“What is ‘extra virgin’?”
“You, lover, in the kitchen.” She rolled her eyes.
“C’mon! I can cook!”
“If it requires heating in a pan. And if the directions are on the can. Let me do this, ok?”
I muttered under my breath, “I don’t want to know what non-virgin olive oil has been up to.”
She giggled despite herself, but still put the oil bottle in our basket.
I was just here to make sure the flour didn’t have moths, there were no dead mice in the cereal boxes, no roaches under the deli counter, stuff like that. Far as I could see we were good. It was a Vietnamese grocery, a fastidious lot by and large.
In about five minutes I’d make my excuses and retreat to the parking lot. Seeing a bazillion boxes and jars, plus seeing everything in those boxes and jars, gave me a headache sometimes. It was like thousands of jigsaw puzzles all spread out in front of me, too much detail to process.
“Oooh! Oooh! That cereal has a whistle! Can I have it? Please?”
She gave me an indulgent look, added the box to our haul. We always got the best prizes.
After the third time I’d asked about something, the difference between double-cream brie and the regular stuff when they’re both made only of cream, why half-and-half was just a few percent fat and not half, why cooking spray is labelled ‘non-fat’ but contains nothing but fat, she banished me.
Sitting on a bench outside I entertained myself with the content of people’s car trunks. So much stuff! So little rhyme or reason.
The Mercedes has a grocery-sack of coupons, mostly expired. The VW bug has a six-pack of wine coolers, a jack but no jack handle, two bikini bottoms but no tops(!). Station wagon – no trunk, but the back filled with camping gear, coolers, hiking equipment. And no can opener.
The rusty surf-mobile with the board on top, a hatchback, had two randy teenagers in the back, grappling on a blanket. Figuring it out; neither was very expert. I trusted youthful determination and lust would win out in the end.
She came out, scanning the receipt. I don’t know why, habit probably, we could likely buy this little grocery store for cash.
I took the bags from her, the real purpose of my inclusion in this operation now clear: pack mule. I didn’t mind. I’ve spent a lifetime rambling this coastal resort town, carrying everything I need with me. No car; no job; just a million-dollar condo, bought with my beachcombing money.
And now a girlfriend! We’re fated to be a couple, have a whole schoolyard of kids, she wouldn’t use condoms. Raise them as combination dutiful-Vietnamese-progeny and super-heroes with x-ray vision.
That’s my thing, seeing everything around me, all of it, inside and out. A thing that happened when I was a kid, I’ve been hiding it for decades but Jillian saw right through me, knew me maybe 20 minutes and had me cold. So now, of course, I loved her, wanted to spend the rest of my life with her, helping her, supporting her family.
We’re both essentially orphans. She never knew her dad, her mom died in prison without ever meeting (or caring about) her daughter. Mine died horribly of cancer and alcoholism when I was new to this second-sight stuff, just watching helplessly as a kid, horrified and traumatized by what I could do nothing about.
Her family, and by the associative rule of boyfriend-girlfriend, my family, happened when my tailor Khang decided Jillian was her long-lost soul sister. Which gave me a sister-in-law (or out-law, we weren’t married yet) Khang and an Ông Ngoại, a Maternal Grandfather, Phuong. I’d known them both as local business people, done trade with them for years, before introducing Jillian. Which triggered a chain of events that has made me the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.
So being family was new to us; exciting and electrifying and terrifying, all rolled into one. We were taking it one day at a time.
“I’m gonna be hungry as a horse, once we get home. Too hungry to wait for some gourmet meal; we’ll need takeout.”
“You’re always hungry! You can wait.”
“Not hungry like this! You sexed me up so thoroughly last night, then again! this morning. Used up every erg of energy I had stored. Drained me. Tank is empty; kaput. I think, Mexican?”
She sighed. “If it gets your motor running again, I guess we can do that, just this once.”
She was being the frugal householder, manager of family finances and scrutinizer of purchases. Phuong had given her the Vietnamese-wifely-duty speech, and it hit home. I didn’t mind. I’d grown up with very little, and it made me feel good too, being careful.
Except when something interesting came along – like my condo. I’d dropped a third of my wealth, inherited plus accumulated, to have a place to lay my head where nobody bothered me. I slept like a baby, no humans in three directions for a thousand miles, on a point of land on the seashore. Which I shared with a desperate young woman I’d found standing in the surf, ready to give up, betrayed and left with no hope, no money, no self-respect.
We were working on stuff like that, her and me both. Each there for the other, no judgement, no demands. Just putting ourselves out there for the other, not counting the cost or keeping a tally. The only way to respect a partner, really.
“Ok, Cancun Mexican or Yucatan Mexican?”
“What’s the difference? Aren’t they both tacos and beans?”
“That’s Tijuana Mexican, festival food. Cancun is seafood but touristy, resort food for vacationers, pretty awesome. Yucatan is seafood soups, exotic fruits, hot hot hot.”
I knew which she’d choose; still a Midwestern Girl in her heat tolerance.
“Cancun, this time? Definitely Yucatan next time.”
I felt a surge of affection. She knew I liked it hot, and was telling me she’d make an effort for me, learn to like some heat too. But one step at a time. Which was how we dealt with everything, together.
“So Casa Azul, this side of the strip, back of the surf shop.”
We both knew our way around by now, me from half a lifetime living here. Her a more recent immigrant.
I ordered; she was still very much the Midwestern girl, grown up in foster homes eating bologna and wonder bread. She was excited, willing and able to learn all about the wide world of food, but limited experience so far.
Jill already knew more about Vietnamese dishes than me. Khang fed her regularly over at their digs, was a pretty good hot-pot cook, was teaching her. Jillian was to learn barbecue to please Khang, because sisters have to have things to share. It’s a rule, apparently.
Back at the condo I put stuff away (where do you put sun-dried tomatoes? In the fridge?) she dished out the takeout. Always insisted on eating off of plates with proper tableware. As a bachelor, I’d eaten mainly over the sink. Didn’t mind, this meant I did dishes but also I got to sit with her, chat about food and ingredients and flavors. See her lick her spoon, smack her lips, see her eyes widen when something showed some heat.
The camarones ranchero and deep-fried enchiladas dispatched, I stacked dishes and started hot water in the sink. She chose to sit next to me, watch me. In those too-big shorts, oversized t-shirt. Legs spread a little wider than they needed to be, bent forward almost enough for me to see up her arm-hole to that delicious young-woman breast.
She was talking laundry, something about work clothes. I was perving on her while washing forks. One of my favorite activities, perving on my girlfriend.
Once the last dish was racked and my hands rinsed and dried, she made her move. Scooting forward to balance precariously on the edge of the counter, one foot against the fridge, the other leg improbably folded and braced on the counter, she reached for me.
“C’mere Big Guy.”
Her cooch was spectacularly visible through her shorts leg-hole, which was her intention. I went in for the embrace, smiling, nuzzling her on the nose, eyes squinting happily.
“This was a trap! Just getting me fueled up for more… wha!” She’d made a grab down my shorts for my dick, was reeling it out. Stroked me with one hand, the other still on my shoulder, her face a picture of concentration.
Putting my tip to her clit, she munged me around while I got hard. I slipped my shorts down my hips, relieving the tension on my stiffening member, slipped a hand under her shirt, mauled a perfect breast.
“I gotta be better prepared, you go zero-to-fucking in like three seconds.”
“Shut up and get that thing wet.”
I obliged, finding all the wet I needed a little lower. She was slippery and open! Had she been thinking of sex the whole time I was washing up?
As long as I was down there I joggled a bit, finding the angle that would best admit me to her warm hole without too much wear and tear.
She got impatient, lifted her butt a little off the counter, used a free hand on my hip to pull me in. With a struggle, her guiding hand and a little bending I found my cock forcing it’s way into her cooch.
“Uuuuhhhhhh! That’s in there!” Butt hovering in the air, she began rocking forward and back on her arms, air-fucking me. I reciprocated, matching her fuck for fuck.
After a dozen strokes, worried she might still be sore, I made an executive decision. Took her arms, put them around my neck, put my hands under her thighs near her butt, and lifted!
She is not exactly light; muscle and bone and hot sexy all weigh something. It didn’t seem like any trouble. With my dick in her I was motivated I suppose.
She got behind the program, straightened her legs, followed my lead and started rocking her hips back and forth, like she was on a swing, was a swing. A triangle from hands around my neck, to hips, to legs stuck out in a V. I provided the momentum with my hands under her butt.
She’d smack! against me, pelvis to pelvis, our sex mated like a piston and a hydraulic cylinder. Swing out and Smack! back. Harder and harder, a wild look about her, like she’d gone mad, like she was angry!
Her blood was up, flushing red down her shoulders, front. I could ‘see’ it continue across her boobs, her stomach. Sweat beading, face screwed up, muscles tensing, feet starting to clench, I knew she was approaching fast.
I staggered out of the kitchen to give more scope to our sex, our athletic struggle, one of her feet sweeping the takeout boxes off the bar, bouncing off a stool, splatting on the tile. We took no notice.
Once clear we could put it into high gear, swinging her out, pulling her back, further, harder, my hips thrusting to meet her SMACK! SMACK! pounding into one another with shuddering impact.
She lost it, her vagina clenched on me, her heartbeat going 120, her feet clenched so tight surely they’d cramp. The glands along her urethra contracted, squirting her female juices onto my dick; her bladder contractions combined with our impact jetted urine to mix and eject.
In other words, she squirted. Hard. Her face screwed up, her body convulsed, like a landed fish, curling her torso, head down, legs twitching then bending and half-straightening, her fluid sheeting down my thighs.
Once she’d cum enough her grip loosened and released, totally trusting me to catch her! I pulled her up, let her legs drop, held her shoulders and butt, carried her to a chair, lowered her gently!
She let go, sprawled on the stuffed chair, eyes closed, just breathing away the adrenaline.
I looked down on my sex kamikaze, her shorts soggy, ruined. Mine left on the kitchen floor so I was naked below the waist, my wet cock still bobbing, still rigid. Legs dripping, pooling on the floor.
“Well, shit.” She opened her eyes, looked at me wearily. “That didn’t go like I thought it would!”
I smiled my most enormous smile, took my time surveying her top to bottom, my just-fucked flushed wet girlfriend. “Looks like it went just fine!” I was kind of proud; I’d got her off, seriously orgasming. A nice change from her sexing me up, getting me off in seconds.
One hand to help her up, I sent her to shower while I tidied up. Dump the spilled takeout boxes in the trash, mop up the counter, barstool, floor where they’d fallen.
Get a dishtowel to mop up my legs, her squirt puddle. It was pretty vast, drops splattered over half the floor, the chair. I missed nothing; the droplets stood out from the floor and furniture like little gems to my eyes.
I got in my shower just as I heard her get out of hers. Have to do something about the shower arrangements sometime. Lots of potential there.
Quick sex-slime scrub and hop out, dry off, into more identical t-shirt and shorts, found her on the porch with some kind of spritzer. Hadn’t seen her buy those. Good idea! It’s re-hydration and relaxation in a can.
I sat next to her, took the can, sipped and returned. Made a wry face.
“Kiwi?”
She nodded, took a long draw. “Maybe an acquired taste.”
Putting the can down, she took my hand, slumped down on the couch. I rearranged to be beside her, cuddling her. Only way we both fit, laying down, spooning.
She took my free arm, wrapped it around herself, snugged my hand up between her neck and boobs, relaxed. In a few moments she was asleep.
I’d have to learn that trick from her – the insta-nap! Like a cat. A sexy, wiry athletic feral female cat.
…
I woke to a mouth on my dick. Laying beside me, head down now, facing me, I’m facing her crotch, she’s lapping, tasting me. A shiver ran up my spine, the wet sensation setting off my nerves.
I reached up for her leg, the one on top, lifted it, lay it over so I could get my head under, my mouth on her. She cooperated, aware I’m awake now, propping her foot on the back of the couch, open to me.
No trouble finding what I wanted; those shorts were so loose they were just a token of modesty. Her slit is warm, a little red still. Gonna have to be gentle. No rubbing; just touching, sucking?
I tried that. Tongue pressed to clit, got a little sigh. Lips around it; suck, got a shiver. Wet the slit, work my tongue into it; she shifted her knee, opened a little more.
Probe her sensitive folds, gently! Sort the lips of her vulva out. Pretty mangled after all the fucking – thick, bent, swollen a bit. Just find a way in…
She slurped me up, woah! I’m a little sore too. Can’t count the number of times in the last day I’ve been inside her, one end or the other? Not sure I’ll cum, her tongue is rough like all tongues.
I froze; she relented, turned to little kisses, wet smooches around my tip. Better.
Try just sticking my tongue a little into her sore opening, just teasing, not thrusting. Alternate with kisses around. That’s working; she’s sighing again.
Back to the clit, touch, suck. Back to the vulva, kiss, tongue. Just taking my time; we have all afternoon, a lazy Saturday.
She was playing with the clear fluid my cock leaked, stretching it with her tongue, wetting her lips with it. Slurping when it got too much. Provoking as hell.
I put my free arm around her waist, my hand on her butt, just holding her fondly, cupping her as I smooched her sex. And it happened before I really noticed.
She came. A sweet little orgasm starting at my tongue, moving up her vagina in ripples. Nothing showy; just satisfaction achieved, no big exertions or exclamations.
She sighed big, stopped licking me, just holding my tip in her mouth, warming me.
Sat up, slurping me out. “That was nice.”
I sat as well, scooted over, put an arm around her, held her gently.
“It was nice. Afternoon delight!”
Stretching, “Laundry again? Another walk?”
I considered. “The way we’re going, we should wait on laundry. Who knows how much more there will be?”
She smiled happily, nodded, reached down to put her shoes back on.
Hands on hips, thinking. Then she decided.
“I want to look at cars!”
Out of left field.
“New? or used?”
“Oh, used. I know! We could buy a new Ferrari. But I’m a new driver, haven’t driven here before, I don’t want to attract attention. And I don’t feel right spending money like that.”
“Used then. I can help! So many used cars have problems. I’m not a mechanic, but I can tell when stuff is busted inside.”
So we went. A long walk; for some reason used-car dealers are way over on the edge of town. Even though their customers, presumably, don’t have a car. Go figure.
On the way, “Anything prompting this car quest?”
“Oh, just thinking. Life could be more interesting if we could see the world more than a mile from the condo. Also, what if one of us breaks an ankle rambling down the coast? I can’t carry you.”
I thought, neither can a car get far on the beach but I left that unsaid. If it makes her feel better about things, well, that was what this was all about.
First place was a super-discount consignment lot. Just walked by; didn’t even talk to anybody. Not a single car without severe issues. Never-changed-oil, bearings worn out, lot and lots of rust and Bondo.
Second lot – maybe more luck. A guy that advertised heavily on radio, familiar voice.
“This sweetie purrs like a kitten!”
I observed. “Bad head gasket.”
A frown. Moving along to a subcompact, waxed to within an inch of it’s life.
“Gently used, older lady owner, Sunday trips into the hills. Like new!”
“Transmission worn, tooth missing from first gear. Valves burned from racing shifts.” Must have been a hot-rod granny.
Car salesman getting suspicious. “You been here before?”
I shook my head. “Had a… friend look around once.”
Next car, SUV, I didn’t let him even get started. “Cylinder ring broke. An overhaul costs about what the car costs.”
Getting annoyed now, he took us around to the back. Better stuff here, but the prices seemed pretty high for used cars.
“This one will get you there, and in style!” A tricked-out quarter-ton pickup, springs worn, shocks needed replacing, all doable.
“Why the premium price? A new pickup isn’t much more than that.”
“All the extras! Interior trim, fog lights, box cover.”
Those things were overpriced, and he was likely charging full price for old stock stuff.
“We want something a little more basic, for short trips, hauling stuff around.”
He thought. “Nothing like that here. No margin in it. Maybe cruise the neighborhoods, look for a for-sale-by-owner?”
That was actually a good idea. Thanked him, headed west to the working-class streets.
She responded to my remark about hauling stuff.
“That’s a good idea! You find something to return, it’d be good to have a vehicle to haul it.”
It did make sense. And I didn’t say it, but room for one more was in the back of my mind.
Residential area over the bridge had lots of cars parked streetside – most houses were cottages, no garage, maybe a carport.
First for-sale sign we saw Jill trotted ahead, all enthusiasm. A two-door coupe, with trunk and hard top. She liked the color.
“What do you see?” She waited for my expert estimate.
Tires were old but still some tread. Engine – well-kept, should have plugs replaced but that’s cheap. Some filings on the transmission magnet but maybe expected for this many miles. There was really nothing wrong with the engine, considering.
What about the cabin? Seats were vinyl, some small tearing. Back seat would be hard to get in and out of, through the front door with the front seat flipped up. I mentioned all this.
“Oh! There’s been a spill in the trunk, something nasty and organic, maybe food? Gonna be an issue in the summer, smell. Could replace the liner in there, but quite a bit of trouble.”
She didn’t think we needed to look further. Clean was important, that was a data point to remember.
Next two were wrong – a hatchback with rust, and an ancient station wagon with a ridiculously powerful engine but otherwise pretty shabby.
“Let’s head back toward the river, look for one more before we call it a day.” She was strong but this had been a couple miles already, in beach shoes. Have to get something sturdier for these walks.
We turned, almost to the river and one more sign. An old guy in the tiny front yard, in a lawn chair, sipping lemonade. Not really warm enough for that, but old guys, who knows.
Smaller pickup truck, sun-faded paint on the hood, otherwise looked clean.
Jill greeted him. “Chilly day! to sit out.”
He smiled; Jillian is pretty, and old guys are not immune.
“I enjoy every day I have left, not gonna waste this one!”
He was cheerful, and a good attitude. His heart was lumping along about half-power, liver going too. Not long for this world in my amateur estimation.
Jill turned to me, hopeful. I looked.
“Sir, you’ve maintained this truck well. May I look under the hood?” That was a ruse; I already knew what I would find but it would look odd to say it before ‘looking’.
He didn’t stir. “Release on driver’s side under the dash.”
I took that as permission, cracked the driver’s door, felt for the lever, pulled and pop!
Up to the front, left Jillian chatting with the fellow. She knew this might be the one; I’d not immediately nixed it.
Slide the release over, heave the hood up, set the prop. Hands on hips I looked and ‘looked’ some more.
Jill finished her story about a new license, new immigrant from the Midwest, answering his small-talk charmingly, came to stand by me.
The old guy heaved out of his chair, his heart struggling to adjust, shuffled over.
“I see the alternator is nearly new! They do like to fail.
“Plugs look recent; gaps good?” I asked although I could see they all looked the same, probably done with a gapping tool.
“Last spring,.045, factory standard.” He did know something about it.
“I like the springs and shocks.” I remembered to give the fender a shove; it came right up without bouncing. But I’d already seen they were flexed about right, and the struts good.
“I don’t haul much any more, not a lot of wear and tear. They’re not new, but still rides nice. For a truck! You have to get used to some road-feel, a truck is about hauling.”
I nodded; that matched what little I knew.
“Take it for a spin, across the river and back? I’ll stay right here, let you talk it over.” He dug in a pocket, handed Jillian the keys.
“Are you sure? Can I leave something for security?” Jill was uncertain about this, and rightly so. Most used car test-drives the owner would come along.
He waved the objection away. “Missy, I’m pretty sure you aren’t going to pull something over on an old guy. Raised better than that.”
She colored, thanked him gravely. We climbed in.
Jillian fooled around finding the key slot – trucks had larger steering wheels, you had to lean over to even see it.
“You know manual?” This was an older model truck. They didn’t make manuals much any more.
She nodded. “I made grocery runs in the van on the farm; it was a manual.”
She expertly cranked her seat to a convenient position, adjusted the mirrors, steering wheel. Put it in neutral, foot on brake and throttle, turned it over. Started up immediately!
I could see the rings, camshaft, transmission had little play. Well-oiled, clean. Most old cars had carbon here and there, worn bearings. This one was nearly spotless, which I mentioned.
It sounded good too, a little throaty but that was the muffler. Clutch in, into first, some gas and she got it going smoothly. I was impressed; my manual driving was not this good.
We headed down the block, turned along the river, found the bridge, crossed. Cruised the business district, Jillian had her window open, one elbow propped out in the air.
“You look like a natural!”
She grinned, “Midwest kids learn to drive early! Can drive in the country at pretty much any age, long as you can reach the pedals. I was on a farm two years, cleaning kennels. The owners used foster kids as hired hands.”
She turned on the second bridge up-river, swung on the river road, back down his side street, pulled up to his curb, out of gear, set the brake and engine-off!
We talked it over in the cab.
“Do you want it? I can see no objection.”
“I think so! Room to haul stuff in the back, a tiny backseat for locking things in the cab too!
“And I like the guy. He’s clearly sad about losing his ol’ reliable truck; probably needs the money. Don’t be too rough on him!”
That was not the usual stance to take when buying a used car, but in this case I could see her point.
We kissed, hopped out. He was grinning at us from his chair.
“I guess it’s a done deal!” He’d seen us kissing, guessed right.
Jill smiled her biggest smile, “Yes! I love it! Rides just like I remember on the farm. I miss that!”
I had some questions first. “How do you keep the engine tolerances so tight?”
He nodded. “Oil treatment, every oil change for 20 years. Change oil every 2500 miles instead of every 5000. Used the right weight, synthetic. Regular change of plugs. Had the valves re-ground at 100,000 and 200,000.”
Ok he knew far more about vehicles that I did. All that remained was the price.
I asked; he answered, a figure lower than the car dealers but higher than a 20-year-old pickup might usually demand. I didn’t blink, reached out, shook his hand.
“We’ll go to the bank, come back with cash?” He nodded.
Jillian tried to hand him the keys; he didn’t take them. “Drive to the bank! You’ve had a long day, and want to bond with your new wheels!
“I still have the title, so no worries there. I’ll sign it over when you get back.”
That seemed more than generous. We hopped back in. Jillian just ran her hands over the wheel, getting to know her new-old truck, looking thoughtful.
“He’s not got long, has he?” I shook my head, gave a little grimace.
“He’ll need the money for hospice?” That seemed likely.
We headed out, found my bank, parked over that old subway engine, went in. Saturday hours at this branch; we were just in time, a few minutes before closing.
Teller seemed to balk at my late cash request but my VP came out, all smiles, smoothed the waters. In 10 minutes, a few minutes to spare, we had a cash zipper-bag bulging with the dosh, got out of their hair, let them close.
Jill drove back, really settling in to her ride now, arm out the window, her hair blowing in the cool afternoon sea-breeze. Looked like a million bucks. My heart felt good. This meant more freedom for Jillian. She was ready for that, needed that.
He was sitting in his chair when we returned, lemonade gone, unconcerned, just looking at the clouds coming in.
Jillian took the bag to him and got handed back the title, already signed. Didn’t count the content; later he would find the extra five hundred in there, Jillian’s idea.
“You will be sad to see it go!”
He nodded, managed a little smile. “I’m glad to see it go to a nice young couple from the Midwest. That just seems right somehow.”
She was touched; gave him a kiss on the cheek, a fond look. It clearly made his day.
“I will drive it and think of you, how you’ve cared for it so long and so well.”
She squeezed his hand and we said our goodbyes. Leaving him with tears welling up, but happy.
…
It was getting on when we got back, parked the truck in our street-parking spot, never had anything in there before. It looked right, a decent old truck by our front door, trash bins on the other side, like somebody lived here!
“You wanna take a drive?” I was curious; a new truck, seemed the natural thing to do next.
“Nah. Gonna have it forever! Had a little drive already, to the bank and back, then home.
“Anyway I want to ease into it. Maybe pretend I don’t have it for a while. Then when I need it, surprise! we have a truck!”
I will never fully understand Jillian, and that was ok. I smiled, agreed, baffled, but hers to use as she liked.
“We’ll want to take the title down to the courthouse this week, get it transferred.”
“I’ll walk down tomorrow. No wait! Tuesday. Tomorrow is a bank holiday. So no court. So no work!”
I smiled, a three-day weekend! Those had never been a thing for me before. Because every day was as good as weekend, when you didn’t have a nine to five.
“Do you have some plans? Or do we just…”
“Keep fucking? Sure, some of that, I know what you’re thinking. Horndog. But I also want to get the dress back to Khang, buy some walking shoes. If anyplace is open.”
“The shoe store in the mall by the highway should be open. They are often open on minor holidays.”
Of course she could return the dress to Khang, regardless of the holiday. Because first I didn’t think Khang and Phuong observed all the American holidays, and the shop might be open like usual. Second, Khang’d do anything for her sister.
“Oh! And tonight is a Girls’ Night. Because, no work tomorrow. We’re going to her friends’ house to watch some lesbian TV drama. Then back to Khang’s for, you know, irresponsible drinking and sisterly boyfriend/girlfriend gossip.”
I must have looked concerned; she gave me a peck on the cheek. “No worries! Khang just wants to know how the dress worked out.”
I might have blushed.
“That’s what I’m worried about!”
Jillian was looking at me sideways.
“Get used to it, horndog! Our sex life is an open book to my sister. That’s the deal; take it or leave it.”
“I take it! I take it! Worth it, to have you in my life. I’m just shy is all.”
“Don’t fret; you’re getting my highest rating, Ace Number One Horndog!” She kissed me chastely to make her point.
Ok that was good to know; I grinned.
“Remember to ask her about Nick. I admit I’m curious if that’s going to be a thing.”
“Oh big sister isn’t getting anything from me, until she tells all! And I’ll tell you after. Some of it anyway. What I remember.”
Sounded about right. If Khang could perv on my relationship with Jillian, then we sure as heck were going to perv on her and Nick. Fair is fair.
The sun was getting to the place where you started thinking about supper. That Cancun Mexican was a long time ago.
“Is there anything more I can do for you?” She was looking grateful – it had been a long walk finding that truck, and lots of lemons on the way.
“Something to make today perfect?”
“Yeeees.” She slinked up to me, put arms around my neck, looked up at me with a sly smile.
“Red chili-cheese enchiladas?!” She could cook and I couldn’t, and that was her masterpiece.
In her best I’m-cumming! voice, “Yes, yes, yeeeessss!”
…
After-supper walk, a tradition now, get the blood moving and the digestion motivated.
“Let’s go down past the strip, to a place I know!”
She was agreeable; she just wanted to spend time outside with me. Felt good, a happy sexy beautiful healthy woman wanting to be with me. I could live like this the rest of my life.
We liked to walk on the hard sand, even though it would get our feet wet from time to time, the waves spilling their last on the slope. Beach shoes dried quickly, and shorts were high enough to stay mostly out of it.
Past the second Dickie’s, still a little busy even this late, lights bright and welcoming. Jill waved at somebody she knew, who waved back.
She knew people! I’d spent a lifetime pretending I didn’t know anybody, was invisible. But with Jillian by my side, I’d have to get over that. She was inexhaustibly gregarious. The good influence of her sister I believe.
And people did know me, I had a reputation, I’d never been invisible. Just thick ol’ Greg taking his time figuring these things out.
“Are we there yet?” Her favorite tease on these walks, really a cue to stop and snog for a bit. I’m always up for the joke.
Around a rocky beach, a little cove with a creek feeding out. Not a lot of tourists came this far, the creek blocking further progress, the rough ground slow to traverse. We persisted until we were at the very banks of the brook, now a wide spread of water slipping over the sand.
“This is the place. Unspoiled; not rebuilt when the boardwalk went in, original shoreline.”
“What do you see?” She always knew when to ask, to keep me talking, to spoil me by letting me be the expert for a while.
“Birchbark canoes! A dozen of them, most entirely intact. Abandoned for some reason. Maybe war? a storm? an early burial rite?”
“Burial? Are there bones?”
“Not a lot; scavengers make short work of any available, um, resources. But yeah, a skull or two, buried with the canoes, covered in sand and mud long ago.”
“Any other signs of life?” She was always more interested in how the people had lived, not the ones that died.
“You bet! The usual long-term occupation detritus – mounds of oyster shells, small animal bones. Fire rings, burned rocks with charred stains inside, layer upon layer, some in the same place for years, maybe centuries, like a tower of fire rings.”
“Wouldn’t they get washed away in a storm? Why do they always get buried deeper?”
It was obvious once you knew. “Sure they did, but those ones I can’t see; they aren’t here. I only get to see the ones that by accident of history, remain.”
She nodded, thinking about it.
“Also, post-holes, maybe from fish-drying racks and whatnot, the equipment of ocean-front dwellers forever. Also, burned-out huts, up in the clearing.”
“Why are they always… ” She figured it out. They got rebuilt only when they got destroyed. So you saw the entire history of destruction, but only the last evidence of construction, the top layer.
The curse of the archaeologist, who by grim logic only had ruins to investigate.
“A dozen layers of burned huts, maybe more. I’m thinking, this area might have been contested over the centuries. Different groups, clans, driving one group out, rebuilding their own village on the good land. And getting driven out in turn.”
“I prefer to think it was just one village, some bad luck with lightning!”
Not likely, but who am I to burst her optimistic bubble? All the huts didn’t burn together, without some help. Anyway.
“My favorite part? A barbecue pit! Big-boned remains, layer on layer, used for a long time. A pig must have been a treat, a wild boar, a hunting party prize. Why not celebrate with a barbecue pit!
“Bury that sucker, cover it with coals! Dig it up when it smelled right. Throw the bones in the pit after, left to burn with the coals the next time. Eventually it built up into quite a pile. Lots of long bones, pig skull fragments.”
Jillian brightened.
“That reminds me! I have to learn to cook barbecue! For Khang! A sister thing” she said, as if that explained anything.
I considered. “Would it work in our kitchen? Sort of? Our oven isn’t very big.
“Maybe a pit on the beach? We probably don’t need a whole pig.”
She punched me. “I can start small, just some ribs, chops, a chicken. But eventually I’ll want to learn to smoke.”
“Definitely no room for a smoker at our place; the guy off the highway exit, fires up every Tuesday? His rig is enormous!”
She looked frustrated. I cast my thoughts around, found an idea in there.
“How about this? We hit up the guy, Homer? Old guy, moving pretty slow these days. Ask him if he could use an assistant, a sort of apprentice? To help with prep, loading and unloading, mixing spices and whatnot.”
She seemed hesitant. “Tuesday? I have work…”
“You’ll have time-off earned soon?”
“A week by Christmas! I could use a day or two then. Couldn’t hurt to ask, maybe spend three or four Tuesdays. And it would be great to help old Homer. He seems a nice guy.”
I qualified that. “He can drive a hard bargain! Doesn’t suffer bossy vacationers gladly. Heard him get stern a time or two. Always civilized, but he has some creative ways of insulting folks who get out of hand.”
Jillian was not phased. “I grew up in a foster home, a barracks really. We learned to dish it out and to take it. No problem. Nothing he can say, that I haven’t heard.”
She’d not heard Homer tee off on an Armani-suited executive who wanted extra sauce. The guy left in his Alpha Romeo, throwing up gravel, red-faced and with just the sauce Homer thought he should have.
But my Jillian faced down crooks and entitled pricks every day, at the job. I figured she had the chops.
“Want me to ask him Tuesday? He’s only there in the mornings; sells out at lunch and closes up.”
She kissed me by way of assent, which was a great way to communicate in my book.
“How far does this creek go back up there? Can we look?”
She had a scheming look in her eye I couldn’t place. “Oh a couple hundred yards, then a grassy bank and some houses, a walking path. If we don’t mind getting our feet wet, it’s probably doable.”
She took my hand, led me. Soon we were wading in the stony creek, the bottom fairly level. Cold water, dappled late-afternoon sunlight. Romantic really.
Did she want to hike to the path, return that way? I soon found out, no she didn’t.
A rowboat on the bank, overturned, old, weathered. She struck out for that, climbed the bank, handed me up. Led me to the boat, sat me down.
From here just the woods, the creek and a tiny slice of the beach, way over there, down the slope. Pretty secluded.
She crouched in front of me, undid the tie on my shorts, went to scooch them down. I cooperated, leaned on one arm, lifted my butt. Was soon naked to the ankles!
Out in the open! Sort of. Exciting anyway; somebody wander down the beach (unlikely) or motor past the creek outlet in their boat (too late in the day), we’d be pretty obvious up here. Nobody out there now, not for miles.
I was hard; no need to try anything, I was stiff and getting stiffer. Breeze on my skin was exhilarating! This exhibitionist stuff was very provoking, especially when Jillian stripped off her shirt! To give me something to stare at, fondle.
She draped her shirt on the boat, took me in hand and sluuuurp! had me in her mouth!
“God woman, you’ll be the death of me.”
That got a muffled giggle, what with my dick stuffed in her mouth and all. She returned to sucking and slurping. Spit on the head; used one hand to slide it around, wet me halfway down; resumed a head-bob, jerking me off with her mouth. Like some porno gal, she was getting to be an expert at this.
I reached around her head, found a tit, a nipple, started rolling it between my fingers. She moaned around my dick, started fondling my balls with one hand. Picked up the pace, head bobbing like a madwoman.
A little of this and I was nearly there. She figured that out, my balls getting tight, Sluuuurp!d off me, stood.
Quick as a snake strike, I grabbed her shorts, stripped them down. Now she was naked top to ankles, one tit red, face wet, those beach shoes peeking out of her puddled shorts, absolutely cute as could be and sexy as hell.
Turning, shuffling in her shorts hobbling her, she went to sit on me, reached around to find my dick, guide it in. How she did that without looking, I’m not sure. Some female second sight, aiming the cock where it could do the most good!
But she found the right angles, I could see that, and snugged down on me, easing the head into her cunt, guiding me up her vagina, tight but wet already, warm and slick. Until she was flat-out sitting in my lap, sex to sex, fully encasing my dick.
Her body heat was intoxicating in the cool afternoon air; her smell of seawater, sweat, sex, some strawberry shampoo.
I pulled my shirt over my head, flung it somewhere, leaned myself onto her naked back, skin to skin. She twisted her hips gently, just grinding her sex on my dick and balls, impaled, fixed in place, masturbating on me as I throbbed in her.
I could reach both tits now, fondled for all I was worth. I love tits! Hard nubbins of nipples; resilient flesh; muscles moving underneath. Mauled her like making bread, loving the squish and rebound of her young body.
Gulls squawked overhead, admiring the view I guess. The distant sound of surf reassuring, grounding. Some breeze in the trees making a hushed susurration. A distant dog bark, somewhere in the residential development behind us.
I was content to sit here, holding my love, fucking her gently, hardly moving, just feeling the cool evening air on our skin, feeling her warm body in my arms, feeling her hot internal folds holding me.
Jillian was right, this was the best thing ever. Never mind the rules, no neighbors to complain, just us and nature and warm skin and squishy sex. Heaven!
I could see her diaphragm catch, her vagina begin slow contractions, leading up to orgasm. Her nipples tensed, everything connected to the vagus nerve reacting, bladder constricting, colon slowing, all bodily functions attending on the reproductive act.
I massaged her abdomen, working her muscles, then with one hand gathered both tits together as well as I could, the other reaching to her sex, her clitoris, began massaging around, mashing the flesh but leaving the sensitive bud to react.
That did it; the vaginal trills, the flush of fluid, the diaphragm tensing, the nipples hard as nuts – everything that meant Jillian is cumming! It was too much; I had reached my limit of soft warm wet sexy stimulation, spilled everything I had into her.
We came together, my semen being massaged by her vagina to her womb, her greedy sex hoarding my sperm, guiding it to her core.
She cried like a kitten, all sexy-soft sound, curiously making me want to protect her, hold her tight. I wrapped her in my arms, supported her as her core tensed, relaxed, spent.
She leaned her head back, turned for a wet squishy kiss, eyes half closed, happy, flushed. I kissed my just-cummed Jillian, happy as a guy can be with his cock in his girl, his cum oozing out their sex.
“Good thing we stripped; else those shorts would be soaked for the walk back.”
She struggled to sit upright, a little woozy from her orgasm, stood.
Ooops! It all came plopping out as her abdomen contracted, landed right on our shorts in a jizzy pool.
She spread her knees, leaned over to watch it happen, struggled to step forward and maybe save some mess. It just served to spill more jizz everywhere, stretch strands between her shorts and mine.
“No help for it!” I was pragmatic. Pulling my shorts up to my knees, there was an obvious cum-smear all down one leg.
She struggled to find her waistband in the tangle at her feet, bent completely double, her round bottom in my face, her red puffy cunt working more cum out. Pulled up, a wet spot the size of one butt cheek showing. Her mess (my mess?) was inside her shorts, making them stick to her ass wetly.
“Horndog! Jizz hound! You cum like a bull! What a weird feeling! Like somebody spilled warm pancake batter on my butt!”
She was enjoying this immensely, enjoying my discomfort at having to walk home covered in sex evidence. Then she saw something over my shoulder, grinned, waved.
“What the hell?” I turned to look, saw a middle-aged woman walking her dog up on the trail some 50 yards away, watching. With one hand on her crotch, rubbing. She smiled shyly, waved back.
Nothing for it. I waved as well, called “Nice evening for it!”, got a real smile in return.
I stood, mooning her in the process, pulled my shorts the rest of the way up. Tried to scrape some mess off, serving only to smear my hand, smear the shorts more, make the mess bigger.
We went to leave, realized neither of us had a shirt on. Hers was on the dingy, easily fetched and slipped on. I felt some regret at the loss. Not because I couldn’t still ‘see’ her; because the naughtiness was over!
She helped me look for mine. Ultimately it was behind our perch, hanging low on a bush. She snagged it, tossed it to me.
Re-clad, made our way back down the bank to the creek, waded back to the beach, began picking our way out of the rocky scree.
“I loved that. You were right; that was a blast. And no harm done; that lady had a good time too!”
“Who do you think she was perving on? You? or me?”
That was a puzzler. Maybe we’d never know. Did it matter? We’d volunteered the show; it was up to her how to enjoy it.
“If she has any sense, she’d perv on you. Those tits! That butt! Oh that pretty face, all screwed up, cumming!” I was getting hard again.
She swatted my butt, happy, then wiped her hand on her shirt tail.
“Laundry again!”
…
Jillian
Home and just time to get washed up, changed for Girls’ Night. Greg was not concerned; no more than usual anyway. Full of enchiladas, empty of spunk, a pretty chill guy.
“Don’t wait up!”
He looked like he had something to say.
“Spill it!”
“You might, not want to drink as much.”
“It’s the tradition!”
He nodded, in complete agreement.
“But just in case, you know, it’s not good to drink when, you know.”
What was he getting on about? It dawned on me. I put a hand to my mouth, looked astonished.
“Am I? Can you see? Did we..”
“No! I can’t see anything. Not this early anyway. But just in case.”
I nodded, complete agreement. This was my goal after all; my idea to go commando, to fuck like bunnies with not a care in the world. If I had ‘caught’, well, that was the idea right?
“I promise! Maybe half a wine spritzer at the Lizzie’s, then soda water at Khang’s!” I was excited, not at all put out.
What would I tell Khang? The truth; I couldn’t lie to my sister. It just didn’t work; she would always know.
A horn honked; Khang had sent a cab, I didn’t know the way to our rendezvous, somewhere up the hill in a townhouse overlooking downtown. The cabbie would know.
A peck on the cheek, a cheeky smile! and I was off.
Ten minutes, I got out in front of some fake-Victorian remodel. Not bad really; the gables were not period but they’d made an effort.
A pretty steep front step. Have to watch Khang on those later. Didn’t want her to take a bad tumble!
I knocked timidly; the door was flung open instantly. One of the Lizzies?
“Jillian! Splendid! We’ve started without you!”
She flowed into the hall behind the door, some slinky ribbony girly dress making her look like a cloud. A pretty big cloud; she was a sizeable girl. I followed, closed the front door.
Finding my way toward the back, past a bathroom, past the kitchen, found the TV room by the sound of voices. Big comfy couches, tall church-windows with frosted glass. An improbably big screen on one wall, above a fireplace. No fire yet; too early in the fall.
Khang was standing in front of the fireplace looking at a row of bottles, admiring the labels. A lady not much different from Khang in appearance was showing them off.
They rattled on in Vietnamese, laughing, squinting at fine print, exclaiming. Apparently they’d held something pretty impressive, but now empty. Some past celebrations?
“Never mind them honey; they’ll run down before long. The show starts in ten minutes! Never fails; they can’t help but watch the travesty.”
The program was some dumb dating thing, guys and gals but apparently some of the gals were sleeping together. Pure lesbian fan-service stuff; Khang’s current guilty vice. Pure artificial overhyped drama and fake tension. Perfect Girls’ Night stuff.
Lizzie the greater asked what I was drinking; raised an eyebrow when I timidly requested a wine cooler. She poured something from a can, handed it to me.
“You can’t be preggers already dear! It takes more than one time!”
That got the other ladies’ attention. Lizzie the lesser spoke up.
“Yes! Tell us about the dress! How did it go? Did he get his nasty prick into you?”
They laughed, but with Khang laughing too it wasn’t mean. She came over quickly, hugged me. “Don’t listen to them; they’re just jealous.”
Another round of laughter, followed by the Lizzies kissing delicately over their wine glasses. It was adorable, the lesser Lizzie on tiptoe, face raised up, the greater Lizzie bent primly over, lips just touching, eyes sparkling.
“Yes dear, we are. Khang has never made either of us a fuck-me dress, not once. She insists we don’t need any encouragement!”
More laughter; I was pretty sure Khang was right. These two were loud and proud; nobody had to give them permission to do anything. I liked them immediately.
“Well, to tell the truth, it wasn’t just once.”
Shrieks of laughter! I could play this game, be lewd and outrageous. I felt instinctively that was the way to go tonight, at least here.
“And it’s awfully interesting for supposed lesbians to be so curious!”
“Oh we’ve been there sweetie. Lizzie was married…”
“For two weeks! I couldn’t stand the horny bastard. Had it in me morning noon and night. And I never came! Not once. I left him, dick hanging out, moved in with Lizzie…”
“And that was that. Been here ever since, learning the ropes.”
That got more laughter; apparently bondage was fun and naughty to these gals. Well good for them.
Khang didn’t want to know if Greg had put it ‘in me’; she trusted her dress to get the job done. She wanted to know how many times.
I started counting on one hand, stopped. “Just that night? Or the morning after too? And today? Does that one count on the beach, just before I came over?”
“You prick-whore!” They laughed loud, gleeful, happy for me. Big Lizzie gave me a smooch on the cheek and a smack on the butt. “You make him sit up and beg, girl! I know you can do it!”
Time for the show! Big Lizzie operated the remote, found the channel, put it on mute.
“We don’t listen to it dear; that’s not what this show is for. They’re terribly dull in any case. No, we’re here for the T and A!”
And there was lots of that. Lounging around the pool, tops off as often as on. One-on-one in a bar; in a studio, dissing each other; late-night black-and-white overhead shots of bodies writhing under sheets.
Everyone had their favorites. Khang loved Betty, a pretty butch girl in vinyl, a lot like Nick actually. I left that alone; plenty of time later at her place.
Lizzie major favored Trina, a tiny thing, much like Lizzie minor but dressed like a college girl, all short skirts and knee socks. She had a hand in her lap every time Trina showed on the screen, moaning and calling her name.
Lizzie minor was all about Gal, a muscle girl, into leather and bustiers, giant tits nearly bursting from anything she wore. I’m sure Lizzie came at least twice, once when Gal was bartending, leaning over to pick up a keg, legs bulging, pecs convulsing until nipple showed over the leather. The other time when Gal stripped for bed, slid in with the guy in the show, a supposed bachelor. Sat on him, held him down, had her way with him. Real porno stuff; this must be a premium channel, not family friendly at all!
I found it all hot and bothersome. I’d cum what? ten times in the last twenty four hours and still it was hard to sit still. The gals were awfully pretty and sexy. And the guy was a guy, muscles and shirtless and always one leg up on a chair or whatnot, showing his package.
And three lesbians in the room with me, slitching their cunts, calling out their orgasms! Rough stuff. And all I had was half a wine spritzer to calm my nerves.
I petted myself, but being sore from all my other activities I took it pretty slow. Just a hand up my skirt, some clit-stroking, enough to make me flush and chill.
The show ended, and Lizzie turned the set off.
“Sorry to beat-and-run girls! But Lizzie and I have a thing at a club! Goes all night!
“Thanks for cumming Jillian! You are a cutie; if Greg ever does you wrong, you call me dear, I have a big big bed!”
I promised I would do that. I could imagine Lizzie could be very comforting, all those curves and warm cushions. Very motherly. Or so I imagined.
Khang and I left, Khang carefully holding my arm while she tottered down those terrifying front steps.
“I like your friends, Khang. So welcoming! So naughty!”
“They were showing off! You’re a new girl, and not even a Lesbian! They wanted to test you, see if you had any hang-ups. See if they could shock you, be honest with you.”
“How did I do?” timidly.
“You were awesome! My little sister was a big hit! You and your bragging, you gave as good as you got! Made me proud.” That said with a hiccup.
I was proud; I’d never hung with rampant lesbians before, trying to get my goat and make me blush. It had been a ball. I could get used to this community, without any trouble at all.
“Where is this thing they have? All night?”
Khang was hesitant. “It’s a Lesbian bondage club. In the country. They tie each other to planks, drip hot wax on each other. A lot of cunts get eaten.” She actually blushed!
“You ever attend?”
She glared at me. “Keep that up, I’ll get Lizzie to take you next time!”
That was strangely exciting. Not the hot-wax part; I had no real interest in getting tortured. No juice in that for me.
But my cunt liked getting eaten! If I could get past the lipstick and pretty nails, it might be fun to try.
Khang saw me thinking about it, punched me.
Didn’t take long to get to Khang’s, all downhill. Took our time; the evening was young, long shadows but not dark quite yet.
The air had cleared Khang’s head. She operated her door-key without any trouble, negotiated the back stairs nimbly.
“Shall I open the wine! Oh! What will you drink? Are you really knocked up already? Should I make tea?”
All those questions and she didn’t wait for an answer, just went into her kitchenette for a corkscrew and the bottle.
“Tell me about your date with Nick!” I called through as I poked at her music collection. I’d been dying to ask all evening.
She came in, grinning, pouring for herself. “Find yourself something in the fridge.” Delaying her answer.
I found a diet something, popped it, poured it into a wine glass. May as well pretend.
Plopping down on her couch while she cued up a playlist, “Well? Nick?”
She poked around, got it started, settled on her stuffed chair.
“She’s firm! Strong! Knows what she wants. Asks before sticking her fingers anywhere. Generous. Sucks like a vacuum! Cums for ages!”
That was a lot of information all at once; I took a moment to process.
“Is her black hair natural?” I had figured out this lesbian-scandalous chat by now.
She nodded enthusiastically! “Yup! Bush as black as coal.” I already knew actually, but time to tell that story later.
“I could get a nice handhold, really pull! It was glorious! And those eyes! I could just fall into them.”
“Didn’t the short hair look too boyish?”
No, emphatically. “I love short hair. Yours was pretty short, you know, before we were sisters. Part of what I liked about you.”
I may have blushed at that.
So what had I learned? Khang has a thing about short hair, dark eyes. And hair-pulling apparently. All good to know.
“What does he like best? Did he make you cum?”
Abrupt about-face. I figured she was talking about Greg.
Now I was definitely red and embarrassed. Never mind; lesbian logic dictated I answer anyway.
“Yes! He loves when I take control. Never cums first, unless I make him; always knows just how much to touch, how often, how far! It’s his second sight; he can see just what excites me!”
Khang looked dumbfounded, stared into space, processing that. Finally nodded.
“Show me how you kiss Greg.” Big sister demanding little sister pony up, tell all.
I set my glass down, crawled over to her, up between her knees, playing the game. Took her face in my hands, looked her in the eyes, started sweet and firm. Added a little tongue, sucked her lower lip. Stroked her tongue with mine, pulled out, wet strand dragging between our mouths. Let go, sat back.
Khang was shaking. “G-Greg is a lucky guy.”
I nodded. He sure was.
Standing, I started grooving to the music. “Greg gets all hot and bothered when I move. Sees me all, all the time. But when I do this…” I did my hip-wiggle, sinuous back thing.
“He gets a stiffie?” Khang was following my every move.
“Yes!”
Khang giggled! I’d not seen that before. And she was turning red. The wine?
“I get a little stiffie, when I see you do that.”
It was somehow sweet, my big sister approving of me, telling me I was sexy and awesome. Felt really good.
“Time for dance lessons!”
Khang went to her music gear, stopped the playlist abruptly, searched, found some dance tracks, something traditional?
She grabbed a stick from the top of a wardrobe, popped it open – a fan! Waited for her opening in the music…and began a complicated choreographed thing, lots of posing, arms just so, fan overhead, in front, artfully held just so!
“I’m not gonna learn that any time soon.”
She smiled. “This is the part you should learn.”
She began to rock her hips, fan in front, switched to behind, back and forth. Moved up her body as the rocking moved to her torso, shoulders, her head moving side to side, smiling.
I felt a hot flash out of nowhere. “Ok, I need to learn that.”
Khang stopped, fished in the wardrobe, came out with another fan, smaller, handed it to me. With some trouble I managed to open it without breaking it. Took a pose beside her, waiting.
She began; I copied her, as best as I could. The hip-rocking was tricky; I never seemed to have my feet in the right place at the right time.
Took some doing, and she had to make me stop, watch her feet, learn the footwork. Then back to hip-rocking – now it all made sense!
Some of that, then bring the fan up, making the switches, about a half-beat behind. It worked; traditional music has an odd rhythm.
We got into it, Khang changing it up from time to time, me following best I could. Until she broke it off, snapped her fan shut, tossed it back on the wardrobe.
“Enough! You do that naked, he’ll eat out of your hand.”
I could well imagine.
Next from a trunk a wand with a long ribbon, a straw hat with lacy strips pinned around. She had two wands – handed me one. Showed me the moves – swing around, tracing in the air, letting the ribbon follow sinuously. Pretty patterns. Not much dancing – just positioning my body to follow the patterns.
I didn’t think that was very sexy. Khang could get some juice out of it, but I was just waving it around, flailing. She shook her head, gave up on me.
“You have to be born to it! Too late for you to learn!” I agreed; not my thing.
New music: something big-band, strong beat. Khang discarded the hat, stripped off her shirt so I followed suit, remembering as I had it over my head that I wasn’t wearing a bra. No matter; I didn’t bounce much.
Khang took a moment, looking at me, smiled, began a simple step-step-wiggle, took my hand so I would follow. In a moment I remembered it – the cha-cha!
Sounds like an old-fashioned silly thing your grandmother was doing. Probably was. But she was knocking the socks off her date, seducing them, and I guarantee she was fucking them shortly after.
We did this at a High School dance, before the assistant principle broke it up. Too suggestive she said! And she was right.
Because the cha-cha is all about hips, wiggling, showing off your body, your legs. Two languid steps, then just stand in place and go up on right-toe/left-toe, wiggle the hips, wiggle the boobs. Shamelessly sexy!
Two more steps, repeat, every so often you let go one hand and both turn around, showing off your backside!
“I get it. Do this naked and he’ll have me over the couch before the song ends!”
Khang just smiled, continued dancing, getting more and more sinuous, getting her shoulders into the hip-wiggle so her whole body was come-and-get-me!
We were both panting when that one ended. Got our drinks, plonked down on her couch and finished them.
A minute of panting and letting the sweat evaporate, then
“Shuffle dance next! You’ll like this one. Kind of like a moonwalk but not.”
I heaved myself to my feet, still feeling too hot. Shucked out of my shorts, threw them on the couch. Khang watched, did the same with her skirt.
The music started, and she began. The shuffle was basically taking steps, but never getting anywhere! Just sliding the feet back, but your posture like you were gonna walk away.
She’d alternate every few bars with a lunge right or left, shuffle back.
Doesn’t sound like much. But you do it bare-legged, sock-footed, wearing panties and very little top, it was pretty hard to look away. Khang is fit, graceful, a handful of sexy Vietnamese girl.
The dance was pretty physical, so kinda like watching a workout. The unexpected moves added a lot to the sexiness. Legs flashing, butt flexing. Sassy!
A bit of that, she changed it up again. Gangnam style! I knew this but never got good at it. Watching High Schoolers do it in baggy blouses and skirts, I couldn’t see what the deal was, couldn’t get the hang of it.
Watching Khang I figured it out. Footwork was a big part. Hip thrusts, sassy rotations I didn’t know I could do. It was all on display, her skin and muscle and abs all part of the moves. Made learning easy and fun!
Her shirt was off now, her back shiny, sweating. The wine probably added to that; I always get flushed when I drink. Anyway she moved like a seal, smooth and slippery and graceful!
Once she noticed I had stopped and was just staring, she turned off the music.
“Bachelorette!”
We’d already had a masturbation video with the Lizzies. I didn’t know how much more of that I could get into. But the episode she chose was especially exciting.
Babette, the round-faced dark-eyed beauty was back, but no Lars this time. Mindy, a California beach blond, was competing with Babette in some kind of ‘lightning round’ where they had to seduce as many guys as they could in a bar setting, get them all to show up later at the same place. Then watch the sparks fly!
The seductions were fairly ordinary – a drink, some batting of eyes, touching of hands, a little almost-kiss that promised more later, and the invitation. The pool house at midnight!
Cut to the pool house, just patio floodlights and the pool itself lit up, but the pool house fairly dark. The guys started showing up, got confused then mad. Started posturing, chest-beating.
Mindy took Babette out to the pool, and they watched the action from the water. It was all overheated reality-tv nonsense. But the way Babette and Mindy were acting, they thought it was pretty hot. A dozen guys fighting over them!
Not long before they began making out, rubbing each others shoulders, backs. Then some kissing, dry-humping. When their swimsuit tops came off the camera went underwater, perved on their tangled legs, scissoring.
Khang was in full frig mode, panties around her knees, feet on the back of the couch, nipples poking through her negligible bra like iron spikes, fingers scrubbing her clit like she was trying to rub it off!
Ok I got into it too. The hunky guys with no shirts and tiny swim briefs were hot enough. Seeing the girls get off on the guys did it for me. I felt wet; stripped off my panties and stuck two fingers in my wet snatch, started finger-fucking myself.
My hot horny lesbian sister shouting ‘Babette! You bitch! Take her! Take her!’ put me over. I found myself shouting along with her ‘Mindy! Fuck that bitch! Fuuuuk!’ and I came.
I’m afraid I splashed a bit, startled Khang, she brushed the drops off her cheek, screwed up her face and froze, curled over her crotch, both hands mashing her cunt, shuddered.
We grunted out our orgasms together, made similar ‘Aaaahh!’ sounds, put our wet finger tips in our mouths, watched the seductions play out to their inevitable end – Mindy and Babette retiring to Mindy’s room to sleep together. The guys figuring out there was nobody left to fight over, cursing each other, cursing the girls, going off to bed.
Khang had the bottle in hand, drained the last drops. “I need more wine!”
She tried to get up, but post-orgasm fugue plus wine dizziness made her stagger. She headed toward the stairs.
“Khang! You can’t go out in that!”
She looked down, saw she was naked but for socks and a bra, got an inspiration, spied the straw hat, put that on.
“No! Bad girl! No going out flashing your pussy to the drunks!”
That made her giggle, but she kept going. I got up, tackled her, got her down on the carpet still struggling. She was still snirking, still amused, but still trying to get away. I had to hold her down, pin her by the shoulders, straddling her hips.
She smiled an enormous drunken smile, put her hands to my face, gave me a slobbery drunken kiss. I didn’t protest; my sexy sister could teach me a thing or two about kissing!
When we broke the clinch her head thunk!ed down on the carpet, and she was snoring.
Poor thing! Working too hard. The wedding dresses had kept her up for days, then her normal work too. It had all caught up with her.
I got up, grabbed her under the armpits, dragged her on her back over to her bed. Heaved her face-first into it, legs still on the carpet. Lifted them onto the bed, rolled her over into the middle, on her side so if she threw up she wouldn’t choke.
She rolled onto her back. This wouldn’t do; I pushed her onto her side again. Flopped over on her back again.
Only one thing for it. I slid in, tipped her up, spooned her from the back, one arm around her. She took my arm, snuggled it up over her boobs, under her chin, resumed snoring.
She was a sweaty hot mess, but my sister so it was ok, she needed this, I needed to do this.
Next thing I knew it was morning, I smelled tea, some awful herbal mess Khang liked for a hangover. She was up, in a silk bathrobe, smiling at me.
“Morning Sis! Drink this! I called a cab!”
She seemed mostly recovered. Still a little dark around the eyes but that was the hangover.
By the time the cab honked I was dressed – well, had on her shorts and t-shirt, carrying the clothes I’d come in.
Khang gave me a chaste sisterly kiss, last nights debauchery forgotten. Swatted me on the bum, sent me on my way. She had work to do, a shop to open!
Greg met me at our door, paid the cab driver. Just watched me as I went in, all the dignity I could muster.
In the kitchen – “Not as bad as I’d feared. You don’t even need this!” He indicated his blender concoction, vile and syrupy. I shuddered.
“Khang medicated me already, her hangover tea. It actually did some good!”
For some reason I’d had a headache. Didn’t seem fair; I’d drank fuck-all the whole evening.
Caffeine headache! That was it. All the diet caffeine-free stuff left my poor synapses reeling after a lifetime of caffeine saturation. Khang’s tea undoubtedly had loads of the stuff.
“Thank you anyway sweetie! Always looking out for me. One more thing you can do? Come snuggle with me for a while, tell me I’m wonderful, let me get another half hour nap? Then I’ll be ready for our day.”
He was more than obliging, held me big-spoon to my little-spoon, told me I was wonderful, let me doze off without so much as a grope. Even gross and sweaty as I was. He must love me.