Chapter 1
When summer comes to Bonville, it's no surprise. Like Bonville's people, the weather follows a predictable pattern. March winds, April showers, May flowers. Same old routine.
And June heat. Good, solid, dependable heat. Bikini weather. Weather for sitting in the shade of a leafy old tree, drinking iced tea. Or a Tom Collins.
Elizabeth Cantrell, sitting in her upstairs front bedroom in the old Victorian house that was now hers, now that Sam had died and, if his calculations were correct, gone straight to Heaven to lend God a helping hand, loved this heat.
She was doing something she had always wanted to do, but had never dared when her husband was alive. Something really simple.
She was sitting bare-ass naked, cupping her soft breasts in her two hands, enjoying their sensitivity. It made her feel free. The heat of summer, and what she was doing.
None of the Cantrells were lovable. The men were bullies, the women no more than browbeaten slaves. And Sam had been the worst.
"It's that damned religion," Elizabeth said aloud, looking down at the smooth, warm breasts she held, giving their expanded nipples a loving pressure, feeling it clear down to her crotch.
"You're not sinful at all, you pretty things," she said in her warm, sweet voice. "You're warm and nice and tingly. And when I squeeze you, I feel it clear down to my, uh, my sweet, warm little old thing."
She knew that there were a dozen names for what she was talking about. She knew most of them. But Sam never used one of them. Not even the surgically sanitary ones like Doctor Brown used, on the very infrequent occasions when she was able to talk to him alone. Sam hadn't held with a woman discussing her private parts with anyone, doctor or not.
She shivered in the heat, thinking of her dead husband as she sat thinking about her cunt. He had never said the word "love" to her. As one of the many lay preachers in his church, he used the term often. Loving and fearing God was his favorite theme. But all he had ever given to her was fear. She was quite certain that Sam had intended that she "love and fear" him, just as he preached that all the congregation should love and fear God. After all, in his church-which had automatically become Elizabeth's church when she married him-men were everything, women nothing-except creatures born to serve men.
Looking at her naked body in the tall, clear mirror of her antique dresser, Elizabeth smiled. Her lips formed the words: "Go to hell, Sam," but she could not speak them aloud. She felt free, but not quite that free. Old habits are hard to break. Old fears are hard to uproot.
She heard steps coming up the walk, her neat, old red brick walk, and went to the tall window, standing partially concealed by the clean, creamy old lace curtain. It was one of the Burke children, who lived down the old highway a few hundred yards. They were one of the few "new" families that had come to Bonville in Elizabeth's memory. Ten or eleven years ago. The girl had been a baby then. She must be, what? Twelve? Probably. Certainly no older. It was hard to believe, a girl of twelve with such a mature figure. Well, to be honest, such breasts. With a quirk of her lips, Elizabeth touched her own, feeling that lovely thrill again, loving it.
What could that child want with her? And then she remembered. Something she had picked up on an infrequent visit into town. That her father, Linus Burke, had been laid off, along with a number of other carpenters. Perhaps the girl was seeking work.
The antique twist-and-release door bell made its muted tone of musical inquiry through the silent house, and Elizabeth, grinning at her whim, went to the window and called: "Come on in, child! I'm in my bedroom, upstairs."
She felt a little charge of guilt and gaiety. She was so proud of her new freedom, her freedom from the dreadful, inhuman tyranny of her dead husband that she wanted to flaunt it. Perhaps to share it? She wasn't certain. She knew, though, that the girl's father was a high ranking member of Sam's church. If he adhered to the church dogma, he was automatically a tyrant. Every man was a vicar of God, an instrument of God. Every man the absolute and unquestioned head of his household and family. And the others, the wife and children, were his slaves.
She remembered hpw, on their honeymoon, Sam had made this clear. She had not been a shy and frightened bride. On the contrary. She had almost a minimum of sexual experience, having been late in maturing, late in dating, and marrying early. Just a few daring kisses, daring for her, at least, since she had some vague idea that letting a boy get his tongue in your mouth might cause pregnancy. And, on two occasions, egged on by a girl friend on a double date, she had thrown herself passionately into an orgy of petting, which was what they called it then. Letting the guy pull her sweater up so that he could suck on her breasts, letting her thighs go apart so that he could get his fingers into her young vagina.
She shivered again, nude and free in the warm room, thinking of that youthful wildness, of the vast heat which had consumed her as the male digit touched her on her most sensitive part, her clitoris, and the boy had touched it gently and expertly until she had the vital experience of heterosexual orgasm. He had been both gentle and experienced, seeming to know exactly what to do. And later, he had held her hand, pressing her fingers together and sticking his tongue between them. She had never realized a tongue could be so strong. And she knew what he was asking-that she let him stick his mouth down on her thing and work his powerful, slick tongue into her crevice, tickling and tonguing her clit. And once again, since she was still tender and itchily sensitive from his finger's joy, she had writhed and screamed in orgasm. And her girl friend, watching wide-eyed, had said: "Oh, God, Liz, that's too beautiful!" and had promptly spread herself on the ground for her boy friend, sobbing: "It's so beautiful!"
That time was once. The next time frightened her. It was the same boy. She had doubts about going out with him. Actually, she had doubts of herself. Strange, after these years of marriage to Sam, she felt more virginal than back then, all those years ago, when she was actually a virgin. Sam had mentally and emotionally beaten her until she called her genitals her thing. Not so when she was seventeen. She knew the names, and used them. At least in her thinking, if not in her speech. And she had thought: He wants to get his peter into me. Into my pussy! And just the thought of the hot picture it made in her mind had brought her to the boiling point. Just a few light strokes of her tender finger around her little bud of joy had sent her into a pleasant, writhing cum.
But, afraid or not, she had gone on the date. And this time, seeing her friend once more spread her girlish thighs so that her date could force his throbbing organ between those soft, dark-furred lips, Elizabeth had moaned and flung herself on the boy she had so enjoyed the time before.
He had held her and kissed her, gently mauling her firm young breasts, milking them until she screamed with pleasure with his tongue buried in her throat. And all the time, the deep feeling in her vagina imperiously demanded that she give it something solid to devour, something large and hard to stretch it. And, when the boy had gently laid her back in the car, she had gladly raised her leg to the back of the seat, dropping her other leg to the floor of the car, opening herself to him. She had already begun to cum the instant he touched her. She did not know it then, although the boy told her later, but her pussy was working like an infant's sucking mouth.
She felt the heat of his cock, a sort of radiant heat that came from his crotch. And his member seemed so big, so hard. It entered her, stretching and hurting, and all the time she was cumming and cumming, the joyful muscles trying to nip the hard tool, to draw it deep inside her. And it was too much for him.
Where she had felt the hurtfully beautiful thrust of his cock in her tender and unused fuck-hole, she was now transfixed with a spear that shot pain deep into her guts. Strangely, she loved the shock of pain, the way it sent its feelers deep into her bowels, throughout all her buried, wildly awakened female parts.
They loved it too much. As she felt the stretch of his warm, gloriously hard penis, deep into a cunt which was already writhing in orgasm, her inexperienced but divinely sex-hot body gave a violent heave, uncunting him.
Her soft, tender belly took the hot lash of his jism. Her sweater was far up, above her breasts, so that he could suck them. Her skirt was bunched around her waist. It was a wild sort of glory for the innocent, fuck-hungry girl, her aroused cuntal system thudding in a wildly hot cum while her lover's sperm, warm and slick and sticky, poured out over her responsive belly and thighs and breasts in long, pearly-white spurts.
For him, it was a bittersweet experience. To have his cock in something so humanly hot, so tightly gripping, so lovingly animal in its muscular response, was a dream come true. To see the long ropes of his jism pour over her softly sculptured body was, in a way, a tender delight. And he knew that he had found, in this naive small-town girl, that perfect piece of ass, a girl who could cum from the touch of a finger, the one single hard thrust of his dick. What might she not do in the maddeningly sweet throes of a long, gentle fuck? But they never learned.
In the quiet dark along Cochran's Creek, they were alerted by a sweep of headlights, given enough time to adjust their clothing, start the car, and whip out of the brush and onto a dirt road before the inquisitive cops arrived. Laughing, kissing, loving.
And the very next morning, that part of Elizabeth's life was over. Two federal marshals came from Crosley, the county seat, and took her impulsive, hot and tender lover away. He was a draft evader, a man who, as he wrote her later, could not tolerate the thought of killing North Korean soldiers, faceless humans who had done no wrong except to fight for what they believed right.
So, while she might have been technically a non-virgin, she had never known the deeper joys of sex. But she knew enough about these joys, and about her own body's responses, to look forward to her bridal night. Warm, eager, pulsing with desire. Remembering the gentle, tender expertise of her first and only lover. Ready to give Sam, twenty years her senior, all she had. He had been a quiet, undemonstrative suitor. Not ungentle, not harsh. Just quiet. And she had taken this to mean that he would be kind. She would find out that his quietness was a form of indifference to her needs and desires, a form of contempt for her-and all women-as people, and a selfishness unmatched in all the world. Plus, of course, the strange, almost cruel dictates of his church, its violent condemnation of a long list of "sins".
For, when they had gone to their bridal chamber in this very house-it was this very room, too-and Elizabeth had flung her warm arms around Sam's neck and kissed him, pushing her hot, slick tongue between his full lips, he had wrenched her arms loose and flung her across the room.
"Whore!" he had shouted. "Can't you wait until the lights are out and we are decently under the covers? Do you want God to see what his imperfect humans do? Must you flaunt your sinfulness before your creator?"
She had felt totally numbed at this new and unsuspected side of the man she had married. She had wanted him to undress her, to see and praise each delicately fashioned part of her that proclaimed her womanhood. To have him kiss her breasts, her belly, possibly even that trembling, softly juicing little slit that was partly hidden by the long, wavy, baby-fine hair that grew on its lips. Like her young lover had mutely asked when he had dug his tongue between her fingers. So that she, made bold by Sam's actions, might then be brave enough to do what she had yearned for, ever since the law had made a reluctant virgin of her by removing the boy she had known for such a short time.
Here in this room where she had had so little love, where she had known so much hidden bitterness, waiting for the Burke girl to come upstairs, she trembled in the heat of her memories. She had wanted to suck a man's penis! Her husband's, of course. She had tasted-how could she have helped having such curiosity?-the cooling drops of that boy's generous load of semen. While the rest of them were looking back, breathless with mirth and excitement, as they drove away from their Lovers Lane, she had scooped up all she could. It was warm from her body as she got drop after drop on her finger. It was so rich, so thick, so marvelous in its clean, faintly salty taste! A man's seed! Surely, it must be right for a woman to know it, to suck it from a man's throbbing organ.
She never dared bring it up. Sam would have killed her. Anything that was sweet and human and fun was sinful.
Oh, he believed in fucking. For him, at least. She learned that, on that first night. Learned, too, that she had been utterly, pitifully wrong about her lover's cock being big. Sam had the big one. And he was like the boars she had seen on her uncle's farm as a giggling, eye-popping young girl. Fucking into her without a kiss, without a single caress or gesture to prepare her for his sexual onslaught. Not even a finger wiped between her thick, soft, hairy cuntlips, not a squeeze of her breast. Why?
Because such a fol-de-rol was sinful. God had said: Go forth, be fruitful and multiply. That meant that a husband should stick it into his wife and fill her with his seed at every opportunity. Decently in bed, having undressed in the dark, and under the covers. After all, would you want God to see you? Not if He was a God of Punishment, of hellfire and brimstone. Sam's God.
God had said be fruitful and multiply. But he had not said kiss your wife's titties, play with her soft, loving little pussy, slide your warm tongue into her welcoming mouth. No, sirree! Not the God of Sam Cantrell.
In a way, it had been lucky for Elizabeth. She knew she had no maidenhead left. Or she thought not. She had somehow thought she could explain it to Sam, once they were married. A girl was entitled to one minor experience, surely? But she didn't have to. Not with the way Sam had come on. Really like a rutting boar.
He had her on her back with her legs spread before she knew what was happening. Smiling bitterly on this day, months after Sam's death, she remembered the pain of that enormous cock lancing into her. Battering into her. Hurting, tearing.
With that long-lost boy, she had been juicy, soft, shudderingly ready. But Sam's tirade had dried her sluices. Not that he gave a damn. The Lord had said be fruitful and multiply. This was God's work. So Sam and his angry, disagreeable God, one as brutal as the other, had stabbed and slashed into Elizabeth's tender pussy, making her fight and twist and scream until, unbelievably, that enormous cock had swollen to an even greater, even more painful size, and she had known, for the first time, the feel of hot jism shooting off inside her, filling her aching pussy to overflowing.
And it was after that that Elizabeth realized how lucky she was for that torturing thrust, that inhuman battering into her tender and girlish vagina. For the dogmatic, unthinking churchman had immediately thrown the covers off them and turned on the light.
Maybe God wouldn't want to see his children doing that horrible thing known to the ordinary world as "fucking". But in this case, at least, he didn't mind this bridegroom, grown suddenly hateful to his bride, having a close, non-loving look at his bride's cunt.
The girl lay shocked and speechless while the boar-like man completed his inspection. Then he grunted: "It's okay. Get up and wash yourself." And added, as she went painfully toward the bathroom: "Damn lucky you're a virgin or I'd have had you killed."
So she was lucky, after all. Either she had a scrap of virginity left, or Sam's brutality and outsize cock had torn her. She felt his slimy cum-juice running down her thighs. And with it, when she got to the bathroom with its tall mirror, she saw her blood mixed with it. Blood and semen. Just as it had been with her sweet and gentle young lover. Bob Latham. After all these years of forced forgetting, she remembered his name. Bob Latham.
All of this, flashing through her mind in the brief time it took the little Burke girl to come into the house and upstairs. Twenty years, no, more like twenty-five.
She saw the girl in the hall, peering about, uncertain. Shy, looking like a startled creature of the woods, ready to flee. With those sweetly protruding breasts in an old dress grown too small to contain those softly woman-like charms. That firmly rounded rump. Those strong thighs that arched away from her hip's connection with her body. And those gorgeously full-fashioned legs.
Suddenly, Elizabeth felt a violent gust of wrath fill her slender, lovely body. From a memory of something Sam had said. In explaining to her why it was that the women of his church were so subdued, so subservient to their husbands, brothers, and fathers.
"You're property, my dear," Sam had said to her one day when she had dared to ask a question. "Mares and fillies. Clever ones, that can learn to cook and swing a broom and make a dress. But mares and fillies. For their masters to ride."
She was horrified. She had asked the question: "Who do you suppose is the father of little Esther Lavinn's unborn child?" And then, Sam had made it plain that it didn't matter, as long as Esther had never been out of the house. So that the father had to be either her father or one of her brothers.
And then, when she had asked in a horror-stricken voice, why no one in the church denounced it, he had explained the property theory, the mares-and-fillies notion.
And that was the moment when Elizabeth Cantrell, the Widow Cantrell, as she was known in the old-fashioned parlance of this middle-American small town, became interested in the Burke girl.
It suddenly filled her with nausea to think of this tenderly blooming child, so softly and definitely a woman, being brutally and painfully fucked by her hulking father. To think of that gorgeous, generously sculpted body swollen with a child that would be her half-sister as well as her daughter. That would make Linus Burke a grandfather to his bastard daughter.
She forgot that she was naked. She forgot that her purpose had been to show herself briefly, to revel in her newfound freedom. With her eyes blurred by angry tears, she called: "Come to me, my dear! and held out her arms as the girl rushed to them. To her surprise, the girl was shaking, so she said: "Don't be afraid, my dear. What's your name? Rachel, isn't it? Don't cry, Rachel. I won't let anyone hurt you!"
And the child, such a warm, soft armful for a girl so young, clung to Elizabeth's smooth, warmly naked body, and whispered: "I'm not crying, Miz Cantrell. I'm laughing! I never, never, in all my life, saw a naked woman before. You're beautiful!"
It was the nicest thing she could have said to a woman who was already beginning to doubt the good sense of her act. After all, this was Bonville, where things never changed very much. And even if Sam's unexpected death had left her reasonably well off, with money in the bank and more coming in every month from his rental properties, people could still make your life a hell. If some word of your peculiarities got around.
She held the girl to her, conscious of the warmth that came to her through the light fabric of the girl's old dress. So strange to hold this big person as if she were a baby. Rachel was as big as she, Elizabeth, was. But the two of them clung together like sisters, and Rachel Burke, only become a woman six months ago, enjoyed the warm aromas from their two bodies as much as Elizabeth did.
At last they separated, seemingly from a mutual desire. To look at each other. To see if friendship so deeply hoped for might be real. Rachel dropped her eyes and colored faintly through her creamy skin. Like Elizabeth, she was crowned by light-brown hair. But, unlike Elizabeth, whose eyes were a deep blue, Rachel's were brown, a brown so dark they seemed purple, like a pansy. Her voice was low.
"I don't mean I was laughing at you, Miz Cantrell," the child said. "It was just, well, kind of a shock, but a pleasant shock. My father has been saying you were probably up to God knows what kind of sinful things. Mister Sam-Brother Sam, maybe I should say-was a lot like my father. I know you know what I mean. Anyhow, I wanted to come by here to get to know you." She looked away, her sweet, soft lips trembling. When she looked back at Elizabeth, very briefly, there were tears in her eyes. "I hoped you were doing something sinful. I hope you do something sinful every day! Ohhh!" and her young voice rose to a wail, "Ohhhh, I hate that church so goddamned bad!"
She slithered off the bed on which they were sitting and dropped on her knees, burying her face between the older woman's smooth, warm thighs. Elizabeth felt warm tears trickle down the sensitive skin a couple of inches from her pubic hair. She put her hand on Rachel's head. "Don't cry, darling," she begged. "There's nothing and nobody going to get you!"
"But I've said it!" the girl sobbed, her arms encircling Elizabeth's thighs. "I cursed! I took the name of the Lord in vain! And I said I hated the church! Oh, God will strike me dead!"
"Balls!" the naked woman replied stoutly. It was a word she had heard her father use, many times, to express contempt for what someone had said. It surprised her. Her father had been dead for years, but she heard his voice live again. In her voice. She liked it so well that she repeated it. "Balls! People say 'Goddamn' and hate churches all over the world, and nobody's god so much as musters up one little measly old clap of thunder. Let alone a lightning bolt. Besides," and she giggled, "old Sam, my defunct husband, always said the sight of a naked woman made God sick to his stomach. So God's probably turned away from us sinners!"
The very evident spirit of fun in the older woman's voice, as well as the total lack of the expected grown-up's disapproval, made the young girl's heart leap with unexpected feeling. "You are my friend!" she cried, her young face radiant. "I knew it! I felt it when I first looked at you! Oh, praise be! I don't know of anything more blessed than a friend!" She suddenly realized that her laughing face was right at Elizabeth's naked breasts, and she flushed again, dropping her eyes. But when she did this, she saw the silken brown hair in its neat little triangle at the base of her new friend's belly. Covering that terrible thing that was so sinful. But that felt so-o-o-o-o good! Like when she touched it. Or even better, when Tommy touched it. Ever so softly. Poor Tommy!
She arose to her feet, her face still suffused with her warm, rosy young blood. But she did not look away.
"I don't care what father says," she declared firmly. "I came here hoping to see you doing something sinful. Like mama says-behind my father's back, you understand-he and all his church think anything that's fun is sinful." She seemed to stand straighter and her young breasts seemed to swell. "I'm going to say it again. I hate that church!"
Elizabeth felt an odd excitement. To have a new friend was marvelous. But to have a new friend who obviously hated the restrictive rules of a fundamentalist type church, that made it all the more meaningful. But she needed a way to enlarge and develop both the friendship and their common bond.
"Your mother sounds like a, well, unusual sort of woman. To be a member of your dad's church and be brave enough to make fun of it, I mean. It takes a lot of character to be able to make jokes-even behind your father's back-about the church." Elizabeth took the girl's warm hand. "Doesn't it?"
"About sinfulness?" The mature looking child laughed. "Mama says that when men force women to deceive them, they have no right to squawk when it happens. She says it almost becomes an obligation for women to do that." She eyed Elizabeth's body in open admiration, no longer embarrassed. "You sure are pretty and soft, Miz Cantrell. You sure have got a lot of goodies."
Very boldly, suddenly understanding the meaning of the phrase "turned on" which she had heard on television, Elizabeth again cupped her breasts in her hands and squeezed them to a point.
"Thank you, Rachel. But they sure don't do me much good. It's not much fun, squeezing your own titties. My husband didn't know the first thing about, uh, making love." She grimaced. "Some men do. I wish I knew one. But I reckon I'm too old!" Elizabeth was pleasantly surprised at herself, being so willing to talk about sex. "Anyhow, they look pretty skimpy alongside yours."
Rachel flushed, this time with pleasure. "Yeah. Thanks. But they kind of scare me. They make Fa-they make, well-mama says it's not a sin to have 'em, nor to be pleased when every man on Main Street eyes 'em. But she says a line has to be drawn."
The older woman felt a warming in her body. Part love, part hate. That hulking, out-of-work carpenter, Linus Burke, was looking with too much interest at his daughter's gorgeous young body. She knew it. Rachel had been about to say "They make father" when she corrected herself. But she wanted to know more about this girl.
"Your feelings mean more to me than what other people do. Or say or think, for that matter," Elizabeth said firmly. "Let's not fool around. Let's learn all we can about each other. Sit on the bed. Here," patting a place beside her. "Or does it embarrass you to see me like this?" She passed her hands over her breasts, down across her belly, patting the upper part of her cunt hair. The thought struck her: Someone always has to be the leader. I can't expect a twelve-year-old girl to show me the way to freedom!
She stood up and hugged the girl, who came willingly into her arms. They both needed a friend! Her acceptance of leadership made her bold. After all, it was her nakedness that had shattered the wall between them. So she said what came to her mind: "Or maybe you'd feel better if you got naked, too. You hate the church. That might be striking a blow for freedom."
"I hate to undress in front of anyone," the girl said, a catch in her throat. "My underwear's so tacky. My father said nobody's going to see me. But I can't go out for sports at school because I'm ashamed."
Elizabeth's blood boiled. "Those bastards in that church, they're all heart," she said bitingly. "Listen, darling, I'll turn my head and you get undressed. Down the hall, on the left, there's a metal drawer-looking thing. It's a trash chute. Drop your tacky underwear down it. Later on, you and I'll burn it." She turned her head. "Go on, now. Peel it off!"
The girl sobbed. "I have to have underwear," she said. Once more, Elizabeth was choked by hot anger.
"My husband was just as bigoted, just as mean to women, as your father is," she said. "He had a cock, and that's about all I had to pleasure me during his lifetime. But he left me some money, and I'm having fun with it. You wear the same size I do. That drawer right there is full of real cute underwear. Go throw your old stuff down the chute and come back here." Her throat was suddenly a bit constricted, although she didn't know why.
She kept her face turned resolutely away, her ears picking up every small sound of a girl getting out of an old, faded summer dress, kicking off God only knew what kind of abominable underwear. She heard feet and their slight noise in the hall, dying away, then the clang of a metal drawer shutting, and the whisper of returning feet. She turned her eyes to beauty she could hardly believe. And would never forget.
The girl's neck and arms, as well as her legs up to the knee, were a golden tan. The rest of her was pure white, the richly warm, creamy white of whole fresh milk. The young breasts sloped down to bright brown nipples, excited at this display, which thrust out from the ripe fullness that extended out almost without a crease under their smooth weight.
There was a great deal of pubic hair for a girl so young, at least Elizabeth thought so. It had been many years since the hair first sprouted on her own fat little pubis. And almost as long since she had seen another woman so intimately.
Breasts, smoothly rounded belly, flaring thighs and hips that gave a promise of rich, loving warmth-Rachel was beautiful. Best of all, she was no longer shy.
She came to the older woman without hesitation and held her young arms out, so that they held each other, breast to breast, nipple to nipple, cunt to cunt. An unaccustomed heat fired them both, but oddly, neither felt shame or guilt. They were like sisters, but better yet, they were like friends.
"If God can't stomach such a beautiful sight as you, child," Elizabeth said with a tremor in her voice, "then he can't be proud of any of his creations." She kissed the child's face over and over, not in passion, not in inquiry, but in reassurance for them both. Reassurance that they were friends.
"You know something, baby?" Elizabeth asked as they rolled back on the bed, simply enjoying the feel of each other's smooth, firm flesh. "I think our trouble is, we don't even know how to be sinful. If getting naked together is all we can do, it's hardly worthwhile for Gabriel, or whoever does it, to take out his pencil to give us black marks."
Very softly, her young face wreathed in an angelic smile, the girl put her hand on Elizabeth's cunt. She moved it, knowing exactly how a woman's split opens, and breathed hard and deep as her fingers went into the slick, drooling flesh that hides beneath the modesty of hair, the softness of thick outer lips.
Elizabeth hugged her, laughing. "You didn't look at your new underwear," she whispered. "Get up and see it."
Smiling, the young girl went to the drawer and opened it. Her eyes became round, an indrawn breath whistled through her teeth at the soft colors, the lovely fabrics. She picked up some lacy briefs, cut bikini-tiny, bikini-sexy. She held them up to her beautiful young loins, looking in the mirror.
"Oh!" she gasped. "They're so lovely! They'll turn Tommy-" and she bit the word off, a blush spreading over her perfect body. When she turned back to the bed, her face was set in desperate lines, her full underlip quivering. She spoke with difficulty.
"You can tell on me if you want to," she said in a whisper. "But if you tell on Tommy, I'll-I'll-kill myself!"
She seemed dazed as Elizabeth kindly led her back to the bed, and let the older woman pull her down. She pillowed her young head on the older woman's shoulder, pressing the upper part of a breast grown suddenly more sensitive, seeming to Elizabeth to have swelled to a great tenderness, a more appealing size. The girl automatically turned on her side toward the woman, her young breast resting on Elizabeth's ribs. Just as automatic was her affectionate gesture of bringing her leg over the older woman's lower belly and thighs. She made a small sound, a hiccup caused by her just-spent emotion, and nestled against Elizabeth's warmth.
"I know you wouldn't tell," she whispered. "I don't know why I was so scared, all of a sudden. Tommy's-well-he's just my brother. We're both scared. Sex is scary. Isn't it? Anyhow, all we do is, uh, well-we try to help each other."
The older woman, searching so desperately and without guidance for her own freedom, felt her heart leap. On her thigh, she felt a warmth, a wetness, something alive and smooth. Rachel's pussy, pulled open by her position, was plastered against the sensitivity of Elizabeth's flesh.
She gulped. She turned her head and kissed Rachel's forehead.
"Tell me about Tommy," she said huskily. "Tell me all about him. And about you, and how you help each other."