Hybrid DNA
Episode 1: 2033 - The Dichotomy of Two Eggs
A birthday game begins with drinks, dares, and dangerous stories. As old tensions resurface and hidden truths emerge, the line between fantasy and reality starts to blur.
Factoids
“Every generation comes of age in a burst of sexual exuberance. Later in life, many people sheepishly recall youthful erotic escapades and wonder, What was I thinking?”
Quote from an Ord, Michael Castleman
“Typically, a woman in the [porn] industry starts her career at the age of 22 - a figure that has not changed over the past 40 years.”
An Ord online article, based upon the studies of an Ord, Jon Millward.
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DARKNESS
encompasses the room, with only a dim light emanating from the massive landscape TV mounted on the wall in front of me.
The screen glows softly, with two images of the same person: one view looking down; the other from ‘ground level’… both perving at:
A voluptuous woman, wearing nothing more than a short, sheer, pink robe.
Okay, she’s also wearing pink rabbit ears, a choker―‘Tease Pink Bowtie’ from ‘Tyes by Tara’― and a sticker on the belly…
but chances are no one’s concentrating on those aspects…
because she’s touching a nipple with one hand…
the other holding Svakom’s ‘Braceleta’―in its silicon sleeve―to her clit…
her legs forming a diamond…
as her feet fondle and caress a monster dildo from ‘Love Aura.’
She’s stretched out, atop a grey blanket, though her back is leaning into a plush, heart-shaped wedge cushion, with the clock showing in the uppermost corner of the widescreen:
10.02 pm.
I’m stretched out, atop a grey blanket, though my back is leaning into a plush, heart-shaped wedge cushion, with the clock showing in the uppermost corner of my website:
10.02 pm.
I pull a nipple with one hand, the other stroking my slit with ‘Braceleta’―the actions, with my squirming and whimpering, occurring on my website two seconds later―a not so subtle tease for my unseen audience.
Ear-Cock Connection: Check!
Eye-Cock Connection: Double Check!
“A little preview doesn’t hurt,” I murmur under my breath.
I grab Svakom’s ‘Emma Neo 2’ wand with connected rabbit ears, moving the ears to my boobs, touching a one-inch-long erect crimson nipple…
and then the other.
I lay the quivering wand between my breasts, the rabbit ears pointing south.
Looking upwards, “I wonder,” my wide eyes unblinking, staring at the ceiling camera, as my hands move ‘Emma Neo 2’ southwards along my skin,
down across my stomach,
the rabbit ears now vibrating against my enlarged clit erection.
“Oh! Ummm,” eyes connecting to the cam fastened to the foot-rail of my bunk bed, directed straight towards my swollen cunt, “I wonder where this could go?”
My voice, low and smooth, is transmitted live, no doubt sending shivers down countless spines.
Removing the ears,
“Where would you like to put your wand?” asking my unseen audience.
‘Emma Neo 2’ slides south…
south to the ‘Braceleta’ vibrating the moist flaps of my hairless horseshoe-shaped pussy,
sliding beneath Svakom’s ‘Braceleta’…
towards a thin, soft, silicon rope poking out of my cunt…
resting…
resting…
pushing…
in.
They’re watching.
They’re waiting.
And by the end of tonight, they’ll be mine.
Totally hooked.
Utterly devoted.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
CELIA ERIDU
Darkness… perforated by those annoying spotlights. One minute I’m blinded by them, the next there’s just suffocating blackness, the headlights struggling to cut through it with narrow dim beams.
It’s all just part of the test, I remind myself, the engine roaring like a restless beast, its vibrations coursing through the seat and into my bones.
My grip tightens on the steering wheel, as the muscle car surges forward on the unsealed treacherous track, gravel spraying as the worn tires fight for purchase.
Inside, it’s dark as well:
my dash lights are dead, as are the dashboard instruments.
The only thing that can give me information—apart from the sound of the engine itself—is my smartwatch.
A quick glance:
2202 hrs, Thursday, 10th Feb. 2033.’
My birthday in just over a day’s time ·
Then Valentine’s Day—“Stop it, Celia!” I audibly command myself.
I don’t know why I keep thinking—expecting—that his crude and vapid persona will change.
He doesn’t matter · I tell myself.
What does matter?
There are fourteen more hours to go.
Mom bought this car specifically for this test;
I repaired what I could during the allotted time:
the essentials to make it run.
But time didn’t allow for the dashboard.
Or the heater box.
Nor the front window-screen and windows.
“‘Dess, just add it to the list,” I mutter under my breath, biting back frustration.
This is what I live for, though, isn’t it?
The raw, unrelenting challenge. The kind of test that separates the resolute from the indolent.
And I am not indolent.
“Come on, Celia,” I urge myself aloud, pushing the car harder. “You’ve got this. Just keep going—”
What’s that? · thinking to myself.
It’s a faint sound over the roar of the engine.
A voice ·
Dad’s voice.
Not that I allowed to call him ‘dad’—at least not to his face.
It’s always ‘Sir.’
That’s what he demands.
I’m not really his daughter anymore.
I was once.
Now I’m just his student.
I hone into the voice:
“Mentor Eridu…”
His tone is clipped, formal, and unmistakably him.
The kind of voice he only uses for Council business.
And to me.
I’ve always had good hearing, but lately, my hearing has gotten better.
Like, waaaay better.
Even with my LCP balaclava and helmet covering my ears, I can still hear dad… though not good enough to tell who was on the other side of the line.
I ease off the accelerator, letting the car coast as I strain to catch the words.
“Yes…
She’s over 40 hours into a 72-hour sleep deprivation regime while she completes…”
He’s talking about me ·
But with whom?
“Why?…
No, that’s not the way it wor—”
The house is in my rear-vision mirror, and I’ve driven too far for my hearing to be effective, leaving an uneasy silence that’s louder than any noise.
He called himself ‘Mentor Eridu.’
This is official.
Deliberate.
My stomach knots.
If only it were Auntle Blake, the bitter thought flashing through me.
Maybe Dad and Auntle Blake have finally started talking.
But I know that’s only wishful thinking.
Their estrangement has lasted a couple of years, longer than I’d like to admit. Although Auntle Blake still visits from time to time, it’s uncomfortable in the house. Sometimes I imagine them reconciling, even if just for a moment.
For me.
Focus, Celia! · forcing the thought away.
The circuit demands everything I’ve got, a sharp curve looming just beyond the reach of the headlights and those spotlights.
But it’s not just the road.
The real challenge is the darkness gnawing at the edge of my mind—the questions Dad’s words have left behind.
And to whom was he speaking?
But I’m not worried.
I’ll just listen when I’m nearing the house ·
Or perhaps I’ll read his mind ·
But I’ll have to concentrate harder to do that ·
But it is becoming easier.
The car lurches as I take the curve, my hands moving instinctively, as my eight gold bangles ‘clink’ against each other.
The tires grip just enough to keep me from spinning out.
I exhale sharply, my pulse hammering in my ears.
This isn’t just a drive.
This is part of my yearly test.
Wonder if I can break Dion’s time?
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
DARKNESS
The website divides perfectly into three:
The two views of me on the bed are relegated to the left-side.
On the right side, the screensaver flickers to life, further illuminating the dim room:
The temptress appears on a sunlit beach, her fiery locks cascading over her shoulders. Though no one should be looking at the beach; or her hair; or her shoulders…
because she’s clad in a tiny black ‘Skinzwear’ sheer bikini, her bosoms threatening to tear through the minimal triangle material. The black ‘fuck me’ sticker on her stomach contrasting sharply with her fair skin but matching the demonic ears and serpent’s tail. The image dissolves―
In a forest, green foliage all around, the red-head wears a pink ‘Peekaboo naked triangle bikini top’―from ‘the-bikini dot com’―revealing every curve, and teasing pink ‘horny’ stickers on her nipples and navel. Pink bunny ears perch atop her head, and a fluffy tail, her pose accentuating the arch of her hips. Her fingers poised on the half-unzipped pink G-string, as though caught mid-motion, frozen in the perfect moment―
Standing on a beach, pristine golden sand as backdrop, the red-haired temptress sports ‘OH LOLA Swimwear’s Orchid Violet Sheer One-piece Swimsuit,’ her dark areolas and pointed nipples prominent beneath the purple mesh, with no bellybutton visible, though her puffy pussy clearly noticeable beneath the naughty micro mesh. Her matching purple ears and tail are stunning against the backdrop of the endless beach—
Static portrait of the Red-haired One, as she holds a red rescue can while standing in the water—blue waves behind her—wearing red fox ears, and a fox tail…
and a crimson ‘Runway Fashionista’ one-piece swimsuit, French cut with hips bared, and a plunging neckline with ample cleavage on display.
She’s in slo-mo, moving, running, her boobs bouncing…
she stops in front of the camera, thumbs under the straps at her shoulders…
she lifts outwards and pulls it down, fully exposing her breasts, her nipples covered in sparkly pink ‘NipTip’ stars.
The camera angles out, as a middle-aged couple passes by, their faces blurred…
though the fat man’s bald head clearly turns towards the topless curvaceous swimsuit model…
as his equally plump, muumuu-wearing ‘wife’ slaps him on the back of his head—
‘Her,’ in a still image, wearing a ‘Kiss My Butterfly’ transparent white bikini hugging her curves, a bold red ‘fuck’ sticker drawing attention to her abdomen, while cat ears and tail add to her figure that stands in contrast to the scorching desert setting behind her―
She moves…
undoes the straps, and pulls them off, holding her discarded bikini top high against the azure sky. Her movements are deliberate, almost hypnotic…
she turns to the side, fingers brushing the delicate strings of her G-string, pulling—
Darkened nightclub glistens with the lights,
as she dances for her,
the frills of her 3Wishes transparent set swaying in front of the suited executive…
the red-head―with blue eyes and eyelashes―twirls,
the frills rising almost horizontal,
then fall over her ass…
her Kixies’ red netted thigh-high legs spread before her,
as the red-head bends her torso,
twerks her bare ass at the tan-suited woman.
She turns around to face the sitting executive,
who takes her cellphone from the table…
her petite hands brushing away the frills…
revealing her red NipTips…
pushes her cell onto the Hi-tech pasties.
The Red-haired One whispers into her ear.
“Really?” the suited one replies,
again aiming her cell for the NipTip.
“No,” pushing the cellphone down…
down to her abdomen…
down to the green clover ‘Baddies Get Paid’ NipTip covering her navel area,
“That’s double the―”
A room of mirrors, a pole gleaming in the center. She’s wearing Fetish Queen’s black ruffle bra, and a mini fringe skirt, her hands caressing the buckle of the bra…
she tugs it down to expose her breasts, the buckle and strap resting beneath her boobs like a frame…
her hand stretches out to grip the pole as she swivels around it, her body a flawless fusion of control and seduct—
“Urgh!―”
The sharp vibrations jolt me back to reality―
My stomach and vagina tighten.
“Fuqin vibrating tadpole!” I reach for the remote to pause the scene, heart pounding, a smirk tugging at the corner of my lips.
They’re loving this ·
I just know it!
I had inserted it―dormant― a couple of hours ago, much to ‘their’ delight, but somewhere along the way, it had slipped into the background of my awareness. Well, not entirely, but I’d been so engrossed in my evaluation that the sudden jolts caught me off guard.
“Fuqin Liz!” I hiss, biting my lip as it jumps and buzzes me.
I know exactly what is happening. Liz, always one for theatrics, has remotely activated this Tadpole (LureVibe), from her app. A playful smirk creeps across my face despite myself. This is her way of saying ‘it’s time;’ her silent reminder that I have promises to keep—an agreement forged over countless mischievous plans.
Ten thousand vibrations a minute!
My toes curl against the monster dildo, as I fight to steady my breathing.
It is her signature move, a blend of cheeky humor and calculated timing.
“Alright, alright,” I mutter, glancing at the camera on the ceiling.
They’re eating this up!
“It’s time,” I announce, voice steady, as I pull out the offending wiggling vibrator…
past Svakom’s ‘Braceleta’….
slowly,
deliberately,
letting the act linger,
drawing attention to every movement.
I could leave it in—I want to leave it in—but now isn’t the time for personal satisfaction. There’s a job to do, and every move matters.
With a sly grin, I hold the sperm-shaped vibrator aloft for a moment, knowing ‘they’ are watching.
The exaggerated reveal is deliberate;
a provocative tease.
Slowly lowering it to my open mouth…
my tongue extends…
sensually licking my dripping juices…
it disappears within my mouth.
I’m grinning as I pull it out.
Glistening in the low light…
and clean!
The cell phone attached to the extender arm beside my bed flickers as I touch it. The screensaver video fades, replaced by the live feed from my cellphone.
The figure I’ve been watching—that fuqin beautiful, foxy vixen; that teasing temptress with big boobs and wide hips—the Red-haired One— that’s me.
It’s crucial in my line of work to detach, to scrutinize every image as if it weren’t mine. I analyze the lighting, the angles, the flow.
Are there flaws?
Could the shot be better?
It’s a ruthless, professional gaze, but tonight, I’m pleased. Everything looks perfect—because I am a professional.
But the video I interrupted will have to wait.
The wall-mounted widescreen features my website, which is up and live. What I see, my patrons also see…
my NSFW content…
from their desktops, laptops, tablets, or cellphones…
in their offices, toilets, homes, or beds…
perhaps they’re watching with ‘others’…
or hiding their ‘indiscretions’…
But they are watching!
My live website is split into three views:
one from the ceiling camera above me,
one from my bed’s foot-rail
and the other from my cell phone rig.
Three angles,
three perspectives,
one focus—
ME
Satisfied with the setup, I reposition the arm for the best angle, ensuring every detail is perfect.
Then, with a practiced hand, I pull the cell phone from its holder. “It’s story time for the Twins,” I announce, looking directly into the ceiling camera with a mischievous smirk.
The cell phone view on the widescreen shifts as I begin typing on my cell.
My words appear instantly on the right half of my website, illuminated for my patrons to see:
“Heya, BFF Instawhores,
glad U lot R enjoying yor brAk.n Fla
I ms U aL heaps―I’m bored n DIS god-damned ciT
whIl U lot R havN d tym of yor Lyf. I wsh I wz w you, bt d olds R sprting d ‘poor’ card yt agen. D, evN my bf hz gone awA (prb shgging som sltty sht), & I’m so fqn “E & it’s my bday!!! So, 2nt I’m snking out―gna hit d twn―git :#) & hv SX & n d spirit of dat here’s my newest story: FRP o RL―U Dcide!”
I know my customers can read, but unless they’re young they’re not going to understand that shit.
“That’s,” I say out loud for them to hear, “is a birthday wish for the Twins.
Identical.
Filipinas.
And tonight you’ll see them…
and if you stay for long enough…
see them in their birthday suits.
After all, aren’t birthday girls supposed to give gifts to everyone?”
I kiss my nipples for them, one by one, as if sealing the deal.
They might not understand the written message, but I’m sure that I’ve got them intrigued enough to stay!
At the end of the message, I type:
“Happy Birthday, Twins.”
And push ‘send.’
They’ll respond quickly; I know them well. They might be twenty-one, but they still act like kids. Their conservative, overbearing mother is to blame, keeping them caged for far too long.
But I’ve been slowly chipping away at that innocence, helping them explore, piece by piece.
The latest?
Letting them decorate my vajayjay, last weekend. They’ve dipped their toes into the waters—exploring others, even dabbling in light self-touching—but tonight will be different.
Tonight, I’ll take them further.
But there’s no room for ‘dead air.’
While I wait,
my left hand reaches under the blanket,
pulling out a whip,
playfully slapping myself.
Holding the fronds of the whip,
I position the dildo-handle, it’s head between my boobs.
Looking directly into the ceiling camera, I let my voice drop, seductive and deliberate.
“Tonight…” I say,
pushing the dildo whip downwards,
“you’ll see the Twins…”
dildo passing over my stomach,
downwards,
“innocent…”
over the sticker,
downwards,
“virgins…”
touching my erect clit,
“yeah…”
stroking my erection,
southwards,
“unaware you’re watching…”
circular motions,
“I’m going to burst their cherry…”
and,
inwards,
“in more ways than one…”
in,
out,
in,
out―
‘DING!’
I glance at the widescreen.
It’s an incoming video call which also appears on my website…
the name of the caller:
Emy.
Her appearance―genetic Filipina heritage― will soon be streaming to my highest tier customers…
and ‘they’ are watching.
I let it sound for four seconds, as I position the dildo fully,
letting the fronds of the whip hang out of my pussy like a fountain,
and accept—
Her face immediately fills the right half of my website—
Where’s her fuqin mask?
My heart skips.
Thankfully, there’s a two-second delay.
I quickly disconnect, clearing the feed before ‘they’ see.
I might be doing this without their full expressed permission, but I’m not a total fuqin a-hole.
All six of my friends have a script, and have all been told to wear masks, while I will address each by the first letter of their name. That should protect their anonymity.
Grabbing my phone, I send a quick text:
‘Put your fuqin mask on. We’re starting again.’
This time, it’ll go flawlessly.
I hope.
Emy’s name comes up on the video call again.
I accept,
her image appears on the screen―and my website―and she’s wearing a pink bunny-ear mask from ‘Dulce Store Paris.’
Thank Fuq!
“Hi, E! Happy Birthday Week! Did you like the start to your birthday story?” My voice dripping with feigned innocence, pretending I haven’t just pushed all her buttons.
A touch of off-script realism always keeps things interesting.
“You know we can’t stand it when you send texts like that!” she snaps, the usual blend of exasperation and amusement.
Ah, perfect!
They always refer to themselves as a collective, plural, like they’re two halves of a whole. ‘Emy’ is not her true name: it’s actually ‘Emily.’
The Twins are ‘Amy and Emily,’ but they prefer ‘Amy & Emy’—or ‘Emy & Amy’—and no one uses Emy’s whole name…
not if you value your life!
And her twin, Amy, can’t be far behind.
“Well, hello to you too,” I reply with a grin.
“What are you wearing?” Her tone both curious and dismissive.
Her eyes gone straight to my tits ·
She hasn’t seen it yet!
“Oh,” I say, straightening the pink mesh robe draped over me, “this little thing? Don’t you like the color?”
“But it’s completely transparent! I can see all yourWHAT?”
And there it is ·
I’ll pretend.
“Now, E,” I tease, “they’re just nipples,” pulling away the mesh robe,
revealing Dulce Store Paris’s ‘Crystal Nippies’ surrounding both,
gently pinching them…
as she stares at the black strands poking out of my pussy.
“Not that…
the thing stuck in your hoo-ha?”
I don’t mind slang for body parts. I use them myself all the time:
Vavayjay; slit; pussy; beaver; honeypot…
soooo many different euphemisms,
including my favorite: cunt.
But, when the Twins use slang, it’s out of embarrassment.
Part of them ‘growing up’ is to label ‘it’ correctly…
and that’s my self-appointed task.
“E, it’s a va-gi-na.
Say it, E, ‘vagina.’”
“Vagina,” she repeats cautiously.“What’s in your… vagina?”
“This?” grabbing the stands,
pulling the dildo partially out,
“just pleasuring myself.
It’s my ‘Me’ time,” plunging it back in again.
“D-don’t you have other… things to wear?”
Diverted back to my transparent robe.
“It’s just nightwear, E.”
It’s not, really. Rather, it’s my ‘workwear,’ and I’m already at ‘work’ smiling up at the night-vision camera above me.
“No, D, what I’ve got on is nightwear. What you’re wearing is—”
“Fine,” cutting her off, feigning exasperation,
“I’ll get dressed. But why are you in pajamas?”
She’s wearing ‘those’ slippers, and the soft pink version of ‘Dulce Store Paris’s ‘Aliyah.’ I know because I’ve had numerous sleepovers at their house, and it’s their favorite pair.
And she’s wearing a pastel-pink cardigan.
“Dad insisted. We’re going to Disney World tomorrow. Says we all must be up early and fresh but—Oh! The others are coming now, so I’ll connect my cell phone to the TV. Just hold on for a bit!”
“Okay.”
Her live feed jiggles and jostles as she carries her phone across the room. The shaky, haphazard movements making my head spin.
I can’t watch this.
“E?” I say, closing my eyes.
“Yeah?”
“You’re giving me a headache. I’m turning off the vision. Just text me when you’re done, okay?”
“Alright.”
I pause the connection and look up at the ceiling camera, my grin returning.
“I have to get dressed now, but you can watch,” I say playfully.
My voice drops a teasing octave, as I eye-connect with the foot-cam,
“And don’t worry—it’ll come off soon enough.”
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
DARION ERIDU
His barrel-chest rises and falls as he exhales, the weight of the news pressing down on him.
It was what he had expected—his idea, after all—but hearing it aloud made it feel raw and immediate.
‘It’ had been approved.
And his oldest daughter would be the first to face it.
His right-hand, leathery and mocha-toned, adorned with a black-stoned signet ring on the middle finger and a gold bangle on his wrist, rakes through his hair. The left-hand fiddles with his ear, pulling free a thin wooden pen hidden by his mousey-blond hair. Grimacing, he scrawls a few words on a note.
This isn’t going to be easy to explain · he thinks ·
And she’s bound to make it uncomfortable ·
But it has to be done.
Especially after his son’s disgrace—running away—turning Sentinel-Q into a laughingstock.
On the brink of losing his bid for councillorship, Darion had made countless concessions.
And his daughter was one of them.
Returning the pen to its place behind his ear,
he folds the note,
grabs his cell,
and leaves the office,
swiftly moving through the ground floor of his three-story house.
At the back door, he snatches a jacket and hat from the rack.
Sliding his hands into his jacket pocket,
he pulls out his gloves,
and pauses—
fixating on the black stone ring.
He stares at it.
One of those concessions.
The ring had secured him critical support to ascend another tier, to be declared a full Councilman.
But at what cost?
What have I lost?
The thought makes him wince.
Images of the past flicker in his mind, brief but vivid.
Shaking them off, he slips on the gloves, concealing the ring.
At the screen door, he stands looking out, thankful that no Ord can see this buzz of activity.
His property—spanning both US and Canadian soil—is invisible to satellites and drones, thanks to the ancient technology of the ‘stones’ which border the estate at various intervals, creating an imperceptible dome that masks his property.
Technology that the Echelon still refuses to give the Sapien nations.
He breathes deeply, steadying himself for the confrontation ahead.
Calm now, he opens the door
and steps outside onto the darkened veranda.
Spotlights pierce the cold night, illuminating select parts of the dirty snow and slush-covered circuit.
There she is.
Part way along the veranda:
A slender, middle-aged woman in a vibrant summer dress. Her long black hair cascades down her back, reaching the small of it. Barefoot in the cold, she leans against the banisters.
Shouldn’t she be rugged up? · Darion thinks ·
Any normal per—“Ugh!” Darion is momentarily puzzled before catching himself as he rubs the sore area under the bangle.
Gods, she’s sexy!
At her bare feet, a black cat with a gold metallic collar coils around her ankles.
She holds binoculars to her eyes, her multi-ringed fingers adjusting them. Gold bracelets on her wrists jangle softly as she tracks a car reversing along the partially spotlight-lit circuit.
This was the woman who derailed his rise to power—the mother of his children.
He had chosen her, gladly, years ago. But after thirty-plus years of marriage, their conversations often devolve into arguments.
Approaching, Darion rubs his arms against the cold as the black cat spits at him.
“Be good, Dee,” she says, her tone mildly reproachful.
He ignores the cat, stepping beside her as she continues adjusting the binoculars―
“Uh-hum,” clearing his throat, watching his breath-fog ascend.
“So, Rosa, did she pass your seduction tests?”
“Why is it, Dar,” she replies, still peering through the binoculars, “that out of all the other training aspects, sex is the only one you choose to ask about? I also tested her on—”
“Because we’re out of time,” he interrupts.
“Nonsense,” she retorts, following the car with the binoculars as it swerves and curves through the bend near the house, its rear end powering toward them, “Cely’s only halfway through.”
“Not this test,” he shakes his head, “her training.”
“What are you talking about?” lowering the binoculars, her sharp eyes narrowing at him. “Cely still has six more years of train—”
“No,” he says, cutting her off, “we don’t have six years. We don’t even have six days. They called. They’re picking her up tomorrow morning.”
“Tomorrow?” she echoes, disbelief creeping into her voice.
“But I’ve already booked a restaurant for Saturday, and Blake is supposed to—”
“It’s out of my hands.” he interrupts again.
“They’re taking her before her Nineteenth birthday?”
“That’s what I said,” he replies impatiently.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
The Red-haired One
When Emy finally sends me the text, my toys are in place:
Svakom’s Braceleta is back on my left wrist, and the other toys are hidden.
I’ve also made a conservative effort with my outer clothes:
I’m lying on top of my transparent short gown—so it’s accessible for afterwards—and I haven’t touched my pink ears or choker, but my new additions are all blue: a buttoned cardigan, paired with denim shredded micro shorts, legtyes by tara, and stilettos…
I do feel for those that prefer my foot cam…
my fuqin feet freakazoids…
at least I chose open-toe stilettos!
Normally, for the footage-streaming crowd, I’m either stripping or in a perpetual state of undress. And I had ‘fun’ removing the dildo-whip.
But oddly enough, putting clothes on during the ‘break’ also turned out to be quite the turn-on for ‘them’…
especially the blue lingerie.
Who would’ve guessed?
I mentally file that tidbit away to enhance my repertoire.
Relinking the line, the widescreen TV―and my website―lights up with the familiar faces of my besties, my ‘core four:’
● Liz, the ever-organizer; and my co-collaborator.
● Tenille, my absolute ride-or-die; nightclub here we come.
● Rubes, the diplomat of our group; wouldn’t hurt a fly.
● Grace, the brainy one; who keeps us all grounded.
I’ve only reconnected with these four a couple of years ago, but it felt like no time had passed.
The remaining two, Emy and Amy—the Twins—are newer additions to our circle, courtesy of their Filipina mother, Rubes’ dad’s overly pious―seriously devout Roman Catholic―second wife.
Identical to a fault, they still dress in matching outfits, even at Twenty-one. Not just matching styles, but the same soft, pastel pink, all the time.
Every.
Single.
Time.
Unfuqing believable!
The two are so entwined they even finish each other’s sentences!
The six of them sit on the carpet, gathered around a long coffee table, their decorative masks perched on their faces. Two with cardigans, some with gloves, all with footwear, and each wearing the same long pajamas—well, almost everyone—and their masked faces staring at me with wide-eyed anticipation.
Of course, because I promised them a st—
“SURPRISE!!!!!!―”
“DaFuq?―”
Reeling back, almost dropping my phone.
“HAPPY BIRTHDAY!!!!!!”
“OMG,” I can’t help but laugh at their jubilant faces.
Liz, Rubes, Grace, the Twins, and Tenille, are practically glowing with excitement.
“You lot are so naughty. But we’re celebrating the Twins’ birthday week. Mine isn’t ‘till Saturday.”
Liz grins wickedly, “And you’re not clubbing tonight to celebrate?”
“Ha!” I scoff. “I club every night, L.”
And I have.
Every night for the last nine years.
How?
Because when I was ten, I mysteriously aged—literally overnight—I went to sleep as a ten-year-old and woke up old.
Like, adult’ old.
Scary as fuqin hell.
It was confusing too:
I skipped the entire adolescent experience and had to watch my BFFs go through it without me.
In those early days, I sent a photo of my nine-year-old self to a specialist who used age-projection software to map out versions of me at twelve, fifteen, eighteen, twenty-two, and twenty-five.
The twenty-two-year-old version?
That was me then.
And now, almost a decade later, it’s still me.
I haven’t aged.
And for all these years, I’ve passed the “bar test”—not once has anyone asked me for ID.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m never mistaken for a fuqin MILF. But I can get into a nightclub and order alcohol without so much as a raised eyebrow.
“I’d prefer to be clubbing with my BFFs,” I tell them, “but you’re over there living it up in paradise.”
It’s a line to make them feel better, though the reality is, I can’t leave my job. I’m a cam girl (not my persona, just my paid occupation) and my subscribers—my paying customers—depend on me. Disappointment is not an option.
“Sorry ··· we did try to convince Dad ··· but—”
“It’s okay, Twins, really. As it is, I do have work to d—”
“Hmph!” Tenille interrupts. “We know the ‘work’” making exaggerated air quotes with her fingers “‘you do. And that’s why we’re wearing the same pajamas…
and these masks!”
“T, stop it!” Rubes implores, clearly frustrated. “I hate it when you two fight.”
Rubes has always hated bickering, but things between Tenille and me have been strained for a while now—and I know why.
I broke the rules.
“It’s okay, R,” I say, attempting to smooth things over.
“E,” turning my attention to the Twins, “have you ever seen me ‘work’? What about you, A?”
“NO!!” they protest in unison.
I glance at the group occupying the right half of my website. Each of my ‘core four’ are unique, and the Twins make our group even more interesting.
When Rubes’s father married a widowed Filipina, she brought her twin daughters with her, making them a truly blended family. A year older than Rubes―and being new immigrants―the Twin’s inserted themselves into our group.
The Twins―Filipinas―have short slender bodies, long dark hair, and beautiful tinted skin. But Twins are also worlds apart from the rest of us in a different way:
Their mother’s strict Roman Catholic upbringing―and the absence of positive male role models―have left them riddled with insecurities, especially about their bodies.
Last summer, it took a monumental effort just to get them into bikinis—and even more convincing to address their bikini lines. Let’s just say their initial “jungle beavers” were… startling, though I really should’ve guessed based on the state of their ‘pits.
While the Twins―Rubes’s new step-sisters―are older than everyone except for Liz, we all treat them like the youngest of us. It’s my personal mission to nudge their boundaries, helping them expand their comfort zones bit by bit.
“That was fuqing fast, Twins,” I tease, catching their guilty expressions, “but that’s a ‘we’ve-been-up-to-something’ look,” I add, giggling.
The Twins squirm.
They’ve visited my website before, but only as the lowest-tier viewers. That means they’ve seen the clothed stuff: sexy posing, flirty glances, maybe a suggestive video or two—but no nudity.
Turning to the group, “I know you’ve all checked it out,” I say, raising a brow, “and one of you is even a subscriber!”
Cue the synchronized head-dropping of the Twins.
My ‘core four’ exchange knowing smiles.
Liz blows a kiss towards me.
“Hey bitches,” I say, mock stern the Twins, “look at me.”
Their identical bunny-masked-heads reluctantly rise.
“I’m not ashamed. Quite the opposite. Besides, I just think of it as… storytelling.”
“Oooh!!” the Twins blurt together, “we do love your stories ··· when we can ··· understand them!!”
Exactly the sentence sharing reaction I was hoping for.
“Well, E and A, birthday girls, that story—”
“Had,” Grace interrupts triumphantly, “a glaring error!”
Typical fuqin Grace.
Always ready to play the pedant.
Grace loves rules.
That is, the rules of literature.
Both of us consider ourselves writers, though we couldn’t be more different.
Grace dreams of becoming the next Pulitzer Prize-winning author.
My aspirations lean more toward a raunchy erotic fuqfest of a novel. Not that sanitizing, HEA consensual Romantasy bullshit that traditional publishers regurgitate year after year.
No, mine will delve into the dark, gritty realities of sexuality—where the ugly truths aren’t swept under the rug—think fantasy with a stark mirror held up to the real world. The world where males can “grab ‘em by the pussy” (thanks Trump, for that eternal enduring line). The world—this world—where rape is an evil reality. Yeah, my fictional novel will be based on the real world of sex.
And that’s the only other thing that Grace and I have in common: we both love sex—as does Tenille, Liz, and Rubes.
And why not?
We’re young and horny.
For centuries, guys have been encouraged to ‘sow their wild oats’—now it’s our time to, I don’t know what to call it.
‘Sow our wild eggs’ doesn’t sound right;
‘show our wild side’?
No—
perhaps just ‘BE.’
BE whatever, whoever, whenever we wanna BE.
BE our natural selves;
FREE out natural selves…
without constrictions…
without rules.
And in the clubs, Grace is as randy and horny as, well, me.
Otherwise, she just tries to score ‘points’ by publicizing my mistakes.
“Fuqhead,” I say with mock indignation, “what’s the big offense this time?”
“Well,” Grace replies smugly, “quite a few, but the main one is ‘f·q·n,’ which you should have spelt ‘f·k·n.’”
“Seriously, who made you the literary police, G? Anyway, it’s poetic license. I’ve always spelled it f·u·q, and I always will—”
‘KNOCK!―’
Emy grabs the remote off the table—
‘KNOCK!―’
The right side of the website freezes.
Whatever’s happening, I trust Liz to handle it. She’s the ultimate organizer and, tonight, my partner-in-crime. I’ll need all her skills if we’re going to pull this off.
After all, I’ve made promises.
And my fans are waiting.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
The Twins
‘KNOCK!’—punctuates the air.
The Twins glance at each other, and Emy quickly snatches the remote off the table—
‘KNOCK!’—
Switches from Zoom to YouTube―
Their door opens ajar…
a head pokes through: their mother, and Rube’s stepmother.
Her puritanical hard eyes scanning the room…
then light up, her ever-sweet, condescending tone filling the room, “Oooh, those masks are…” eyes falling upon Liz—
Stunned—
“Um… ur,” redirecting her eyes to the Twins, “yes, pretty!”
“They’re a gift ··· from Liz,” Emy begins, and Amy finishes seamlessly.
“That’s nice,” their mother coos, her composure back, clearly placating them. “Well, we’ve got a big day tomorrow. Don’t stay up too late watching TV.”
“We won’t, Mrs. V,” Liz responds, putting on her most innocent tone.
Mrs. V feigns mock annoyance. “Now, Liz,” trying to peel her eyes off Liz’s way-too-tight cropped t-shirt―and those ‘Tyes from Tara’ accentuating her nipples―to look her in the eyes, “it’s Aunty V to you.”
Liz giggles. “Okay, Aunty V. I’ll make sure the birthday girls get an early night. Promise!”
“Thank you, Dearyyy,” Aunty V chirps, drawing out the last syllable. Then, breaking into a sing-song voice, she adds, “Alright, y’all. Sweet dreams!”
“Sweet dreams!!!!!!” The girls chant in unison, harmonizing as they often do when teasing adults.
They wait for the door to fully close, holding their breath until the soft ‘click―’
They burst into giggles, muffling the sound with their hands.
On their screen, the dimly lit shadows shift, and the Red-haired figure—their ringleader—reappears.
“All clear?” she asks, her smirk visible even in the low muted light.
The girls nod, grinning mischievously.
Tonight’s real festivities are just beginning.
And the girls have done their homework.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Rosario & Darion Eridu
At a fast pace, the car passes in front of them, spins 180, and speeds off.
“Why are they fast-tracking this?” Rosa asks, her voice laced with confusion. “The Echelon raised the admission age to twenty-one over a century ago… and the age for acceptance has been twenty-five for the last three decades.”
“And today, they’ve scrapped the modern system. It’s now officially reverted to the old model,” he responds.
“Why?”
That’s the question I hoped she wouldn’t ask.
He feels the weight of it and knows there’s no way around it.
I didn’t want to talk about ‘him’ ·
I guess it’s unavoidable ·
Fuck the Ords, He curses inwardly, and clears his throat, preparing himself
Here it comes.
“The ‘Dion Factor,’ that’s what they call—”
“How dare they sully my son’s name.”
“It wasn’t my idea,” he protests.
“And I’m sure you put up a fight,” accusing him.
“The Council named it that because, like ‘him’ they noticed problems with young adult recruits: they’ve been heavily influenced by the social media of the Ords. Concepts like human rights, free choice, love, and—”
“This is the norm—”
“It’s poison!” he snaps. “Sentinels can’t carry out their role if they’re ham-strung by that sentimental nonsense. Our young need to enter training earlier. I suggested lowering the age from twenty-five, down to what it used to be—fourteen.”
“You did? That’s ridiculous!”
This is the moment he has been dreading.
Unavoidable.
“And there’s more: When the age was twenty—”
“You mean,” she interrupts, her voice dripping with sarcasm, “earlier, this afternoon?”
“Yes.”
God she’s irritating.
“Previously, the live-streamed tests were just about general knowledge. The other ‘persuasion’ tests and training in the ‘Arts’ occurred in private at our training facilities. Now, with this revamp, the interview will still be live-streamed and recorded for posterity, but…”
“But what?”
I can’t say it.
He shifts uncomfortably,
glancing down at his shoes,
before handing her the folded note.
Rosario opens it…
reading to herself…
“Sacred Flame—”
“In the old system, fourteen-year-old recruits had to,” he explains hesitantly, “make someone on the recruiting panel horny…” trailing off, struggling to finish.
“She has to make them cum?” Rosario’s voice rises in pitch, incredulous, “On live TV?”
“Yes,” he responds, his voice tense. “It’s an ancient traditional initiation ritual. A contest of wills. She has the opportunity first. And if she fails…
well, then they…”
unable to finish.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
The Red-haired One
The left half of the screen still features me live (dividing into those two views), while the right half of the website reconnects. I wasn’t sure how long the interruption would last, but I entertained ‘them’, showing the ‘easy access’ my micro-shredded shorts gave to my panties, with a bit of petting of my pantie-clad mound thrown in. ‘They’ appreciated the ‘play,’ which was so brief that the screensaver on the right half of my screen didn’t even have time to kick in.
So, whatever that intrusion was, it’s now gone away.
And I hope that they’ve locked that door.
The right half of the screen—devoted to my BFFs—is now also divided into two: a top half and bottom half.
Liz is my partner on the website and has equal access…
even in Florida.
She’s set up those cameras and linked them to the website during the gap.
The top view is the wide footage of the table, which is placed perfectly to observe the ‘fruit’ above the table: the torsos of my friends.
The lower footage…
I know your game, Liz!
It features the view below the table—waist downwards—and the exposure of their crossed legs… which means little at the moment, since the Twins, and most of my core four, are all wearing the exact same long pajamas.
The only difference between the five are masks, and stilettos. The twins are slightly different in that they are wearing identical slippers and the same-colored cardigan…
and then there’s Liz.
Liz dressed ‘that’ way.
Liz, with a remote control.
She aims it at something I can’t see, and my website instantly divides into five streams.
This new addition to my website—a new central streaming between the left and right divided feeds—must be from Liz’s tablet.
She must have positioned it during the break.
It is a view of the area between the table and the TV.
That’s the catwalk.
Liz—always thinking ahead!
I glance towards at my friends who reappear on the website, “All clear?” My eyes focus on Liz who is not wearing pajamas. Though what I’m really looking at is her bare abs, and that snake bellybutton piercing.
“It was just ··· our Mom,” Emy starts and Amy completes, in that sentence-sharing of theirs.
“All good, D.” states Liz.
“But L,” I say to her, “why aren’t you wear—”
“D,” she interrupts giggling, “I don’t wear PJs. You know that.”
“But still, for tonight you could ha—”
“No,” turning more serious, “you can ‘Kiss My Butterfly’” bringing fingers in a ‘V’ to her lips…
poking out her pussy-licking tongue―showing off her snake piercing―and now mouthing a ‘kiss.’
“I would sooner wear nothing. Wish I was wearing nothing. Be thankful I chose this,” gleefully standing up…
twirling on the spot…
walking the ‘catwalk’ showing off her ‘Kiss My Butterfly’ cropped t-shirt—two sizes too small—her perky nipples clearly trying to bore through her t-shirt, made further obvious with a ‘Belle’ niptye (from ‘Tyes by Tara’) attached to each of her nipples on the outside of her way too-tight t-shirt, LCP’s snake piercing prominent on her exposed midriff, and her Yeoreo ‘Lilliean’ mini flare leggings with Dulce’s clear glitter stilettos.
No.
She’s not showing off the clothes.
They’re tight; like skin.
She’s showing off her body.
Those tits.
Tanned and taut abs with snake piercing
That curvy ass.
Her long shapely legs.
My core four are typically horny, and excited about tonight. But Liz is ‘next level,’ which comes from being the most sexually experienced, and, at 23, she’s the oldest by several years (not counting the Twins).
Growing up in a household with absentee parents, she was practically raised by her older sister―Perla―who first worked in a topless club, and then as a stripper―often leaving Liz backstage or in the changerooms―then a masseuse…
with prostitution on the side.
Today, Perla owns a string of sex clubs across the US.
From a young age, Liz learnt from her environment…
and her adopted aunties.
At school, her lack of self-consciousness was always evident…
and in college, she’s living her ‘best’ unfiltered life.
But I wonder…
Is she a product of her upbringing? ·
And how much is because of ‘that’ bag?
Fine,” giggling to myself.
I know what’s coming next!
“So, let’s—”
“Where’s Sparkles?”
And the room fills with the cacophony of voices demanding to see her.
Dafuq? ·
Why does she get all the attention?
But then again, I understand.
Everyone loves Sparkles.
Sparkles is my tiny bird.
I say ‘mine,’ but in truth, she’s probably the one who owns me. I don’t ever remember a time before Sparkles; she’s always been there.
I looked it up:
She’s a ‘Lutino Cockatiel’. Native to Australia, the Lutino coloring first appeared in Florida in the 1950s, created by a breeder. They can live up to twenty-five years, and Sparkles must be at least twenty-three by now.
At least.
“She’s asleep,” I tell Rubes, “because, she’s very old. Now, where were we?”
“You were,” the twins in unison, “about to tell us a story!!”
“Well, I’ve dressed up for it,” I reply, “and I’ve already sent you the intro.”
“You know ··· we can’t read that,” Emy starts, with Amy continuing the sentence, both sounding disappointed, “please, please start again ··· this time ··· in normal regular talk??” chiming in together with the last phrase
“Alright,” I say, nodding. “Here’s what I wrote:
‘Glad you all are enjoying your break in Florida. I miss you heaps. I’m stuck here in this boring city, while you’re out having the time of your life. I wish I were with you, but my parents keep going on about how we don’t have the money. Even my boyfriend’s gone away (probably with someone else), and I’m feeling frustrated. Plus, my birthday is coming up! So tonight, I’m sneaking out to hit the town, get drunk, and hopefully have some fun. In the spirit of that, here’s my new story: “Fantasy Role Playing or Real Life—You Decide!”’
This one’s for you, birthday girls. E and A? Are you ready?”
“Oh, yes!!’ they respond eagerly.
“Good. Now, dim the lights,’ I add, waiting for the atmosphere to change.
“Before I tell the story, though, you need to agree to my birthday rules!”
“What??” they ask in chorus, curious.
“The rules are simple:
Whatever I do in the story, you copy.
Also, this is a drinking game. Every time I say the word ‘cock’ you all must down a shot,” I explain, smiling as I see their eyes light up.
This wasn’t part of the script—though Liz and I planned it. The twins are from a ‘religious’ background and whose parents’ shunned alcohol, and their mother still does. But it’s clear that her daughters want to experiment.
“L?”
“Yeah,” going to ‘that’ bag, “got it sorted,” pulling out a bottle and six shot glasses, placing them on the short but long coffee table in front of the legs-crossed-sitting-on-their-bums-adolescents.
For her Sixteenth birthday, her big sister―Perla―took Liz for a ‘treatment’ at a day spa. I don’t know the particulars of it. Only that there was a sale of ‘pre-loved’ items. That’s where the bag came from. Bringing it home, Liz opened it up, finding inside some jewelry—snake jewelry—which she now wears religiously.
Then—according to her story—something strange happened. Her hand inside the bag, she was just thinking about a lipstick she wanted… and pulled out that exact item out of the bag. She experimented, and the only conclusion:
The bag was magic.
Anything she thought of, she could pull out of that small bag. Even if it was an impossibly large item: inside the bag, it would be a miniature in her palm; closing her palm around it, she could bring out her closed fist, open it —and the miniscule item would magically turn into its normal size.
At least that’s how Liz explained it to me.
Since then, Liz has been a little different. I wouldn’t say that she is possessed. Just, I don’t know…
perhaps bewitched by that bag?
Or by that jewelry?
But what can I say?
Is what happened to me any less magical?
In any case, that’s just what happened:
Liz put her hand into that small bag, pulling out an impossibly large bottle and six shot glasses.
“DaFuq?”
But I’ve seen it a thousand times now…
and who am I to complain?
So, I continue,
“Lastly, the story will have to be quick. I’m going live in my next streaming session very soon. If you keep interrupting me, and the story goes on for too long, my clients will see you when I go live!”
It’s not a lie, just a half-truth.
“All agreed?” I ask, raising an eyebrow.
“Yes!!!!!!” they reply in unison.
“I can hear your agreement. ‘Yes’ means ‘Yes!’”
I’m sitting on the top bunk of my bed, my back against the wall, supported by my heart-shaped pillow, on a leak-proof blanket.
Blue eyelashes: Check!
Lipstick: Check!
Fingernails: Check!
Toys under the blacket?: Double Check!
I’m wearing lace ears on my red-haired head, a deep V cardigan—buttoned up—and shredded micro shorts.
All blue, including garters on my thighs, and stilettos.
I smile as I begin.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
Rosa & Dar
“That’s fucking disgusting. It’s one thing to expect Celia to endure this, quite another to expect a fourteen-year-old to suf―”
“I follow tradition, and the customs—”
“You’re justifying this by tradition? So, you’ve raped little girls and boys?”
“I’ve raped no one,” Darion responds in anger, “woman! Being able to seduce a human, an Ord, is just a part of our role. We’d be negligent if we didn’t test th—”
“Which then includes raping t—”
“It does not. We give them the opportunity to seduce us, and if they fail, we show them techniques that work.”
“By seducing them.”
“Yes.”
“So, you’ve seduced fourteen-year-olds.”
“I endured it too! In my time, fourteen-year-olds were considered adults.”
“But that’s not the case anymore, Darion. You’ve lived almost 170 years! Don’t you see? There’s a reason why Sentinel-Q pressured the Echelon to raise the entry age… a move which also influenced the Ordinary World.”
“The Echelon reversed it, end of story. In any case, Celia is not a fourteen-year-old… she’s almost nineteen.”
“No,” shaking her head firmly, “my Cely’s not ready.”
“Of course, she is. She can order from a menu in four different languages and—”
“This isn’t about intelligence! It’s about sex and what they want her to do, and what others will do to her.”
“SHE’S ALMOST NINETEEN!”
“Can you stop shouting for a moment?”
“Doesn’t she know the art of seduction and intimacy?”
“Are you going to calm down and listen for once?”
“Hmph!”
“Sure, I’ve taught her, but theoretical learning isn’t enough. She’s been isolated here, learning everything except how to interact in real-life relationships.”
“She’s betrothed. She’ll be married soon enough.”
“Cely’s indifferent to sex. And, at best, it’s only a platonic relationship—”
“I know, I know, she’s asexual or something.”
“Cely’s on the asexual spectr—”
“That doesn’t mean she can’t have sex.”
“She’s not ready yet, Dar. Her ‘engaged’ came here only once last year… and completely ignored her. Cely’s a virgin!”
Rosario lets the words sink in.
“And you expect her to seduce some dirty-minded old fucker?” Rosario turns away and brings the binoculars to her eyes, watching Celia’s vehicle reach the ramp.
Enough of this nonsense ·
She must be made to understand!
“It doesn’t matter, Rosa,” Darion’s voice unwavering.
“Celia will undergo the test.
Celia will take on her hereditary responsibilities.
Celia will be a Sentinel.
And Celia will learn to make friendships and relationships within our society.”
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
MY STORY
“It happened last year: The Summer of 2032.
All my besties (yous, you bitches) headed off for vacation—and my boyfriend went to summer school—leaving me in boredom hell.
I was constantly horny.
All I could think of was SEX.
SEX.
SEX.
SEX.
ALL. OF. THE. TIME.
Sure, I’d spent time at the gym, and the coregasms were great, but they lacked the carnal pleasure of sexual arousal. My vibrators had been on overtime… and were more consistent and faithful than any boyfriend (so long as the batteries were charged, LOL).
But I knew that while the vibrators were great, they pulled a distinct 2nd to rocking sex:
the lustful eyes;
burning attraction;
the power of the embrace;
the magic of a sensual kiss (and bite);
the smell of sex;
the loss of control;
and the exhilaration of cumming at the same time.
When sex works, coregasms and vibrators don’t even come close.
And that was what I desperately needed.
Ironically, rescue came from the olds:
For the past two years, they kept pushing me to go to that stupid church youth group… I don’t know what they were thinking—”
“I do,” Liz pipes up. “Your parents don’t like us. Think we’re bad influences.”
“Influencers, Liz,” correcting Grace.
“Huh,” an obviously disgruntled Tenille speaks up, “how can we be the bad influencers? Honestly, she’s the—”
“T,” Rubes pleading, “please?”
DaFuq?
“Excuse me,” inserting myself into their little argument, “can I please continue?”
Everyone silently nods.
“The teenagers were stuck-up, and though I openly flirted with them—boys and girls—I never really felt accepted. The ears, choker, and tail I wear set me apart, as do my clothes. The boys? Well, they ‘looked’ of course. But the girls had warned them to keep their distance from me. And most of them did… except for Tommy!”
“Haahaha,” Rubes laughing out loud, “there’s always—” “SSSSHHHHHH!!!!!”
“The girls considered my outfits sluttish, calling me ‘White Trash’ behind my back. Of them all, only Brin really accepted me. I knew what she wanted, but she was exceptionally shy, so I needed to take it slow.”
“You were ··· grooming her?” Emy and Amy, slightly hysterical and distraught.
“Twins, it’s not ‘grooming,’ for Fuq’s sake. How can it be? She’s three years older! Anyway, her seduction later that year was a thing of beauty. Fuq, I get horny just thinking about it. But that’s an Xmas story! Anyway:
The predator peeked at me when no one was looking, scanning me up and down. I was barely eighteen, but that didn’t stop that hunk of a youth Pastor from having an eye-full of me; And I wanted his cock—”
“COCK!” yells Liz.
“Cock??” questions the twins in unison.
“Yes,” Liz replies, “remember? We’re skoling on ‘cock’. Come on, grab a shot glass, then we’ll all shout ‘cock’ and skol!”
Each takes a shot glass, together yelling “COCK!!!!!!” skoling and laughing.
“Umm, that ··· was yum!” Amy licking her lips, and Emy wanting more.
“DaFuq? Yum? Didn’t you give them vodka, L?”
“Vodka mixes, D,” raising her empty shot to the screen, “this is berry flavored!”
“They might take all night to get drunk. Refill L, before I continue.”
“Hang on,” Rubes says with a quizzical look, “is this the same Pastor you were talking about once before? The one who was married?”
“Yep, he’s married.” I confirm, “but according to the gossiping teenagers, she was a real bitch.”
“Don’t you have ways of finding out whether she was or not?”
“Oh sure, R, but they would have to lick my cli—”
“Why are y’all listening to this crap? Every time it comes back to her being a disgusting whore.”
DaFuq?
I really want to retaliate. I feel for Tenille. But now’s not the time to lose my shit over it, so I try to remain calm and flippant:
“T, it’s all true.” I can’t say it aloud—I have an on-line audience to consider—but my BFF’s know about it: that somehow my clit mucus or vag cum acts like a ‘truth serum.’ I resume, “I really don’t know how it works, but you can all testify that it does. Don’t you remember that night when we played Truth or Dare? We were all nak—”
“Just carry on with the story, will ya?”
It is obvious that nothing I can say will placate her. Visibly, Tenille’s whole demeanor is quite negative towards me, even though she’s come to the party, and is wearing the ‘right’ clothes.
Why did she come if she’s going to be like this all night?
I instantly regret the thought.
Because I love her.
I love them all.
But, at the moment, Tenille and I are at loggerheads. It will come to its inevitable confrontation, but probably a lot earlier than I originally expected. It may even doom tonight’s events. But I won’t be the initiator of the argument, at least not tonight.
So, I’ll continue with my story.
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
ROSA & DAR
The car, now on two wheels, continues to navigate the circuit with impressive precision.
Rosario lowers the binoculars, glaring at Darion as the car roars past.
“That’s it, isn’t it?” She says, her voice sharp. “Take them while they’re young to mold them into your image.”
He nods without hesitation.
“Of course. That’s the way it’s supposed to be.”
Her frustration deepens.
“It’s just wrong, Dar. Can’t you see that?”
He shrugs, still calm.
“Despite Celia’s mostly articulated language, I grant that she is still a little immature. Especially with that” —changing the pitch of his voice to parody an imitation of his daughter’s voice—“‘yeah,’ ‘nah,’ and ‘oh-em-dess,’” reverting his voice back to normal, “nonsense she sprouts, not to mention her idiotic love of Australian Aboriginal Ords. But it is what it is. I turned out fine. So will Celia.”
“But what about her choices?” Rosario’s voice grows more intense. “Did you know that in this test, Cely gave the correct engine specifications for three classic and two late models? With this one,” pointing to the 70’s muscle car charging towards the corner of the house, “Cely changed the flat in just over nine minutes and found and fixed the vehicle problems in thirty-seven minutes.”
Darion raises an eyebrow. “What did you do to it?”
Rosario smirks. “I made sure it was sabotaged. I put in a dud sparky, a faulty distributor cap, drained the fuel, and jammed a potato in the exhaust.”
His voice is hard, though his anger is under control. “And no panic attacks?”
“Not since she’s learnt yoga, but—”
“So, she’ll be a well-trained Sentinel.”
“No,” she counters, “my point is that she’s gifted in so many areas: mechanics, driving, dance, art, history. I knew what I was marrying into, but I never thought you’d involve our children in it. She was thriving before, thinking she was just an Ord. She would have fit perfectly into secular society. But no, you had to activate her mark. What you expect from her… it’s unnatural.”
His voice rises, frustration bubbling over, “The only unnatural thing here is all the evil…” struggling for the word, his anger seething, “things.”
Rosario’s eyes narrow, “I’m evil?”
He softens for a moment, his voice lowering. “You gave up being Thauma—that’s why I married you. But this isn’t what I expected for Celia, either. She wasn’t supposed to be my apprentice. She was meant to find her own place in the Ord world. I only activated her mark when Dion,” starting to get angry again, raising his voice, “abandoned my cause… after all those years of training!”
“This isn’t about your cause,” she says sharply, her voice steady but full of conviction. “By the Goddess Isis, Cely should be free to explore whatever path she chooses in life.”
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
MY STORY
“So, BFFs, you know I’m always up for a good orgy where inhibitions are down, and third base is the starting point, but this wasn’t a nightclub—it was Church—and the girls already had their hackles up. In any case, I wasn’t interested in the preacher’s wife. I hadn’t even seen her.
It was him I wanted to fuq.
Pastor Mike, with his hungry, lingering stares, had made his interest clear. He’d been stripping me with his eyes long before this, and yeah, he could be a bad influence on me, and vice versa; heavy emphasis on vice, V.I.C.E.”
“But that doesn’t make sense,” Grace interrupts, rolling her eyes, “that pun doesn’t even work. The Latin ‘vice’ is pronounced differently from the ‘bad’ vice.”
“It’s about the wordplay, Grace. On paper, it works as a pun.” “Whatever!” she mutters.
Grace is just being Grace, and the banter with her is always good fun.
Scratch that ·
‘Mostly’ good fun.
Giggling at the thought, I carry on:
“Anyway, on that day—feeling hornier than usual, as you do—the olds insisted I go to the next youth group event: a movie night-slash-sleepover at Pastor―”
“A ‘slash’ sleepover??”
“No, Twins it’s―”
“I think it’s great, D,” Grace interjects amid laughing, “a Romantasy-Slasher Story! You’ve just created a whole new genre: Romantic Horror!”
And they all join in the frivolity.
“Hey D, don’t worry,” teases Grace, “I’m sure ‘night/sleepover’ works on paper,” bursting out in laughter.
“Touché , G!
Okay,” trying to get them to settle down, “how about a ‘movie night cum sleepover?”
Amidst the giggling, they nod.
“Okay, so….
On that day—feeling hornier than usual, as you do—the olds insisted I go to the next youth group event: a movie night-CUM-sleepover at Pastor Mike’s house. A golden opportunity to set my plan in motion.
From the way his gaze lingered, I knew what Pastor Mike liked: young and well-developed. But I didn’t have enough time to read his thoughts about those private preferences. Positions? Bush, trimmed, or shaved? Details, details.”
“Ugh,” Tenille’s tone cuts through, “again, with your ‘superpowers’?”
I sigh.
This is getting old ·
Getting really tired of this attitude ·
I’m going to have to nip this in the bud now!
“I know you’re sus about it, T, but it is like my sixth sense. Or, as I like to call it, my ‘sex sense,’” giggling, winking at the camera above me. “I don’t know how it works: I just get a glimpse or a ‘feel’ for their preferences. Like, I knew your brother needed comfort before his tour. I know that a lot of your anger towards me is because you’re upset that I broke the rules with your brother.”
“Of course I am,” she states angrily, tears streaming down her face. “You seduced him! You treated him like a piece of flesh for your own carnal satisfaction. Just another notch on your list of conquests.”
“T… ”
Got to tread carefully ·
Gently.
“T,” I begin again, “it wasn’t for me. His unit had just been posted, and I ‘knew’ what he wanted, what he needed. I am sorry he died. I’m not sorry that I fuqed him before his tour of duty. Not sorry that I gave him pleasure—the pleasure he asked for—before his unit left.”
She starts crying, and they do what I want to do—the girls gather around Tenille, hugging her.
“I know, I know,” sniffling, wiping her eyes and dabbing her nose, “he always said he had the hots for you. Said he wanted to…” she lets out a weak laugh, “fuck you silly.”
“And he did, T,” as I nod my lace ear-attached head. To make her feel better, though, I know I must lie: “He fuqed me so hard I could barely walk for two days!”
The group bursts into laughter, Tenille included, her tension melting away.
Thank Fuq for that ·
Her resentment is broken.
“Um, can we hear more ··· of the story?” Emy impatiently asks, Amy finishing, equally annoyed.
“Twins,” trying to be diplomatic, “only if it’s okay with T.”
This event was planned a few months back, and Tenille helped with writing the script we’re all supposed to have memorized, but…
I will abandon tonight’s birthday event for Tenille ·
For her mental health ·
If she feels unable to continue ·
I will cancel.
“Sure,” smiling amidst happy tears, still hugging the others.
Thank Fuq!
“Okay, where was I?”
“Your bush!” someone shouts, and the group dissolves into giggles again.
“Right,” I say, laughing with them, “let’s get back to it.”
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
DAR
“Of course, it’s my cause. I come from an unbroken line of Sentinels. For over 100,000 years, Secundii have guarded humanity from the knowledge of those Unnatural monsters.”
A quiet pause.
The reverse-driven car approaches a ramp. Celia superbly aims the wheels of one side of the car to go up the ramp, continuing to drive backward on two wheels.
“It is not just my vow,” Darion continues, breaking the silence, “it’s a generational vow, a family vow. The proof of that is the mark Celia bears: the symbol on the palm that generates health and greatly extended life span.”
“So, why did you join the ring-bearers?”
He gazes down at his right gloved hand, wincing at the bulge from the black-stoned ring on his finger.
“We’re going back to this again?”
“Yes! I know what you did to get that ring.”
“Becoming prudish, are we?”
“Hah,” she scoffs, “you know me better than that. It’s not what you did, but how you did it.
Kneeling.
It makes you subservient.
No, worse—a worshipper.”
“What choice did I have? For over two millennia, the original lines have been dying out. There are so few Sentinels left, and the Echelon is no longer controlled by Sentinel-Q. The Moderator’s an Acolyte, as is every first-tier Councilman. I had an honorary membership, courtesy of my pedigree, but if I want to influence the Echelon, I have to join—”
“Blake hasn’t forgiven you; they think you betrayed the Order.”
“Sentinel-Q? How did I betray them?”
“You know what they did to Blake.”
“It was an ‘incident’, and Blake’s a bloody hypocrite. They can’t take from the Echelon while bitching—”
“Dar,” she fumes, “you can’t say—”
“I can,” he interrupts. “Their wealth is all thanks to the Acolytes. Besides, I’m doing what needs to be done to keep the Echelon alive. Or would you prefer me to do what Dion did? He disgraced our Order, and me, when he ran away. That’s why I must be hard on Celia. It’s my role.”
“You’re not hard,” shaking her head, “you’re unreasonable.”
“After Dion disappeared, I had to become tough. It’s not just that Dion failed me… I failed him. He was my apprentice, but perhaps I was too much of a father and not enough of a trainer. It is my role to train my child in our ways.
I will not fail Celia.”
“She doesn’t even call you ‘Dad’ anymore, it’s always ‘Sir.’”
“After Dion, that’s the way it needs to be. Celia will fulfill her role tomorrow. And then I will activate Catriona’s mark, and she will become my apprentice.”
“NO, by Isis,” angrily, “not Cat. I won’t stand for it.”
Celia turns the bend on two wheels, but the couple don’t notice.
“After the failure of Dion, I need to make recompense.”
“But Cat’s only five!”
“Yes, so this time, I will have a full nine years to mold her before she enters the Echelon at the correct age of fourteen.”
“Not my baby,” pleading, “not Cat.”
“Yes, it’s already been confirmed.”
“No,” firmly, “this conversation is NOT finished.”
Celia’s car—on four wheels—nears the finishing line just as a body falls onto the track—
Breaking!
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
My Story
“Well, I figured that looking youthful was the key and was going to go all ‘Hollywood.’ But I’m a Redhead, and the first thing guys wonder: ‘Is she red down there?’
So, I opted for the best of both worlds: a Brazilian! Pussy wax with pubes styled into a heart-shaped accent to complement my heart-shaped face.”
“Hold on,” Liz interrupts with a smirk, “you don’t have any pubic hair.”
“Yeah!!!!!” the other five chime in, laughing in unison.
“I’d be shocked if my BFFs didn’t notice, especially considering that each of you has been up close and personal with my hoo-ha,” giggling, “but it’s just a story!”
Winking at the ceiling and foot cam, I pull at the side of my micro shorts so that my panties are visible, and detach two of the three golden hooks on my panties, showing ‘them’—again—that I really am hairless, then reattaching the hooks. I look to my friends on the right-hand of the screen, “Shall I continue?
To highlight the look, I chose a white G-string with a hollowed heart shape, to show off my red pubes. The fit was snug and sleek, drawing attention subtly but effectively.
But then, something new arrived in the mail: a cute bikini bottom from… one that I had custom-made from ‘Skinzwear’:
White.
Minimal.
G-string
Sheer
with cute lace ruffles around the edges.
It’s absolutely stunning, L,’ I exclaim, “I’ll send you the link!”
“Thanx D, can’t wait!”
“The ruffle added a touch of sophistication, while the lack of lining made it a fully transparent panty: an irresistible choice for the occasion.
To add a playful touch, with a hint of intention for Pastor Mike, I used a hook earring to carefully pierce the red foil of a sealed condom packet—without piercing it—and hooked it onto the ruffle of my panties, with the hook pointing outward. As I moved, the packet swung lightly, its sharp foil edges occasionally grazing the inside of my upper thigh. It was a bit irritating but undeniably eye-catching. It looked hot as fuq!
But was he a leg-guy, ass-guy, or boob-guy? I hadn’t quite figured that out yet. The ‘Skinzwear’ panties had the ass-part covered—or uncovered, as the case was—”
Earning a laugh from the group.
“So, I decided to play smart and tick all the boxes. Since I’m a short 4’12”, I leaned into the ‘young’ vibe and opted for a classic ‘schoolgirl’ look.”
“That’s not very original.”
Fuqin Grace.
“Sure, G,” nodding to the girls on the screen, “I know it’s a worn-out cliché, but I liked my take on it:
Red high heels paired with white knee-high stockings. A short red tartan mini skirt—not quite a microskirt, but short enough to barely cover my booty in all its glory. Legs and ass? Done!
Above the mini skirt covering my wide ass, my tiny waist and toned abs were on full display—because let’s be real, I am the slim-thick queen!
To complement the look and mask my thick, dark red, erect nips, I chose green-and-white swirled edible spearmint-flavored pasties.
Topping it off—pun intended— I wore a tiny white open-bust crop top that left almost nothing to the imagination: short sleeves covered my upper arms and shoulders, but the center strip of material was no wider than an inch, just barely concealing the candy-swirl nipples. Upper-boob, under-boob, and side-boob were all on display. The inch-wide material just barely covered my nipple-stickered pepperonis, but the red, green, and white swirls were easily seen through the sheer fabric, made tighter due to my boobs. Hey, I’m a DD cup—if you’ve got it, flaunt it!
I’ve sent you the link, L!”
“Thanx,” she messages back, “I’m checking it out now!”
“Legs, Ass, and Boobs ticked!
To complete the look, I added a tartan choker matching my mini skirt. I left my semen-colored torso exposed.
How’s that for a literary description, Grace? ‘Semen-colored torso’?”
“I’m ignoring you,” Grace replies, laughing along with the others.
“Of course, I didn’t forget my usual touch—a nipple pastie over my belly button. Initially, I considered a playful pink ‘x’ with the cheeky words ‘Fuck Me’ (just to add to the suggestive nature of my intentions!), but instead, I opted for a matching edible spearmint-flavored pastie. It tied the look together while highlighting the playful and daring vibe of the outfit. And naturally, I couldn’t skip my signature accessories: a pink choker with bell, pink and white fluffy cat ears, and matching tail butt-plug. You all know me—I never go anywhere without a choker, ears, or tail! This time, the tail was part of a unique accessory to complete the feline-inspired look.”
And since his cock—”
“COCK!!!!!!” they all chorus, grabbing their shot glasses, skoling, laughing hysterically.
Fuq! ·
That was quick.
“Okay, okay, can I move on now?” I giggle, waiting for them to calm down.
“Since his pecker wanted―”
“PEC-KER!!!!!” they shout in unison, raucously, as they raise their shot glasses.
I audibly groan, rolling my eyes.
“They’re only following the rules I made,” I mutter with a smirk.
“Anyway:
Since he clearly wanted my pussy, I would go as one! But then I changed my mind. I would go—but not as a domesticated kitty—oh no.
I’d be a leopard instead.
Fierce, untamed, and ready to pounce.
I swapped the ears for leopard ears, and for my anal tail, chose a leopard’s tail that was motorized and wagged behind me, accentuating every step.
To complete the look, I wore a matching leopard-spot choker.
But no bell for me.
I’m not a tamed pussy…
I’m the wild pussy that was going to tame him!
Even with my bold outfit, I had to think practically. I needed to arrive looking somewhat modest.
The ‘olds’ would never have dropped me off, and the conservative gatekeepers at the door wouldn’t let me in otherwise.
So, I covered up with my long red cardigan. It had a deep V-neck, allowing my long hair to strategically hide my exposed cleavage. The cardigan’s length extended past my mini skirt, masking the daring ensemble beneath.
But, of course, I had no intention of keeping it on all night.
I planned to ditch it at just the right moment.”
/////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////////
i The Main Difference Between Porn Actresses and Other Women | Psychology Today
iii https://www.nytimes.com/2016/10/08/us/donald-trump-tape-transcript.html
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