The weekend went by really, really fast.
Mark didn't get to do the long walks he had had in mind when he had left his apartment early Saturday, but he got plenty of exercise anyway. Tanya and Stephanie both made sure of that. In their presence, Mark somehow felt extra motivated. He hadn't fucked that much since that one last weekend of summer vacation back in high school, and he seemed to be less drained now than he had been back then. If he could remember correctly.
Stephanie shared Tanya's voracious appetite, not just sexually but also regarding food. When they weren't sleeping (be it with or without him), they were constantly eating, in Stephanie's case, or gulping down protein shakes, in Tanya's case. It had been a mild turnoff to him at first until Tanya had covered herself in various kind of food and invited him to "dig in". After that, he could no longer deny the sexiness inherent in the consumption of food.
Tanya had denied him a taste of her swelling tits, though, explaining that "these belong to our daughter", and Mark had accepted that, reluctantly. At least Stephanie didn't mind him sucking her nipples. She was very responsive to having her boobs caressed and seemed to be able to get close to a climax just from that, and she lost a bit of her dominant attitude when Mark focused his attention on them, so he did that often during the weekend.
Eventually, though, Sunday evening came, and if Mark didn't want to miss work the next day, he had to leave.
"So, can I meet you again next weekend?" he asked Stephanie who had accompanied him to the door.
"Sure you can," Stephanie said, "though Tanya won't be here. I will, though, and also someone else from our family. So if you don't mind making a few new acquaintances...?"
Mark grinned. "More people like you two? Hell, yeah! I..." He stopped as he realized something. "Tanya -- she's going to..."
Stephanie nodded. "She'll have her daughter somewhere around next weekend."
"Oh," Mark said, looking at his shoes. "I thought maybe I could be there too."
"Did Tanya invite you?"
"No."
"Then you know the answer."
Mark looked up. "I didn't ask her, though," he said. "Maybe I'll just go back in and..."
He turned back to the mansion, but Stephanie barred his way with her arm and shook her head. "That's not how we do it," she said. "Rule four."
"Your daughters are yours," Mark nodded, "I know, but..."
"It'll be easier for you if you're not there when she's born." Stephanie was back to her calm, no-nonsense personality. "You're going to have less personal attachment. Trust me. That helps a lot later on."
Mark raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean," he asked, "later on?"
"When she's older," Stephanie explained. "The less you think of her as 'my little girl' and the more you think of her as 'Tanya's daughter', the easier it will be to accept what will happen."
"Well, what WILL happen?" Mark wanted to know.
Stephanie's face was expressionless. "She'll grow up", she said. "She'll be a young woman, like her mother. And she's going to fuck men and have children of her own. And she can't have a daddy standing around somewhere, worrying that what she does may not be the best for her."
Mark sighed. "Sheesh, you're really into long-term planning," he said. "She isn't even born and you're already thinking of the day when she'll be all grown up."
"That's the way it is," Stephanie replied with a cryptic look in her eyes. "Children grow up. Girls become women. And there's nothing you can do about it."
***
Over the course of the next few days, Mark started to do a bit of research. The rules Stephanie had given him maybe forbade him to ask questions, but there had been nothing in there telling him he couldn't try to get a few answers by himself. He had pretty much nothing on her or Tanya, not even a last name, but at least he had the mansion where they lived -- Stephanie had called it the "safe house" -- and he was pretty certain there were a few clues attached to that place. He only had to find them.
His job in marketing left him plenty of time to do things at his own pace, so he found out the mansion's address to send a request for information to the local registry of deeds and find out the owner. To his surprise, even getting the correct address was more difficult than he had thought -- all online maps he checked had only large blank spots where the forest surrounding the mansion had been, and the road leading through it didn't even have a name. Only through the GPS coordinates had he been able to eventually determine where exactly he had spent his last weekend.
When the owner information arrived on Wednesday, Mark was quite disappointed. The "safe house" belonged to a Patricia Harland, which didn't ring a bell, and there was no contact address given other than an attorney's office in Boston, MA. The mansion had looked like a few million bucks, so that wasn't much of a surprise, but Mark had thought that the name behind it would be a little more prestigious than that. Unless...
Another few hours of online search eventually gave him half a lead. Apparently, there was one Patricia Harland who had been married to some Kuwaiti billionaire named Hassim Al-Foraih. Al-Foraih had died about ten years ago, childless, and there was no mention of what had become of his wife after that, but if she had inherited at least a small fraction of his fortune, that could have been an explanation for her owning a place like the mansion. If she now lived by her maiden name again, that would have explained the entry in the registry of deeds.
Still, Mark didn't see how knowing this would take him any closer to understanding what these women were. He had a name now, maybe even the right name, and a bit of a history behind it, but where would he go from here? Try to contact this Patricia Harland? And tell her what? That he wanted to find out more about the women who now lived in a mansion she owned, and why they were able to do things normal women weren't?
Mark decided to contact a few friends of his over the next few days, friends in the news business who had better access to information than he did. Maybe they would be able to dig up a little more than he had been able to. Maybe he'd meet them on Friday evening, after work, sitting down for a beer or two and then asking them for help on his research -- without explaining too much, of course. Tanya and Stephanie trusted him, and he wasn't intending to break that trust. He was just... curious. Yes, curious was the right word, and no one could blame him for that.
It was Thursday when he had come to that decision, and when he returned home from work that evening, he immediately sat down at his computer to dig out his friends' contact information. He hadn't talked to them in years and their numbers weren't even in his current phone, but he was certain they wouldn't mind meeting him.
Just as he was about to write down the first phone number, his doorbell rang.
Mark looked up in surprise. He wasn't expecting anyone, or anything, for that matter. No packages, and he didn't have much contact with his neighbors on the same floor, so there was little reason why they would come over. Strange. Had he forgotten something?
He stood up, walked over to the door and pressed the button on the intercom. "Yes?"
"Can I please come in?" a voice on the other side of the door said.
Now that was strange. Mark lived on the eighth floor. Apparently, someone had let themselves into the house, without ringing his bell from the outside. Not that it was impossible, but it maybe did say something about the intentions of that person. Just to be on the safe side, Mark decided to peek through the peephole in his door.
A cop stood on the other side of the door. A female cop.
"What the..." Mark couldn't have a police officer standing in front of his apartment -- if his neighbors found out about this, they would gossip about that for weeks! He quickly opened the door a few inches. "What is it, officer?"
The cop nodded to him. "My name's Holly," she said. "Can I please come in?"
"What is this about, officer?" Mark kept the door as it was, setting a foot behind it to make sure it couldn't be opened any further than that. "Is there a problem?"
"There is a problem," the cop agreed, "but none that we can discuss out here."
"And I can't let you in," Mark insisted, "unless you show me proper identification and give me a reason. I know my rights. What's your name, officer?"
