Don't you just hate a tattletale?
Well, if you do, no point in reading any further.
We got the idea for Tattletales from Marcia. She developed an obsession for old game shows and watched the Game Show Network whenever she went home for a visit. Of course she taped the episodes, brought them back to the sorority house, and made us all watch them.
I doubt we could have played the Newlywed Game with much credibility. Marcia told us all about the game Tattle Tales which gained some popularity more than 20 years ago. She tried to explain how it went and even showed us the tapes. It seemed way too confusing so we just invented our own version and made up our own rules.
In our version of Tattletales we asked questions about each other. If the one being asked about or accused chose not to respond, one of the other sisters offered an answer. If any of the girls tattled correctly, the one being tattled upon had to fess up. We didn’t even have to rely on the honor system.
Sandra, a criminology major, borrowed a lie detector device from one of her professors. She had to blow him every time she borrowed it but “No big deal” is what she had to say about that.
The lie detector said Truth Machine on the front and had all these red, yellow and green lights, wires and other stuff that resembled the inside of a computer. It looked like something out of a science fiction flick.
“This is how the Truth Machine works,” Sandra explained, “at least this is what Dr. Marshall told me as I sucked his little dick after his 8:00 in the fucking morning class Tuesday. He said I could borrow the box for blowing him but he wouldn’t tell me how the damn thing works unless I swallowed. So I swallowed. The things I do for you girls. You know me, I’d rather spit, but I thanked the professor for breakfast anyway.”
“So the nutty professor,” Sandra continued, “after I swallowed as much as I could and he shot the rest all over my face and tits, he made me take off my blouse and bra, starts giving me the scoop. Some jive about this thing is both a psychological stress evaluator and a voice stress analyzer. I wrote this shit down so I wouldn’t forget it.”
“Hey Sandra,” I asked, “how do you turn the damn thing on?”
“That knob on the bottom, the one that says ‘On’ above it. Even I figured that out. Anyway, so the dude says, ‘micro tremors in the voice that are often not detected by the human ear produce frequency modulations which are measured by the Truth Machine. The amplitude of the upper and lower side bands from modulations is also monitored. The results are analyzed and shown visually by the columns of LED lights which range from green, representing low tension, to red, which represents high tension.’ Get it? If the light is red, you are a fucking liar.”
One of our sisters, Paulette, seems so mysterious. She would go out at midnight dressed in all black and no one knew where. We just chalked it up to a goth thing. Her room took on the appearance of a laboratory.
I had no real cause to ask other than suspicions, but I posed the question, “Is Paulette a witch?”
No sooner did I get the question out, Rhonda tattled and blurted out, “Yes! She has a witch’s tit, a third one right between the other two. I saw it in the shower. She didn’t think I peeked.”
Paulette unbuttoned her blouse and slowly removed it, displaying her three-cup bra.
“No point in trying to hide it any longer,” Paulette said matter-of-factly. “Not only do I have a witch’s tit, I … well, I’ll just show you.”
Slowly and seductively Paulette wiggled out of her tight jeans. Then she slipped off her panties and sat on a chair with her legs spread. Her clitoris appeared quite large, and began to resemble a small penis as she stimulated herself.
“An abnormally large clitoris,” Paulette explained, “became an important piece of ass, ‘er I mean evidence, in the witch hunts conducted several hundred years ago. Usually those with attributes like mine and found out met with a death sentence. Sometimes the woman received mercy and amputation of the clitoris resulted instead of hanging or burning at the stake. Most of the torture and persecution of witches back then was prompted by the woeful ignorance of female anatomy on the part of men. Some things never change do they?”
“This story is bullshit!” I cried. “Yeah, Paulette has a big clit but I’m not buying the third tit. Hook her up to the Truth Machine, and Rhonda too. They are fucking with us.
Sure enough, the box lit up red for both. I ripped Paulette’s bra off, revealing that the third cup contained tissue and not boob. “Hey, at least we know the lie detector thingy works!”
That night Tattletales got put on “hold” temporarily. After we quit laughing about the stupid prank, we became intrigued with feeling and licking Paulette’s huge clitoris. She kept talking all the time, telling us wild and crazy witch stories. What a fucking imagination!
The next night, even though all of us had exams to study for, we decided to pay Tattletales again. Only fair that Paulette got to ask the next question.
Paulette looked around the room and then asked, “Who among you has had sex with your father? Or brother? Or any other fucking relative?”
Karen looked at me, I looked at her, we pointed at each other, and we each shouted, “She has!”
Despite the fact that other fingers pointed besides ours, that bimbo Karen kept right on talking and pointing at me. “Yeah, and she fucked my family too!” Well, we simply had to tell our stories first, the subject matter of which you can find in “Sugar Daddy” (posted on Literotica). No one even suggested we be hooked up to the Truth Machine. From the looks on the faces of the other girls, I suspected either shock at our story or they had something even worse to tell.
Kathleen, always the shy one and reluctant to interrupt, raised her hand.
