Safewords

Emily Thompson spent her pensioned days painting as if trying to etch her mind onto the canvas. Wild brush strokes, rutilant hues, and gangly silhouettes that seemed to surface from the recesses of her conscience. For fear he might stir some festering wound, David avoided inquiring or commenting too deeply on his wife's aberrant illustrations. Instead, he took her on getaways, museums and eventually to a therapist. Nothing seemed to fill whatever void had appeared in his wife’s life since retirement and their children’s departure.

Her shrink (as Emily referred to the quack) described Emily as ‘needing to be needed;’ separation anxiety was the more eloquent verbiage. Emily’s role as a maternal figure dictated her purpose so long that she was lost without it. The therapist explained. Emily could return to work, adopt an animal, or tend to a garden. Emily decided she no longer liked therapy and her husband suggested they sort through their children's old bedrooms and belongings. Emily agreed. Perhaps, a buried memory or memento would rekindle from sorting and discarding their things.

Amidst their late winter cleaning, the middle-aged couple happened upon their daughter's doll collection. An assortment of figurines ranging from contemporary Barbies to Russian Matryoshka with porcelain and smiling faces—each fitting perfectly inside one another.

And of all their children’s belongings, Mrs. Thompson decided to keep the figurines.

 

It went like this for weeks. Emily crafted fantastical stories inside her head, organizing the dolls like patrons at a jamboree. Her mood seemed to lighten with her imaginations, and Mrs. Thomspon’s complexion hued with renewed vivacity. David, although perturbed, was relieved to see his wife’s cheery and cherry cheeks again. For Valentine’s Day, he decided to purchase some dolls to indulge in what he assumed was a middling phase. Emily's emotional health had taken a toll on their intimacy, and her happiness was his as well…

David drove miles beyond the city limit to an antiquated shop called Peepaws. The antique shop looked more like an attachment to the Farmer’s Market it was sidled next to. Its glass windowpanes were littered with mannequins modeling frumpy clothing that reflected a mismatch of ages and cultures. Cutting his truck off, David closed the driver's side door. His tan boots crunched over the gravel of the parking lot. It was a breezy and brisk morning; the store's windchimes rattled in the autumn gale. The cloudless sky was nylon blue, and the lot was sparse with pickup trucks and lanky teenagers skating on the dilapidated sidewalks. A dog barked in the distance, and the storefront door opened with a shrill ring.

The musky smell of antiquity wafted over Mr. Thompson as the owner called out. "Hello! Welcome to Peepaws. I'm Peepaw. This is my store!"

David corked a thinning eyebrow. "Hello, Peepaw. I'm David nice to meet you."

Peepaw’s grin exposed a checkered smile. "How can I help you, Sir?" The wily codger squinted his eyes, seemingly scrutinizing David's ankle-high Chelsea boots. "My apologies Dave, but I've never seen a cleaner pair o’ boots."

"Why um—"

"Boots are made for walking y'know?"

Mr. Thompson stammered, amiss for words. He stared blankly at the wizened man. Peepaw's leathery, sun-bronzed skin drooped weary from age, but his pupils gleamed electric blue. Festoon pooled at the crescents of his hooded eyes and whatever height Peepaw possessed diminished to his hunchbacked posture.

Mr. Thompson cleared his throat. "Do you perchance have any dolls?"

Peepaw’s presence seemed to swell with excitement. His toothy smile seemingly alleviated a decade from his gnarly visage. David shifted his weight uncomfortably. The room felt smaller.

"Oh yes, we Cock-A-Doodle-DO!" The codger jeered and pointed a rickety finger in the direction of the back wall. Peepaw's lilting voice lowered to a whisper. "Take your pick." he winked and zipped his lips.

David was mortified at the implication; his mouth pursed to respond. The store phone clamored and rang; Peepaw swiftly answered.

"Hello, this is Peepaws. I'm Peepaw. This is my store!"

David frowned and strolled towards the back aisle.

Rows of figurines gauntlet him on either side; the wooden shelves ascended in four rows to eye level. Basket bins filled with unsorted toys laid unattended on the tiled floor and with a grimace, David swiped a coat of dust from a shelf. Grumbling, he wiped his fingers on his pants. The order and organization of the dolls were senseless. Mr. Thomspon crouched and raked over the motley assortment. Nativity shepherds with their black sheep, a Spiderman plushie and some sort of green snake, coiled round and trying to eat itself. Peepaw's nasally voice echoed from the register. David reasoned he shouldn't be surprised.

David’s shuffled down the cramped laned, and his gaze settled on a peculiar doll nestled been a Pikachu and a pink-skinned, brown-nosed dog. The doll was fashioned as a regal lady, about the length of his forearm, with back-length, flowing red hair and emerald eyes. Dressed in what appeared to be Victorian-era attire trimmed with lace and complete with a bonnet atop its crown of fiery curls.

The intricate craftsmanship made the doll appear vivacious; its cherry lips forever fixed into a look of polite and practiced expectance. David's eyes lowered to scrutinizing slits. Turning it over he searched for a name or price tag.

Returning to the front of the store, David addressed the owner. "How much would this be, Peepaw?"

Peepaw whistled loudly. "Now that ere' is a rare find. You've got a good eye, Sir. A fine one indeed..." Peepaw gestured for David to approach the counter. He set one elbow on the table and leaned forward as if to tattle a secret.

"It's got a twin y’know. An inseparable kinfolk I couldn't let you leave without. The story goes—"

David interrupted. "Are you trying to upsell me?"

Peepaw reared back, waving his hands as if shooing away an omen. "No, but I tell you. Either you buy them in a pair, or you put them back, also the story is important for the experience."

David sighed and glanced towards the storefront. The parking lot was beginning to crowd as noon neared. "I'll buy them both."

"Do you want to hear their tale?"

"I'll give you $100 right now, not to." David rolled his eyes.

Peepaw cursed silently and folded his spindly arms across his chest.

"Fine." The old man ducked beneath the counter and rummaged; the register's hinges squeaked as he pulled open the drawer. Peepaw emerged with a second doll. Hardly identical to the first, it had blue eyes and golden hair the color of wheat. Its broad shoulders and denim overalls gave the countenance of a farmer.

"This here is Handsome Jack!" Peepaw’s eyes twinkled with amusement.

"How are they twins?"

"You paid not to hear the story, remember?"

David sighed and proffered the $100 bill. The register chimed open, and Peepaw deposited the tender. Peepaw started to wrap the dolls delicately with newspapers before boxing them separately. David received his purchase and Peepaw resumed his work—whatever that may be.

~~~~

"Honey, I'm home," David called out to his wife as he removed his boots. No response came barreling down the hallways, but his wife’s floral scent charmed the air. He gently placed the boxed dolls on the coffee table and removed his coat.

Emily's footsteps echoed in the kitchen, followed by her familiar voice.

 

"In the living room, Hon!"

 

David carried the boxes tepidly; shuffling forward, his heart beat a tattoo into his chest. He hoped she would like them. As he entered the living room, his eyes welcomed the familiar sight of his wife sitting cross-legged on the floor. She was painting again—the canvas blank as her stare. David knelt beside her, setting the boxes lightly on the tarp beneath her easel.

"Very minimalistic, Dear." David pecked his wife's cheek, and she elbowed him.

Turning her face, Emily returned her husband's kiss and her blue eyes settled on the boxes.

"What are those, Honey?" Emily brushed aside a few loose strands of her blonde hair. David smiled. She’d aged gracefully. Light dappled through the windows facing their backyard and played fancifully with Mrs. Thompson’s features. When she was curious, her lips pursed quizzically and she almost looked herself again.

"I don't want to ruin the surprise. Open them up!" David exclaimed.

Emily pulled the boxes toward her and removed the first lid. The newspaper crinkled as she unwrapped the figurine. Emily's eyes shined like a new day.

"She is..." Emily stammered. "She's beautiful, David."

Emily ran her fingers gently across the doll's intricate features. Its amber hair speckled in the noon light, and her emerald eyes seemed keen to some far-flung sight.

"David, she's perfect." Emily cooed.

David wrapped his arm around her hips and the couple shared a delicate silence. Emily set the Victorian Era doll aside with the carefulness of a newborn; then opening the other box she stared quizzically at the overall-wearing blond.

"Did he come with a pitchfork, Dear?"

David smiled sheepishly and scratched at his throat. "Well, no, but they're supposed to be twins?"

"Paternally?" Emily’s brow creased with consternation. Turning the doll in her hand, its torso was sculpted with sinewy muscles and a farmer's tan. Freckles bespeckled its cheeks, and its plastic mouth forever fixated in a knowing, toothy grin. Emily examined the doll for a nametag.

"Honey, its name is 'Handsome Jack.' " Emily squinted. "Where did you get these from?"

David cursed silently as he recalled the eccentric proprietor. "There's an antique store about thirty miles out. It's called Peepaws. The owner's name is Peepaw; it’s his store."

Emily returned Jack to his box and flung her arms around her husband. "I absolutely adore them, Honey." Her supple figure pressed into his torso, and David welcomed her familiar embrace. His arms wrapped the small of Emily’s back and he smiled and nibbled the soft shell of her ear. Emily chuckled from the ticklish sensation; then her voice sunk to a sullen tenor.

"I know you're trying, honey. And you're being patient. I..."

David ended her familiar spiel. "You’re trying too, my Love. We have the rest of our retired lives to figure it out."

Emily smiled and kissed him again. "I love you."

"I love you, too." David readied to his feet, grinning and satisfied with his wife's elation.

"Are you still going to that dinner event tonight, Dearest?"

"That's the plan," David called back from the kitchen. ‘Our neighbors are going, too.’ He thought. "Do you need something before I go?"

"Just make sure you call me when you get there, Honey."

"You're always welcome to join us." David offered rather rhetorically.

"No, thank you, Dear!" Emily chimed back. "Just make sure you bring me back a slice of that red velvet cake," Emily said, snuggling deeper into the couch cushions. David chuckled softly before heading to his garage for party favors and supplies. With a kiss, he bid his wife adieu. Leaving Emily to her devices and imaginations…

Emily savored the ensuing quiet; the distant ticking of the grandfather clock marked the passage of time. The day turned to evening—then the evening to night. Her eyes scanned the quaint living room and adjoining kitchen, finally settling on the ginger belle lying inanimately on the low-rise table.

“Whatever is your name?” Emily lifted the doll to her face. She turned it over thrice, searching every inch of its porcelain figure for an indication of alias or origin. Glancing out the window, overcast clouds darkened the horizon; the sky hued stillborn grey. The inclement weather returned Mrs. Thompson’s thoughts towards her husband; the pang of guilt racked through her. She checked her phone for his text, and feeling her forearms pebbled with goosebumps. She grabbed both dolls and retreated to her bedroom for an early rest.

"Drive safely, Dear," she texted before crawling beneath the blanket.

Mrs. Thompson laid the dolls on the nightstand beside her, and Emily tugged their bedside lamp off with a click. Darkness enveloped the bedroom, save silvery moonlight dappling through the closed curtains. Emily glanced toward Handsome Jack.

"Staring at me, aren't you?" Rolling Handsome Jack towards the wall, her eyelids grew heavy, and soon Mrs. Thompson's breathing deepened into a languid, rhythmic lull.

Raindrops pattered against the rooftop, accompanied by the subtle groanings of an old house. Emily drifted in and out of consciousness, her dreams filled with vivid images of verdant fields and ocean-blue skies.

Tut. Tut. Tut.

Emily stirred from her sleep to the sound of pattering footsteps.

"David?" the sprightly blonde called out for her husband. Reaching for her phone, she checked the security system. No doors had been unlocked; David hadn't texted her either. Emily groaned and reached towards her lamp. Tugging its switch, her bedroom illumined. Emily's gaze swept the small space; nothing was amiss. Rain tinged off the window. The old house creaked and groaned. Mrs. Thompson clutched at her satin sheets. She heard and saw nothing worth worry. Yet, Emily felt watched, gauntlet and inculpated by some insidious evil.

Emily turned towards her nightstand. The Victorian doll lay prone on the polished wood. Her emerald eyes gleamed beneath the canary glow of the lamplight; Handsome Jack stared back at Emily, grinning cheekily with pearly teeth. Emily placed both dolls in her dresser and decided to check the house.

Her bare feet glided across the beige carpet of her bedroom and closing the door behind her. She made her way to the kitchen. Emily equipped herself with a Chef's knife. Its silvery edge winked in the artificial lighting, and tepidly, moving from room to room. Emily flickered the lights on one by one until she heard a door close with a click.

Emily scrambled to her bedroom; her hands gripped the knife till her knuckles whitened. Throwing open her bedroom door, both dolls sat at the foot of her bed. Their green and blue eyes glinted with mortal mischief. Emily paused at the threshold. Her mind torn between screaming and fleeing, stabbing and inquiring.

"Hey Emily," they greeted her with a singsongy coo; their miniature hands waved back and forth gleefully.

"I'm never fucking drinking again," Emily turned to close the door and the dolls beckoned her again.

"Play with us, Emily." Handsome Jack bounded from the foot of the bed towards the floor. His shoulders swayed as he sauntered forward. He only came up to Emily's knees and proffering his hand he commanded. "Give me the knife, Emily."

The blonde's face scrunched in disgust. She abhorred how her name sounded on its lilting tongue. She swung her leg forward to kick the doll and Handsome Jack evaded.

The Victorian doll, still sitting on the bedside, crossed her legs and smirked. Emily lunged for the door handle.

"Oh, Emily," chided the fiery belle. "Where do you think you're going?"

“Please… Please…” Emily pleaded with misty eyes. “Just leave me alone. Go away.” She reassured herself. “You’re not real.”

Handsome Jack approached the hapless woman. His marble eyes raked upward her figure appraisingly.

“You tried to hurt me though, Emily.” His wry smile revealed tiny, macabre teeth—like a boy reveling in his first show of violence. “That wasn’t nice.”

Emily’s head swam, and her balance waned. Using the wall for support, her legs moved like rickety stilts; Handsome Jack sprung atop her. The toy moved fast—faster than Emily's mind could react. With a blur of movement, she felt it lash out towards her, its wooden fist twisting into her hair, pulling it tightly. Emily gasped feeling her chest crash against the floor.

"Unfgh..." she choked, her head spinning, the alcohol and adrenaline addling her mind as she struggled to push herself upwards. The knife clattered across the carpet and she could feel the doll’s strength smothering her, crowding her out fully.

"Get off me! Get off!” Emily writhed and lamented.

Handsome Jack yanked Emily's hair, gnarling her blonde tresses in his fist; then pulling her toward the bedside. Her clothes tore with an audible rip. Jack assessed the damage. His lips pursed into a pensive expression.

“She’s fine, Jack.” The Victorian doll chimed in. “Humans are tougher than you think.”

Jack nodded towards his sister and releasing Emily’s ankle, moved to straddle the blonde’s prone position, sitting down on her back and locking its legs around Emily’s waist. Jack’s plastered, grinning expression faced her buttocks and exposed thighs. Her frilly evening gown creased at the hem and had begun to recede upwards her supple legs.

Jack raised his hand as if to ask a question, then bringing it down, the doll spanked Emily's heart-shaped ass. Again and again, the room snapped sharply with his rapture.

THWACK! THWACK! THWACK!

It was a pitiable scene, a miniature, overall-wearing farmer spanking a middle-aged woman. Jack lifted her skirts to reveal the rutilant skin that was Mrs. Thompson left ass cheek. The doll smoothed its fingers over the shimmering, reddened flesh.

"Do you understand now, Emily?” Its mechanical smile stretched its face. Revealing its unnaturally white teeth and pinkish lips. “You’re the plaything.”

 

Jack brought his hand down like a gavel; its timber palm stopping mere centimeters from Emily's tender skin.

Panic welled inside Mrs. Thompson; tears threatened to burst from the crescents of her blue eyes. She felt confusion at the toy's strength, and frustration at her inability to resist it. She tried to scramble forward, to drag herself away, but Jack’s legs pressed tightly into her waist. She could feel cool air flowing over her upper thighs now. Followed by the polished wood of Jack’s crafted fingers. Emily tried to reach back to pull the fabric of her dress down her long legs.

 

THWACK!

 

The blows were hard and sharp, rippling across her curves. She could feel each strike smart; a red heat glistened off her body. Kicking out, Emily swore loudly, shaking her hips, determined to knock the hateful creature onto the floor where she could slice it in two with the knife just feet away.

 

"Stop! Get the fuck off me! Stop!" Her cries were hoarse and louder now, trembling and desperate as she winced in horror as she felt Jack’s hand raise high once again. “Okay! Okay!” Emily relented and whimpered. “Just tell me what you want.”

Jack paused her punishment. Its small hand stilled above her rutilant ass cheek; its plastic face forever fixated in grinning satisfaction. Jack’s gaze raked over her flushed bottom, admiring the way Mrs. Thomspon’s tendons tensed and twitched against the soft surface of her white thighs.

 

“Will you behave?” The Victorian doll leapt from the bedside and landed with kittenish grace.

"We seek only to serve, Emily." Its porcelain gaze sparkled with crafted innocence; her tone gentle as a lapping wave.

"Alright, alright!" Emily cried out. "Just please stop hurting me."

The amber-haired doll giggled and raised its dainty fingers to cover its painted lips. "As you wish. Hold her legs open for me, Jack."

Handsome Jack gave a cheery smile and a thumbs up. Its wooden fingers squeezed into Emily's inner thighs, parting them for his sister's intrusion.

Emily bit her lip; the familiar, metallic tang of blood reminded her she was still alive. Her sheepish heart bleated with dread. The Victorian doll returned a closed smile, moving closer to Emily's quivering form. Emily wanted to scream, to beg for mercy, but all she could muster was a garbled yelp.

Jack was deceptively heavy for his size and Mrs. Thompson’s face flushed from difficulty breathing.

"No... Only my husband has ever seen me like that. Don't. Please... don't." Her voice was ugly now.

Jack grimaced and raised his hand authoritatively. "No one likes a poor sport Em'. Do I need to spank you again?"

Emily shook her head; tears continued to flow… but the tears would not dry. The Victorian doll nestled between her legs and eyed the thin garment covering Mrs. Thompson’s remnant dignity.

"I bet that's very pretty underneath, isn't it?"

 

She tugged at the cloth, inserting her small fingers into the waistband, and peeling it away slowly. Emily nibbled her lip and closed her eyes, feeling the sting of humiliation prickle across her lower limbs.

 

"Ah, Emily," the doll purred, its painted lips forming a sultry smile. "Your husband could never appreciate you like this.”

Emily’s mind raced. How long had it been since she’d shared her body with David? A familiar and unwelcome ache pang between her legs as the doll exposed her privates to the cool air. The Victorian doll gasped; her green eyes twinkled with mischief. She introduced a featherlight touch to Emily’s sex and the sprightly blonde yelped.

"You need to relax, Dear." The Victorian doll mimicked the monicker the couple used. "If you're too tense, it'll end before it begins."

Emily's body quaked from the intrusive sensation. The doll prodded Emily's folds slowly, gingerly exploring the blonde's most intimate regions.

"No... This is wrong. So very wrong!" Emily's pitiable pleas fell on deaf ears.

Jack held her legs firmly and soon his sister found Mrs. Thompson's pink nub. Her rigid clit peeked out from beneath its hoodie; the doll teased it gently. Emily inhaled doggedly, biting her lip to restrain a cry.

 

"Don't hold back Emily," the doll crooned. "Let it all out."

 

She slipped a second finger inside the woman, and its thumbs traced languid circles around her swollen nub. Emily bucked and Jack spanked her again—the disparate sensations driving Mrs. Thompson to frenzy. Her hands scrabbled across the carpet; she clawed and fought and beseeched, "Please make it stop! Just let me go!"

 

The doll stroked Emily's hair, whispering sweet nothings into the soft shell of her ear. "Shhhhh... it's okay, Emily. Name three things you can hear."

“Fuck you!” Emily flailed her legs and Jack prompt smacked her plump rump.

“Emily…” the Victorian doll probed her insides, curling her fingers till her walls contracted and spasmed. “Name three.”

“The rain…” Emily whimpered as the tempest outside thundered and cackled.

“Good, two more.”

“The wind… and your voice.”

The doll pinched her clit and Emily squealed. “Two things you can smell.”

“Please… Please…” Mrs. Thompson pleaded, and the doll's porcelain fingers squeezed her sensitive bud. “I—can smell the freshly vacuumed carpet and the wine—the wine on my breath.”

“Good job, Emily.” The doll sneered. “Now… one thing you can taste.” The red belle withdrew her touch from Mrs. Thompson’s sex and pressing her fingers towards Emily's mouth. She forced the woman to gag and splutter.

“Can you taste it, Emily?” The doll thrust her fingers in and out of Emily’s mouth, and spit driveling from the corners of Mrs. Thompson’s lips.

“Mhmmm!” Emily murmured something unintelligible.

"Don't you enjoy this, Emily?" the doll taunted, its painted lips carved into a sultry smile. "You're so wet. I bet your husband hasn't made you cum in years."

 

“Don’t you dare say his name!” Jerking her neck, Emily's spat the doll's fingers out.

“Then say mine.” The doll returned her affections to Emily’s clit. “Cherry. My name is Cherry. Emily, say it.”

“No.” Emily shook her head and sobbed. The doll worked her fingers and thumb dexterously. “No…” Emily's wails waned to whimpers.

 

“That’s a good expression, Dear.” The doll smiled as Emily’s wall clenched around her fingers. “Show me your best side.”

“Please, don’t do this. I don’t want to…” Emily gulped, nervous to utter the sin. “Not like this—not for you."

 

"I told you to call me 'Cherry', Emily." The doll snapped, her fingers tightening around Emily's pulsating nub. The pain and pleasure intertwined, driving Emily to a fever pitch. "Now say it."

 

"Cherry..." Emily's sobs drowned beneath the dull din of the pattering rain. "P-please Cherry, I—"

Cherry lowered her face between Emily’s legs. Her lithe tongue grazed her folds, lapping at her slick slit as the thirsty drink. Emily’s consciousness eclipsed; her eyes rolled to reveal their whites. Cherry’s tongue swirls and zigzags across her shuddering sex. Emily’s panting breaths fill the room, while Jack’s strong fingers dig into her ass, pinning her in place. Emily allows herself to moan as loudly as she wants, as loudly as she needs…

And then, the sensation peaks.

Mrs. Thompson plummets from the precipice, an array of garbled sounds emerging from Emily’s mouth. Sounds like she couldn’t describe. Sounds she didn’t know she could make.

Wave after wave of ecstasy washed over her, drowning her resistance. The pain, fear, and humiliation vanished and were replaced by blissful and unabashed release. Emily collapsed, spent, as the dolls clapped for an encore.

“Happy Valentine's Day,” they said for the umpteenth time that night. It seemed every tongue in cheek corner they crossed, from the front door’s large cover fee to the dancing bodies and promiscuous outfits. They’d never done anything like this—not as a couple, not as a couple. As the festivities began, dancers lost layers, kissing, turning to groping, groping to lust and excitement that could only be conveyed in base, animal languages, groans, and more.

They could only drink on the sidelines for so long, two sore thumbs in a room full of proud kinksters.

“Are you sure about this?” Jack asked their date, who insisted. The music surrounding them was loud, a thud-thud-thudding, driven baseline, and the odd burst of tempo to carry the track through their rattled lungs and into their drug-addled minds. Each had taken a dose of Molly and smoked a few hits off a THC vape. Jack swiped from her stepmom, drank a few drinks, got in the mood, and got lubricated.

“Of course, I’m sure; have I ever steered you wrong before?” The more adventurous Cameron chortled, quick to add, "Don't answer that.” Tousling Jacquelyn’s short, brightly coloured hair. She pursed her crotch and pulled her forward into the stalls of the women’s washroom. though tonight, all bets were off, and every territory was free use.

They were at a club, that kind of club, the kind that had dances, burlesque, glory holes, and back rooms upon back rooms that led to further back rooms still, a champagne room, though Jack suspected there was indeed sex in there, too. On the way to these stalls, they passed bodies slapping and cringing together just out of view; they passed hedonists and wanton debauchery; they passed sweaty, quivering flesh and found themselves still wanting each other instead; they found themselves till set on the ‘the plan.'

“You said you wanted to be seen,” Cam reminded Jack.

“Seen as a boy!” They hissed back. They’d dressed the part too. Their chest was clad tight, synched by a binder, and obscured with a formless, black sweater. Jeans too; though they were a little tighter around her spindly legs, Jacquelyn didn’t really own a pair that hung loose like the sweater. It was a battle to stuff the dildo they’d harnessed on beneath, but Jack managed.

Cam sympathized; she wanted her partner to feel comfort, to feel affirmation, not to feel panic or anxiety. She wanted this to be a special Valentine's Day, a new, kinky tradition. Stepping forward to her angular, androgenous love Cameron delivered a kiss square on Jacquelyn’s face, missing their lips and not quite finding nose either, her own nose flattening, an imperfect smooch right on the crease between Jack’s cheek and upper lip. -sweaty. “C’mon, let’s do this. I see you, Jacquelyn.” She hummed, comforting Jack and squeezing the strap between their legs through their jeans, pressing and manipulating it against their snatch, sure to get a rise.

Jack feigned a smile and nodded, pushing Cam up against the stall door. They’d come this far, and they knew Cam wanted them to feel good despite all the anxiety and shit surrounding it all. Jack could hardly have liked chicks a couple years ago, now? Well, now they were riding a motorcycle and going full, wearing leather, and trying to get on T. They even chopped their hair off; it had been down around their shoulders. “Jack.” They corrected her—no snark.

“Jack, the guy.” They role-played as much as they agreed. Tonight, they weren’t Jacquelyn; tonight, they were explicitly Jack, a boy from school they’d met or something, a boy they’d had a drink at the bar with. A boy they intended to fuck in this very stall.

Kissing, the two slinked into a black-painted stall with a clean toilet and graffiti scratched into the walls, their kinky Valentines just beginning. Jack kissed Cam’s neck, Cam, lipstick, and smoke; she was the perfect woman in Jack’s eyes. Long brunette hair with blunt bangs and a tasteful stud in her nose. She was professional with a dash of feist; she was fire to the ice queen Jacquelyn had been when they met. Cam still managed to make Jack still melted for her daily, melted for how she could be so kind, so compassionate, so fiercely for them; so for their gender affirmation, they’d brought them here to this moment, two strangers at a club, one with a dick and the other with a pussycat.

“Yeah, so... where’d we meet?” Jack asked absently as he slid his hands up her thighs, dragging her silky skirt along her skin and up to her hips, up till her pants peeked out, lavender. Jack loved that colour on her. He took a moment to unzip his pants, allowing the dildo to come out and play, as his false erection was being stroked through them.

“Ooh,” Cam smiled as they went through their role-play routine. “You’re a boy from school; you stare at me in class.” Cameron explained this to Jack, who started getting into the role. It wasn’t far off, really. That waswhere they met, though they’d both since graduated. “You asked me to the campus pub for a drink three months running, every class we shared. . ."

Jacquelyn smirked and started to ease Cam’s pants down; they were already visibly wet in a small patch. She was aroused to the touch. “You’re so wet," Jack started, surprised but quick to add “You finally agreed; so, we get a few pints."

“You’re so cute—for a dumb boy.” She says back, shrewd, teasing, then whining as Jack licks their fingertips and dips them between her legs. “Aauh!” the initial touch of slender fingers at her pussy lips causes a shock, a small jolt of electricity, of surprise despite knowing it was coming, watching it in fact. “Sorry."

“Don’t ever apologize,” Jacquelyn snorted back, trying to manipulate her hand to deliver the most external pleasure possible, to please her hood and lower labia both, to tease her entrance, and to grind her petals too. . . Jack wanted, no, needed to be all things at once to this perfect woman; that’s what Cameron did for Jack, after all.

“So I take you to the stall, and I offer to suck your dick.” A wink crossed them, and Cam slid down to straddle the toilet. She contorted and folded herself to suck a black, phallic object with no veins but a ridge on the end, masquerading as the head of a true cock. It wasn’t necessary at all, of course, but it was hot as hell, hot for both of them, for Cam, who was primarily homoromantic, vicariously enjoyed the idea of sucking a strap on, and Jack, who found it beyond affirming, found it hot, playing pretend.

“Slthrpt, glrk. slllth, mmmph.” Cameron audibly slobbered on the black phallus; it soon glistened from its girthy midpoint up to the prick tip and down again with Cam’s spit. She reached under the plug that kept it in place at the harness, a metal ring as well, seeking out Jack’s underwear, seeking out Jack’s pleasure centre, her wet, gooey core. When Cameron found it, she made a specific motion, a come-hither glide from her perinium and along her entrance, grinding and rubbing her through her soaking boy shorts under the dildo till

"Fuck, that feels good.” Jacquelyn couldn’t help but grimace, betrayed by her snatch but just as interested in watching her cock be sucked in earnest. She wasn’t quite sure if Cam knew what she was doing or just made it look good, but whatever the case, she didn’t want it to stop! Cameron bobbed back and forth, her shoulders flexing and her hand stopping her from getting deeper than she could handle. While she stroked the length of the dildo, she also fingered and toyed with her lover through it. She also toyed with her lover toward completion, or at least a heightened state of sensitivity. The thrill that someone could walk through that door at any moment was only starting to play on them now, each of them pausing every so often to consider the weight, consider the fact, consider someone could see. . .

“Jack?” Cam pulled off the strap on the cock just to look up at them and ask, “Are you ready?"

Jacquelyn hesitated before carrying their makeshift story line forward, their little role play of boy meets girl. “You make me feel good. In the stall, you suck me off, but I don’t care; you want to feel good too. Don’t you?” Grinning, they took hold of their glorious, black pillar of phallic power and tapped her cheek.

“Wo’ah, Jack! I’m not that kind of lady.” She pouts before lilting a bellow of laughter—too sweet to be anything but enjoyed, too sweet to be anyone but her. “I promise to let you fuck me here if you use a condom.” The tomboy hesitated, blinking as Cameron produced a single condom for their tool. Not a bad practice at all; a nice touch in fact. For a moment, the two lesbians earnestly struggle with the packaging, grinning and chuckling before saying,Okay, okay, I got it.” Cameron managed to get it out of the wrapper and down her lover’s pole.

Another wad of spit and some hand lube later, and the two prepared for “Unng, I want to fuck you—Cameron, I want to fuck you hard.”

“Y’ah, fuck me hard, Jack. Show me.” It is almost challenging, almost demanding.

“Turn around,” Her long legs spread, and Jack pulled her dress up, so her ass came to view, perfect, round, doughy, and pale. They gave a small swat and got a high yelp before lining the bulbous prick’s head with her sopping hole. Panties down around her ankles, spread wide as her legs could force them, bowed slightly at the knee. Jack adjusted her, several times unsure if she was nervous or just looking for the perfect moment to “okay,” urge her way inside.

Once she found her purchase, though, the clap of her rigid hips against her doughy ass filled the stall and indeed the washroom beyond. The door was slightly ajar, but neither of them cared to look out. They were too occupied with each other with their little role play, pretending to be college kids at a pub, not two grown asses in a sex club.

They could only snicker and giggle, respectively, when a faucet turned on, and they realized for the moment that they weren’t alone.

Instinctively, Jack held her breath, Cameron covering her mouth and nearly slamming down into the toilet, only to catch the wall with her spare hand. They had hardly gotten started, and it was already a shitshow! They almost gave up, but lust spurred them on, and their girlfriend’s dripping tang just before was inviting in earnest. They’d only get so much direct pleasure from the act, but that wasn’t all they’d get. There was a certain amount of affirmation that came from this, that came from doing it here and now rather than in their bedroom or in their head.
This was the real-life sort of encounter they’d been working toward, and they relished every second of fantasy fulfillment after the initial slings of discomfort and nerves. Jacquelyn pushed forward and pushed into Cam. They took hold of the ridged dildo and started to stuff it inside her body, sliding into her entrance with some brief resistance, then deeper. Pushing past velvet resistance, Jack could feel it—the slick insides of their girlfriend. They wanted to feel more.

Possessive hands searched out whatever flesh she could find—her narrow but still insatiably cute ass. The other found a cup and groped aggressively. groping like a college boy who didn’t know the first thing about restraint or shame. They enjoyed the feeling of Cameron occupying them while simultaneously Jack used their position for leverage, pushing and forming, manipulating Cameron down over the toilet, not enough to rely on it too much for support but to gain a whole new inch or two of purchase.

“Ooauh! Oh-hell, that’s,” her spot, “Don’t stop!” an order issued, one Jack took with pride. They had found that special place that made her cringe—that special place that left Cameron weak and vulnerable, melting into the stall. Jack committed to the position until her hips grew sore and her legs started to cramp up. At her earnest pace, one that had her rocking hips, clapping ass, and eventually huffing and puffing, she broke a sweat.

“Fuck me like a man!” she couldn’t believe the words on her own tongue, but there they were.

Jack continued till they could not hold out, thighs and calves burning; it was only then, when they pulled out, that they realized. . . they had an audience. Cameron was lost in the moment; she didn’t care, not at all. Jack felt a sweat prickle up their back. “C’mere,” Cam all but begged for more, suggesting Jack take a seat. “C’mon, I want you to sit down. . . I want to ride you, Jack.” And despite their anxiety, Jack once again sat down.

With their jeans split and their hair short, they liked to think they passed; nobody cared here, nobody but them. They were hedonists; all they cared about was how hot the moment got, and as Jack sat and their perfect girlfriend climbed on it, it dawned on Jacquelyn to join them in that; join them in their careless fun, to let it get hot, get heavy, and get hard-core.

Cameron grunted as she adjusted the dildo to her entrance, and indeed, her entrance to the dildo grunted as it split her down the middle and filled her tight hole. She hissed and began to grind back and forth on her, and now she too could see the slowly developing crowd. “Shh-shh-shh,” Jack hushed her and reached around her body, hugging her tightly as they began to crunch and bump and began to fuck her back—as it were. While Jack knew they could just hold the harness and rest a minute, they wanted to see their girlfriend reach new levels of ecstasy; they wanted to grind her into dust and fuck her stupid for Valentine's Day, just like they both fantasized about.

Sure, they could have done all this in the comfort of her parents' basement, but this was electric. This was new. This was exciting beyond all reason for everyone.

Outside of the stall, several individuals of alternative vibe stood and touched themselves, and in one case, each other. There was something taboo and strangely erotic about it—something shameful and wrong but also undeniably hot. Cameron couldn’t help but regard how they seemed to enjoy the show Jack was giving them: “Don’t stop now, Jack, fuck me up!"

A single ‘woop’ was delivered from their adoring fans as Jack lifted Cameron up onto her feet and into the mouth of the stall. She nearly fell forward but stopped herself, grabbing onto either side of the open stall’s entrance for support. Her legs spread, and Jack plowed into her from behind once again. It wasn’t degrading so much as it was wildly hard, uncontrolled, and carnal.Stroke after demanding stroke thrown into her, stroke after demanding stroke reverberating back into Jacquelyn.

They grew closer and closer to a touchless peek, to a place where they could practically feel orgasm on every pore, on the tip of their tongue, in the back of their throat, and burning holes in their belly. Jack was more aroused than a mere fuck in a campus pub stall, however entertaining that may have been. Jack felt the sort of aggressively burdening arousal one could only get with raw intimacy, with a lover, with someone trying to affirm their dreams, their fantasies, someone trying to be their everything.

As Jack wrangled with a spiritual awakening of orgasmic affirmation, Cameron, stirred up and fucked drunk, felt her eyes rolling out of her head and her mind melting. She felt her own orgasm approach, amplified by the moment and multiplied by the power of Jack’s follow-through, by her agreement to stick to this, to everything, to each other, and by her commitment to the bit.

Jack reached down and strummed her like an instrument, the melody on her labia’s hood taking things to a whole new level. A level she couldn’t quite reconcile without “Aaauh!” Squealing a sweet release through the small room. The two had found their limits in that stall; as far as they were willing to go for the sake of a good fuck, they pushed right up to the edge and no further. Slowly dismounting, Cameron stood and turned to kiss Jack, pulling her dress back down around her body and adjusting her bra and the top.

Jack stuffed the dildo back in their pants and grimaced, dressed like a teenage dweeb more than the sexual god they felt like, and indeed, they did—they felt amazing. They felt affirmed; they felt satisfied with themselves. They even felt comfortable in their own skin. “So, Jack.” Cameron mumbled as they walked down a dark city street in the direction of light, away from their wild night and into the comfort of society.

“Happy Valentine's Day, babe.” Jack smiled; it was everything they wanted for themselves tonight, to feel like a man, a sex god. Cam slipped her hand into their and smiled.

 

“You too, stud.”

I heard snow hitting the undercarriage of my tiny little fiat rental. That was probably when I first knew. I wasn't going to make it off this lane, much less four miles to the next village. My tires crunched determinedly and then slipped. Once. Twice. I sighed and gently rode my foot down on the gas pedal. "Please." I murmured under my breath.

Nothing happened. I felt the little car wiggle, but it didn't budge. The engine purred. Heat poured out of the vents, but its low clearance just wasn't made to accommodate the thick layer of white that coated the road. I left the engine running and got out of the car to investigate my predicament. My foot slipped when I put my weight down, but I caught myself with the door, dragging myself straight and regaining my balance.

I gingerly shuffle-stepped my way around the vehicle. It was buried to the tops of the wheel wells in frozen powder. I considered whether I could dig it out, eventually deciding that my ice scraper and author's muscles were no match for the piles heaped up around the tires. Even if I managed to free the wheels once, I wouldn't get two feet before I was in the same position again.




I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself. I was stranded in the middle of nowhere and it was cold. I didn't know how close the nearest person was. I could be miles away from help. The realisation sent an icy fear up my spine that had nothing to do with the chilly temperature.

I opened the car door again and pushed the button for the ignition, turning the engine off. I told myself that everything was going to work out. Surely there was a reason that this road ran here. There wouldn't be a lane here if it wasn't needed for houses, or shops, or some little tucked away high street that would provide food and drink, and a high rated cottage hotel. The rational part of my brain clung to the thought and the rest of me tried to panic. I kept a straight face and clawed my way to sanity. This was fine…

I locked the car and pulled a pair of gloves out of the pocket of my puff coat. My fingers were already stiffening from the chill, and I forced them clumsily into the knit. Flakes started to float gently around me, promising another good dusting. Everything was muffled by the white. It would have been peaceful if I wasn't lost and anxious.



I pulled my hood over my hair and picked a direction, setting out along the road. The sound of my steps melted to whispers around me, the crunch of compacting ice quickly lost to the blanket of snow muting the landscape.







I walked for ten minutes, and then twenty. My heart sank more with every second. This quiet, snow-buried stretch of almost-pavement seemed abandoned. I wasn't sure when I would succumb to starvation, frostbite, and hypothermia but my sense of drama was starting to get the better of me. Surely I couldn't walk four miles in the snow. Surely I wouldn't make it to the next village before dark. What if there were wolves in the lazy, rolling fields of the English countryside? What if I was a goner? At least it would make for a good new story.



My writer's brain whirred into motion, formulating the headlines of my demise. 'Up-and-coming author found buried in freak snowstorm.' 'Mystery's newest mistress is dominated by the cold.'

As I was forming the first lines of my eulogy I came to a gateway. I breathed out sharply in relief. There was an intercom panel set into a wall beside the iron fence, and I looked over the options. There were a few house names. 'Cherry cottage, Yew Cabin.' My finger dragged past each one until it arrived at 'Main Farmhouse.' I pressed the corresponding button and heard a buzz.

"Unlike you to make it in the snow, Griffon." A slightly crackling voice preceded the slow, silent swing of the gate. I was in! And I wasn't Griffon. I heard the disconnecting click before I could correct the disembodied voice on the other side.

I walked past the wall and looked around in confusion. All I saw was another road. The landscape looked almost the same as it had on my way here. I was facing a thin lane edged with half-bare hedges. I took a steadying breath and started walking. There had to be houses here somewhere.

After about ten minutes I saw smoke. The pot of a chimney shifted into view shortly after that first sign of life. I felt a surge of euphoric exhilaration. I was saved! I realised I would have no idea whether this was the farmhouse I'd buzzed, but in my mind the situation was life-or-death. I'd ask directions if I had to. Maybe a kind soul would give me a cup of coffee.




The light was fading now. The air was going silvery, and twilight shone at the edges of the sky. I needed to find some sort of help before it got dark.

I marched up the drive to a two story brick house. It was tall and narrow, with tidy hedges, and window boxes that were currently filled with snow. I took the steps to the door carefully, testing for ice, and raised my hand to knock. The panel swung inward before I could touch it.

The pleading smile on my lips faltered when the my saviour stepped into view. I'd opened my mouth to say something, but I couldn't remember what.



The man who greeted me was tall and broad-shouldered. His thick wavy hair was cut a little too long around his ears, and yesterday's stubble was still on his face. His cheekbones were high and sharp. His jaw was chiselled. His eyes were a deep brown that I wanted to lose myself in. I scrambled to pick my jaw up off of the floor.

"You're not Griffon." His voice was deep, and slightly amused. If I'd been less stunned I might have used the context clues to figure out that I had the right house, but my brain was stalling out.

I tried to brush my hand over my hair, and scooped my hood off of my head in the process.

"I-" I managed one syllable, and stopped. I needed to say something competent, but I struggled to force my brain back into gear. I ran my tongue over my lower lip, preparing to attempt again. It was chapped and thinned by the cold and I winced. "I'm stuck." The words finally came, and I felt them all too keenly. My tongue was sticking to the roof of my mouth. I couldn't move. I could hardly breathe.

He looked down at my snow-caked boots. "On my porch?" He asked, clearly teasing me. My cheeks burned.

"On the road." I gestured behind me, a little bit frantically. "In the snow." The explanation began to pour out in a nonsensical erratic rush. "My car stopped a few miles back. I didn't realize it would be so deep." Did I mean the snow, or the hot water I felt climbing toward my chin? "The snow! --I mean." We would avoid the subject of my morbid farewells to the world on my way here. At least for now. I swiped my fingers over my mouth in a way that I hoped would wipe the foolish off my tongue.



"Sorry. I'm Sarah Greene." I held out my hand, and he shook it politely. I'm in England for a meeting with a publisher. I think I'm going to be late. "

"You're American." He observed. It wasn't a question. The contrast between his soft consonants and my hard twang was notable.

"Guilty as charged." I raised my hands, palms out in defence of my accent, and dropped them again.

"I'm Nathan." He took pity, and stepped back from the door, swinging it wide. "You should come in. This storm isn't going anywhere any time soon." He warned me. "I'll tow your car out tomorrow, but I'm not sure you're going to get where you're meant to be going in it." My stomach sank and then flipped with a kind of hybridised worry and excitement.

"I'm so sorry to impose." I was freezing, and the warmth in the house reminded me of the fact. Despite my guilt, I rushed forward, desperate for it. My teeth chattered briefly.

"That's fine. Don't worry." He stood back in the entry hall and looked over me warily. "I guess you'd better warm up. I'll get you a cup of tea."



He led me down the hallway, past a set of steep stairs, and into a large sitting room with high ceilings and elaborate moulding. There was a broad marble fireplace on one wall, and I made a polite beeline for it. My frozen fingers and chilled knees instantly began to thaw. My eyes strayed from the flames, evaluating the room.



I was looking for signs of serial murder, or mad experimentation. In the movies, the hot ones always went wrong.

The interior of the farmhouse was just the right mix of modern and old fashioned. Floral prints mingled with warm leathers and soft velvets in a way that was inviting and sophisticated. I wondered about the decorator. Had Nathan picked the scaling tones and contrasting cushions himself? Somehow I doubted it.



A feminine voice answered the question for me. Echoing down the hall in front of the woman it belonged to. "Who was at the door?" A tall, willowy blonde stepped around the doorframe and stopped when she saw me. "I told you it wasn't Griffon."

My eyes widened at the sight of her. She was painfully pretty with thick, silvery curls and delicate features. I felt small, messy, and garishly bright in comparison. My shockingly red hair was long and straight in a refuse-to-do-anything kind of way. The fine mass of it was barely hanging on to the spotty red scrunchie tangled in the remains of a bun at its end. My face was aching from the long trek through the freezing cold. I was still sniffling in the aftermath of my journey. I was almost certainly dishevelled at best.

I straightened my coat, but I was dubious about the improvement that my effort would provide. I felt a secondary pang of disappointment at the realisation that Nathan was, in fact, not some tragic poet-farmer, isolated in his countryside home, and desperate for a witty novelist to come save him. This was without a doubt his wife, and she was as exceptional as he was.



The woman's curious blue gaze flicked over me in a way that suggested quick intelligence. There was an easy friendliness in her expression that resolved into a warm smile. I couldn't help it. I smiled back.



She had a speck of paint on her nose, and a smear of the same colour across one cheek. It almost looked like it belonged there. I felt like I was in the twilight zone, or that I'd mistakenly invaded the final plotline of a Hallmark movie. These people didn't look real.

"Sorry. I'm a mess. We weren't expecting anyone in this storm" She apologised, busily wiping at her fingers with a thin cloth. She dropped her hands after a futile first pass and looked down, inspecting herself. An apron hugged her body, decorated in all sorts of errant spatters and smears of colour. It wrapped around her appealingly and cinched her waist, showing off curves that were too eye-catching to miss. I felt another little thrill of awareness ride through me.

Nathan came in after her, holding a steaming mug in one hand. He stopped in front of her, wiping the smear from her cheek and chasing her nose. "Paint." He murmured, and I felt like an interloper, privy to a moment that I shouldn't be seeing.

He moved toward me and held the cup out. "I wasn't sure how you take it, so I guessed; sugar and a bit of cream." I nodded my thanks and reached for the handle.



My fingers brushed his when I took the cup from his hand, and I felt another charged spark run up my spine. I scolded myself. Nathan was clearly a very happily married man, and his wife was clearly a very happily married woman. My eyes shifted back to her face and I tried not to wince. She was absurdly pretty.

"This is Sarah." He gestured toward me. "Natalie." He supplied his wife's name, and I couldn't help but think how perfectly it suited her. She reached out and I shook her hand with the one that wasn't busy holding my tea mug.

"Nice to meet you." She said brightly. "What brings you here?"

"Snow" Nathan supplied. "Her car's stuck. I'm going to tow her out tomorrow."

"Oh. So we have company for Valentine's day."




My heart sank a little at the realisation of what day it was. It was February 14th, Valentine's day. I hadn't thought of it.-- I hadn't thought of it in years, actually.-- I was always too busy with my work to notice the date come and go, always chasing the next novel, and perpetually single as a result.

"I'm so sorry." I began, embarrassed.

"Oh, it's no problem. We don't mind sharing." Natalie waved the apology away.

Something about the way she said 'sharing' hit me oddly, but I couldn't put my finger on it. I smiled gratefully and pushed the uncertainty out of my mind. "That's very kind. I will try to get a cab as quickly as I can, though."







Natalie grinned in a way that made it clear that she was amused. "You're American." She noted, in a tone that suggested there was a reason for her observation, something telling that separated my culture from hers.

"Guilty." I repeated the same sentiment I'd expressed to Nathan at the front door. My hand even raised in the same way. I lowered it and rubbed my palm self-consciously on my hip. They probably thought I was completely idiotic.

"There aren't many cabs in the countryside. You can't typically get them if you haven't made arrangements ahead of time." She said it apologetically. "It's Valentine's day, which makes the likelihood of finding one a lot lower. You could spend the afternoon trying, or you could just stay with us tonight. We can try to make arrangements in the morning. "



I shifted uncomfortably in place. I couldn't believe I was interrupting this perfect couple's romantic day. It was mortifying, and it was somehow made more so by my barren dating history. I wasn't sure why. It was not like they knew me. They had no idea that I was a serially single.

"Are you missing out on time with someone special?" Natalie's question was completely innocent and comically timed. It was like fate had intervened with an eye toward my dignity.

Well…it wasn't like they knew yet. I flushed, hotly. "No. No one special." I managed.

"It's settled then." Natalie gave me an encouraging smile then glanced back at Nathan. He raised a shoulder, a slightly amused look on his face. I felt a weird thrill tumble in my stomach and I couldn't identify a reason for it.



"I'll get you set up in the guest room." Nathan said. "Natalie probably has some things you can borrow if your clothes are wet." I could feel the damp soaking through to my socks.

I would probably look like a lump in anything of Natalie's. I was about five-foot-nothing, curvy, but small. She was tall and slender, with mouthwatering proportions that fit her body just right. I crossed my arms doubtfully, mindful of my tea, all too aware of the woman standing next to me. I sipped from my mug, feeling like I might swallow my tongue.







Nathan gave me enough time to finish my drink and warm my bones. Natalie maintained casual conversation, preventing the three of us from dropping into uncomfortable silence. Nathan didn't seem like the talkative sort. He shot a few quizzical, intense looks my way when Natalie said certain things, or asked certain questions. I found myself squirming in place every time. When I finally finished my tea I was relieved. I needed a few minutes alone to gather myself. I was making up charged moments that didn't exist.

I followed Nathan upstairs. He led me left at the landing, showing me into a guest suite with a large bed and an attached bathroom. I felt grimy just looking at the crisp white bedspread and pale walls. It was like some kind of cosy B&B here, and I was unprepared, and without luggage.

I peered at myself in the mirror when I was finally alone, and screwed up my mouth in disapproval. There were red streaks on my face from the cold. My nose was cherry pink, and my eyes were teary. My hair was bedraggled and limp. I snatched the scrunchie from the end of it and watched it bounce to my waist in a slightly tangled stream of red. There was a knock at the door and I turned swiftly away.



I walked back across the room and turned the doorknob, peering out at Nathan who held a few towels and a stack of clothes. "We're downstairs when you want." He said. Passing the pile over and heading back toward the stairs.

I looked over the offerings, bumping the door closed with my hip, and striding toward the bed. There were a few pairs of pyjama pants and some tee-shirts. There was also a long sleeved cotton dress that would hit me mid-shin. I shook the dress out and laid it flat on the bedspread, and placed the loungewear on the dresser. I took the towels to the bathroom and immediately turned the tap. Maybe a shower would wash away whatever it was that was sending my brain static.

I allowed myself twenty minutes under the hot, steady stream of water. My thoughts went to Nathan, and just as often to Natalie as I soaped myself. I scrubbed my hair with some sort of bergamot shampoo that smelled like heaven.



I had to be in a dream. I was probably in a hypothermic coma somewhere in the snow.





I put on the dress when I was finally clean. There were a few rolls of socks wedged in a basket in the wardrobe, and I helped myself, choosing a black pair that stretched well over my knees. I brushed my hair with a brush I'd found in the bathroom, and checked my appearance. I was still short and curvy. To my great disappointment, I had not somehow become a statuesque goddess during my stint in the shower. This was the best I could do.

My breasts slightly strained the material of the dress, even though it was made from a stretch knit. The skirt was mercifully A-line, and it made room for the generous curve of my hips. It fell long on me. It probably would have hit Natalie at her knees.

There was a tinted chap stick in my coat pocket, and I applied some to my lips. It didn't help much, but I felt a little better for it somehow.



I made my way down the stairs and headed in the direction of voices. Natalie and Nathan were both in the kitchen. There was a pan of something simmering on the stove. It was just beginning to give off a tart, garlic aroma. My mouth started to water, and I realised that I was starving. My walk from the car had been a Hell of a workout. "Can I help?" I asked.

Natalie turned toward me, and Nathan glanced over his shoulder. I tried to smile, but I felt a little bit awkward about my interloper status despite their graciousness.

"Oh, that looks lovely on you, Sarah." Natalie traced her eyes over me. For a moment it seemed like she lingered, but I assured myself that I was making it up in my head. "You must be tired. Have a seat and we'll give you samples."

There was an island that separated the dining table from the cooking area. It had stools on the side closest to me, and I took a seat. Nathan immediately set a small cup of espresso in front of me. I dragged it closer with a little groan of pleasure. "Thank you so much."



Natalie smiled at me, and then turned the sunny expression on her husband. They both got to work on the evening meal, and I watched. Occasionally I got to taste something and share my opinion.

There was more idle conversation. Natalie asked me about my career, my trip, how I liked England so far. She asked me what my best experience had been and told me I had to come back when it was warm. "England's always nicer in the summer." She advised. "Less rain."

I told her that I was a journalist turned writer, that I was here to meet a publisher, and that I was considering a prolonged stay if the meeting went well.



"I'm stuck now, though. I won't make it to that meeting. We'll see if they forgive me the storm."

I told her about my visit to London, talked about how expensive cab fare was, and admitted that I preferred the countryside, even if my car didn't. We had a few laughs over the Fiat. Nathan joined in, and after about an hour we all sat down for dinner.




The meal was delicious. It was a tender beef in wine sauce with browned onions, and pasta. The flavours malded so well that I wanted to cry eating it. They pulled out a bottle of champagne and toasted company, and I marvelled at the kindness of strangers.

We retired to the living room after, and watched an old movie with the fire crackling in front of us.

They sat on either side of me, and shared popcorn over my lap. It was surreal and companionable and I felt myself settling in, relaxing in the company of this quiet, friendly couple who seemed to have no end of enthusiasm for life, or the strange American who had crashed their Valentine's day party for two.



We were watching 'The Ghost and Mrs Muir', a film about a widow sharing her home with a spirit, and we were well through the first 20 minutes of the notably un-spooky beginning. It had the kind of tinny sound that really old movies have, and I was wincing at the most recent spike of noise when I felt the pressure of a hand on my left thigh.

Natalie was sitting on my left, and Nathan was on my right. The weight of that touch was slight enough that I decided it couldn't possibly be Nathan. I glanced to the side, but decided not to say anything. Maybe Natalie had missed the popcorn bowl.



Her slender hand dragged up toward my knee, and I tensed in expectation. The way that she moved made it clear that none of what she was doing was accidental, or innocent. My eyes widened and I stared forward, a little shiver running up my spine. She found the hem of my dress and curled her fingers under it, seeking the bare skin above my knee. I sucked in a shocked breath, and avoided looking at Nathan. He was still watching the screen, reaching for popcorn. I could see the shadow of him in my periphery.




Natalie curled her fingers around the plush curve of my thigh and they dug in. I shifted on the couch cushion, biting back the tiny sound of excitement that wanted to escape my lips. I didn't know what was happening, but I knew that I was undeniably interested in it, and incredibly curious about where her fingertips would stray next.

I felt Nathan shift. He glanced over at his wife. I could see the movement of his head from the corner of my eye, and I tensed. I waited for that hand to slide away, holding my breath. I waited for chastisement, or shock, or something worse. None of that came. Natalie's fingers continued their journey, up…up. I slouched.



Nathan settled closer, his broad back slipping slightly against the leather of the couch. It creaked. He looped an arm casually over my shoulder, the backs of his knuckles grazing the top of his wife's bicep. My jaw fell, and then it hung there. I mouthed a silent 'what the fuck', but I didn't stop Natalie. I didn't protest. I felt like my wildest fantasies were playing out in real time. This couldn't actually be happening. Could it?

My body kicked itself into overdrive. My sex throbbed, and a few seconds later Natalie's nails grazed the curve of it. I gasped, and my spine went poker-straight. Nathan took the opportunity to wedge himself slightly behind me. The strong, heated pressure of his chest kept me steady, and Natalie's hand never stopped.

Everything in me responded when I realised that they were both in on it. My pulse picked up, and I eased experimentally against the muscled body behind me, wondering if I was dreaming. His palm cupped my right hip. I wasn't.

My thighs peeled themselves apart. The movie turned into nothing but noise. Natalie's fingers accepted my wordless invitation and grew bolder. She slid them past my panties. The cotton was already shamefully soaked through from the sheer excitement of being shared between the two of them. She touched my bare skin and I panted out a few feverish little breaths. My muscles tightened until they trembled, and she rubbed carefully at the peak of my body.

"Oh my God." I couldn't keep myself quiet anymore. I was afraid that this was some kind of spell, that my clumsy words would pop it like a soap bubble, but I was incapable of muffling my appreciation.

Nathan wrapped his forearm around my waist, and dragged me more fully into his lap, raising my body in a way that gave Natalie more access to me. She pushed a finger inside of me, and I thought I was going to explode.

"Fuck."

Nathan chuckled close to my ear and I was pretty sure I was going to melt into a puddle. I arched my spine and slid my legs even farther apart, my hips jerking toward Natalie's hand. My mind was racing, wildly wondering who these people were, and why they were doing what they were doing. The thoughts were chased by one simple, stupid question.



Where had they been all my life?

Natalie put the bowl of popcorn aside, abandoning it on the floor. She wedged herself over me, grinding a second finger deep into my core. Her body brushed against her husband's. She pressed her cheek to his shoulder, looking down at me. I felt the throb of his cock under my ass and choked.


"Like it, Sarah?" Natalie asked, her voice breathy with arousal. I didn't think I'd ever heard such a sexy question in my life before.

"Y-yes." I stammered, and her hand surged forward, pumping up against my pussy.

I squirmed against Nathan, and he kept me from tumbling onto the floor, his arm banding me tight.



Natalie dragged my dress up over my hips and exposed me to the room, leaving me vulnerable to both pairs of eyes. I knew that my sex was red and swollen, that it was lewdly soaked, and clenching. The idea of them seeing me like that was intensely erotic. My brain swam with arousal, and I sat obediently still.

"Do you want more, Sarah?" Natalie asked, and I nodded mutely, trying to swallow down the desperation that was tightening my throat. Her head dropped over my hips, and I whimpered. I knew what was coming next, but I wasn't prepared for her tongue when it traced over my labia.

"Hah!" I gave a breathless cry. I knew a moment of panic, and then I knew nothing but hot pleasure. She drew wet lines against the shape of me, and dipped hungrily against my clit. "Oh my God, please." My voice finally broke free of the need that was trying to choke me. "Oh my God, please." I repeated dumbly a second time.




My hands grabbed and my fingers scratched. It would have been the couch that received the scrabbling result of my manic reaction, but Nathan was beneath me in place of the leather. I clawed at the denim covering his legs, and pinched at the seams anywhere that I could find a grip. I arched back into him, and he gripped my arms to keep me from flopping myself onto the rug.

Natalie kept her mouth busy. She pursed her lips around the apex of my body and sucked at the aching flesh there. I almost screamed. I felt Nathan move under me, and realised that he was unfastening the button of his trousers. My blood tore through my veins. My pulse was erratic. Every part of me was ravenous. I wanted to touch and be touched. I wanted more.

It didn't take long for me to get what I was sobbing and moaning for. Natalie shoved my hips back, and I felt the heat of Nathan's cock along the seam of my sex. I looked down, and almost lost myself at the sight of Natalie's mouth sliding over her husband's cock with my pussy trapped right above it. I wasn't sure I was going to make it through this in one unfractured piece.



Natalie looked up, her beautiful face flushed with excitement. She pursed her lips over the crown of Nathan's cock and I bucked, almost disrupting them.

"Do you want this, Sarah?" Nathan's voice was quiet behind me. There was no mistaking what he was asking. He wouldn't go any further if I didn't agree. I was feverish with wanting it. I arched and shimmied, carefully avoiding further disruption to what Natalie was doing. It was fascinating to watch it, the way she bobbed her head so close to my sex, the wet of her saliva shimmering on Nathan's flesh.

"Please. Yes." I agreed, desperate.

Natalie slid back, and Nathan reached around my body. He positioned himself beneath me, and started to work himself into my desperate hole. I made a ragged noise of arousal as he stretched me around him. He lifted my weight effortlessly, dragging my hips up and down a few times to get himself buried all the way to his hilt. Then he stopped moving, and Natalie's mouth was back.




She tongued the sensitive bundle beneath my hood, and sucked at my swollen, reddened folds while her husband throbbed inside of me. I danced and squeezed, gripped and shuddered, and rode against Nathan in response to his wife's skilful mouth.

She moved down from my sex, her mouth abandoning me, and I felt Nathan jerk inside of me. The wet sounds of her lapping at his balls filled the air, and I stared. Watching Natalie lavishing Nathan's sensitive flesh and experiencing the rigid buck and throb inside of my own body was the most erotic thing I thought I would ever experience in my life.

Natalie tracked her mouth up and down, licking both of us in turn until I shuddered over my edge, unable to hold back anymore. She gave me one more quick taste, darting her tongue over me and making me grind uselessly back on her husband.




"My turn." She said, laying back on the sofa and pulling her own dress up.

I was desperate to repay the favour. My mouth watered for the taste of Natalie's body. I wanted to hear her whimper and gasp.

Nathan pushed me forward onto my hands and knees, and I dipped my face between Natalie's thighs. I traced the flat of my tongue along her sex over the lace of her panties and she moaned. I sucked at her through the fabric and she gasped, her fingers tangling into my still-damp hair.

Nathan had never let his hips leave mine through the transition. He started to thrust into me, and I grabbed clumsily at Natalie's panties. I yanked them aside, and buried my lips against her, my face jerking against her body with every pump of Nathan's cock.




"I want to watch him cum inside of you." Natalie whimpered. "Is that OK?" I arched hard at the admission. My muscles squeezed around the thick girth of Nathan's shaft at the thought. After a moment of helpless reaction I nodded. Natalie's fingers dropped between her legs to help my lips.

She ground at her sex, and I pushed my tongue inside of her, exploring every bit of her. Nathan barged against me again and again, making my already clumsy attention more messy. His hips picked up pace, and Natalie's fingers rubbed harder. I licked Natalie's slippery skin, and dragged my teeth over her. She cried out, and Nathan gave one hard final thrust. I felt Natalie shudder beneath my mouth at the same time that Nathan pulsed inside of me. Wet heat coated my insides. Natalie's sex gushed with her orgasm, and I came hard around the cock busily filling me with cum.




We all stilled when it was over, and one by one we collapsed. I dozed on the couch with the sounds of a black-and-white tragedy fading in and out in the background. Natalie and Nathan moved closer to teach other, and I remained stretched between them.

A few hours passed and I felt their weight shift. I didn't open my eyes, content to fall asleep on the couch and wake up to the memories of what had happened the night before. I briefly wondered if I'd dreamed it all, but my sex-sore body made it apparent that I hadn't.