my third day in the house.

I was in the kitchen, putting glasses away. Amazing how many
glasses just one person can accumulate without noticing. I was
trying to figure out whether I should store the juice glasses
with the wine glasses when I happened to look up and see her,
walking through the gate.

She was a young girl, blond, wearing a large blue-and-white
striped men's shirt, much too large, over a little black bikini,
and a straw hat and sunglasses. She carried a straw bag and
settled herself down on one of the pool chairs for all the world
like she belonged there. I watched, on the verge of
flabbergasted, as she slipped the shirt off her shoulders and let
it fall, and her hands reached up to undo the front clasp of her
bikini top. She had small breasts, with pretty, pink nipples, and
I could tell sunbathing topless was a regular occurrence. She
began to rub lotion on her shoulders and arms, and then - I
stepped up to the window, leaning over the sink, for a closer
look - on her breasts and belly.

Lifting first one long leg, then the other, she rubbed lotion on
them as well. And then, as she settled herself down on the pool
chair, she leaned forward for a moment and unclipped something at
the back of her bikini bottoms. Lying back, she pulled the
strings that had gone over her hips out and let them fall between
her thighs, leaving only a palm's width of thin black lycra to
cover her mons. She wanted a completely strapless tan.

And I could tell this, too, was a regular occurrence.

I put the juice glasses down.

If she heard me coming, she didn't let on. The sliding glass door
was pretty quiet, and I was barefoot. So maybe she didn't. I
stood over her for a minute, slightly drunk on the coconut fumes
and the sight of her. "Can I make you a drink?" I said.

She jumped a little, startled. She raised one hand to shield her
eyes and looked up at me. "I adore gin," she said.

"Come here often?" I asked.

"Every day, when I can. I was at a friend's, the last couple of
days. Did you just move in?"

"Three days ago."

We stayed that way for a long moment. Her eyes were beautiful, a
gorgeous shade of light blue. And she had a wicked little smile.
She knew what she was doing.

"Jessie," she said. "You?"

"Carter."

"You don't mind, do you?"

I shrugged, trying to be as nonchalant as I could. Thanking
providence I was wearing tight shorts under my loose, baggy
pants. "It's a bit distracting."

She pushed herself upright, then, arching her back prettily as
she did so. The scrap of black lycra fell away, between her
thighs. She had a small, sparse patch of blond pubic hair, neat,
well-trimmed. "Don't get too distracted," she said, and she put
one hand, one small, short-nailed little hand right on my
swelling cock, searing it with a light, lingering touch of her
fingertips through two layers of black cotton. "I'm young enough
to send you to jail."

"It might," I managed, after a moment, "be worth it. Tonic? Ice?
Vermouth? Bitters?"

"Tonic," she said. "And a lime." And, reaching down to pluck the
scrap of black lycra from between her thighs (like an irritant,
like something put up with and no longer necessary), she rolled
over on her stomach.

I went to make the drinks.

"You want to lotion my back?" she said, when I set the gin and
tonic by her head.

I cocked an eyebrow at her.

"No funny stuff," she said. She raised herself up on her elbows,
grinning at me. "Well," she said, "not much."

"Uh huh." I squirted some lotion into my hands and rubbed them
together, to warm it up. I started with the middle of her back,
worked my way up to her shoulders, then down to her ass. She
purred with contentment, wriggling her hips as I kneaded lotion
into her cheeks, then down, along the backs of her slim golden
thighs. Ice clinked as she sipped from her drink, from time to
time. She'd kept her legs together as I rubbed her thighs; as I
moved on to her calves, she spread them slightly. I kept my eyes
on the task at hand. Her skin was glorious, smooth and soft,
glowing under the sheen of lotion. Young, she'd said, but she
couldn't be too young. Seventeen, I guessed. Sixteen at the
outside. Her weight shifted, her knees bent as she raised her
hips slightly. Her calves tensed. I rubbed her feet, lost in the
motion of slick hands over slick skin. She groaned. I looked up.

Her legs spread, her hips in the air, I could see her cunt, the
fingers of her right hand spreading her lips, rubbing up and
down. As I watched, she dipped her middle finger inside herself,
shuddering, and pulled it out again, slowly. In and out. She
gasped.

I wiped my hands on her towel and stood up. "Enjoy the drink," I
said. She didn't answer. Her moans followed my back into the
house. Judging from the sounds, she came just as I was opening
the door.



She was back again the next day.

Subtlety was not one of her vices. She didn't even bother with a
swimsuit; just that oversized striped shirt which she cast off
just before she dove into the pool. I returned to shelving books
as her splashes were carried to me through the open windows. The
glasses, ice bucket, gin and bitters were already out; when the
splashing stopped, I was ready. She knocked lightly on the opened
sliding glass door a couple of minutes later. "Hello?" she
called. I handed her a drink. She'd thrown on the shirt, but left
it unbuttoned; it clung to her wet skin, cleaving to her
shoulders, her collarbone, the swell of her breast, her nipples,
the curve of her belly and hip. Water shone in droplets in her
pubic hair. She drank thirstily, with a lack of
self-consciousness that made her seem much younger than the way
she normally carried herself; fifteen, I thought, just possibly.
Probably sixteen.

"You live hereabouts?" I asked.

She looked me up and down, from workboots to old jeans to T-
shirt and buttoned cardigan. I can be unsubtle when I want to be,
too. She flashed that wicked smile. "Nice stuff," she said.

"Bitters," I said. "British field martini. A grown-up taste."

"Uh-huh." She drank again, then stretched, arching her back, her
breasts pushing up and the shirt falling open as she ran one hand
through her long, wet hair. "Just over the fence. We're
neighbors."

"I see," I said.

"Mind if I hang out a bit?"

I shook my head. "You'll have to lotion yourself, though. I'm a
bit busy." I waved my hand at the unpacked boxes all around.

She grinned again. "Okay!" She downed the rest of the drink,
wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as she gave me the
glass, then sauntered back toward the pool and her towel.

I climbed the half flight of steps into the study and sank into
the leather armchair which I'd decided would make a great reading
nook, there by the bay windows. Coincidentally, it had a great
view of the pool.

She couldn't see me from where she was; for all she knew, I was
indeed somewhere deep in the house, still unpacking. She made a
show of oiling up her body anyway, rubbing her hands along her
flanks, her belly, her thighs, taking her time with her breasts,
her eyes closed, her mouth a little, perfect O flicked every now
and then by her pink tongue. She lay down on her back, lifting
her legs one at a time into the air, toes pointed, as she oiled
them.

Somewhere in there, it became too much for her; she rolled over
on her stomach, her hips in the air, and her right hand slithered
under her, along her belly, between her thighs. I was close
enough to see her fingers as they worked there, slipping and
sliding, as the muscles in her calves and thighs tensed and
pulled her hips higher and higher into the air. Her left hand
stretched out before her, fingers curling, reaching for something
just out of reach - then she dug in with the heel of her hand,
pushed up, her hips rocking back as she curled her back and
unfolded herself for the sun, sitting back on her heels. She
threw back her head and her shoulders, her long thighs spread,
her breasts jutting up into the air as she caught herself again
with her left hand, and I could hear her panting now, her eyes
still closed, her mouth drawn back in a desperate grimace of pure
sex. With a low groan she hauled herself back upright, plunging
her left hand down to join her right, spreading herself as far as
possible, fucking herself with two, then three fingers, flashing
wet in the light until her shoulders shook and her head flew
back, her eyes open, her hair lashing, "Oh, yes, oh yes, oh yes!"

After a moment or two of heavy breathing, she pulled her fingers
out, licking them one by one as she grinned wickedly at the
sliding glass door. Standing up, she straightened out her towel,
then lay down on her back, one leg up slightly, bent at the knee,
on arm curled back over her head, drawing up her breasts, a
perfect air-brushed centerfold pose.

I went back to shelving books. When I checked on her an hour or
so later, she was at it again. Gently this time, lazily, still on
her back, one hand slowly caressing her breasts, rolling along
her nipples, as her other gently played with the open lips of her
cunt. Her orgasm was long and slow in coming this time, and
shuddered through her in rippling, endless waves as her legs
strained and her hips rolled and her hand hovered, fluttering
like a wet butterfly.

I shook my head and kept shelving.



And so it went for the next few days. She would arrive, mid to
late morning, greet me at the door, bum a drink, strip naked,
sunbathe, masturbate. She'd sometimes be wearing a swimsuit, a
shirt over it, or sometimes just the suit, or the shirt. A couple
of times she wore a tight T-shirt cropped just below her breasts
and a high-cut thong bikini bottom, or a pair of sheer, lacy
panties. Once she wore a sort of rubberized diving swimsuit,
French-cut, with long sleeves and a big yellow zipper that went
straight between her breasts and all the way down to her crotch.
She didn't strip naked that day; she slowly tugged the zipper
down, her free hand darting in to fondle a breast, to rub her
belly, then slip inside the crotch, her knuckles pulling the
rubber and bunching it suggestively as she frigged herself to a
quick, hard orgasm.

The next day, Wednesday, it was raining; I should've been
surprised, but wasn't, when she showed up in a clear plastic
raincoat and nothing else. I handed her the Irish coffee I'd
mixed up, and stood suggestively aside in the open doorway. I
wasn't about to actually invite her inside, but I was letting her
know that the option existed, if you see what I mean. She
pirouetted in the rain. "Bad-Badtz Maru!" she squealed.
Apparently, that was the name of the little black cartoon penguin
printed on the coat, cavorting over her navel and around back,
across her ass. She pirouetted again, and ran out into the rain,
laughing, and I was very, very glad that my fences were high.
Then she flung off the coat and dove naked, into the pool, and
came out of it like a sleek seal, like sex itself, all business
now, sitting on the edge and leaning back as the full brunt of
the warm rain fell on her face and on her breasts and her belly
and her sex. She only managed to come once that day, before
grabbing the clear plastic coat and fleeing back to her house,
but it was most memorable.

Me? I would fall back into the leather chair in my reading nook,
and drink, and watch. I figured that having a gorgeous young
teen-aged girl strip naked and bring herself off in my backyard a
couple of times a day warranted getting liquored up before noon.
I tried not to think about her when she wasn't around. Tried not
to imagine what might happen if I stepped outside once and
helped. I tried.

Friday, she brought a friend.

The two of them came through the gate hand in hand, shoulder to
shoulder, the other girl, who had black hair, nuzzling Jessie's
ear. She looked a little older than Jessie. Mid twenties, I
guessed. Woman, not girl. Jessie didn't come to the back door,
just laid out a towel on one of the pool chairs and beckoned her
friend to join her.

I went up to the study with the vodka martinis I'd mixed.

It was obvious, from the start, what was going to happen, though
they were coy. Too coy. Their moves were stylized, almost;
exaggerated, as if they were playing for an audience. Which they
were. I felt - "violated" is too strong a word, but something was
being infringed upon. Did she think I'd enjoy this? Had she done
this, with this woman, before? What they did, the choreography,
had a certain familiarity; I imagined, distractedly, phone calls
in the middle of the night, whispered giggles as they planned
this. I felt like I was being laughed at.

They smiled, brightly, as they sat, facing each other, on the
pool chair. The woman reached into her shoulder bag and pulled
out a bottle of oil with a little "Ta-da!" expression. Jessie
took it from her and, flipping open the lid with a wide sweep of
her hand, squirted oil on the woman's chest and shoulders; the
woman gasped, eyes closed, as if pre-orgasmic already.

Jessie rubbed the oil into the woman's shoulders and upper arms
but it was perfunctory. The woman grabbed the bottle from her and
squirted some on Jessie, returning the favor, staring intently as
Jessie cooed with pleasure. Jessie leaned back against the chair,
and the woman followed, until she was crouching over the girl,
her hands brushing the triangles of Jessie's bikini top to either
side, so that her hands might slick the girl's breasts with oil.
All the while, the woman's mouth, pursed, open, hovered over
Jessie's face, throat, breast, shoulders, a kiss that never fell,
until she leaned back, trailing oil down the girl's belly to her
thighs, the kiss unconsummated.

Jessie was the better actor of the two - or maybe, I found myself
thinking, she's really enjoying it. The woman kept smirking, as
if she were about to burst into laughter at any moment as she
reached up and untied her bikini top. Her breasts were larger
than Jessie's - not at all unappealing as she rolled over in what
was obviously stage two of their little scenario. On her hands
and knees, she wiggled her ass at Jessie, who took up the oil
bottle to do the woman's back. Jessie's top was still askew, and
I found myself fixating on those little breasts, those pink
nipples, which I'd come to know so well over the past few days.
It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps this was intended for my
benefit - an added extra to the floor show. Not to humiliate me;
to further titillate me.

Then something happened obviously not from the script. Jessie
tugged the woman's bikini bottom down, over the swell of those
hips, part-way down her thighs. The woman lay facing me, in a
sort of three-quarters profile, and I could see the momentary
flash of surprise as Jessie did this, followed by of all things
annoyance as Jessie's oil-slicked fingers slithered along the
woman's ass and - I couldn't see the fingers, but I could see her
face, the moment it happened - into the woman's cunt. Jessie
grinned, sliding her fingers in and out, and the woman began to
rock back and forth, the annoyance melting away into something
else. Unexpected, yes, too early perhaps, but welcome
nonetheless.

Jessie stopped, too soon it seemed, and returned to the task at
hand, oiling the woman's back and shoulders, her blue bikini
bottoms hanging at half-mast on those long, pale thighs. The
woman obviously didn't worship the sun as much as Jessie.

I felt... furtive, dirty. The fact that they'd set their stage to
be viewed from the sliding glass door, and not from my study
nook, off to the side, added to my backstage feeling; I was
seeing things I shouldn't. I stood up, and was made rather
painfully aware of my condition. No matter what doubts and second
thoughts went whirling through my brain, my cock knew what it
wanted. Stepping away from the window, I loosened the buttons of
my fly, to allow some relief, and nearly stumbled over one of the
unpacked boxes of books. Arms windmilling, jeans sliding off my
hips, I had a sudden vision of some unfilmed Cary Grant sex
farce: ripped clothing, slamming doors, pratfalls off unmade
beds, mistaken identities.

Bugger this for a lark, as he might have said. I was not going to
let the two of them cast me as a voyeur.

I took one last look out the window. The woman stood, naked now,
her pale skin gleaming in the sun, her back to me, her hands
caressing her thighs as Jessie, sitting up on the chair, licked
delicately at the lips of her vagina, teasing, nibbling, kissing.
I headed deeper into the house, holding up my jeans with one
hand, looking for a distraction: the TV, the stereo, anything.
But first, I stopped in the bathroom - briefly.



Later, I heard Jessie's voice calling out from the kitchen.
"Carter? You home?" She ran some water. Another voice, the
woman's, said something I couldn't make out. "Carter?" Jessie
called again.

Then silence.



I got up early the next morning, headed out to the Home Depot to
pick up a couple of things I'd been putting off. I went and saw a
movie after that, something at random. It turned out to be a
scuzzy little caper about a team of desperate criminals who
bungle a jewelry store heist and then spend the rest of the film
double- crossing each other. It was depressing, and embarrassing
- the demolitions expert, a trim and (of course) gorgeous
brunette, was a lesbian; the film's erotic high point was her
fierce sexual encounter with her ex, a call girl, on the kitchen
table of the bomber's dilapidated apartment, by candlelight. Hot
wax was dripped on the call girl's back, on her breasts. The
bomber had a dangerous smile on her face, mixed with more than a
little anger, and when she kissed the call girl, she was savagely
thorough. I thought of Jessie, and her friend, and wondered what
Jessie was doing today, at my house. Without an audience. The sex
ended with a brutal killing - the psychopathic cop interrupted
them, shot the call girl, the noise and the violence dashing
thoughts of Jessie from my head. The whole thing was ugly and a
little misogynist; I left as the bomber took her enthusiastic
revenge, transformed into some Tarantino knock-off's dim little
echo of a Fury. I wondered what the ticket-taker had thought of
me, going in alone to that sort of movie for a Saturday afternoon
matinee.

When I got back to my house, Jessie was waiting for me, sitting
on the steps of the door that leads from the garage into the back
hall.

I hadn't expected that. We looked at each other for a long moment
before I shut off the engine and she stood, simultaneously. She
was wearing a light, summery frock with white stockings and
chunky black shoes, and had once again been transformed. Not a
hint of sex kitten to be seen; just an innocent young school
girl, whose face I had a hard time imagining with that yearning
expression I'd seen yesterday, as she'd licked that woman's lips.

I climbed out of the car, gathered my packages. "Hey," she said.

"Hey."

"You weren't here this morning. Or yesterday."

"Errands to run. Did you have trouble oiling yourself?"

She grinned. "You going to be here tomorrow?"

"Tomorrow is a day of rest," I said.

"You don't go to church or anything, do you?"

I sighed. Why, yes, I could have said. I didn't. "No, I don't go
to church or anything."

"Cool." She took a step towards me, raised herself on her toes,
and quickly and deftly kissed my cheek. Her lips were cool and
moist and didn't linger. "There's somebody I want you to meet."
She backed away, grinning, then loped off, around back, to the
gate between our houses.

"Christ," I said.



And to top it all off, Nicky showed up that night. We had words.
I threw him out of the house sometime after eleven ("You'll
regret this, you pusillanimous little shit!") and proceeded to
get thoroughly schnockered.

"No," said a young man on television at one point, his voice
dripping with sarcasm, "no, my life's not complicated."

I toasted his flat, pixelated image.



In college, I prided myself on not getting hangovers. I realize
it is hubristic for someone of my age (twenty-six) to be
complaining about getting old, but in this case, I have cause. In
the past two or three years I've found it harder and harder to
recover from my excesses.

I woke up late Sunday morning. My head ached; my mouth felt as if
something small and furry had died in it. I was having extreme
trouble putting two thoughts together; by the time I got them
where I wanted them, I'd forgotten what I was going to do with
them. I crawled out of bed and stumbled down the hall to the
shower.

One of the privileges of living alone, to my mind, is the ability
to wander about naked at will. Not that I do this frequently, but
at the moment, the simple mechanics of a bathrobe were beyond me.
Of course, I wasn't used to such a huge house. The room I'd
decided on for my bedroom was a big, sprawling thing on the first
floor, and the only bathroom downstairs was on the other side of
the house, near the garage. I passed through the kitchen,
scratching my head. Outside, Jessie was leaning against the wall
on the other side of the pool, her hands on the brunette's head,
pushing the woman's mouth greedily into her cunt as the woman
tugged Jessie's bikini bottom over her ass and down her legs.

The shower was hot and just what I needed. After five minutes or
so I was thinking much more clearly; I knew I needed a glass of
water, followed by most of a pot of coffee. Somewhere after that,
I could start thinking of food. My day sketched out, I headed for
the kitchen, toweling my hair dry as I went.

Oh. Yeah. Jessie and the woman.

I stood in the shadows of the kitchen, staring out through the
sliding glass doors at them. Naked now, or nearly so, they had
resolved themselves into the classic 69, the woman lying on her
back, Jessie, her bikini still dangling from one ankle, covering
her with her golden skin. They clutched each other tightly, there
by the side of the pool, Jessie's back bowed, the woman's head
raised sharply to get at her, their legs jack-knifed. The woman's
calves tensed and tightened, her toes pointed, quivering in the
air, her head falling away, and I heard her voice, a feline roar
ripping out of her throat as she came; "Fuck," she said, kicking
her feet out, "fuck yeah!" before spreading Jessie wide with her
fingers and diving back in.

My cock swelled; thoughts of water and coffee were long gone.
Jessie lifted her head, her eyes closed, her mouth open slightly.
My cock ached, gravid with desire, pulsing as her hips rocked
back and forth and her thighs trembled, as if there were a direct
connection between it and the girl's skin. "Oh, God," Jessie was
saying, over and over. I think. I couldn't quite make it out.
"Oh, God, you do that so - Oh, God!" She bowed her back, lifting
her head up, her throat arched, her hands clutching at nothing as
her face tensed up for the explosion - which sent shock waves
pulsing through her, and me. As she hung there, coming back
slowly from the edge, she sat up, opened her eyes briefly,
shining, and then in one graceful movement rolled off the woman
and into the pool. The woman sat up, running her fingers lightly
along her lips, slicking back her wet hair, smiling secretly to
herself. Then she looked, or so I thought, straight at me, her
dark eyes flashing.

I blinked, the spell suddenly broken, and staggered back, deeper
into the shadows. With a splash, Jessie pulled herself out of the
pool, on my side of the pool, and came walking, naked, dripping,
towards the door.

"Carter?" She saw me standing there, in the shadows, the towel
wrapped around my waist. I'd tucked my erection against my belly
in an attempt to conceal it.

"I was, ah, taking a shower."

"Oh. Did you see us?"

"Us?" I swallowed.

"Yeah. That's Virginia out there. Wave. I'm gonna get a glass of
water."

Virginia had lain back down, on her back, eyes closed, soaking up
the sun. Even if I were inclined to wave at her, she couldn't see
me. Couldn't have seen me. Jessie padded past me towards the
sink, her steps a little wobbly, tentative. "God," she said,
leaning up to look out the window there, "she's so fucking hot. I
never would have - you know, I think I'm still coming?" She had
grabbed a glass. "My thighs won't stop shaking." She turned on
the faucet, still leaning with her weight against the counter, on
her toes, her legs slightly spread, one hand on the windowsill,
still looking out at the woman by the pool as her thighs kept
trembling.

I tell myself I'd had plenty of invitation. I tell myself that
there was never a possibility of mixed signals. I tell myself
that everything went fine, and that there was never any chance
that things could have gone wrong. That what I did at that moment
was the right thing to do, was the thing that was wanted. Still.
I can't undo it. And when I want to kick myself, I can remind
myself that at the moment I did it, I didn't know. Not for sure.
Not for certain. Which, to my mind -

As she stood there, water running, about to fill her glass,
leaning her weight against the counter, on her toes, her legs
lightly spread, her wet, golden skin gleaming, the curve of her
ass, her breast glimpsed under the arm lifted up to grab the
windowsill, as she looked out at the woman by the pool who'd just
made her come so hard her thighs were still trembling, I could
see them trembling as I let the towel fall and took five steps
over to her, six, and pressed the head of my cock under her,
between those thighs, felt the hot wet lips of her against me as
I took her hips in my hand, she chuckled deep in her throat, a
purr almost, and rocked back slightly, "Oh, my," she said, not at
all displeased, and her hand and mine tangled at the base of her
belly, in her wet pubic hair, seeking the fulcrum necessary to
fit our pelvises together. Her labia enveloped the head of my
cock, the warmth of it so sweet, so right, she lifted her ass
slightly, I ducked my hips, and like that! I was in, swallowed,
gripped by the smooth silky warmth of her. "How," she said,
turning her head to the side, to look at me, as my hands came up
to her breasts, and we kissed, lightly, an introduction which
seemed a little redundant, given what we were up to. "Did you
know," she said, breathed, and I licked her lips with my tongue,
which led to more kissing, as she lifted, and I pulled back, and
then we put ourselves together again. "That was just what I
needed?" she said, as my hand touched her cheek, and we pulled
apart again, braced on the edge of the sink, and then together
again, oh, and there was no more need to talk.

It was quick and it was fast, hard and mindless and more than a
little brutal. I had forgotten, a little, what it was like to be
inside a girl - it had been, what, nine months? ten? since the
last time, and while the memory can hold on to the abstracts -
warm, yes, wet, yes yes, feels good, I remember that - it's not
even a pale flicker next to the real sensations sliding, pumping
along you, through you, as you grab her hips and she growls and
your breath hisses, "Fuck yeah, fuck yeah, fuck yeah," she's
saying, like a mantra, and you bang your knees against the
cabinets under the sink and you don't even notice till later. And
so part of the sensation was the rush of all that sensation
coming back to me, that moment when you connect, oh, yeah, this
is why we put up with all the bullshit of other people - and then
just like that you're on the road with no return, you can't get
off, the end is in sight, she can feel it, in the way your belly
tenses up, your thighs set like stone, she can see it in your
grimace, in your eyes, "No," you hear, "not yet, Christ," but
it's too late, it's ripping out of you, like a flood, you're deep
in the throes of it as it pumps long and hard and cleanly out of
you, and you're lost in it, couldn't stop if you wanted to, your
hips keep pumping like some machine, you've got no control over
it, and her hands are down there, pressing, stroking, she moans,
her voice throaty, "Oh, God!" as you try to keep part of yourself
focused, just a little more, you try to tell yourself, just a
little more.

But at some point it's done, you both know it. I stepped back,
staggering a little, suddenly cold, ears ringing, more than a tad
dizzy. She fell almost immediately to her knees, still hanging on
to the counter, her head drooping to one side.

"Jessie?" I said, after a moment.

She rolled over, sitting on the kitchen floor with her back to
the cabinets, her knees drawn up. She smiled. It was a little
shaky. "Still," she said. "Still coming." She reached up, grabbed
the counter, pulled herself to her feet, and walked over to me,
slipping a little in a puddle of pool water. I caught her, and we
pulled ourselves together in an embrace. She lifted up on her
toes, her face turned to me, and we kissed, like a long cool
drink of water, luscious. "Feel," she said. She put my hand,
flat, against her thigh. It fluttered there, beneath the skin.
"Where's your shower?" she asked.

"I'll show you," I said. Arm in arm, we walked out of the
kitchen, down the hall. I fetched her a clean towel. She kissed
me again.

"You've wanted to do that since last week."

"How about you?" I asked.

"What do you think?" She grinned, impudently, and hopped into the
shower.

I watched her, for a moment, through the frosted glass; then I
walked back to the kitchen. Still thirsty. Still needed coffee.
Moreso, really.

"What did you think of her?" said the voice as I came round the
corner, cool, faintly ironic, mocking. The voice of someone who
knows more than you do. Virginia stood there in the doorway,
naked.

A startled "Who?" was all I could manage.

"My daughter. Jessie."

Something - something stopped, somewhere; I am willing to swear
that the world, such as it is, held its breath. Somebody she
wanted me to meet, she'd said.

"Excuse me?" I said.

"Well, step-daughter, really. Gorgeous, isn't she?" She moved
past me, flowing like water, smiling as she walked down the hall
towards the bath, for all the world as if she owned the place. I
followed.

She stood in the doorway of the bathroom, watching Jessie as I
had just a moment before. The girl was singing, lustily;
"Uncorrected personality traits that seem whimsical in a child
may prove to be ugly in a fully grown adult!"

"Gorgeous, isn't she? I asked you a question." Virginia -
Jessie's step-mother - poked me with her elbow. I don't think
Jessie heard us, or saw us.

"Yes," I said, after a long moment.

She smiled. It wasn't a terribly pleasant smile. She shifted her
weight, leaned back against me, nestling my half-limp cock in the
cleft of her cool, wet ass, reached one hand up and behind my
neck as she leaned her head back against my shoulders, looking up
at me, smiling, the whole thing a perverse pastiche of what I'd
just done to her daughter. Step-daughter. "Good," she said. She
stroked my hair. "You should meet her sisters."

"The spoiled baby grows into, the escapist teenager who's, the
adult alcoholic who's, the middle-aged suicide!" sang Jessie.

--n.

http://www.asstr.org/~nickurfe/
http://www.ruthiesclub.com/
nickurfe@yahoo.com

This story may be freely circulated by anyone, anytime, anywhere.
With all due apologies to Robyn Hitchcock.